Parley's Self-Portrait

PA-EY!

Hazel drew this picture the other day of our family:

You can see that we're all there, we're all happy--oh except--what's that Julian is saying?

Oh, yes, he is screaming, "Parley!" because that's what he does.

All day long.

"Pa-ey, No!"

[Growling] "Pa-ey!"

"NO PA-EY!"

I remember this stage with my younger brothers. The older of the two, Chuck, would quietly bother the younger Danny, and Danny would scream and scream. It drove us all nuts and we were constantly reprimanding Chuck and demanding that he leave Danny alone. Sometimes he was clearly guilty, but other times, he claimed innocence--promising he wasn't near Danny. But ultimately, being the older of the two, he seemed to get most of the blame.

Now I find myself yelling downstairs to Parley to leave Julian alone. But lately, Parley is clearly offended by my reproaches, swearing he didn't do a thing to Julian. I'm starting to believe him. While sitting and watching a movie together, Julian growled at Parley and screamed his name when anything he didn't like happened to him.

The couch cushion pushed into him a little bit--"Pa-ey! No, Pa-ey!"

Water spilled on him. "PA-EY!"

Poor Parley has even resorted to speaking to Julian in a high baby voice, saying things like, "You can have this car Julian."

Which Julian interrupts, "No Pa-ey! No!"

Now I yell down to Julian a lot. "Leave that Parley alone! Stop screaming at your poor older brother!"

But I'll tell you what, we're all watching what we say around here--you never know what Hazel is going to draw tomorrow.

Happy 4, Parley Boy

I made a smoothie the other day and shared it with Parley. A little later I noticed a patch of red sticky stuff on his forehead. He must've noticed too, because he started to pick at it. A moment later, he had a small speck on his finger--likely a berry remnant.

"A freckle! I didn't know they could come off!" a surprised Parley exclaimed.

"What? Let me see that." I said, looking at the speck of raspberry.

And then, you know what? Parley gave me his precious "freckle". I promptly put it on my nose. I happen to think it is one of the nicest things he could ever have given me--priceless as his freckles are.

Parley Christian, I love you. Happy 4th today!

Breaking the Chains of Love

I don't like chain letters. I'm not sure I know anyone who really does, but somehow, they continue to get passed around. I've been asked to give recipes, dollar bills, dishcloths, children's books, stickers, drugs--have I gone too far? I swear I've been given every chain letter around. And I really do hate them. But the funny thing is, because I can't help but feel guilt in every situation, I sometimes actually consider participating, just so person #3, who I don't know, will get her dishcloths. But in time, my guilt fades, and I ultimately break the chain. That precious, precious chain.

Recently I was given a bag full of mush called Amish Friendship bread. Oh, you've seen it. It is a chain letter in food form. See, because the Amish friendship bread is SO secretive, and only the Amish know how to make it, you can never make the bread again unless some kind friend gives you the starter.

My cute neighbor, who I love dearly, and who makes all kinds of yummy desserts, left me the mush on my doorstep. It really looked like it belonged in a trash can--where I put the last bag of mush someone gave me (and where anyone might logically put any kind of bag of mush they came in contact with). But I left it on my countertop (guilt). The instructions were to mush the bag most days and then on day six you add something and then mush again, and then finally, ten days later you make the bread. So, I mushed it a few days (which gave me the willies), and each time considered throwing it away. Jed insisted it was yummy bread, and we'd come so far--I'd mushed so many times! So there it sat on my countertop, aging, bubbling, begging to be mushed. Finally the day arrived to make the bread. I was supposed to add some stuff and make new starter mushes for my best friends. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't think of a single person who might want my bag of beige goo. I had dreams of my friends running away from me while shouting, "What did I ever do to you?" In the end, my mathematical sister figured out how to make the bread without making starters. Leave it to Katie.

I made the bread. It was really quite good, and my family liked it a lot. But I couldn't eat it. Every time I'd take a bite, I'd remember that nasty, fermenting bag of milk, sugar and flour and whatever other secretive things were in it, and my stomach swore in its wrath to never let me rest again if I continued with the bite. So I fed it to my family, who, after it was gone, wanted more. And me without a starter.

As it turns out, the recipe is not so secretive after all. Just as Jed suspected, Google found it with two clicks. So mush away. But don't you dare bring me a starter--I want the baked loaf.

Julian Sick, Life Closed

Parley Webster Wells

"You know what frizes means mom?" Parley asked.

"No Parley, what does frizes mean?"

"Little pieces of paper you can write on."

After recognizing that this question continued to come up with different words he'd made up, I finally started writing them down.

And here are the rest (in alphabetical order, of course):

Biggie place--A place where there are fluffy haircuts and chickens.

Fulpal--a land for the cars.

Fostenia--a shooter thing.

Gitches--someone who is lost.

Major--string things like fish.

Mucks--tiny little circles that hurt your eyes.

Sleek-up--some zero kids are not sleeping with their mom.

Trigador--a treat that has sugar in it.

Here's hoping his dictionary continues to grow.

Halloween at the House on Elm