Here's everything you need to know about what I've been up to lately.
First, Little Sister has staunchly insisted that Back to the Future Part III is one movie that she did not, in fact, watch without me during our summer marathons. In fact, she says she's never seen it. So there's that.
Second, I have been adding books to my Goodreads on and off. Right now I've got about twelve hundred read books added, and there are still many bookshelves in my parents' house that I haven't even combed through yet. Stay tuned for the final count.
Penultimately, NaNoWriMo came to an end today. My goal of five pages a week meant that I was shooting for 21 pages, but I ended up with about 28. I guess there were a lot of days where I wrote a little extra.
Ultimately, I often misspell "on" as "ob." Whenever I do this on my phone, it auto corrects it to "Brownies" with a capital B. I do not understand.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Thursday, November 26, 2015
A Post for Thanksgiving
My post today shall be divided into two parts. First is the part that I intended all along, and the second part was foisted upon me this morning. (I'll explain later.) But, without further ado, here's what I was planning to say to you today.
I have a lot of things to be grateful for, as I always do. My religion, my family, my friends, my country, my excellent roommates, my talents, my job, my Honda Accord, my super sweet apartment, my chance to travel to New York City this year, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. But I am particularly grateful for my parents.
My mom works as an RN, but being a mom is way more important to her than her career ever has been. This is an unpopular way to live. The thing is, though, is that I've always really needed my mom. Not some motherly caretaker figure. Not an involved teacher, nor a good babysitter, nor a particularly caring daycare owner. My grandmother babysat me and my siblings a lot during elementary school, and I loved her and it was great, but it wasn't the same as being cared for by my mom. I firmly believe that moms have special powers that allow them to help their kids in ways that no one else can. Even as an adult who lives away from home, I still need her opinion or her help because someone else's just won't do. Someone else can't get things right the way that my mom can.
Then there's my dad. Some of the same people who say that fathers should share in childcare responsibilities also say that fathers shouldn't necessarily have the right to be involved in a decision to abort their unborn child. These are just a few of the mixed messages out there about what it means to be a father. It's my observation that some dads are confused and frustrated about their role in their kids' lives. They don't really know what, exactly, they're supposed to be doing.
Well, dads, I can't tell you exactly what you're supposed to be doing. But I can tell you what my dad does for me. Over the years, my dad has driven me to one thousand plus parties and sporting events and college classes when I couldn't drive or was too scared to drive in the snow or had a broken-down car. He's fixed fuses in my car. He's scraped the ice off my windshield on cold winter morning. He's waited up for me to make sure I get home safe. He's taken me to basketball games, Shakespeare plays, movies, delicious restaurants, and musicals. He listens to me rant, even when he can't agree with what I'm saying. He let me read the fifth Harry Potter book before he did because he freely admitted I was a faster reader than he was.
A few weeks ago, I had a migraine, and I called my parents to ask if they had anything with caffeine in it. What I meant was soda, but a while later my dad rang the doorbell. I dragged myself out of bed, still half-asleep, and saw that he had brought me some migraine-strength medicine.
I was barely awake and bleary and grumpy. "I already have migraine medicine," I grumbled. "I was asking if you guys had soda because I don't want to eat anything with this medicine because I'm not hungry." Then I shut the door and went back to bed.
After a little while, it occurred to me that I hadn't even thanked him for coming to bring me medicine. I felt really bad. But then the doorbell rang again. This time, my dad was standing there with two ice-cold bottles of Dr. Pepper that he'd bought for me at the store.
If you're sad reading this because your parents haven't fulfilled their parental responsibilities the way that my parents have, remember that you can be a parent yourself. And then you, too, can experience the parent-child bond, just from the other side.
The second part of the post is a poem that Little Sister wrote this morning whilst watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. The poem is about her experience watching the parade, and she specifically asked me to share it with you.
Acrostics and Stones May Break Out Groans
Toothless
Hi who are you
America
Ne-yo is a tinman
Kicklines
(here) For Broadway
U need voice lessons
Look, Ma, new bands!
