A Pun in the Oven

Laughter - the Best Birthday Present

2011-02-26T23:28:00.001-06:00

So last night was Elliott’s 12th birthday. Roger and I took Elliott and his friend Keith out for dinner – where they got adult menus and adult-sized glasses of soda and ate like… well, okay they still ate like 12-year old boys. Then we took them to the game arcade at the mall, where they spent $40 worth of game tokens in about eleven minutes. No actually it was a good 90 minutes of fun, and then they thoroughly irritated the attendant who just wanted to be anywhere else on a Friday night by discussing how to spend the 1250 tickets they earned. I had no trouble being patient - I had lemonade, cookies, and cheesy popcorn, and the massage chairs are right outside the arcade. Whoever set that up is a genius. And a mom, I’m sure.
Oh, yes, sorry – the back story here is that I am pregnant, due in June, and deliriously happy about baby #4. Roger is so happy he can hardly let my belly out of his sight, and he gallantly tolerates my cravings and mood swings. He even has sympathy cravings and comes home with chocolate Zingers and Pringles, which he will sometimes share. Okay, back to last night…
Roger, the nocturnal one in our house, wanted to stop for coffee on the way home, so the boys wore their giant green sunglasses and glo stick necklaces into the convenience store. I got a gigantic bottle of water, and when we got back in the car I gulped down half of it and asked Roger to remind me not to leave the house without water anymore. Elliott asked why, and here – in screenplay form for more entertainment value – is the conversation that followed.

Elliott: Why?
Me: Well, I get really thirsty, but it also makes the contractions stop.
Roger: Really?
Keith: What’s a contraction?
Elliott and Roger: Um, uh, well, it’s… uh…y’know…
Me: It is when you combine two words and use an apostrophe to replace some of the letters.
Elliott: (laughing hysterically)
Roger: Yeah, haven’t you noticed that she says, “is not” instead of “isn’t” when she takes a drink?
Me: (laughing hysterically, which causes more Braxton-Hicks contractions)
Keith: Ohhhhhhh! No I hadn’t noticed that, that’s cool – Natalie, drink some water and say something!
Roger: I think I’m gonna have to pull over…
Keith: Elliott, breathe, dude! Roger, I don’t think Natalie’s breathing either…

We need another box of tissues in the car now. And a bottle of water.

2011-02-01T16:29:00.000-06:00

August 6th was a day like all the rest, or so I thought. I woke up, did the usual morning crap, and then tried to plan out my day. The most important thing I ever did in this world would be to get my coffee; this would require a little foot travel time. I’m not really sure what bugged me more, the thought of putting on my shoes or that I forgot to get coffee when I was at the store so I had to put on shoes, but whatever. I opened the front door and stepped out into the warm, bright day and began placing one foot in front of the other on this little five block walk.

The art of making my coffee at Quik Trip is something I have spent years perfecting. Start with the right amount of sugar, then five shots of creamer from the flavored creamer machine thingy, then the coffee, can’t fill it up too much or not put enough in, the ice is what makes the difference, then stir well with a straw, not those pansy-ass little stick things. After all that time spent on this one cup of coffee I thought my day might turn out to be a good one, I wouldn’t find the truth of this matter until I was standing in line.

The woman in front of me was cute from the back, and that might have been all that mattered. She was maybe 5 foot 3, shoulder length brown hair, black yoga pants that highlighted these perfect hips and an amazing butt, and a form fitting grey t-shirt. I thought it best to stand back a little. And I had a better view that way. With temptation personified in front of me, I was surprised to find that the paper in her hand is the thing that captured my attention. She was shifting her weight from one foot to the other in a frustrated kind of way, then I found out why. As she was paying she began to ask for directions, and as luck would have it, I recognized the address. When the clerk just shrugged at her, her shoulders drooped about eleven inches, which was unbelievably cute. I must have laughed a bit because she started to look over her shoulder, and I caught a glimpse of her cheek and long eyelashes, but then the clerk asked if she could help me and Temptation turned back around to get her stuff off the counter. She’d been dismissed.
“Go right out of the parking lot, take your first left, go through the first intersection, and it’s the green house, fourth one down on your right.” I knew the place well, knew the loud Asian woman who lived there, as well as you can know someone who doesn’t like you or being in this country. Why was Temptation going to see her I wondered.

As she turned to face me the whole of everything moved in ultra slow motion, almost in a movie special effect kind of way, everything behind her seemed to fade away into nothing and it was just her and myself standing there, then just as quick reality came slamming back. She had the most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen, way beyond sad puppy dog eyes. I followed the line of her nose down to her mouth as it formed the perfect words. Whatever they were.
Before my eyes continued down to inspect the rest of her body, I thought it maybe might be polite to look into her eyes again. After this effort of politeness, I allowed my eyes to fall, not taking too much time on anything specific (okay except the hips again), I followed her frame all the way to the floor and then back up to her eyes. I caught her returning the favor.
She thanked me and made her way to the door, as I was paying for my coffee and donuts I was watching her walk away, the hips and the way her hair swung as she walked, and she glanced back at me. Perfect day.

I wanted to see her again so I walked a bit faster on the way home, and there in front of the house next to mine was her van. I placed myself on my front porch and lit up a smoke and waited. It wasn’t very long before she came out. There was that butt again, and I had trouble remembering that this was my second chance to talk to her. I got up and said “Guess you found the place ok then.”

She stopped walking, but I could tell that she was smiling. And then I got that smile full force, and I wanted to skip work that night and just hang out with her for a few million years. Over the next weeks we emailed and talked on the phone, and then she invited me to meet her kids and go with them to this festival thing downtown. I’m not into crowds or festivals or downtown, but I would have walked to Cuba if she asked me to. On the way to this thing we stop at McDonalds and she quotes Lethal Weapon. Joe Pesci specifically, with the F-bomb and everything but not loud enough for the kids to hear her. It was almost impossible not to grab her and kiss her right there. It was at that point I knew if she would let me, I would never stop loving her.

2011-01-25T17:45:00.002-06:00

August 6th, 2010. I had driven around this older subdivision with its gently curved roads for nearly 20 minutes. I knew I was in Gladstone, but this particular housing area looked more like a 1950’s movie set. Not every street was marked, not a single street formed a straight line, and the directions from the woman selling soccer stuff on Craig’s List were sketchy – turn right at the fire hydrant, it’s next to the house with the sunflowers in the backyard… I’m not trying to be xenophobic, but English was quite obviously not her first language. Not really her second, either. She’d given me the street address, and I had the Yahoo map in my hand. Trouble was the Yahoo map showed more straight streets than there really were, and only one out of every six or seven houses actually had visible numbers on it. The star in the middle of the street on the map wasn’t helping. I called her again and asked if she could please just come stand on the porch or wave from the door or something. “No, I have child in bathing, I cannot be in doorway. You still coming?” Well, honestly, now I was a little perturbed, a little weirded out, and not real sure it was worth it.
I went back to the main road and went into the Quik Trip. I bought a diet coke and a bag of sour cream cheddar potato chips, directions in hand, hopeful that someone behind the counter would know where the house was. A guy got in line behind me. Not unusual for a Quik Trip, but he stood farther back than he needed to, and that was a little intimidating for some strange reason. I glanced back in his direction. He didn’t move, and I wondered if maybe he wasn’t ready to check out with his coffee and bag of glazed donuts, or was waiting for someone. Whatever.
“Is that all?” the clerk asked. I nodded, she rang up my sale, I paid and then asked, trying to sound casual and not at all stressed and sick of being trapped in suburban hell, if she could please tell me where the address was. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged and then he spoke.

“Go right out of the parking lot, take your first left, go through the first intersection, and it’s the green house, fourth one down on your right.”

