So I Married A Deaf Man: Those darn Idioms

Oh, idioms. Sweet, cruel idioms. You say one thing, but mean something else. Do you know how hard you are to translate? Near impossible.

I understand you, most of the time. But only because I was raised hearing you often. So often that I forget you are there sometimes. You are so familiar that you roll off my tongue without even a second thought.

Hubs, however, doesn't know you so well. In fact, you are almost a stranger to him. And you confuse him. A lot.

I know that when you say, "I plead the fifth" you mean you don't want to incriminate yourself. But Hubs is left scratching his head..

When I hear "Get a grip!" I think of a person who needs to chill out or calm down. Hubs thinks that the person needs to hold on tighter with his hands.

"My hands are tied" comes out of my mouth when I tell my kids that they can't go to the movies because I have to work. Hubs reads this and pictures someone with their hands literally tied behind their back.

You are my nemesis when I am at work. You sneak in, all unexpected, and throw me for a loop. (See, like that.) You know you don't translate well. Why must you insist on rearing your ugly head at such inopportune times?

But don't worry, little English idiom. I have a friend for you.

English idiom, meet ASL idiom.

Oh, yes. You will be great friends. You see, ASL idioms are no easier to translate than you are. Harder, actually.

I see "Train Gone" and know that you are referring to a lost opportunity. But an innocent English speaker would have thought it just meant that the train had left the station.

I see a slight repeated movement of the lip and I know this translates into, "That's is really interesting." But a hearing person may think you have a twitch.

I see the left part of your nose scrunch up and down a few times and I know that the Deaf person is saying that they've been there, done that. For most non-signers,  this may bring back memories of "I Dream of Jeannie."

So, Idiom, you have a way with words. A way to pass so much information with only a few words. Sometimes you are the only way to say what needs to be said. And yet, you cause so much confusion when crossing language barriers.

Here is a little advice that I have learned about communication.

Say what you mean and mean what you say.

Try it, Idioms, and you might just disappear.

Are you there?

Garth Brooks has that super famous, catchy song, "Unanswered Prayers." I like that song only every time, and I mean every time I hear it I think to myself, "That's not true. He does answer all prayers. It's just that some answers are no."

But aren't there times when you ask something and you wish that He would just tell you that the answer was no? Like this last weekend....

I get home from work, walk into my house and I smell gas. Not the human kind. We are talking the kind that kills people. It wasn't super strong, but my nose is really sensitive and I definitely could smell something.

I check the pilot lights on my oven and hot water heater. Both were fine. I open a few windows just to give the smell somewhere to go. Remember, I get home from work after everyone is asleep and so I go around checking for signs of life. Luckily, no-one seems dead.

Maybe it is just my visiting sister's family that smells. They do have a little boy who doesn't always wear socks and has been known to go commando from time to time. Perhaps it was him? But I know stinky feet (4 boys) and that was not what I was smelling.

I couldn't figure it out. I went into all the bedrooms to check for life and to crack the windows. Then I prayed.

"Heavenly Father, if there is a gas leak, I need to know. You are going have to make it clear to me. Otherwise I am going to go to sleep and pray that I wake up."

I proceeded to get ready for bed.

"What if my worrying is the sign and I am ignoring it or brushing it off as my inner voice." Wouldn't it just be easier if he said, "No, silly girl. There is no gas leak. Rest, Stef, all will be okay." or if the letters N-O appeared on the foggy bathroom mirror?

So I said another quick prayer, "I am gonna assume that no answer is a no answer. Amen...oh and by the way, please don't let us all die. Appreciate it."

Obviously I didn't die. No one did. But I almost died when I opened up the garage door and was overwhelmed by gas fumes. The gas container for the lawn mower was having issues and that is what I was smelling. It was awful. But we got it fixed.

So the answer was, "No, you aren't going to die. Yes, you smell gas."

"And there's nothing wrong with commando."

(I added that last line, in case you were wondering.)

Bring out the bags!!

My house is being over run with toys.

I'm not talking about the cool toys: Galactic Heroes, Little Pet Shops, trains. Oh, there are those for sure. But they have a place, a home, a box. These aren't the toys I am talking about.

I am talking about those flimsy army guys whose only goal in life is to poke my bare feet as I stumble in the dark to comfort my screaming child. And then there are those annoying kid's meals toys. Oh, they are great in the beginning, until you jump into your shower and Manny Mammoth and Buzz Light year are staring up at you. Frightening.

Then there are the random bouncy balls, cheap Yo-yos, magnetic sketch pads, fuzzy little puppies, etc.