After composing this interesting piece of literature, Little Sister then proceeded to do a close reading of her own work. Her scholarly notes are provided below.
T: When Toothless appeared onscreen, he was met with a "hoorah" and a general jubilee. We're thankful FOR YA, BUDDY!
H: Who are any of the people and why isn't the apple stem wearing green
A: America—see racism quotes above. (There was then an arrow to the following quotes: "Johnny Appleseed is a racist jerk," "I'm so sick of this racist parade.")
N: The Wiz Live! is coming and it actually looks pretty good. NEVER THOUGHT I'd say that but it's The Wiz so it can probably only get better.
K: Rockettes sorely disappointing.
F: Please have every Broadway show and also some of them twice, thanks.
U: I'm confused how you got famous but props to you.
L: SO MANY BANDS.
...Happy Thanksgiving.
I have a lot of things to be grateful for, as I always do. My religion, my family, my friends, my country, my excellent roommates, my talents, my job, my Honda Accord, my super sweet apartment, my chance to travel to New York City this year, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. But I am particularly grateful for my parents.
My mom works as an RN, but being a mom is way more important to her than her career ever has been. This is an unpopular way to live. The thing is, though, is that I've always really needed my mom. Not some motherly caretaker figure. Not an involved teacher, nor a good babysitter, nor a particularly caring daycare owner. My grandmother babysat me and my siblings a lot during elementary school, and I loved her and it was great, but it wasn't the same as being cared for by my mom. I firmly believe that moms have special powers that allow them to help their kids in ways that no one else can. Even as an adult who lives away from home, I still need her opinion or her help because someone else's just won't do. Someone else can't get things right the way that my mom can.
Then there's my dad. Some of the same people who say that fathers should share in childcare responsibilities also say that fathers shouldn't necessarily have the right to be involved in a decision to abort their unborn child. These are just a few of the mixed messages out there about what it means to be a father. It's my observation that some dads are confused and frustrated about their role in their kids' lives. They don't really know what, exactly, they're supposed to be doing.
Well, dads, I can't tell you exactly what you're supposed to be doing. But I can tell you what my dad does for me. Over the years, my dad has driven me to one thousand plus parties and sporting events and college classes when I couldn't drive or was too scared to drive in the snow or had a broken-down car. He's fixed fuses in my car. He's scraped the ice off my windshield on cold winter morning. He's waited up for me to make sure I get home safe. He's taken me to basketball games, Shakespeare plays, movies, delicious restaurants, and musicals. He listens to me rant, even when he can't agree with what I'm saying. He let me read the fifth Harry Potter book before he did because he freely admitted I was a faster reader than he was.
A few weeks ago, I had a migraine, and I called my parents to ask if they had anything with caffeine in it. What I meant was soda, but a while later my dad rang the doorbell. I dragged myself out of bed, still half-asleep, and saw that he had brought me some migraine-strength medicine.
I was barely awake and bleary and grumpy. "I already have migraine medicine," I grumbled. "I was asking if you guys had soda because I don't want to eat anything with this medicine because I'm not hungry." Then I shut the door and went back to bed.
After a little while, it occurred to me that I hadn't even thanked him for coming to bring me medicine. I felt really bad. But then the doorbell rang again. This time, my dad was standing there with two ice-cold bottles of Dr. Pepper that he'd bought for me at the store.
If you're sad reading this because your parents haven't fulfilled their parental responsibilities the way that my parents have, remember that you can be a parent yourself. And then you, too, can experience the parent-child bond, just from the other side.
The second part of the post is a poem that Little Sister wrote this morning whilst watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. The poem is about her experience watching the parade, and she specifically asked me to share it with you.
Toothless
Hi who are you
America
Ne-yo is a tinman
Kicklines
(here) For Broadway
U need voice lessons
Look, Ma, new bands!
