Pictures don’t tell the truth. They’re flat, one-dimensional, only allowing you to use your eyes to make an assessment. So considering that the other four senses—hearing, touch, taste, and smell—are neglected, it would stand to reason that pictures don’t give a very good picture after all.

In fact, you could say that photographs are devious little liars.

Take, for example, this picture of The Baby Nickel.

Aw, shucks, you say. The little four-year-old is folding laundry. Ain’t that so sweet! It just melts my heart.

Then, He must be so well-trained. Speaks well of the mama, too. I mean, she must be so attentive to include him in her work. And she’s teaching him responsibility and helping him build confidence, to boot. She’s got her act together, that’s for sure. She must be so organized and calm. Probably has sparkly windows and a toilet so clean you could drink out of it. Man, I wish I could run my household as smoothly as she does. Maybe if I woke up at five, and if I smiled more often—

Eh-em. Excuse me for interrupting, but mind if I step in and set the record straight?

What You Don’t See*:

*the three other children slaving over their mounds of laundry
*the cacophony of fussing that happened beforehand
*the bickering over space and laundry-pile size
*the name calling and spitting (we’re part llama)
*the meting out of consequences and the beep-beep-beep as I set the timer for deadlines (i.e. If you don’t finish in x amount of time, then big, awful, scary, terrible y—mwahaa-haa-haa—will happen to you, so GET BUSY.)
*the heavy smell of garlic and onions sizzling on the stove
*the whirring fans
*Yo-Yo’s incessant whistling (and occasional foot stomping to accompany the tootling)
*the across-the-field neighbor’s kennel of dogs going berserk-o
*the sticky, crunchy kitchen floor
*the extremely rare moment of silence (it does happen!) that’s split by…
*the ringing phone, and then the thundering feet as everyone races pell-mell to answer, crashing into each other, bonking heads, and shrieking with frustration and rage
*me angrily meting out more consequences
*the whiny question of “Why do I ha-ave to doooo all this stuff” and the lesson in logic/philosophy/ethics/manners that follows
*the oppressive feel of the hot afternoon sun pouring in through the kitchen windows
*the headache-y tiredness, lethargy, and irritability that inflicts each of us at 4 o’clock every afternoon

All you see is a sweet little boy folding laundry.

Consider yourself fortunate.

The end.

*The above list might not correspond to the exact moment that the photo was taken, but it’s all one-hundred percent true nonetheless.

This same time, years previous: honey-whole wheat cake, blueberry coffee cake

Yo-Yo and I have been playing Bananagrams.

While he waits for me to come join him at the table, he creates shapes.

I made a quick pizza with my new tomato sauce. Just crust, sauce, fresh basil, and mozzarella cheese.

It crossed my mind that I could whip up a batch of homemade mozzarella, but I scratched that idea as soon as it reared its head. If I’d-a had more time…

My kids are notorious for never using games/tools/furniture for the intended use. (See above picture of bananagrams.) This often drives me quite batty, but other times I get a huge kick out of it. Take, for example, what they’re doing with their swing set. They’ve turned it into a swinging seesaw. They balance, swing, and rock, all of which is punctuated with squeals and screams. It’s keeps them occupied, so I’m happy.

They used all the coats and jackets they could find to pad their little behinds. Ladder rungs aren’t all that comfortable to sit upon.

Yo-Yo and Miss Beccaboo went all hushy-hushy on me a couple days ago. They said they were working on my birthday present. It involved clandestine phone calls to my mother. It involved my sewing kit. It involved closed doors and wild shrieking to STAY OUT when any of the rest of us dared venture too close.

They asked if they could cut up blankets for stuffing. (NO.) They asked if they could take apart pillows for stuffing. (NO.)

There was deep despair. And there was resilience.

There were more closed doors. And then, finally (but about four weeks pre-birthday), they trooped downstairs bearing a large object wrapped in Yo-Yo’s spiderman blanket. Inside was…

a homemade pillowcase!

The patchwork cloth had already been sewed at Grandmommy’s house, I do believe. When they called her to see if they could use it, she reportedly said, “You can eat it for all I care.” So they hand stitched two of the sides together to make me a birthday pillowcase.

I was touched. I even got a little teary-eyed. The pillow now resides on my bed. I love it.

Heck, I love them, the silly goons.

We’ve been eating oven s’mores for desserts most nights. It’s a nasty habit. You don’t want to start.

Yes you do. Make them.

No, don’t. You’ll get addicted and then live to regret it. You’ll never visit this blog again. You’ll hate me.

Actually, you’ll love me. Make them.

Sit a couple marshmallows atop a graham cracker and stick it under the broiler till nice and toasty.

Smear the other cracker with Nutella. Lick the knife. (But don’t let the kids see or they’ll all beg for licks.)

Unite and bite! (No pictures of the biting. Too messy for that. And besides, I was really focused on my ooey-gooey piece of heaven.)

No nutella? Use chocolate chips or any other type of chocolate that strikes your fancy.

Another suggestion: add slices of banana.

And now we’ve come full circle, from bananagrams to banana s’mores. Goodnight!