Oh, and silly bands. Don't even get me started on those things. Really. Don't.

So last night I dumped out the ottoman in the family room that was full of toys and told the kids that unless the toys fit into one of the five categories (Galactic Heroes, Pet Shops, Lego's, Cars, or baby toys) they were going in the trash. Trash meaning out of my house...some actual trash, most to Goodwill.

Oh, there was weeping, wailing...and yes, even gnashing of teeth. But more importantly, there was a bag full of toys that would no longer litter my stairs and stalk me in my shower.  

I coulda stopped there. But where is the fun in that? Nope. I waited until they all went to school this morning and went through most the toys in the playroom. Saweeet! Another bag full.

I shoulda told them what I got rid of, but I figured it would be more fun to see if they noticed. Guess what. They didn't. Not only did they not notice the toys were gone, but they didn't even notice that they could see the floor. The actual floor.

If I woulda known it was going to be so easy, I woulda done it a lot earlier.

They may never notice, but my feet sure will! Mwah!

Inspired by Big Mama's Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda Weekends.

It was awesome!

Today was so awesome, let me just tell you.

It was supposed to be The Day of Cleaning. You know, the day that I have been putting off for three weeks but because family is coming into town (again) I can't put it off anymore. Today was supposed to be that day. You know, the day when you look around and realize, "Huh. The only clean towel that I can find is the Spiderman towel that if you fold just right can also be used as a backpack. Marvelous!"

I was supposed to stay home all day...except for a quick trip to the Library. My house was going to shine by the end of the day. That was the plan.

Until, Brody,  my 5 year old woke up happy...happy because Field Trip Day had arrived....until he ate breakfast. Apparently, yesterday, Hubs took the kids to the park and decided that putting them on the tire swing and spinning it at 100 mph was a good idea. From the looks of it, Brody was still recovering. He turned white and looked like he was going to lose it.

We kept him home.

For a few hours. Then he decided he was fine and wanted to go to school. I called around and if we drove him to the field trip location, a pumpkin patch, then he could still go. So I tried to hustle everyone else to get ready. Brody kept going back and forth as to whether he wanted to go or not.

"There is no Wii when you are sick, just so you know."

So to the field trip we went. Only to get there too late for all the fun stuff: pick a pumpkin, hayride, corn maze. Nope, we got there in time for the petting zoo. Why is it fun to pet a goat, can someone please tell me? They aren't cute. They aren't cuddly and they sure as shootin' don't smell pleasant. So we decided it wasn't worth it.

To the Library. With three kids in tow. It was actually quite nice. As long as you forget that Brody decided it was time to practice his wrestling moves on his baby brother in the fiction section. Or that baby saw this as an opportunity to throw all picture books at his brother's head. But other than that it was quite pleasant.

Then Hubs texts me to go eat with him at Chili's. Sure. Why not? I'm only still in my exercise clothes from this morning, hair in a ponytail and smelling like a rose. If I used the words white trash, which I don't, but if I did, that would describe how I felt. A great time ya'll.

By the time I got home it was about 2pm. Nap time for all. (I work until midnight every night, in bed by 1am, out of bed by 6:30 most mornings. You were thinking I was lazy, weren't you.) Then school pick-up, piano lessons, etc.

Did my house get clean? Why, yes. Yes it did. The cleaning ghost had made it's way to my house and blessed me mucho! Thanks, cleaning ghost! See what I mean...Awesome!

To top it off, about two weeks ago, Julianna at Surviving Boys gave me an award. Her blog is always a fun one to read. She is surviving boys just like I am...with a smile.

Here are some blogs that I have recently found and love to read. Some are hilarious, some are enjoyable and some simply amaze me. Check out and decide for yourself!

blueandshoe

Big Mama's The Bristol Project

Bakow Babble

Jenny Matlock

The Rowdy Stroudy's

Me & Mine

Have a super weekend.

Maybe it will turn out awesome!

Do Not Enter

Doesn't it seem like your kids really only pay attention to you when you are breaking the rules.

You know, like when you are the one who says, "Shut up!" or when you sneak a piece of candy before dinner and they catch you.

But if it's "Please come do your homework" or "Can you bring me your dirty clothes basket," they tilt their head slightly and ask one another, "Did you hear something? Me either. Keep playing!"

Well, the other morning we were running late. Okay, that could have been any day of the week. But I am speaking of Wednesday in particular. We were running out the door, backpacks bouncing, shoe sparks a-flying, blame echoing through the air. We were L-A-T-E late.