After composing this interesting piece of literature, Little Sister then proceeded to do a close reading of her own work. Her scholarly notes are provided below.
T: When Toothless appeared onscreen, he was met with a "hoorah" and a general jubilee. We're thankful FOR YA, BUDDY!
H: Who are any of the people and why isn't the apple stem wearing green
A: America—see racism quotes above. (There was then an arrow to the following quotes: "Johnny Appleseed is a racist jerk," "I'm so sick of this racist parade.")
N: The Wiz Live! is coming and it actually looks pretty good. NEVER THOUGHT I'd say that but it's The Wiz so it can probably only get better.
K: Rockettes sorely disappointing.
F: Please have every Broadway show and also some of them twice, thanks.
U: I'm confused how you got famous but props to you.
L: SO MANY BANDS.
...Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Jerome Shalom and the Ham Sandwich
We were raking leaves when my brothers asked me what my NaNoWriMo story is about.
I briefly sketched out for the plot. Seeing that they were unimpressed, and feeling the need to defend my worth as an author, I said, "I've never been very good at plots. I'm more of a character person myself." Then I proceeded to tell them that sometimes, nothing really needs to happen in a book for it to be interesting.
"So somebody could write a book about someone going to buy a ham sandwich?" Little Brother snarked.
"Sure," I said. "It depends on who he meets on the way and what happens. Like if he loses his change on the way and then has to find it."
Baby Brother laughs. "And then the whole book is about him looking for his change and he meets a whole bunch of villain and doesn't even end up buying the ham sandwich!"
Little Brother named our character Jerome Shalom, which caused me to sketch out his backstory. "He's Jewish, and his parents make him eat kosher, but he's always wanted to eat a ham sandwich. So one day he sneaks out of the house to buy a ham sandwich-"
Baby Brother quickly sketched out about fifteen books of the Jerome Shalom series. First Jerome Shalom goes to buy a ham sandwich, but he loses his change on the way. While he's looking for his change, he discovers that his father is involved in a plot to rid the world of ham sandwiches. Then Jerome Shalom learns that his father actually stole his change. So Jerome Shalom recovers the change, but then his father puts him in prison. But then about three books later he escapes prison. Then he has to actually find a shop that sells ham sandwiches. And while Jerome Shalom wanders around looking for a sandwich shop, World War II starts, and he has to escape Hitler.
"We're not doing that," Little Brother said. Then I said that I had to go pick Little Sister up from the bus stop, so we all dropped our rakes and wandered inside and never figured out how Jerome Shalom escapes Hitler.
I briefly sketched out for the plot. Seeing that they were unimpressed, and feeling the need to defend my worth as an author, I said, "I've never been very good at plots. I'm more of a character person myself." Then I proceeded to tell them that sometimes, nothing really needs to happen in a book for it to be interesting.
"So somebody could write a book about someone going to buy a ham sandwich?" Little Brother snarked.
"Sure," I said. "It depends on who he meets on the way and what happens. Like if he loses his change on the way and then has to find it."
Baby Brother laughs. "And then the whole book is about him looking for his change and he meets a whole bunch of villain and doesn't even end up buying the ham sandwich!"
Little Brother named our character Jerome Shalom, which caused me to sketch out his backstory. "He's Jewish, and his parents make him eat kosher, but he's always wanted to eat a ham sandwich. So one day he sneaks out of the house to buy a ham sandwich-"
Baby Brother quickly sketched out about fifteen books of the Jerome Shalom series. First Jerome Shalom goes to buy a ham sandwich, but he loses his change on the way. While he's looking for his change, he discovers that his father is involved in a plot to rid the world of ham sandwiches. Then Jerome Shalom learns that his father actually stole his change. So Jerome Shalom recovers the change, but then his father puts him in prison. But then about three books later he escapes prison. Then he has to actually find a shop that sells ham sandwiches. And while Jerome Shalom wanders around looking for a sandwich shop, World War II starts, and he has to escape Hitler.