If an opera-talented tenor - who smoked for several years, quit, went on a three day drinking binge, slept for 31 hours straight, was woken up by someone jack hammering the sidewalk right outside their bedroom only to discover that there was no coffee in the house - were to speak, that was the sound of his voice.
I was so busy being intoxicated by this sleepy, angry, gravelly, uber-polite voice I didn’t even really register what he said. I turned around and looked at him.
He had brown hair, glasses, a goatee and 5’o-clock shadow; his shirt was black and had murderous-looking clowns all over it, well-washed black cargo pants liberally flecked with yellow paint; the flip flops had seen better days but his feet looked like the professional pedicure was yesterday; and his eyes were the most amazingly startling shade of gray. Or blue. Or maybe mint green. No, blue. Oh wait, gray. Yeah, they kept changing as he stared right back at me. Those eyes, the scruff, the pecs under that shirt, the v shape his body made, the way he sounded, the way he was standing perfectly still but so relaxed… Oh my, I was in so much trouble. Must. Leave. Now. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Oh, wait, he gave me directions.
Like an idiot I stumbled through “I’m thanks sorry did you what say?” Guh.
I was rewarded with a smile that was more shy than confident, and he repeated the directions. I tried really hard to pay attention this time. And really hard to ignore the Atlas moth that had suddenly appeared in my stomach.
I went to my car and barely remembered to look in my mirrors before backing up. Shaking off whatever bizarre thing had just happened, I reminded myself that I am a mom, a church elder, a good girl, a scout leader, and women like me do not meet men in convenience stores. Doesn’t happen. Not someone wonderful. Not someone amazing. Nope. Besides, it was a busy store, I didn’t stick around to see what car he got into, he could be from anywhere, and the chances of me winning the lottery are better than running into him again. Okay, good, I’m safe. Deep breath.

I followed the instructions, found this woman’s house, and waited several minutes for her to come to the door. The television was on loud, I could hear a toddler crying, and pretty soon she opened the door with a naked six-month old baby on her hip. “You late,” was all she said. She handed me the baby, yelled something to the toddler who didn’t even pause at the sound of her voice, and opened the front closet. She pulled out a dusty box and opened it up, saying “$50 dollar for all stuff in there, just $50, not too much for all stuff in there.” There were several pairs of cleats, none of which were the right size for my kids and only one was in decent condition. The soccer ball was not a size 3 as in the ad but obviously a size 5, and flat. The goalie jersey had so many holes I wouldn’t even have been able to dust with it, and I only saw one goalie glove. The ‘practice goal” was just a net and when I asked her where the frame was, making stupid mime-like hand motions, she just shook her head.
Sigh.
I told her thanks for letting me look, but that I was really looking for newer shoes and an actual practice goal with poles and everything, not just the net. She tried to get me to take the box for $40, so I smiled at the baby and thanked her again, escaping out the door. I walked back to my car and was almost to the sidewalk when I heard… oh, bleepity bleep bleep… that voice again.
“So I see you found the place…” he said. I sucked in a breath and looked to my right. There he was, sitting on the front porch of the house next door, smoking. He smiled. Bleep, and the giant moth is back, too.
Part of me really just wanted to smile, wave, get in the car and drive away, back to my boring life cleaning out closets, eating Brussels sprouts and watching CSI reruns on my kid-free weekends. But the other part, the part that encouraged me to go out with guys I’d met online – you know, the part that really didn’t want to turn into the bitter divorced cat-lady who gets stuck raising her own grandkids because she figured she was a failure as a wife, she was probably a failure as a mom too so why try anymore… Uh, yeah, guess I thought about that a little too much.
Anyway… that part won. I smiled and shook my head – “Oh, it’s you again” and turned towards him. He walked across the lawn and stopped close enough for me to see the gray in his beard and the tattoos on his biceps. We exchanged email addresses and smiles and a whole lot of electricity. His name is Roger.
August 25th – we met again for coffee. After about 11 seconds together I couldn’t imagine that we hadn’t known each other for years. It seemed… well, wrong to be getting in different cars and driving to different houses. I wasn’t even a mile from the coffee shop when my phone rang – just as I was getting ready to call him.
Labor Day Weekend – Roger and I took the kids to Irish Fest at Crown Center. On the way there, I stopped at McDonalds so that we didn’t spend $386 on food at the festival. We went through the drive-thru but when all the bags were in the car, I pulled into a parking spot to distribute and make sure we had a boy toy for the happy meal and caramel sauce for the apples and enough sweet and sour sauce to thoroughly coat the back seat of the van. Roger looked at me funny. “Are we going to eat here?” he asked. “No,” I said quietly. “I always check everything because, okay okay okay okay, they f*ck you in the drivethru…” I said, a perfect imitation of Joe Pesci in Lethal Weapon. Roger stared at me with the most amazing smile on his face, laughed and announced that he was going to marry me.

I had to admit I was probably going to say yes.
And on November 13, I did. Next week – Roger hijacks my blog to tell his side of the events. Believe me, I’m just as curious as you.

Life goes on...

2011-01-18T15:03:00.005-06:00

Most of you know that my first marriage, the one that you think will last forever and have all the fairy tale fantasies about, fell apart in early 2009. I did what I could to save it, but he had apparently made up his mind several years before that I was a "mistake" for him. He was already in love with a good friend of mine by this point (I don't ride roller coasters, she does - obviously she's a much better mate...). I was finally able to say "good riddance" after living without him for several months. The divorce proceedings began in February 2010 and were final in October.

In April 2010 I hired a sweet young woman from church to watch the kids so I could go to my monthly scrapbooking night and commisserate with some of the most wonderful understanding women ever. My babysitter, upon finding out that I was not going on a date, said the sweetest thing. "You're not going out with a guy? But you're wasting all that smartness and cuteness being single!" I told her I'd adopt her.

That next weekend was a weekend alone for me. I cleaned out two closets and got another pile of his hoarded junk bagged up for him to take away (seriously - recently I found four plastic grocery bags full of tootsie roll wrappers, a stuffed animal from his first girlfriend, and the boxes from all the cell phones he's ever owned in a cupboard. And I married that...). And then, with a cup of coffee and a bowl of ice cream, out of morbid curiosity, I went to Match.com. I spent a little time taking the quizzes and writing clever answers, uploading the three pictures of me that are moderately flattering, and then completely chickened out and disabled my profile.

But a week later I activated it, the warning about curiosity and dead cats failing to have an effect on me.

Over the next three weeks I was winked at 79 times. I'm sure these men are very nice, but after wading through their profiles, the spelling and grammar errors, vacation photos that show more scenery and less face, pictures of boats and cars and bloody animals (apparently I'm very attractive to hunters), and profiles that clearly indicate:

1. a complete lack of education and understanding about women - "I dont do girlee moves i meen the movies that you chiks like not the other kind so dont thin about taking me them, k?"

2. a gigantic ego (I like my women to be in great shape like me, to look good in jeans and tight clothes like me, and to be able to keep up with me - these profiles contain dozens pictures of individual muscles being flexed)
or

3. weirdness they shouldn't be that honest about. I'm sure there are other websites for stuff like foot fetishes (I like really long red toenales and high heeles if you ware them I will love you) and wanting to share clothes and makeup with your date (we can dress each other up in lacey things and I like to wear eyeliner).

Eeesh.

I decided to deactivate my profile again. I did send my email address to three candidates, however, before doing so. Scott is my age but has never married and has no kids, a retired military man getting his elementary education degree. Shawn is younger by a few years, divorced with three teenagers, owns a drywall company, and has really amazing blue eyes. Daniel is by far the best looking of the bunch, a little older than me, and a lawyer who rides a Harley.

After emailing back and forth for a few weeks with these three, who all turned out to be intelliegent and funny and relatively normal, Shawn finally asked me out. We had a very nice dinner with good conversation. He asked me out for the next night as well, and since it was a kid free weekend, I agreed. He said there was a small pub near his house that he went to occasionally, knew the bartender, and it was a fun place. Would I want to meet him there? Sure.

Turns out "occasionally" means six nights a week, "near my house" means a block away so he can walk and avoid DUIs, and "I know the bartender" means she has to cut him off and kick him out frequently and tries to stay out of arms' reach after 11pm. I left him at 11:03.

One down, two to go.

