Tech Support for Schrodinger's Oven

My cell phone rings

Me: Hello, IT Support, this is Lee.
Habtamu: Hi Dad.
Me: Oh... Hi what's up?
H: I was calling to find out when you were coming home.
Me: 5 o'clock.
H: Ok. Do you know if the lasagna's done?
Me: What?
H: Is the lasagna done.
Me: I don't know. You're the one who is at home.
H: But I'm not in the kitchen and I can't tell if it's done.
Me: Ok, well is it in the oven?
H: I don't know.
Me: Well how am I supp...
H: YORDANOS! DAD WANTS TO KNOW IF THE LASAGNA IS IN THE OVEN!
Me: You know you could jus...
H: YORDANOS!
Me: sigh... (I happen to know the phone cord stretches to the kitchen)
H: DAD NEEDS TO KNOW IF THE LASAGNA IS IN THE OVEN!
(Muffled argument ensues)
H: No.
Me: No, what? It's not in the oven?
H: Yordanos says it is not in the oven.
Me: Did it used to be in the oven?
H: Yes. Mom told me to put it in and I did. We took it out to see if it was done, but we can't tell.
Me: Was the oven on?
H: Yes. I turned the oven on.
Me: What temperature is the oven set at?
H: I don't know, I'm not in the kitchen. YORDAN...
Me: Wait! How long has the lasagna been in the oven?
H: I don't know... like... maybe... 20 minutes?
Me: What time did you put it in? (Do you see what I did there?)
H: Like, 20 minutes ago dad. (Do you see how it didn't matter?)
Me: Ok, Ok... Um, is it hot?
H: What?
Me: Is. The. Lasagna. Hot?
H: YORDANOS! DAD WANTS TO KNO... (phone gets muffled)
H: She says it's boiling. Look, dad. I just want to know if dinner is ready.
Me: Sure.
H: When are you coming home?
Me: 10 minutes. Don't eat until I get there.
H: Ok. Bye. I love you.
Me: Love you too.

I get home and the "reheated" lasagna leftovers, which haven't even reached room temperature yet, are sitting on the oven. The oven is still running at 350 degrees. Neither child is in the kitchen. 3 minutes in the microwave and dinner is served.

Footnote: Erwin Schrodinger is famous for trying to figure out whether a (theoretical) cat in a box would be dead or alive without actually opening the box. Kind of like me trying to find out whether or not dinner was cooked without actually having any useful prior information.

Waking Up to My Two Favorite Words

I love days like today. Days where I think to myself, "Thank God I'm a parent." This morning I was woken up by the gentle tones of my son yelling "Make Me!" and a door slam. He only said it once, but it was with conviction. The kind of statement that makes me want to respond with shock and awe. I have no idea what conversation preceded his angry little show (a full 2 hours before I needed to be at work, I might add) other than my wife had said "Yes" right before he put on. Apparently that wasn't the right answer. Which confirms to me that Chris should have stuck to our usual policy of answering any question presented while we're still in bed (or before 9am on weekends) with a "No," but that's a lesser point.

And just to be clear, it was my bedroom door he was slamming.
My. Bedroom. Door.
Attack. Mode. Initiated.

Make Me!
Make Me? You're on!
All I knew at that moment was I really, REALLY wanted to make him. I was definitely up for the challenge. As God is my witness, I was going to make him. I had visions of how this was going to go down. I'd leap out of bed like a burning ninja. He'd turn to run but it would be too late. I'd drop him like an angry lion and pin him to the floor, breathing in his face. His eyes would be wide and scared as he realized how much his mistake was about to cost him. I'd get right in his face and say, "So you didn't think I could make you do it? What do you think now, smart guy?" And he'd cry, "Yes Dad, Yes! I'm so sorry! I'll do it, I'll do it!" Then I would march or drag him off and MAKE him do it. That's right. Don't mess with Daddy because he WILL make you. Lesson learned the hard way.

And if I had the slightest clue what he didn't want to make... I assure you would have made him do it. Fortunately for him, I kinda missed that part. So after fantasizing about Alpha Dogging my son, I decided that personal vindication wasn't worth ruining everyone's day... or even really worth getting out of bed. What was I going to do, grab him and yell, "Whatever it is you don't you want to do, you're gonna do it now Mr.!"? I heard Chris throw out an, "Oh No You Didn't!" from her side of the bed but I didn't see any follow up movement. That seemed like an appropriate retort, and luckily for him required no effort or cat-like reflexes on my part... that would have been a bloodbath. Because I'm telling you, I was going to make him.

