Potty Poetry

The training of the digestive tract of Kensington-dear

Is all that we've been doing 'round here.

"She's nearly four!" you exclaim, aghast.

Well, she's scared of the toilet. I'm so glad you asked.

But alas, she tried it, on Monday night.

And the spontaneous potty training has been such a delight.

We bought Robin Egg bribes to use for trade

For successful trips to the potty she's made.

The chocolates are dwindling in number. (I stole a few.)

Because she's learning to pee and to poo.

She has stayed mostly dry, once at night and most days,

Let's give our lil' Choobers a

HIP HIP HOORAY!!

Please also enjoy this other poem about Miss Choobers' digestion!

Pestilence

The Victim

"They have four blondes and two brunettes,"

Said one louse to another.

"You'll place forty nits on one,

And I'll plant one on their mother."

They schemed and plotted, and then they trotted

To the Matthews' house next morn.

And this is how the pestilence

Of Sunday past was born.

Then creepy, crawly (by gosh, by golly),

The lice infested the head of Raleigh!

She stood before the lengthy mirror

As Mom combed through her hair.

"You have a bug upon your head.

Oh no! There's more, I swear!"

One, two, three, and four.

Not one less, and not one more.

Then off to the CVS Pharmacy,

Dionne's shining prince did trod.

To break the Sabbath with pesticide

For hair. (It's rather odd.)

Scrub and suds. Investigate

The Hair for further nits.

(Without a magnifying glass

We were quite beyond our wits.)

From half past two 'til half past six

Under light of lamp,

Dallas picked through Raleigh's hair.

Oh, isn't he a champ??

Each girl with long blonde hair (plus Dal)

Was subsequently checked.

ONE nit was found in mother's hair,

Oh, what-the . . . ? What-the-heck?

"That was a 'louse-y' day," we said,

To the lifeless, dirty lice.

What a way to spend our day!

(But the family time was nice.)

The letter going 'round third grade

To warn us of the chance

Of catching a school-wide pestilence

Received no second glance.

But when we saw the indication

In poor Miss Raleigh's hair,

The recollection of the letter

Did make us stop and stare.

"Could they really come invade our space?"

We ponder each new day.

Just clean and clean and fumigate

And hope they'll stay away!

R.I.P., My Dearest

Dearest water bottle
Of my early-married life,
I've drunken from your waters
E'er since I became a wife.

You've traveled 'cross the country
Wherever I did go
To Virginia Beach and Malibu
And Utah in the snow.

But now we've moved to Georgia
And your parts are wearing thin.
I'll take a little sip and find
Your fibers on my chin.

I'm sad I must replace you
With a giant Nascar cup
But we all need some white trash
In our life, so FILL 'ER UP!



Sniffle.

Almost Seven

I remember sitting in bed by lamplight in the darkness of my bedroom one night when I was about fourteen, and I looked over at little Rikki (the cutest little bundle of cuteness alive), and I was filled with emotion and love for her.  To this day I remember writing in my journal: "Little sister, almost seven, sometimes seems a gift from heaven."  And then I could not, COULD NOT, figure out anything else to come after those lines.  It has haunted me.  I've probably thought about it a thousand times since then.  

Well, this past week, as I've interacted with the angelic little ladies in OUR home, similar lines have run through my mind: "Precious daughters, gift from heaven, oldest one is almost seven."  It appears that this poem has come full circle with similar emotion and gratitude for the sweet associations I have with these women (young and old) in my life.

I had the chance to watch the Young Women General Broadcast tonight for our Church while I was sitting at home folding laundry and eating grapefruit.  Yum.  I felt this overall sense of appreciation for the vision and foresight of our church leaders.  And such an uplifting dose of God's love for me and all of His children personally, especially his daughters.  And that, of course, trickled down to my little life, and the love I feel for my daughters and for all the women in my life.  I watch you, and I am inspired by you.

These pictures were taken last week before all of the snow hit us again.  We had a surprisingly warm and sunny day, so we packed up the girls, a couple of pizzas, and Dallas' remote control airplane and drove four minutes to this riverbed near the high school.  

We searched for the neatest rocks we could find, and we all took turns flying the plane.  And we even got dirty.  Kensington went exploring for the first time in water and mud, and we were thrilled to see her get in and get her feet wet.  (It was cold water!)

Madeline and Kensington side by side

You can see Madeline's pockets are stuffed full of rocks to sort through later.

Mama and Choobs

Dallas and the Girls

A Poem about Blueberries

No more bloobers 

For the Choobers!

Her diaper did turn black.

When Mama took

It off her bum

She had a heart attack!

So rub-a-dub

Into the tub

To soak and suds and bathe her.

She cannot talk

But if she did

My Choobers would say, "Thank you!"

Laundry and Such

Ah, there's nothing like falling asleep to a good book!  We're glad that Raleigh has caught the fire of reading.

Then there's Choobers here with oats on her head.  She had just had a bath- phooey.  She took off her bib by herself and thought the oats she had spread everywhere were hilarious.  They were.

Here's three sillies in the tub.  Nothing like everyone getting in the tub to get the giggles out!  Madeline taught Kensington how to say "hi" to her reflection in the chrome.  I personally got soaking wet.

The other night Dallas' parents were over at our house, and Ray was the lucky one to go into the bathroom where SOMEONE had not replaced the empty toilet paper roll.  He came into the living room to find out who the last person was in the bathroom, to which Madeline informed us, "I was the last one in there, but I didn't use any!"  Toilet paper, that is. 

Here's a random poem about my evening:

The ridges and rills of laundry hills

Ere once had lined my wall,

Taken from the dryer and then

Tossed into the hall,

Now lie in wait in plastic baskets

Folded, piled, (not pressed).

My only prayer, Dear Lord, next morn

Is that no one will get dressed.

And THAT's how I feel about laundry these days.  And why it comes out in the form of third-grade poetry I have yet to understand.  

Choobers Chokes a Cat- MEOW!

To the tune of I'm a Little Teapot (sorry, that's the kind of kiddie music that gets stuck in my head . . .)

I'm a Little Choobers, short and cute!

I have a really big front tooth.

I like this kitty quite a lot.

I put him in a tight headlock.

A Poem For You, Choobs

When Kensington's a-constipated
And feeling quite stopped up,
We give her a suppositore
To help our lil' pup.

We push it in; it cleans her out.
She starts to feel real nice.
And then we swear up and down
To feed her no more rice!

Applesauce & bananas
Could be the culprit, too.
At least that's what the nurse said
When we discussed her poo.

Now, don't worry about Miss Chooby-Pie
She feels a whole lot better.
Since we have done our very best
To keep her system reg'lar.

Ode to a Toaster

Oh, toaster of my married youth,
You've browned a thousand slices.
We've buttered them and honeyed them,
Served with OJ o'er some ice-s.

But soon the dumpster started calling
When your bottom parts fell out,
So I took a trip to Costco
And I bought a Cuisinart.

Thank you.
Thank you very much.