Daniel called me a lot, and we had fun conversations. He made me laugh, and asked me a lot of questions, which no one had done for years. One night we were laughing about a comedian we both liked when he finally asked if I wanted to go out for coffee. He suggested a weekday, which was fine since the kids were still in school for another week. He was waiting outside for me when I got to Starbucks, held the door, and most of the conversation was just as fun as on the phone. But... (oh, come on, you knew that was coming) then he said that he travels about 3 weeks a month for work. What he really wants in a relationship is someone who understands that, won't bug him on the road, and will be waiting in lingerie with homemade food when he gets back to town.

Two down...

Scott and I actually went on several dates. He had a small get-together of military buddies at his house one night and invited me. We talked and laughed a lot, and he kissed me on the cheek whenever we parted, and I actually thought he might have potential. Until one day during lunch at his favorite Mexican place, I mentioned something about my kids. "One thing I'm glad for," he said, "is when I date a woman and the baby daddy is still in the picture. Kids are so not my thing." I must have stared at him for a full minute before he looked up from the menu. "What?" he asked - as if the irony of a man who just said kids are not his thing studying to be an elementary teacher was totally lost on him. Not to mention the fact that I have three kids. I went out with him a couple more times, but it just wasn't the same, and I think he knew that. I got a text from him one day that simply said, "I'm seeing someone, it's been fun, good luck." I didn't waste a text on him. Right away. I waited a few hours so he'd think I was busy. Good lord, being single sent me back to junior high.

Alas... three strikes, I'm out of the dating game.

But I know that the reason dating sites offer you six month subscriptions is not to give you that much time to find your soul mate. It's because finding your soul mate the second time around is a numbers game - you have to play the odds. For every hundred people you talk to, you may be mutually interested in ten, may actually date five, and one of them may be an acceptable choice to spend a few years with.

When I was young, I kind of understood that I probably was not going to marry someone from my high school. I thought the guy in college might have been the one except that I was informed frequently by his obnoxious little sister that no one in his entire Catholic family wanted him to marry someone who'd have to convert (and I wasn't about to convert). I dated a little after him, but didn't meet anyone I thought was The One. Mind you, I was not the least bit worried about this - I was perfectly fine being kind of a free-spirited gypsy, dating or even living with someone until the romance was over and then moving on. I knew that marriage was a forever thing, a non-voidable contract, and I really didn't want to mess it up.

So the fact that these three guys were not going to be Mr. Me #2 did not really upset me all that much. They all in their own ways reassured me that I was just fine - I'm still attractive, still a good match for someone out there, still wonderful just the way I am, and I certainly don't have to settle for less than amazing.

Soon, I'll tell you about how "amazing" found me. Happily ever after is out there after all.

Ch ch ch changes...

2010-07-01T18:57:00.003-05:00

Well, they are growing up. We had a chance to run errands, just the four of us, today and their conversations are so different even from this time a year ago. Sometimes the cleverness scares me, and then it results in something funny... Of all the things being a mom is, boring is not one of them!

Abby has the magic meatball, some fast food restaurant's version of the Magic 8 Ball, and its not quite as foolproof as the original, so she's got if figured out. To her amusement and the boys' frustration, of course.

Abby: Oh Magic Meatbaaaaalllll, tellllll me pllllleeeeease, will I be successful and have lots of beautiful clothes?
MM: ask again later
Abby: Will my successful business fail someday?
MM: the magic meatball says no
Abby: Will I have a wonderful new house and clothes like a supermodel?
MM: the meatball says yes!
Elliott: gimme that...
Abby: you can ask it a question, but I get to hold it
Mom: no you have to be holding it for the mojo to work right
Abby: Oh right, I forgot, here
Elliott: Magic Meatball, will I marry a supermodel?
MM: ask again later
Elliott: Oh, come on...
Abby: it's later now, ask again (giggle, giggle)
Elliott: will I marry a supermodel?
MM: the magic meatball says no
Elliott: Oh, man...
Abby: let me try. Magic Meeeeeeatballl... will Elliott marry a fat girl?
MM: the meatball says yes
Abby: Ouch! I said don't hit me!
Elliott: Oh sorry, I didn't hear the don't I was too busy hitting you.
Ben: My turn!
Abby: Okay, but don't ask if you're going to marry a supermodel, you need to marry someone smarter than you.

I've learned to stay out of these interactions. It's much more fun to just hang out and listen.

A Moment with the Church Lady

2010-05-03T11:13:00.004-05:00

My Holy Ghost writer is at it again... I sat down in my pew at worship yesterday and drew a complete blank about the Children's Moment, which was 10 minutes away. Fortunately, God smiled on me and encouraged my daughter to pick up the mic first, say loud silly things into it, pass it around and when everyone had a chance to be loud and silly, I had my moment:

That was fun, huh? None of you had a problem being loud into the microphone, even with all these people looking at you. Being loud is fun, isn't it? Well, the older you get, you'll discover that you don't like to be loud as much. Us old stuffy adults don't like to call attention to ourselves by being loud. But one of the things we shouldn't be quiet about is how much we love God and how much He loves us. No matter how old we get, we should be shouting that at the top of our lungs: GOD LOVES ME AND I LOVE HIM!!! We should be cheering for God, singing for God, praising God out LOUD!!! We're not embarrassed to let people know we love Him, right? So let's pray out LOUD!!!

Well, that was paraphrased, of course, but you get the general idea. I really genuinely do, some days, just walk up to the front of the church and hope for the best when I grab that microphone and sit down amongst the kids near the altar. I don't know ahead of time what's going to come out of my mouth, but it always seems to flow and make sense to everyone else. I'm certainly not implying that I'm speaking in tongues or that I'm channeling anyone, but I do walk up there with a prayer in my heart that God will bless me and whatever I'm about to say. That's the Holy Ghost (writer) at work, I'm sure.

As many of you know, Don left me last year and the divorce will be final the middle of this month. Being grateful at the top of my lungs has not exactly been on my list of things to do. But I hope the kids and the congregation got as much out of this children's moment as I did. God has indeed provided me with some very wonderful things, lots of things to be thankful for, and plenty of opportunities for me to help and be helped by my amazing friends and family. I've never been embarrassed to say I'm a Christian, but I've learned in the last few months that there's nothing embarrassing about loving out loud - loving everyone, and especially God. So if you're reading this, please know that I'm so glad to have you in my life, in my kids' lives, and

I LOVE YOU!!!!!

Landmarks

2009-10-24T09:38:00.007-05:00

I know it's been forever since I posted. Please read my very first post again... I never claimed to be able to do anything regularly. I'm the girl who gets back out of bed a few nights a week to brush her teeth, remember?

The kids' school pictures came home in the backpacks a few days ago, and the next day I spent some time putting the 8x10s in the frames like my mom used to, layering the new one on top of the old. And of course I got them all out, lined them up on the table, and compared fall to spring, year to year.

This is Ben's first year, so there's just the one, in a brand new frame. He looks so sweet and the photographer managed to get such a nice smile from him. Abby has 7 - two for each school year - and it's obvious that in some she would let me do her hair and pick out an outfit. It's also obvious for which ones she insisted on wearing something... unique and styling her own hair. I've been choosing my battles carefully, and picture days, like clutter removal, only get about half a military style effort from me because they are who they are and I love them for that. If their personality and little rebellions are preserved forever in a picture, that's okay. Better, actually, to have that permanent reminder that they are unique and special than to have perfect cookie cutter images year after year, and memories of how much we fought and argued.

Elliott is up to eleven photos. Eleven pictures of that round face, that unassuming smile, those big brown eyes that see everything and judge nothing. Yes, I sat there and cried. It didn't help that just days before this he had commented that he would be moving out when he was 18 which was only 8 years away. Wow...

I also have a tradition of taking a picture beside a landmark in my house that will always be with me and won't change size - the grand piano. So that you can have your own moment of tearful, "oh they are growing up so fast" reminiscing, here are the First Day Piano pictures, starting in August 2004.

While I love sharing these pictures because of the way my kids have grown,

I do ask you to please ignore the piles of stuff and clutter that seems to change a little from year to year but is always present. If you think that an entire summer would be enough time to get the piano ready to take one picture, please read the previous post - I just get used to the summer schedule when bam it's fall...

Baby on Board

2009-08-18T16:53:00.002-05:00

I put all three of my children on the school bus this morning. What a milestone! What an amazing day for them! What an opportunity for me!