Some day, he'll thank me for being lazy.

Ahh 13

Habtamu had his first shovelling job of the season and he made $20 yesterday afternoon!  I picked him up at 5:15pm, and before dinner he had spent $19.74.  So basically he shovelled nearly two hours for a shiny Trapper Keeper binder thingy, a root beer, and a quarter.  Remember those days?
What is wrong with kids today?  They should be investing their money in comicbooks and graphic novels like I did!  *eyeroll*

Merry Christmas Like a Boss

 

We have three cats that take pot shots at ornaments on the Christmas tree and act like they're king of the jungle.  Then there's Murray who actually brought us TWO Christmas presents this year. He's so thoughtful.  The tricky part is getting him to drop it... 

For the record, a while back I saw him swat a bat out of the air.  He's the only surface-to-air cat I've ever known.  And yes, his eyes glow like that when he's in hunt mode.  He's just that awesome.

Rico, our Grinchy, child-hating feline, has been camping out under the Christmas tree, hissing and swatting at any kids who come by to sniff around their presents.  So I guess he's been kind of our Christmas Day insurance policy.  The other two cats have been completely useless unless you count 'permanent bed warmer' as a job.

The kids aren't fairing much better today.  The change in routine that comes with vacation time combined with Christmas anticipation is really throwing them off.  We were talking to some other parents at church tonight about how both our kids had been sent to their rooms today.  Yo heard the conversation and wanted everyone to know that she had only gone *once,* knowing that her brother couldn't say the same. Habta has been all over the emotional map today.  It could just be jitters and too much screen time, but we're kind of thinking that the MSG from the mountain of Chinese food we had last night might have something to do with it.  He rarely gets crabby right after eating, and for three meals we've been working down those leftovers and his mood swings.  If we're right, it could explain some things.  We also watched a movie tonight where a father and his teenage son deal with the death of their wife/mother.  I swear I had no idea that was going to be a plot point.  I'm sure THAT had nothing to do with it...

On a lighter note, the kids got to open one present each tonight, of mama's choosing.  They were unwrapped with a squee, because who wouldn't want pink panda one-piece footed pajamas ??? and a slow and low "These are awe-some" from the teen boy who can now dream of Chuck Norris in his new camouflage flannels. I'm sure Chuck sleeps in camos too.

So, what did you do today?

A lot, actually.

Cleaned the bathroom
Put dishes away from dishwasher
Washed other dishes
Took kids to school
Worked out
Did 3 loads of laundry
Cleaned inside of refrigerator
Finished 2 mittens
Helped one kid with math
Helped other kid with writing
Taught 2 children to knit
Made quesadillas
Put dishes away from dishwasher (yes, again)
Got lunch stuff ready for kids

I think it's time for bed.

Generations

My grandmother on my mom's side was an artist. She was actually much more than this, but for the sake of introduction, I'll just say she painted a lot. As a life long painter, she had her style, her preferences, and definitely some phases (or periods as the artsy types call them) which are kind of cool to look back on.

To say she was a driving force in the family would be an understatement. Whether intentional or not, she knew how to build a legacy. When she died, she left a room full of paintings, volumes of poetry, two generations of singers and musicians, and multiple grandchildren and great-grandchildren named after her (I can name 4, but there's probably more.) I've always been glad that my wife got to meet her, and saddened that my kids will only know of her through her impact on me, and will never meet her in person. I suspect they would have gotten along very well and would have had a lot to talk about.

I remember that after she died, everyone in the extended family got at least one piece of her artwork. There was a lot to choose from and if I remember right, the rules were pretty simple. Since she did a lot of portraits, if you were in it, you got it. Then her children picked their favorite(s.) Then the grandchildren could squabble over whatever was left from oldest to youngest. After all was said and done, my uncle kept the rest and made something of a showroom in his basement. A couple months ago we were at that uncle's condo and I actually got to peruse the 'gallery of leftovers.' There was all kinds of stuff that either I had never seen, or had completely forgotten about. Half way across the room I spotted a painting and said, "Looks like grandma knew something before the rest of us." Yo was kind enough to pose and prove my point.