"We're not doing that," Little Brother said. Then I said that I had to go pick Little Sister up from the bus stop, so we all dropped our rakes and wandered inside and never figured out how Jerome Shalom escapes Hitler.
Saturday, November 21, 2015
Winter Mornings
I have a love-hate relationship with winter mornings. And by "love-hate," I mean "hate." I hate the winter. The winter hates me.
Some of you naysayers will say, "But it's not even winter yet! It won't be winter until the winter solstice or whatever." But I will naysay your naysaying and say that once the snow comes, it's winter. And the snow has come. Briefly. And the cold came with it, and the cold hasn't left.
If you asked me how cold it was in my apartment, I would say that it's cold. And if you said, "But how cold?" I would say it's as cold as a deep-dish pizza. And then when you protested that doesn't make any sense, I would tell you that NaNoWriMo has exhausted my supply of good similes and distract you with a description of how I spend these cold winter mornings.
First, I sleep in for as long as I can possibly justify. Then, when I can no longer justify sleeping, I get out from under the covers. I wrap myself in a massive blanket that the Seamstress made me last Christmas, and I turn on the little space heater my landlord lent me, and I pray and read my scriptures and write in my journal.
By the time I'm done with that, my room is decently warm. However, the rest of the apartment is not. It's a rather large basement apartment, which is one of the reasons that it's as cold as a thing that isn't warm. So, in order to keep warm while I proceed to get ready for the day, I wrap the massive blanket around me and let it trail behind me like a majestic cape. It trails over the tile floor in the bathroom as I plug the straightener in. It trails over the kitchen floor as I "prepare" my breakfast of cereal or frozen waffles or once even leftover sushi that Pepper thoughtfully brought home for me. It trails over the hallway carpet as I walk around aimlessly trying to remember what I need to do that day before I can leave the house.
And then I get dressed in the warmest shirt I can find, and I leave the house bundled up. I drive to work or wherever it is that I'm driving that day. I do whatever it is I'm doing that day, and then by the time I leave it's warmed up considerably outside and my warmest shirt has become stifling and sweaty.
But, of course, if I wear a shirt that's not quite as warm, the weather invariably stays cold all day and I freeze to death. And then I wake up the next day and do it all again.
Some of you naysayers will say, "But it's not even winter yet! It won't be winter until the winter solstice or whatever." But I will naysay your naysaying and say that once the snow comes, it's winter. And the snow has come. Briefly. And the cold came with it, and the cold hasn't left.
If you asked me how cold it was in my apartment, I would say that it's cold. And if you said, "But how cold?" I would say it's as cold as a deep-dish pizza. And then when you protested that doesn't make any sense, I would tell you that NaNoWriMo has exhausted my supply of good similes and distract you with a description of how I spend these cold winter mornings.
First, I sleep in for as long as I can possibly justify. Then, when I can no longer justify sleeping, I get out from under the covers. I wrap myself in a massive blanket that the Seamstress made me last Christmas, and I turn on the little space heater my landlord lent me, and I pray and read my scriptures and write in my journal.
By the time I'm done with that, my room is decently warm. However, the rest of the apartment is not. It's a rather large basement apartment, which is one of the reasons that it's as cold as a thing that isn't warm. So, in order to keep warm while I proceed to get ready for the day, I wrap the massive blanket around me and let it trail behind me like a majestic cape. It trails over the tile floor in the bathroom as I plug the straightener in. It trails over the kitchen floor as I "prepare" my breakfast of cereal or frozen waffles or once even leftover sushi that Pepper thoughtfully brought home for me. It trails over the hallway carpet as I walk around aimlessly trying to remember what I need to do that day before I can leave the house.
And then I get dressed in the warmest shirt I can find, and I leave the house bundled up. I drive to work or wherever it is that I'm driving that day. I do whatever it is I'm doing that day, and then by the time I leave it's warmed up considerably outside and my warmest shirt has become stifling and sweaty.