What bunk.

I did the typical things I took pictures, I waved and blew kisses and gave air hugs, I went back inside and made coffee and cried for awhile, and then I pulled myself together and did some laundry.

I comtemplated a shower, decided against it and played on the computer for about an hour, sorting through the 1,497 emails I haven't gotten around to deleting or putting in the right folder, checking out what's what on Facebook, snooping in my friends' profiles.

Drank some more coffee, switched out the laundry, sat on the porch and listened to the birds and read a couple chapters in a book I had forgotten I was reading.

Drank some more coffee, went to the bathroom ('cause by then I really had to with all that coffee...), wandered around the house some more and decided that I needed a list.

Lists are critical becuase I don't handle change well - I don't adjust to new schedules and big events by preparing for them weeks in advance, never have gotten the hang of gracefully transitioning to a new anything, and as a result each school year starts with me a little dazed and confused.

So I made a list.

And then tossed it.

Just for today, I sat around and did nothing. I figure if I don't adjust to things gracefully, I might as well go all the way. I took a nap in the lawn chair on the porch. I did dishes and laundry, but very slowly. I did take a shower, but not until 2:30. Mostly I just sat in the dining room and listened to the dogs snore.

It was wonderful. I might do it again tomorrow. I'll make a list next week.

The kids came home full of excitement about their first day, recess, lunch, PE, library books, their friends, and I listened and loved hearing about it all, even if it was from all three at once. As I write this two of them are asleep on the couch and one is staring vacantly at a video no one really wanted to watch. Their tummies are full of snack and their brains are tired from absorbing all the first day stuff, and the house is almost as quiet as it was earlier today, but it's that different kind of quiet. I enjoy them both.

Yo Mama Wears Combat Slippers!

2009-06-15T16:23:00.006-05:00

We recently went shopping in search of summer play clothes. There's a Goodwill about 45 minutes away that I like: some of the items on the racks still have the Old Navy and Gap tags attached. Not that my children read labels, but they are decent clothes that have never been worn, and at such a great price that I don't really care if they wear them to catch frogs. The kids had been saving their allowance and begged me to let them pick something out. I agreed as long as I got the final say - no games with missing pieces, no giant trucks or cars, nothing we already have three of. Off they went to the toy section, and I was left to browse for size SF shorts for Elliott. (SF = short fat. Sorry buddy, you're lookin' more like your mama every day...)

Less than 10 minutes later, I was not the least bit surprised to hear a sales person yell in that general direction, "Y'all take them off! Don't be goin' around here like that! Y'all'll break somethin' and yous payin' fer that!" (Those double contractions are my favorite - why mess with consonants?)

I sheepishly turned towards the toy section only to be mowed down by Elliott and Abby on roller blades, Ben in hot pursuit hollering, "Find some that fit me! Elliott, HELP ME!" I resisted the urge to clothesline them and grabbed arms instead. As if they were born wearing wheels, Elliott and Abby spun around with me and headed back to the toys. I stood patiently and listened as the employee scolded me for leaving them unattended and them for skating in the store, and I only had to swallow a giggle once when she squished a record FOUR words together: yallotta. Context: yallotta be ashamed of yourselves. I'm giggling even now.

Once we got our dressing down and I glared at the kids (couldn't speak, too funny) I looked over the skates. As I would expect from this particular neighborhood, both were in great condition, and were $7 a pair. The kids were thrilled, except of course for Ben. There wasn't a pair that fit him, they were all too big, and he performed the contortionist act I like to call Saddest Kid in the World. He bends over at the bottom of his ribcage, dangles his arms, and tucks his head into his belly. If you can manage to get low enough to see his face, his bottom lip is sticking out far enough to serve as a landing strip and his eyes are pinched shut. I really do think theatre is in his future.

I told him I knew he was disappointed, but we did have a pair of roller blades at home that no longer fit Abby and maybe we could get those out and see if they fit him. Also, that meant he could keep looking for a different toy and his siblings were now stuck waiting by Mom. His tiny spine rolled up ever so slightly, and I could tell he was mulling this over (or struggling for control), and within a few seconds he had disappeared into the toy section again.

Now before you chew me out for leaving them alone in the toy section, let me remind you this is a Goodwill store, not Sears, and the toys are less than 10 feet from the clothes racks I was searching through. Not only that, but we were the only ones in the store because it was a Friday morning, and everyone knows the good stuff gets put out first thing Saturday. Okay, maybe that was too much information about my shopping habits... I am what I am - cheap.

Okay, so where do the combat slippers come in? Well, we don't have any pavement near our house unless you count the highway we live on. No sidewalk, gravel driveway, wood planks for a front porch, no where to skate.

Except the dining room, kitchen and back hallway.

Elliott and Abby have been wearing their skates nonstop since they got them. The moment they get home from summer school, the shoes go flying and the skates go on, and the hallways of my house become danger zones for my toes. Oh they try to stay away from me, but for some reason the need for them to be very very close to me when I'm getting snack or fixing a meal or even just doing dishes increases in direct proportion to the damage they could do to my feet.

Okay, lemme' splain something here: for those of you who don't know, I have the toes of a 90 year old woman. I have osteoarthritis in my toes and ankles, and have had this since high school. I manage it pretty well by wearing decent shoes, but having my piggies squished, even just a little, by a pair of roller blades worn by a 90 pound kid is enough to cause a flare that can last for days. And it's not like I have size 11 gunboats - I have tiny little size 6 feet that I keep tucked under me most of the time. The wheels find them anyway, and the kids always feel bad. Not bad enough to remember to stay away, but they do get lots of practice saying, "Sorry Mommy!"

So here's the pictures of our latest obsession. They do everything in skates. They even pour milk, eat bananas, and zoom through the house carrying very full cups of Kool Aid wearing skates. I'm getting a lot of practice just being patient. I'm also trying to figure out a sweeping/mopping device that could be attached to the back of the skates... I'll let you know when my informercial will air. Billy Mays would be the perfect spokesperson.

Elliott pouring a drink; Abby trying to remember the houseplant is not the wall, and will not support her weight.

Abby playing restaurant with Ben (his favorite game - he's the chef, she's the carhop, I was the customer because Elliott wasn't hungry); Elliott learning to stop in the back hallway. The bag of cat litter survived skating practice because I moved it. Didn't change the cat box, just moved the bag... not my job. Can't make me do it. Don't care how bad it gets. Not my job...

A Star is (seldom) Bored

2009-05-02T16:26:00.005-05:00

We have a budding performer at our house, and we are routinely provided with dinner and a show. She eats faster than her brothers, and then exits stage left to rehearse her latest production. The CD player comes on and for those of us who eat at a normal pace - or slower in Ben's case - are entertained with a variety of songs and and glimpses of costumes as she parades through the living room, blithely ignoring our request to let us finish dinner without interruption.
I offered to use the camera to tape a performance, and she prepared one, and (drum roll, please)
Heeeeeeeeere's Abby!

In case you missed it, the song is called Apples and Bananas, and the cards are the different vowels that change in the song.
Notice how this production was important enough to clear a path on the floor. With three kids' worth of toys and stuff in the room, and a mom who is finally fed up with the maid status and has quit cleaning up after them, I honestly had forgotten that the carpet was yellow.
Her next act requires mom to learn how to stitch several small video clips together, because a few costume changes and a reluctant brother were involved. When I get that done, I'll post it. Don't wait up.
Seriously, I do love these performances. She's so confident, so coordinated, and so stinkin' cute. I hope she always feels like a star, and that she never runs out of things to show us. It's that spunk and character that is going to get her through life with flying colors. Go ahead, watch it again, I know you want to.