Suspicions confirmed, they would have gotten along famously.

I don't know anything about this painting or when or why my grandmother decided to put it on canvas. I just know that if you're in it, you get it. I also know that I would have stiff armed my uncle and ran out of there with that painting if I thought I could fit it in the car.

And you were expecting what exactly for Christmas?

Back story: Two days prior to this conversation with my darling daughter, I had actually promised to take the kids out for ice cream 'soon' so I'm sure that somehow what follows is my fault.

Yo: Dad. You are GOING to take us to McDonalds for ice cream now.
Me: I am, am I?
Yo: Yes, and if you don't, I'm going to punch you in the face.
Me: Oh really?
Yo: Yes, I'm going to punch you in the face and drive us there myself.
Me: Well then I guess I better take you to McDonalds.
Yo: Yes and when the policeman pulls me over and asks why I'm driving, I'll just tell him you are drunked.
Me: Really.
Yo: Yep, and if he says you look like you got beat up, then I will tell him it happened when you got kicked out of one of the bar places. I had to drag you to the car to bring you home.
Me: Did you see this in a movie?
Yo: No.
Me: You've been thinking about this for a while haven't you?
Yo: Nope, Just made it up right here.

(Note that we were both laughing after she said 'punch' so it was all in good fun. Kind of disturbing, but funny nonetheless. I think she gets it from me.)

And lest anyone think that my son would be above such immaturity, the other night in the car he was trying to negotiate with me that I should leave his mother at "one of those bar things or a tattoo store" because "I'm sure there's nice mans there who would treat her very good" just so he could sit in the front seat. It is a heated seat, so I could see his point. I personally didn't think it was 'dump your mother at a brothel' cold, but then I wasn't sitting in the back. In shorts. And sandals. In December. But yeah, that would be a quick ticket to the hot seat alright.

Lie to me next time.

Do not read this post if it is near a meal time.  You may feel the need to shower after this story.  You have been warned.

Names changed to Child 1 and Child A to protect the (not so) innocent.

So, while I was cleaning last week, I happened upon the door at the top of the stairs. It appeared to have crusty little flecks of, well, it looked like boogers to me.  I cleaned them off, and convinced myself that it wasn't what I thought it was. 

Later, I was talking with the kids over dinner.  (I forget where Lee was, but it was just me and the kids.)  The conversation turned to what I had done that day. 

Me: (in a joking, jovial mood)  Well, I cleaned upstairs.  Oh, and by the way, who left boogers on the door at the top of the stairs?

Child 1: Ew.  It wasn't me.
Child A: Ew.  It wasn't me.

Me: (still laughing) Oh, come on... who was it?

Child 1: Not me... that's gross!
Child A:  (looking shifty)  Wait.  Which door are you talking about?

Me and Child 1: Gross!

Me: The door at the top of the stairs.  For what possible reason would you have put boogers there?

Child A: Um... I forget.

Child 1: That is so disgusting!

Me to Child 1: Oh, come on, you know you do it too.  Where do you put yours?

Child 1: Well... I put some on the side of my bed.

The main problem with this as a teachable moment, is that I used to do the same thing when I was a kid.  I'll bet I'm not alone.  And, if I'm not, please don't tell me.

Yeah, I'm a beast...

That spot on my back that can't be reached itched the other day, so instead of asking for someone with cold hands to scratch it I backed into a door frame and rubbed against it.
Habtamu walked by looking at me oddly.
"My back itches," I said, as if I needed to explain myself.
He smiled, "When did you become a buffalo, Dad?"

Not Me.

If he hadn't caught me so offguard, I would have asked him where he learned that. I still don't know.

Great vocabulary, no plot.

In the Gardner household, there is often reading material sitting in the bathroom. These days a 900 page Michener novel mysteriously appeared across from the toilet and hasn't moved in a while. Yoyo brought it to me in my bedroom figuring it would make a good conversation starter.

Yo: Dad, this book is 800 pages.
Me: Yep.
Yo: It's huge.
Me: Yep.
Yo: I can't believe mom can read a book this big. Can you believe it?
Me: Nope.
Yo: Well actually... *flip-flip-flip* it's 879 pages.
Sensing a teachable moment and a real-life opportunity to use those estimation skills she's been honing in math I say: So 879 pages is almost...
Yo: ...a dictionary. I'll put it back in the bathroom now.