But, of course, if I wear a shirt that's not quite as warm, the weather invariably stays cold all day and I freeze to death. And then I wake up the next day and do it all again.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Texts from Little Sister
I've had a busy week! I've been participating in NaNoWriMo/sick/listening to Christmas music on the radio without any shame. So I do not have a written story for you tonight, but I do have this text conversation that Little Sister and I had. P.S. In the Obnoxious family, we tend to talk over each other a lot. And when we're texting, we may send a text even when we can see that the other person is still responding to our last text. 'Cause that's how we roll.
Saturday, November 14, 2015
How to Use Peppermint Oil
Late last night, I had a headache.
THE SEAMSTRESS: Well, I just got some peppermint oil. You can use some if you want.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: How do I use it?
THE SEAMSTRESS: I'm not sure.
Pepper, who is more educated about folk remedies and alternative medicine and the like, was not at home.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Do I just put it on my head?
THE SEAMSTRESS: I don't know.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Here goes.
I poured some oil on my fingers. Then I drew a line across my forehead with it like my hand belonged to Rafiki and my forehead belonged to Baby Simba.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: NAAANTS EEN-VWEN-YAAAAAAA MA-BA-GEE-CHI-BA-VA!
Sometimes on this blog, I exaggerate reality slightly. But I'm not exaggerating this. I really did sing, "The Circle of Life," while rubbing peppermint oil on my head. And without commentary or further ado, the Seamstress and I bid each other good night and went to bed.
THE SEAMSTRESS: Well, I just got some peppermint oil. You can use some if you want.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: How do I use it?
THE SEAMSTRESS: I'm not sure.
Pepper, who is more educated about folk remedies and alternative medicine and the like, was not at home.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Do I just put it on my head?
THE SEAMSTRESS: I don't know.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Here goes.
I poured some oil on my fingers. Then I drew a line across my forehead with it like my hand belonged to Rafiki and my forehead belonged to Baby Simba.
AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: NAAANTS EEN-VWEN-YAAAAAAA MA-BA-GEE-CHI-BA-VA!
Sometimes on this blog, I exaggerate reality slightly. But I'm not exaggerating this. I really did sing, "The Circle of Life," while rubbing peppermint oil on my head. And without commentary or further ado, the Seamstress and I bid each other good night and went to bed.
Saturday, November 7, 2015
NaNoWriMo
I decided to do NaNoWriMo this year. That's National Novel Writing Month for all you non-writers out there. It's exactly what it sounds like: the month in which everyone in the nation frantically tries to write a novel of 50,000 words in thirty days.
I've tried to do NaNoWriMo before. Viola and the Fearless One and I actually formed a kind of NaNoWriMo support group that met (one time) on my bedroom floor.
It was not a successful support group, and NaNoWriMo was not a successful endeavour. I ended up getting really stressed out that I wasn't meeting my self-set deadlines and ended up accomplishing almost nothing.
I think the most stressful thing about NaNoWriMo is that, realistically, to accomplish your goal you have to write every day. Unless you want to write, like, eight hours on three days instead. Which I cannot do. Unless I want to spontaneously combust. Which I don't.
The last time I finished a novel, I did it using a formula that someone recommended in an article that I read once. The formula is this: don't write every day. In a week, take one day for God, one day for yourself, and give the other five days to writing.
This formula worked really well for me, so I decided to use it again for NaNoWriMo. Therefore, I am doing an abridged version of NaNoWriMo, where I did not make a goal to write 50,000 words but to write one page a day, five days a week during November. I will not finish any novels, but I'll get a good start on something that I can continue to work on.