Soccer Mom

2009-03-22T20:32:00.004-05:00

I was thrilled when all three of the kids said they wanted to play soccer this spring. We’ve been out of gymnastics for over a year (not impressed with the quality of the program for Abby’s age group) and karate for about 8 months (Elliott just didn’t want to go back after football was over L) and Ben is finally eligible to play and coordinated enough not to break a bone, so I signed everyone up. My hand only shook a little as I wrote the triple digit check for the enrollment fees, and when we got home I immediately went to the web sites looking for cheap kids soccer stuff.
Oh, and I signed up to coach Ben’s team.
Well, not intentionally, of course. I know how ridiculous I look trying to do anything athletic, and how little I know about soccer. I signed up to be a Parent Helper, which I thought meant cheerleader. Unfortunately no one else signed up to do anything, which I totally understand, so the little check mark I made by Parent Helper kind of got ignored. I can appreciate the situation the coordinators found themselves in – they had paperwork on someone, why not just make her the coach? They subscribe to my favorite axiom, which is that it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
I realized, after a little self-examination and some desperate questions to the coordinator, that this would be okay. There are two other boys and two little girls on Ben’s team, and three are first time players. At this age, they mostly just kick the ball up and down the field and try to avoid running into each other… or not. It’s more comical than competitive, and more fun for everyone.
I had to get approved by the state Youth Soccer Association first, and that involved a questionnaire online, a criminal background check, a couple of coaches’ meetings and an evening clinic.
There were several moms and lots of dads at the clinic, more than 50 of us crammed into a small conference room one evening, and to my surprise the State Soccer Coach (yes, that’s his real title) had a giant bag of soccer balls and cones and yellow jerseys by the front table. Surely this wasn’t going to be a hand’s-on type thing, was it? I can kick the ball around with my kids but with a whole bunch of coaches watching my fat jiggle… wow, I don’t know about that. Plus I’d been drinking coffee all day and I wasn’t really PrepAreD to do any hopping or jumping or even reacting quickly (if you’ve had more than one child and know what Kegels are, you know what I’m talking about…). But this is only a three hour clinic and there are only 8 or 9 balls in the bag so perhaps there are plenty of volunteers for me to avoid any activity. I should have sat in the middle in the back (I didn’t because of the whole coffee thing… that’ll teach me.)
So Mr. State Coach bullies us through What Not to Do with Soccer Players - don’t make them run laps, don’t make them stand in line - and finally got to What To Do with Soccer Players (let them learn by playing the game). He’s a funny guy but I’m sure he was a drill sergeant, perhaps recently retired. He had a hard time not saying “what the hell” and an equally hard time substituting ‘freakin’ for the other f word. He marched around the front of the room, charging towards the front row when there was a point to be made.

“What do kids, 5 6 7 8 9 10 year old kids, what do kids want to do? Why do they come to soccer practice? To do freakin’ PE stuff? They don’t like the PE teacher for a reason! Why? Why? Because the stuff they do is freakin’ boring! Now I’m not coming down on PE teachers, but you coaches, you have a chance to do something fun! Not the freakin’ PE stuff, don’t make ‘em do that. You have a chance to help them play soccer! And they learn to play soccer how? How? How do you learn how to do something? How do you learn something new? Can you learn how to play basketball by watching a freakin’ video? No! You have to have the ball in your hands! You have to be on the court! You have to bounce it and run with it and shoot it through the hoop! So how do kids learn soccer? By playing soccer!”

Then he gave us a 5-minute break. When I came back (I wasn’t the only one racing to the bathroom but I was closest) he was instructing everyone to move the chairs against the outside walls. Some of the younger dads were bouncing a little like they really wanted to do something other than listen to Billy Mays Amazing Soccer Instruct-o-matic, and sure enough, the bag of balls got dumped on the floor. He had instant volunteers as those energetic few souls practically dove for the balls. I was just not that eager to show off that I can indeed stop the ball without falling over, so I stood off to the side and watched. They played Simon Says and some other games while dribbling and passing, and I got some great ideas for things to do with my team, so it was a productive workshop, and I didn’t have to kick the ball in front of other people even once.

Until practice a week later. That night I was PrepAreD, if you know what I mean, and we actually had a good time. The kids are really well behaved, one of the moms agreed to be my assistant coach (bless you, Kandice!), and the parents treat me like I know what I’m doing, so things are great.

Our first games were yesterday, and all three kids’ teams won. I think soccer may be the game for us – we’re off to a great start, anyway. We were at the park from 12:15 until 4:45 yesterday. I remembered snacks, water bottles, change of shoes, layered clothing, lawn chairs, and the camera. I forgot batteries and sunscreen, but really we all needed the vitamin D and the camera held out. Here’s the pictures – enjoy! J And think of us every Saturday until May 9th, lugging our stuff to the field. I promise to remember sunscreen.

Survivor: The Madison House

2009-03-02T08:26:00.013-06:00

Well, we're all still alive. Even Don. When the first wave of boys arrived for the sleepover, the noise level increased and Don announced that he would be in the back room until it was time to get pizza. I clucked like a chicken, and he raised his eyebrows as if to say, "and your point is...?"

The boys had a great time, and I only had to turn into Mean Mommy a couple times. I learned last year that you have to explain the rules as violations occur because if you do it at the beginning of the party they are not listening to you anyway. Rule #1 - if you can't do it at school, you can't do it here, so dropping trou and farting on someone is not okay. Rule #2 - the upper bunk has a weight limit of three boys, and there is absolutely no wrestling up there. Rule #3 - You may not induce someone to pee during the night by sticking their hand in warm water. I do not want to wonder what the wet spots are in the morning. (I actually cannot believe this myth is still going around; some things never change.)

This year the legos came out quite early, so I can honestly say the boys got at least 4 hours of sleep. The politics of legoland were intense this year, and I got some video with my awesome new camera (thanks, mom!). You can hear some of the bargainning that I found pretty interesting (did you know that green helmets are more valuable than space backpacks?), and then the big event - the DUMPING OF THE TUB. Enjoy! :)

We did have a family event to celebrate the birthdays - Sunday was a Crown Center day with lunch at Fritz's Railroad Restaurant and shopping at all the cool toy and candy stores.

Elliott chose to spend some of his birthday money at the toy store. He bought more legos.

My Newest Project

2009-02-26T12:55:00.003-06:00

This is a special day for me, and I hope you’ll humor me by subjecting yourself to something else I’m writing. Last week I started a new blog and today is my launch date. It's also my birthday, but that's purely coincidence. :)
It’s completely fiction but based loosely on the long-distance relationship I have with my wonderful friend Jennifer. I’m excited to throw some of my creative stuff into the ring, and I hope you’ll enjoy it too.
I figured out a while ago that I am an author, not just a writer. Writers can get things out of their heads and onto paper or into the computer and feel great. Authors need the feedback from an audience to complete the process, and I live for feedback. I love the hurrays and I take seriously the constructive comments as well. It’s all part of the process for me, and it would mean a lot to me if you would take a little more time from your busy schedule. And hopefully laugh, too. Thanks so much for all your love and support.

Here it is: The Adventures of Gwen and Nancy!

http://gwenandnancy.wordpress.com/

Boy Toys

2009-02-24T15:01:00.004-06:00

Last year, we had a sleepover party for Elliott's 9th birthday. This was the email and pictures I sent to the friends and relatives who were anxious to know if I survived:

So Elliott started asking for this sleepover about two weeks ago, and I envisioned 24 screaming monkeys tearing up my house. Only 8 were invited, just 6 could make it, and they were pretty civilized for 8-9 year old boys. They played Xbox and Playstation, ate pizza, and got out the dress-up gear to play fire and rescue. One boy would lay on the dining room floor and the others would crawl in, yelling emergency-sounding stuff, and drag him to safety. Glad I mopped.
I thought 11pm was a good time to put in a movie and have them pick a spot on the floor. They brushed their teeth with not a little grumbling and the expected amount of spitting and bathroom humor. Just as I thought things were going to quiet down, I hear one voice call out the summons that ensured no one would sleep: "Guys! Elliott's got more Legos than I've ever seen in my whole life!"
The unmistakable sound of a giant tub of Legos being dumped on the floor quickly followed: it’s a little like shaking a box of shattered light bulbs, and a little like hundreds of plastic nails being sprinkled on a metal floor. Unless you’ve heard it, you can’t quite understand but you never forget that sound. By 2:30 am they had quite a city started, and were trading each other cool items like a spaceman's backpack for a knight's helmet. By 4:15 everyone had their own "tricked out" vehicle, a horse and knight, and a variety of space ship parts. The battle for land rights (space to lay out their plastic lawn or landing strip) had settled down. At around 6 it was decided that the landing strips and horse pastures could be reorganized around the two boys who had succumbed to sleep with their vehicles stored protectively under their arms. And at 8:30, when I asked who wanted waffles and sausage, one small voice said, "I guess we have to clean all this up now, huh?"
Elliott very proudly told the guys that the Lego collection was a gift from his Uncle John, who "rocks out loud." John, you’re the hero of the party, dude. :)

It was apparently such a success that we are repeating it this year. This year, all the fourth grade boys were invited. Wish me luck. Or better yet, just shoot me now...

