Thursday, September 3
Urgh!
For some reason I can't make comments on anyone's page. (including my own) I don't think it's user error (which is the most likely explanation) but whatever the cause, I am reading everyone's posts. (and loving them!)
Enunciate please
Enunciation is a very important part of speech. All sorts of problems can arise if one does not enunciate properly. One occasion in particular comes to mind. It happened at the end of a cycle class as we were in the process of stretching. I told everyone to 'open through the chest.' What they heard was, 'everyone, hold your breath.' The room became eerily quiet until one guy finally asked if they could breath again.
Enunciation problems are not new to our family. Thanks to Lauren we have all had to deal with the challenges of understanding someone who is hard to understand. Although, I have to admit, her speech problems have come in handy from time to time. As a small fry Lauren tended to be extremely honest . . . with everyone. That included the random stranger who might have had a noticeable 'issue' or two.
Still, trying to understand her was difficult. One of our more frustrating conversations happened when she tried explaining to me how she said the word 'willy' like 'willy.' (the word 'really' like 'willy') For the life of me I had no idea what she was talking about, and it took her almost ten minutes to find a way to explain it. Having your six year old look at you like your mentally handicapped can really do a number on the ole' self esteem.
Today we had another mishap. It didn't necessarily have anything to do with enunciation, but it is just so good I have to tell it. I don't want to get into all the gory details, so I'll just give the gist. Bryant told us he enjoyed being a thespian. Lauren told Bryant that she would always love him, even if he was a thespian. I, after realizing what Lauren thought a thespian was, almost drove us onto the sidewalk.
Enunciation problems are not new to our family. Thanks to Lauren we have all had to deal with the challenges of understanding someone who is hard to understand. Although, I have to admit, her speech problems have come in handy from time to time. As a small fry Lauren tended to be extremely honest . . . with everyone. That included the random stranger who might have had a noticeable 'issue' or two.
Still, trying to understand her was difficult. One of our more frustrating conversations happened when she tried explaining to me how she said the word 'willy' like 'willy.' (the word 'really' like 'willy') For the life of me I had no idea what she was talking about, and it took her almost ten minutes to find a way to explain it. Having your six year old look at you like your mentally handicapped can really do a number on the ole' self esteem.
Today we had another mishap. It didn't necessarily have anything to do with enunciation, but it is just so good I have to tell it. I don't want to get into all the gory details, so I'll just give the gist. Bryant told us he enjoyed being a thespian. Lauren told Bryant that she would always love him, even if he was a thespian. I, after realizing what Lauren thought a thespian was, almost drove us onto the sidewalk.
Tuesday, September 1
My little man
My little boy is growing up. It's something I always knew would happen. In fact, for the first three years of his life I looked forward to it. (flour in the carpet, covering his sister with shaving cream, kitchen floor as a chocolate milk skating rink. All fun experiences with toddler Bry) Now? I can't believe how fast it's happening.
The fact that he's not my little boy really hit home Sunday morning. We were all supposed to be getting ready for church, crunched for time as always, when Carl and I heard Bry shouting. Normally, if Bry's shouting, something bad has happened or is in the process of happening. 90% of the time it has to do with Lauren and someone usually ends up crying. (poor Bry) Since Carl was at a critical point in his hair styling process, (according to Carl there is no stopping once the gel is in) I was the privileged investigator.
I stomped down the stairs, with wet hair, fully prepared for some serious refereeing. Instead, I found Bry standing in his bathroom -wearing nothing but his boxers. He was in front of the mirror with one arm overhead, while his opposite hand lovingly caressed his armpit. So many thoughts went through my mind at that point. Before I could ask what he was doing and why was he doing it, Bry exclaimed, "I have armpit hair!" My automatic reply was, "Well, so do I." Thankfully Bry was over the moon to have discovered hair in his armpit and wasn’t actually listening to me; he was too eager for the rest of us to share in his joy. I inspected his pit from a safe distance and couldn't see anything. Since, I wasn't about to feel an unshowered, thirteen year old's armpit, I took him upstairs. (but not before I had him put on some clothing and gave him the 'what a mother doesn't want to see' lecture. As any mother knows this varies depending on the circumstances. Just the day before, my list included boogers and anything resembling a booger. My children then spent the rest of the day finding things that resembled boogers. Good times.)
Anyway, upstairs we went. Carl was still in the bathroom so he became an active participant in the search for the elusive pit hair. After some various light angles, and some serious squinting, we finally saw the fragile wisps of our son's impending manhood. Lauren, who by then had joined us in the bathroom, scoffed and informed Bry that his show of puberty was weak. She yanked up the sleeve of her t-shirt and proudly showed off an impressive patch of dark armpit hair. After a moment of stunned silence, in which I cursed whatever gene made Carlson girls excessively hairy, I politely informed her that girls don't brag about how hairy their armpits are. Then she and I had a little talk where I introduced her to a novelty item, the razor. Church was especially spiritual after such an exciting morning.
*Please excuse my excessive use of the word armpit. I tried to find something a little less crude, but came up emtpy. Upon extensive research and study I discovered that there IS no other word for armpit. It seems that, due to the location and the fact that it is, in fact, a pit, there is no replacement. I will, as always, continue my search.)
The fact that he's not my little boy really hit home Sunday morning. We were all supposed to be getting ready for church, crunched for time as always, when Carl and I heard Bry shouting. Normally, if Bry's shouting, something bad has happened or is in the process of happening. 90% of the time it has to do with Lauren and someone usually ends up crying. (poor Bry) Since Carl was at a critical point in his hair styling process, (according to Carl there is no stopping once the gel is in) I was the privileged investigator.
I stomped down the stairs, with wet hair, fully prepared for some serious refereeing. Instead, I found Bry standing in his bathroom -wearing nothing but his boxers. He was in front of the mirror with one arm overhead, while his opposite hand lovingly caressed his armpit. So many thoughts went through my mind at that point. Before I could ask what he was doing and why was he doing it, Bry exclaimed, "I have armpit hair!" My automatic reply was, "Well, so do I." Thankfully Bry was over the moon to have discovered hair in his armpit and wasn’t actually listening to me; he was too eager for the rest of us to share in his joy. I inspected his pit from a safe distance and couldn't see anything. Since, I wasn't about to feel an unshowered, thirteen year old's armpit, I took him upstairs. (but not before I had him put on some clothing and gave him the 'what a mother doesn't want to see' lecture. As any mother knows this varies depending on the circumstances. Just the day before, my list included boogers and anything resembling a booger. My children then spent the rest of the day finding things that resembled boogers. Good times.)
Anyway, upstairs we went. Carl was still in the bathroom so he became an active participant in the search for the elusive pit hair. After some various light angles, and some serious squinting, we finally saw the fragile wisps of our son's impending manhood. Lauren, who by then had joined us in the bathroom, scoffed and informed Bry that his show of puberty was weak. She yanked up the sleeve of her t-shirt and proudly showed off an impressive patch of dark armpit hair. After a moment of stunned silence, in which I cursed whatever gene made Carlson girls excessively hairy, I politely informed her that girls don't brag about how hairy their armpits are. Then she and I had a little talk where I introduced her to a novelty item, the razor. Church was especially spiritual after such an exciting morning.
*Please excuse my excessive use of the word armpit. I tried to find something a little less crude, but came up emtpy. Upon extensive research and study I discovered that there IS no other word for armpit. It seems that, due to the location and the fact that it is, in fact, a pit, there is no replacement. I will, as always, continue my search.)
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