It's been awhile since I've written any fiction. The process goes something like this:
1. Write two sentences.
2. Delete two sentences.
3. Write three paragraphs.
4. Take a break.
5. Reinterpret the secondary character's motivation.
6. Rewrite one-and-a-half of the three paragraphs.
7. Say, "This is the best thing I've ever written!"
8. Eat a snack.
9. Reread what you've written.
10. Say, "This is the worst thing I've ever written!"
11. Read something else for inspiration.
12. Have brilliant idea.
13. Write seven brilliant paragraphs.
14. Discover plot hole within the seven brilliant paragraphs.
15. Contemplate suicide by jumping into plot hole.
16. Pray.
17. Cry.
18. Solve plot hole.
19. Use SAT-level word.
20. Second-guess self and wonder if you have used SAT-level word correctly.
21. Look up SAT-level word's definition just to make sure.
22. Write three more paragraphs.
23. Conduct research using Wikipedia.
24. Write another paragraph.
25. Realize you have finished your quota for the day.
26. Celebrate.
27. Remember all the other things you have to do today that you have been neglecting.
28. Cry.
And so on and so forth.
Somehow, I made it through the first week intact. Well, here's to another three weeks and then some! We'll see how it goes.
I've tried to do NaNoWriMo before. Viola and the Fearless One and I actually formed a kind of NaNoWriMo support group that met (one time) on my bedroom floor.
It was not a successful support group, and NaNoWriMo was not a successful endeavour. I ended up getting really stressed out that I wasn't meeting my self-set deadlines and ended up accomplishing almost nothing.
I think the most stressful thing about NaNoWriMo is that, realistically, to accomplish your goal you have to write every day. Unless you want to write, like, eight hours on three days instead. Which I cannot do. Unless I want to spontaneously combust. Which I don't.
The last time I finished a novel, I did it using a formula that someone recommended in an article that I read once. The formula is this: don't write every day. In a week, take one day for God, one day for yourself, and give the other five days to writing.
This formula worked really well for me, so I decided to use it again for NaNoWriMo. Therefore, I am doing an abridged version of NaNoWriMo, where I did not make a goal to write 50,000 words but to write one page a day, five days a week during November. I will not finish any novels, but I'll get a good start on something that I can continue to work on.
It's been awhile since I've written any fiction. The process goes something like this:
1. Write two sentences.
2. Delete two sentences.
3. Write three paragraphs.
4. Take a break.
5. Reinterpret the secondary character's motivation.
6. Rewrite one-and-a-half of the three paragraphs.
7. Say, "This is the best thing I've ever written!"
8. Eat a snack.
9. Reread what you've written.
10. Say, "This is the worst thing I've ever written!"
11. Read something else for inspiration.
12. Have brilliant idea.
13. Write seven brilliant paragraphs.
14. Discover plot hole within the seven brilliant paragraphs.
15. Contemplate suicide by jumping into plot hole.
16. Pray.
17. Cry.
18. Solve plot hole.
19. Use SAT-level word.
20. Second-guess self and wonder if you have used SAT-level word correctly.
21. Look up SAT-level word's definition just to make sure.
22. Write three more paragraphs.
23. Conduct research using Wikipedia.
24. Write another paragraph.
25. Realize you have finished your quota for the day.
26. Celebrate.
27. Remember all the other things you have to do today that you have been neglecting.
28. Cry.
And so on and so forth.
Somehow, I made it through the first week intact. Well, here's to another three weeks and then some! We'll see how it goes.
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
This Is Halloween
My plans for Halloween to take Baby Brother and Little Brother trick-or-treating. As I mentioned, Baby Brother and I were Luke Triton and Flora Reinhold from Professor Layton and the Diabolical Box for Halloween. What about Little Brother?
When Little Brother found out that Baby Brother and I were doing a costume together, he became grumpy. Baby Brother suggested that Little Brother be Professor Layton, but Little Brother did not want to be Professor Layton.
Sometimes, being around Little Brother is exactly like this quote from The Wednesday Wars:
Our entire family did our best to talk him off the ledge of grumpiness, but it wasn't easy. Blessedly, two days before Halloween, Little Brother finally procured a satisfactory costume. It was more than satisfactory, actually. He liked the costume so much that he called me seven times within the space of an hour to tell me to come see it.
So everything was fine, right?
Wrong.