This same time, years previous: dreaming, on our way, smartly

I’m not anti-science. Not at all. My father is a science teacher and a heck of a good one at that. (I had him in 8th grade for the unit on reproduction. I was not embarrassed, though I did harbor a secret fear that he would come into the room with his zipper down. This was/is not a problem of his, so I’m not sure where that fear came from, but I’m just stating the facts. My fear was never realized, thank goodness, and I loved having him as my teacher.) In high school I took as many science classes as I could get away with and I aced each one. I won in state science fairs more than once. Science was grand. Then I went to college and took the one required class of basic science and that was that. But still, I like science.

I just don’t teach it to my kids.

Okay, so that’s kind of a lie. I do teach them a leedle bitty bit of science, mostly in the form of reading aloud to them about things like the periodic table of elements, Experiments They Could Do at Home But Probably Shouldn’t, and stuff like that. We watch videos, too: “The world’s most incredible stuntman” (physics is a blast until the parachute doesn’t open) and Newton’s Apple and anything and everything from National Geographic.

But I don’t have a science curriculum and I don’t do science projects. No vinegar and baking soda volcanoes (though somehow the kids got into them anyway), no worm digging, no squealing over spider webs.

Though a couple weeks ago I did notice that there was a very flat, dehydrated frog in the driveway. For days it reclined on the gravel right behind where I park the van. I realized it was a good teaching opportunity and that I should show it to the kids. But then, I thought, they will pick it up and play with it and quite possibly dismember it and I’ll find bits of dried froggy leather all over the porch. So I didn’t say a word.

Until Saturday when “there’s a dried-up frog in the driveway behind the van” just kind of popped out of my mouth. Miss Beccaboo swooped down and snatched it up. She danced it around her papa’s head till he told her to knock it off (not his head, the annoying behavior) and then arranged it artfully on the porch banister. Then she-of-the-dry-humor said, “I think what it needs is a little bit of water,” and made like she was going to go get a bowl.

“No,” I managed to get out between loud guffaws, images of a bloated, stinky, slimy frog floating in a bowl on my kitchen counter. “You are not. Don’t even think about it.”

I don’t like messes (unless they are self-made), and I don’t have tons of energy to invest in lots of scientific hoopla. (I get swamped just making meals and dealing with attitudes, both theirs and mine.) But when it comes down to it, at this point in the game I don’t think I could beat what they glean from everyday life. Science, minus the labeling and correct terminology, just happens around here. Here are three examples:

1. When the kids were at my sister-in-law’s house the other day, she helped them collect caterpillars and nestle them into jars with leaves and twigs. Within a day, the shelf in Miss Beccaboo’s room held an array of caterpillar-and-leaf-stuffed jars. She faithfully feeds the worms (that’s what I call them), watches them make their cocoons, and then as they emerge, sets them free. I admire the pretty butterflies when she asks me to (all the while silently wondering if we’re perpetuating an unwanted breed of caterpillars, the kind that will next year wreak havoc with my dill and basil), and then tell her to please get her gross, disgusting, revolting jars off my kitchen counter.

2. The other day I ordered all the kids out to the garden to help me weed the strawberry patch. The kids worked hard, but they kept getting distracted by bugs and things. There’s nothing like a boring job to invite exploration and creativity! At one point, The Baby Nickel caught a grasshopper and opened its mouth to check for teeth. People plan little lessons around stuff like this, it occurred to me. They go on excursions and look under leaves. And me? I say, “Cool, hon. Now will you please put the poor grasshopper down and PULL THE WEEDS.”

3. The kids have been having a great time in the tomato patch lately. They spear rotten tomatoes with long sticks and then see who can wing the tomatoes the farthest. There’s physics in that, you know. Not that they know that, but I like to think that when they hit physics class and learn about Newton’s Three Laws of Motion, they’ll say, “Oh yeah, the tomatoes on sticks. We know all about that already.”

I’ll get more structured as the kids get older. In fact, I’m already digging around for a second-hand microscope. And I’d like to do some molecular biology with them this year. (That’s fancy talk for “study cells”). But in the meantime, I’ll settle for whatever comes along. If I’m in the mood, I may even seize upon it. (Maybe next time the dog kills a groundhog, I’ll hand the kids a knife and tell them to bring me the liver. Not to eat, though.)

The following pictures have nothing to do with the above subject matter, except that they’re of the kids. Last night they hooked some chains up to the wagon and commenced to pretending they were horses (or rickshaw drivers, perhaps?) and wild wagon drivers. They went fast.

So fast, in fact, that it appears that the Miss Beccaboo Horse is getting spirited away into the Celestial Heavens.

It got a little crazy…

They were some stunts…

And some crashes…

Then they got bored and scooted the trampoline under the swing set, something they’re not allowed to do.

I stood on the deck and snapped pictures.

Then I called to Mr. Handsome who was out working in the barn. “Time for baths. Call the kids,” I said. After which I stepped back into the kitchen to make them some bedtime PB and J sandwiches, allowing him put a stop to their game. I’m so generous that way.

This same time, years previous: losing my marbles