The Un-Sorority

2009-02-02T13:55:00.001-06:00

In the last few weeks, courtesy of this amazing thing called the Internet, I’ve been bombarded by my past. Yes, it has been my choice to put my name out there, which is strange considering my self-confidence is at an all time low and I really have so many things taking up my time that the thought of keeping up with all these new ‘friends’ pushes the insanity button a little. But I think that the stages my children are going through have much more to do with it than anything in my own mind. I’m watching them establish friendships, have fights, rush to check caller ID when the phone rings and then fight over who gets to pick it up… I especially watch my daughter, and she’s approaching that point in her life where Queen Bees and Wannabes are established. I have been reflecting on my own life as I contemplate helping her navigate this social ocean. Will she glide through on a cruise ship or cling to a life raft? Will she have one or two friends, or will she have the sisters she’s always wanted?
I was on a life raft, but it was the one hanging on the side, still attached to the fancy cruise ship. I knew lots of kids in grade school and junior high, but I never belonged to a group. When I was young my family focused on the ways I was unique, special. I was the only grandchild on both sides of my family for several years. I remember Kindergarten being quite a shock – you mean I’m not the center of the universe? There are other kids in the world? And they play together… what is that? Can I just read a book, please? It’s very noisy here and I’m not in charge, so I would like to go home now.
Actually I wasn’t that smart or that confident. It was probably more like I sat at my desk and observed the chaos and had absolutely no idea how to jump in. Jumping in would be rude, and I might look silly, and they might not like me, and… and there lies the heart of the matter really. Not knowing how to jump in and make myself welcome, I singled myself out, and have been doing that ever since.
I had one friend at a time, sometimes two, but the girls I hung out with individually were not friends with each other. Carrie, Cindi, Christy, Heather, Angie– all extremely different people. I had something in common with each of them, though. Carrie was my intellectual friend, Cindi and Christy were my music friends, Heather was my little sister friend, and Angie was my alter ego – the super cool chick I wanted to be but didn’t have the right parents. The one time all of us got together was a birthday slumber party, and the only thing I remember about that night was splitting my knee open on the sidewalk when we decided to go jogging. In February. In Nebraska. High school wasn’t much better. I had music friends and boyfriends, but still no group. Didn’t find the group in college either – Rush was a bizarre exercise in futility since hair, makeup and current fashion have never been high priorities for me. I found myself standing alone near the fireplace at darn near every house I went to. Sigh. Residence hall life was okay, and I met some awesome people, but I never felt like I was part of the group there either.

I still don’t have a group – I have the two friends I’ve had since high school (Jennifer) and college (Sandy), and I have some mom friends through school and scouts. At church there are several amazing women I consider friends. I go out for dinner or coffee once a month with a small group, but I don’t get together with them any other time. My mom didn’t have a group – I don’t recall her ever going out for a girl’s night or hanging out with more than one close friend at a time. Is my daughter destined for that too? Am I worrying waaaaay too much about something that is absolutely no big deal? Probably. But here’s why I think it’s important to worry about it at least a little.

A lot of my friends have their own groups – it seems like every time I stop by one friend’s house, the same women are there, baking cookies or scrapbooking or just hanging out drinking coffee. I have not been invited to one of these gatherings officially, but they wouldn’t kick me out if I had time to stay. I just don’t seem to have time to stay.
I did have an encounter one time that left my confidence dented. I had stopped in at a friend’s house to drop off some hand-me-downs. Her group was all there, and I didn’t plan on staying but she offered me Diet Coke and the kids had started playing so I sat down. One of the other moms made a comment and it caught my attention, so I asked her to explain. She stared at me for a full minute in the silence of the room and then snorted and said, “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. I forgot you were here.”
Wow.
My friend apologized profusely as she walked me out to my car, saying it was really no big deal, they just didn’t want rumors to get started, etc. etc. Whatever. It was a swift kick-in-the-gut reminder that I’m not part of that group, and probably never will be. The control freak in me wanted desperately to know what was going on, but the other parts of my brain just couldn’t care. I wasn’t really crazy about these women anyway, so it just didn’t matter what they spent their time and energy gossiping about.
But it still kinda bugs me that I don’t have a group at all. I want the camaraderie, the feeling of inclusion, that feeling of being known and liked anyway. I want that for my daughter as she grows up. I want her to have several people she can count on to love her and care about her and help her through the tough times ahead. I want her to enjoy the company of lots of people simultaneously because there’s safety in those groups. Two girls can easily get separated by a boy or a disagreement. One girl is… well, alone. And sometimes lonely. Abby is still young enough to have plenty of friends and not care too much about who’s in and who’s out. But that will come soon. And there’s protection in the pack.

I don’t wish for her to be a Queen Bee unless she’s the queen of being super nice to everyone. (I never quite mastered that skill; sarcasm is fantastically funny but doesn’t win popularity contests. I’m better at sarcasm than almost anything else, and I try to play to my strengths.) I just want her to be happy and comfortable and popular for the right reasons. She’s sweet and caring and considerate and funny, and I want her have a bunch of BFF’s that she can pal around with, who love her for those things.

I made fun of the varsity cheerleaders one day in Science class. They were all heading down the hall for a pep rally and I blurted out, “Let’s observe the herd in its natural habitat.” Everyone laughed, but it was a comment made out of jealousy, really. Not that I wanted to be a cheerleader, I just wanted the group. And now that’s what I want for Abby. Good news – she looks adorable in a cheerleader’s uniform. Even better, she cares more about the girls she’s cheerleading with than the cute uniform.

Busy is a Choice

2009-01-27T22:24:00.003-06:00

I told myself I wasn’t going to post when I was irritated, but this just blew me away. I’m supposedly on the Do Not Call list, but you still get calls from charities. I got a phone call one afternoon last week from a company that sells subscriptions to support a national charity – a wonderful reputable one, actually. I have supported this in the past, because I did have a magazine I wanted to renew and they had it available so, great. I no longer need the magazine – the babies are all grown up. And now I do not have time to read magazines. I wish I did – there are a bunch that I would love to peruse over a cup of coffee. I just really don’t have time. And that’s what I told the telemarketer.
Unbelievably, he came back with, “Really? You don’t even have time to keep up with current events like with Time magazine? We have a great deal on that.”
I said no thanks and hung up, but then I started thinking and I got furious. How dare this person question my statement? I said I didn’t have time, and that meant…
well, that meant I don’t make the time for that particular activity. Everyone has the same number of hours in every day, it’s what we choose to do with them that matter.
Okay, so what do I do instead of choosing to read a magazine?
I picked a Tuesday to track my daily activity to find out what happens to my time. I scribbled everything on a notebook that I carried in my back pocket, and here’s the translation as close as I can get it. Of course, I embellished as I translated. Can’t just not explain some of this stuff…