Most schools have a  drop-off area with an entrance and an exit. Ours has one entrance but two exits: one for droppers and another for park and walkers. Ideally, if you are dropping off, you should go in the entrance and if you are leaving, you should go through one of the exits.

As we pull up to the school, it is apparent that we weren't the only ones running late. Lucky for us, no-one was no line to the park and walk exit gate. Lucky for us, there was no on-coming traffic.

Lucky for me, the minute I turned into the exit gate, all three of my kids let out a gasp.

"GASP!!!" Like that.

"Mom!! You aren't supposed to go in this way!!!" she said.

"Yeah! Didn't you see that sign??" he agreed.

"Yeah. Do Not Enter means do not go in!" the second he chided.

Yes, I know. What kind of mother blatantly breaks the law, and in front of her children no less? I'll tell you what kind: this kind.

Confession time. "I know. I totally broke the law. I shouldn't have gone in that way and yet I did. The sign said not to. You are right. You are on time, but you are right. Sorry, folks." 

So what did I learn? I learned that my kids may not listen me, but a sign........

I am seriously considering installing many DO NOT ENTER signs throughout my house.

You know, like on my bathroom door. Oh, and the snack pantry. Umm, their sister's secret candy stash drawer. (Okay, that one is for me.) Definitely the pocket of my purse that houses my gum. My sock drawer. Yes, Son, that is right. Stay out!!!

I'll let you know how that works out.

Next sign: DO NOT LITTER.

Brought to you by the letter D and Jen Matlock.

So I Married A Deaf Man: I only talk when I'm angry

I can talk in two different languages at the same time. Some people think that is cool. I guess it is...but not so much.

I can speak perfect English. Okay, who am I kidding? You have all read my blog. So, it's not perfect, but you get what I am saying. I am fluent...it is my native language. AND I can sign pretty good. It is the mode of communication that happens in our house, at least half of the time. Plus it is what I do for a living. So, I think it is safe to say that I am fluent in ASL as well.

Separately, I do great.

It's when I try and do them simultaneously that things get a little hairy. Because ASL has it's own structure, speaking and signing at the same time will either mess me up on the hands or in my speech.

It is ugly. Undesirable. Unintelligible. Don't try it....it's dangerous. I avoid it when I can.

Only, there are times when I just can't help it.

You see, I only talk to my husband when I am emotional. And when I say talk, I mean sign and speak at the same time.

When I get worked up or upset, speaking English is what my body naturally wants to do. It is how I express myself best...in my native language. This makes sense, right? Except that the person I need to talk to about the issue can't hear. So I am forced to blubber incoherently in both languages.

Hubs can tell when I start. If the tears or steam coming out my ears weren't enough to give it away, it's the visual and verbal vomiting that gives it away; the spewing of nouns, verbs, adjectives all in inappropriate places and in impossible to understand order. It's no wonder he doesn't understand what I am trying to tell him.

I can just imagine him shaking in his britches after one of my emotional dumps, just praying that I don't ask him to restate what I just said to him.

He has learned to just nod and say, "Sorry, honey." Yeah, right. Don't I wish. No, usually he smiles, then laughs and asks, "Are you talking?"

And that usually goes over real well, as you can imagine. I become more upset, less coherent, and the spinning begins.  

Nice how when I need him to hear me the most is when I make it impossible for him to understand me.

Good thing I only talk when I'm angry.

Hickety-do-dah!

I was cornered. At the sink. Doing dishes when he approached me with the seemingly harmless question.

"What happens when you suck your arm really hard?"

"Well, besides hurting yourself it will bruise. Did you try it?"

"No. What is that called?"

"It's called a hickey." I should have seen what was coming at this point. But like I said, I was scrubbing plates and rinsing forks.

"A hickey? Do people give each other hickies?"

"Ummm, well, yes, some people give other hickies." I could now see where this was going. But at that point it was too late to turn back.

"Why? Why would  someone give another person a hicky?"

"Well, Kobe, they are either teasing the other person or they got really excited and accidentally kissed too hard and voila: hicky."

"That's weird. Really? Have you ever had a hicky."

At this point I really didn't know if I should continue the conversation. I mean, really, I am married and I have 5 children. Of course I have had one. But does my 10 year old really need to know?

But then I remembered the time when I was about his age...my son's, not my dad's... and I asked my dad if he has ever french kissed my mom. His response, "Stefanie! That is none of your business." I felt a little embarrassed.

"Well, son. Yes, I have had a hicky. But I am married. And sometimes it happens. When you are married, you will understand." And I hope he waits until he is married.

"So you have had a hicky? Where?"

"None-ya!"

"Huh?"

"None-ya business."

How did I do?