As Baby Brother and I prepared to go trick-or-treating, Little Brother dramatically announced that he would not be coming with us. He said this was to the effect that everyone in our neighborhood thought he was weird. And that they wouldn't get his costume. And that they probably thought he was too old to trick-or-treat, anyways.
We had another Wednesday Wars discussion. We pleaded, begged, and cajoled. But Little Brother stood firm that he would not, no would not, go trick-or-treating with us.
So Baby Brother and I left without him. And after about fifteen minutes of fun, we returned to try one last time.
"Please come trick-or-treating," we said.
And to our great surprise, Little Brother said, "Okay," and put on his costume.
This costume that he loved so much consisted of an otter costume worn with a moustache, glasses, and a newspaper.
"I'm an Otter Pop," he told me when he showed it to me the first time.
Little Brother is definitely a Ravenclaw.
The only other thing worth mentioning that happened that evening was that, when we were on our aunt and uncle's block, a police car slowed down near us.
"Hey, do you want some glowsticks?" one of the police officers in the car called out to us. Which isn't so different from a stranger saying, "Hey, kids, do you want some candy?"
"No, thanks. We already have some," I said, because we did. But also because my parents taught me to never take candy or glowsticks from strangers in cars. Even if those strangers are police officers. Especially if those strangers are police officers, because they should not be confusing children by behaving like potential kidnappers. Unless they were testing children by behaving like potential kidnappers. In which case, I passed and would like a certificate of completion.
When Little Brother found out that Baby Brother and I were doing a costume together, he became grumpy. Baby Brother suggested that Little Brother be Professor Layton, but Little Brother did not want to be Professor Layton.
Sometimes, being around Little Brother is exactly like this quote from The Wednesday Wars:
"I can't do this," he'd say.Sure enough, in the week leading up to Halloween, there was much moaning on Little Brother's part. The closer Halloween got, the more upset he was about not having a costume, and the more he was known to say things like this: "I'm not dressing up for Halloween!" "I hate Halloween anyways!" "I don't even want to go trick-or-treating!"
"You can do this," we'd say.
"I don't want to do this," he'd say.
"You want to do this," we'd say.
"I don't even care about this," he'd say.
"You care about this," we'd say.
Our entire family did our best to talk him off the ledge of grumpiness, but it wasn't easy. Blessedly, two days before Halloween, Little Brother finally procured a satisfactory costume. It was more than satisfactory, actually. He liked the costume so much that he called me seven times within the space of an hour to tell me to come see it.
So everything was fine, right?
Wrong.
As Baby Brother and I prepared to go trick-or-treating, Little Brother dramatically announced that he would not be coming with us. He said this was to the effect that everyone in our neighborhood thought he was weird. And that they wouldn't get his costume. And that they probably thought he was too old to trick-or-treat, anyways.
We had another Wednesday Wars discussion. We pleaded, begged, and cajoled. But Little Brother stood firm that he would not, no would not, go trick-or-treating with us.
So Baby Brother and I left without him. And after about fifteen minutes of fun, we returned to try one last time.
"Please come trick-or-treating," we said.
And to our great surprise, Little Brother said, "Okay," and put on his costume.
This costume that he loved so much consisted of an otter costume worn with a moustache, glasses, and a newspaper.
"I'm an Otter Pop," he told me when he showed it to me the first time.
Little Brother is definitely a Ravenclaw.
The only other thing worth mentioning that happened that evening was that, when we were on our aunt and uncle's block, a police car slowed down near us.
"Hey, do you want some glowsticks?" one of the police officers in the car called out to us. Which isn't so different from a stranger saying, "Hey, kids, do you want some candy?"
"No, thanks. We already have some," I said, because we did. But also because my parents taught me to never take candy or glowsticks from strangers in cars. Even if those strangers are police officers. Especially if those strangers are police officers, because they should not be confusing children by behaving like potential kidnappers. Unless they were testing children by behaving like potential kidnappers. In which case, I passed and would like a certificate of completion.
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