(6:33 am) Shower, dress, pluck eyebrows, decided even eyeliner is too much trouble, but moisturizer w/ sunscreen isn’t
(6:54 am) Get Elliott & Abby up, dressed, fed
Start one load laundry
Feed cats and dogs
Check backpacks, write in assignment book, make one cold lunch
Find new shoelaces, replace broken one while kids brush teeth
(7:47 am) Run to bus stop with kids
Pick up three pieces of trash from easement, put away scooter
Re-hang coats on racks, take one to laundry, pretreat stains
Convince wood-burning stove to light again (saves on propane)
Clean up cat food from dog getting into it, scold dog and feed cat again
Make coffee, check email, check list for today
Drink coffee, eat banana, enter Scout popcorn information on computer
Put laundry in dryer
Make a phone call regarding an email, get answer and reply to email
(8:20 am) Wake Ben, get him dressed and teeth brushed (he doesn’t eat in the morning – more proof that he is a clone of his father)
Start car so it can warm up
Find Ben’s shoes (flashlight required)
(8:54 am) Drive to preschool, get him checked in, hug him several times, escape
Drop off books (1 read, 1 unread) at library, use their quiet bathroom, look quickly at self-help shelf and decide it’s pretty hopeless, and a book that I don’t have time to read is not going to make any difference, leave
Drive home, pack a lunch for Ben, pack food and find cleaning supplies purchased last week for Clark, check bank balance online, start another load of laundry
(9:59 am) Drive to Clark’s (87 year old neighbor, I clean his house once a week), put food in his fridge, clean bathroom, sweep and mop kitchen floor, do laundry, chat with him about the inauguration, clean kitchen counters, sort his old newspapers to take to recycling, hug him, leave
(11:22 am) drive to preschool, wait for train, listen to NPR show until callers start (love news, can’t stand the callers), get to preschool, apologize for being late, gather Ben’s papers and coat
Drive to grocery store, shop, drop coupon folder, grab broom from clean up station and sweep them all into a pile and toss them in the trash
Drive home, unload groceries, find a place on the fridge to hang Ben’s picture (waffle prints, w for waffle and wait and water and wiggle…)
Sit with Ben while he eats lunch, read him Naughty Nicky, find some workbook activity pages for him to do
Put away groceries, wash apples, warm up a cup of coffee, put another log on the fire
(12:41 pm) Check email again, eat ham, cheese, hardboiled egg, large glass water and three Girl Scout cookies, reply to four emails, forward one, and check new church website for changes and additions
Change out laundry
Check the activity pages Ben did, read Hooway for Wodney, find a web site for him to play on
Sweep and mop kitchen floor, bundle up again to go feed and water chickens (roosters actually cooperated today)
Bring in eggs and 1 armload firewood
Rearrange fridge to accommodate eggs which have piled up – text two people to see if they want eggs
Fix printer – Ben tried to print and paper jammed, reprint page and watch him play one game
Drink some coffee while staring into deep freeze, waiting for dinner to magically appear; take out chicken and hope for the best
Fold one load laundry, put Ben’s clothes away, take sheets off bunk bed and sit for a few minutes to repair beloved stuffed animal that dogs fought over
Take box of stuff to car to take to Goodwill tomorrow, bring in another armload of firewood
Answer phone call, clean counters and drink coffee while chatting, take notes on follow-up activities that result from inability to say no to caller
(3:03 pm) Get kids off the bus, listen to their day, unpack backpacks, prepare an apple with peanut butter, a bagel with cream cheese and a pack of popcorn because they couldn’t all want the same thing…Allow them to watch 45 minutes of television so I can make three more phone calls about soccer stuff and put away supplies from yesterday’s cub scout meeting
(3:59 pm) Turn television off and start chores – Elliot brings in firewood, Abby puts away some clean dishes, Ben gathers laundry and they each have a trash can to take out
Homework (Elliott) and play time (Abby and Ben)
Sort through mail while helping Elliott and watching Abby’s fashion show and admiring Ben’s Lego creations
Cut up chicken, marinate for stir fry, rinse dishes and start dishwasher
Eat 2 more girl scout cookies and drink a glass of milk, hide cookies in back of cupboard, rearrange cupboard and throw away stale crackers (why can’t saltines come in smaller packages?)
Fold laundry, put away, watch tomorrow’s weather and a little news (see, I do keep up with current events)
Scoop litter box, walk out to field to dump the bucket, wash hands, arms and change shirt (grossest job in the universe…)
(5:05 pm) Answer phone call, look up information online, pass on to caller, accept thanks for being a lifesaver
While online, look up more science projects for next week’s scout meeting and make list of supplies, email a mom about doing snacks, email Cubmaster about belt loops, make phone call verifying rental hall for Pinewood Derby
Add logs to fireplace, go to kid’s bathroom to get sawdust out of eye, clean toothpaste out of sink and pick up toys and towels while I’m there
Find several things in kids’ bathroom that would be great for scout meeting, put them in a bag (and hope I can find them next week)
Put books back on the shelf in story corner in the boys’ room, take stuffed animals back to Abby’s room, remember a birthday while I’m in her room and pick out a card, sign, address and stamp it
(6:14 pm) Make dinner with lots of help, put ice on Ben’s head from fighting over the stepstool with Abby, send Abby to time out, put dinner on the table for Elliott, argue with him over watching tv since Dad isn’t home, give in, watch some bizarre kid turn into a bunch of different aliens while eating, get Abby out of time out, serve her and Ben dinner
Retrieve cat food dish from outside, scold dog, feed cats again because they are all hungry and meowing loudly every time I walk into the kitchen
Unload dishwasher, Abby and Ben help (sort of – I have no idea where the salad tongs disappeared to…)
(7:04 pm) Read library books
(7:33 pm) Answer phone, go to computer and add three things to the church meeting agenda on the 22nd, check email again, reply to two, forward two to someone who may know the answer ‘cause I sure don’t…
(8:28 pm) Straighten toys and put sheets on bunk bed while kids play rock paper scissors to decide who gets to be last in the shower
Cycle kids through the shower and brushing their teeth, getting pajamas on
Put logs on fire, sweep around fireplace
(9:15 pm) escape to my own bathroom to catch up on note taking and have silence…
(9:19 pm) break’s over… Ben is screaming again, remove his game from Elliott’s DS
Sit on bed and review the day with each kid (sometimes this is a dog pile, sometimes I get individual time, tonight is a dog pile)
(9:41 pm) warm up a cup of coffee, rinse dinner dishes, put in dishwasher, answer phone, walk Ben back to bed, take Elliott’s DS away, get Abby a drink, take notes on phone call
Get online and complete Kidsafe enrollment so I can help coach Ben’s soccer team, fix printer again, write several things on grocery list
Check weather, respond to email
Walk Ben back to bed, cover Abby up, take Elliott’s PSP away
Drink entire bottle of water I was supposed to be sipping on all day, email soccer coordinator about Kidsafe enrollment, print scout activity instructions
(10:41 pm) Put log on fire, take Ben’s DS away from Elliott, sit with Elliott until he tells me what’s bugging him so he can go to sleep
(11:09 pm) warm up coffee, check email one last time, check other websites I try and keep up with, get great fire station fundraiser idea from one and make notes, look over calendar for rest of week, look on craigslist for soccer stuff for kids
Type church minutes from last meeting, add one more thing to agenda
Look for insurance bill Don asked me to mail and pay it, hunt for his stamps and give up, go get one of mine
(11: 48 pm) Be glad Elliott and Ben are finally asleep, prepare and eat whole grapefruit because it sounded good, watch last few minutes of CSI:NY
Brush teeth, sit down with this list and translate!
(1:29 am) Done. Going to bed.

Looking back one week later, that was almost a typical day – Don being out of town means some things I don’t normally do like chickens and catbox are added in there, but for a Tuesday, that was pretty accurate. Could I have read the magazine instead of watch tv at midnight? Maybe, but why work that hard? Besides, if my husband isn’t home and I can watch a few minutes of Carmine Giovinazzo…
So Mr. Telemarketer, I suppose I do have the time to read a magazine, but I don’t want to. All the things I do are for my kids and my community, and I’m going to have plenty of time when the kids are grown to sit around and read. I’ll subscribe then. (If your children are older, could you please reassure me that I will have time to read… someday?)

I'm Not Paranoid, Just Very Observant

2009-01-12T09:34:00.007-06:00

It may surprise some of you to know that I am a gigantic scaredy cat. Yes, an even bigger chicken than the chickens in my yard. (I'm actually terrified of the rooster, and not real crazy about the hens, either.) But wait, there's more! I'm afraid of...

heavy traffic in construction areas
food poisoning (my husband calls this salmonoia and it drives him crazy to see me washing the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher and giving two day old leftovers to the dogs, but I can't help it - I would rather have a root canal than throw up)
having car trouble at night
being pregnant again
never being pregnant again
mice (and living in this house, that's a problem because despite the presence of four cats, the mice are everywhere, I just know they are)
weddings (getting humiliated at one makes you want to avoid them)
surprise parties (control freaks do not like surprises, even good ones)
that someone will turn me in to that "What Not to Wear" show and that snotty woman will come in and throw away all my soft warm comfy clothes
that the SLE has done more damage than I have time left to repair
not spending enough time with my kids
spending too much time with my kids
opening up on the internet like this (it's really good for the author in me, but the paranoid crazy woman wants to go around unplugging everything)
the house burning down and I won't be able to get the Steinway out (speaking of unplugging everything)
being fat for the rest of my life
never ever finding a decent hairstyle
Don being in an ugly work/motorcycle accident (fainting when they ask you to identify body parts is really not cool)
someone snatching my kids (although they might bring them back in minutes, offer me some cash and their condolences...)
roller coasters and any amusement park ride that makes you go around in circles or up in the air
and of course, flying

Some of these are legitimate fears that involve my family and health, and some are irrational and can be traced directly to my control freak status. My goal for the year is to banish my fears, both real and silly. I recently read several books that I would recommend: Ask and It Is Given by Jerry and Esther Hicks, The Law of Attraction by Michael Losier, and The Secret by Rhonda Byrne. The premise of all three is that you create in your life the things you focus on, whether positive or negative. You perpetuate your own misery if you want to, but you can also psych yourself up by being grateful and appreciative of everything. I'm inclined to buy into this, because I do this with parking spots all the time. Anyone who has herded three easily distracted children across a busy parking lot can empathize with me. Before we get to the store, I see myself driving into the parking lot and pulling into a spot very close to both the door and a cart corral, and I say a quick thank you to the person who left the spot for me. It works almost every time. Almost, because the activity level in the car has a lot to do with my ability to concentrate. The presence of electronic devices like Nintendo DS and MP3 players seems to correlate positively to my ability to find a great spot, but that's a purely unscientific study.

I'm using the law of attraction to analyze my fears. Does this mean that Friendly the rooster is psychotically evil because I think he is? No, he's just being a rooster, protecting his hens. Does he know that I'm afraid of him, and act accordingly? Of course. So since Don is out of town this week and I have to feed the chickens and gather eggs, how do I prevent puncture wounds and peck marks? By convincing myself that the rooster is smaller and dumber than me, carrying a baseball bat and wearing gloves and two pairs of jeans. I will feel invincible and maybe they will leave me alone like they leave Don alone. Don feels invincible all the time. Once last summer, he got up in the night because the rooster was crowing which usually signals that something got into the coop. He went out in his boxer shorts and work boots and convinced a 4 foot black snake to find a snack elsewhere, came back in and went back to sleep without so much as a mosquito bite. If he had been out of town that week the snake would have eaten well. But if I feel invincible, and keep telling myself that I'm impervious to rooster spurs, and convince myself that I have every right to go in there and get the eggs and dump some feed in the tub and clean the waterers...

Wow, I'm kind of going to have to spend a long time in the coop. Maybe I'll call a neighbor to help with the chickens and I'll focus on my fear of food poisoning first. Yeah, that sounds good. I have a stomach lined with steel, just like the rest of my family. I do not have to eat the leftovers but they can safely be fed to the family. The dishes are perfectly clean...

The Fly on the Wall: Mom

2009-01-02T10:29:00.006-06:00

I love listening to my kids when they are not talking to me. Here are some conversations I’ve overheard lately.

Ben: Do you smell brownies? (He’s been in and out of the kitchen all day asking to lick the spoon. Now he’s looking for accomplices)
Elliott: Yeah, mom’s making some.
Ben: She’s making those little ones with the white stuff and the cherries. (said in that dreamy voice that only a 5 year old can make sound perfectly innocent)
Elliott: Yeah, those are good.
Ben: What’s your favorite part of those things? Mine’s the frosting. Or maybe the cherries.
Elliott: Are you playing this game or what?
Ben: Don’t you love those cherries? No, I don’t want to play anymore. Let’s go see if mom will give us some cherries!

Abby had been on a sleepover, and Sunday after church we picked her up. It was quiet on the way home until…
Ben: Abby, did you know we had church this morning?
Abby: Yeah.
Ben: And we did Sunday School without you?
Abby: So?
Ben: And then we did church and we did that thing that Elliott can do but I can’t do and I can’t remember if you can or not.
Abby: What thing?
Ben: That thing where you get the little snack and the tiny little cup with the juice in it. Can you do that?
Abby: Oh, you had Communion. Yeah, I can do that.
Ben: Why do you get to do that and Elliott gets to do that but I can’t do that until I’m… well… I don’t know how many I can be until I can do that.
Abby: ‘Cause you have to understand that it’s God’s body and God’s blood and it’s serious.
Elliott: It’s symbolic.
Abby: Yeah, it’s not blood, but it’s still serious.

Abby: Deck the halls with hows of holly, fa la la la la la la la la!
Ben: I wanna sing that too – start over!
Abby: Okay, but you don’t know the words, so repeat after me. Deck.
Ben: I don’t wanna repeat you I know the words, just sing it!
Abby: Okay, Deck the halls with hows of holly…
Mom: Honey, it’s boughs of holly, bough is another word for branch, and holly is a very pretty winter tree.
Abby: Okay. Deck the halls with vows of holly, fa la la la la, la la la la.
Ben: Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Abby: I want to sing it myself, Ben, okay? You sing quietly in your head.
Ben: But I know the words, I can sing it loud if I want. DECK THE HALLS WITH VOWS OF HOLLY, FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA.
Abby: Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la. On we now, or they will feral, la la la la la la la la.
Ben: What are the words?
Abby: Okay, let’s start over. You repeat what I sing, okay? Deck!
At this point mom had to leave the room…

Ben: Elliott. Elliott. Elliott. Elliott! Elliott!
Elliott: What?
Ben: Isn’t it so cool that robes come with pockets?
Elliott: Yeah.
Ben: You can put so much stuff in your pockets if you want to. Like cars, and Pokemon, and Bakugon, and Diego legos. Look at what I have in my pocket, Elliott. Elliott! Look what I have in my pocket!
Elliott: Yeah, cool.
Ben: Isn’t it cool that robes come with pockets? Elliott, isn’t that cool? Elliott! Elliott!
Elliott: Mine doesn’t have pockets.
Ben: Oh. (Long pause) Mine does. Do you want to put some stuff in my pockets? They’re pretty big. Elliott? Elliott? Elliott? Do you want to put some stuff in my pockets? Do you? Elliott?
Elliott didn’t answer, he had finally fallen asleep. Ben gave up about eight minutes later.

I think because they don't want anything from me, I'm able to just listen to them when they talk to each other. I can hear their personalities and discern their roles in the family. Elliott is focused on his own thing but recognizes the fact that having siblings means at least he isn't alone all the time. Abby is the teacher and the joiner - she tries to get everyone involved as long as they do it her way. Being the only girl, she has that luxury. Ben is the persistent follower when they are all together, trying to be a part of everything and not wanting to miss out. He's got quite the personality, but as the youngest, he's eager to hide it in order to fit in.

I'm going to miss the conversations between them the most. Soon, I know, they will figure out that I can hear them, and soon they'll all have their own lives outside the house. I hope they remember how to talk to each other, how to enjoy that. I hope that someday, some holiday far in the future, I'll be able to listen in again.

Snow Day

2008-12-08T10:02:00.008-06:00

Winter was on a Sunday this year, according to my kids. November 30th. It started snowing Saturday off and on, and then stuck overnight. Immediately after church they took off toward the south field by the pond to check for ice and dead frogs. I barked strict orders at them as they ran to STAY OUT OF THE WATER YOU DO NOT HAVE WINTER BOOTS ON YOU ARE WEARING GOOD CLOTHES DO NOT BRING ANYTHING BACK TO THE HOUSE STAY OUT OF THE WATER OR ELSE!
Once they saw the tiny pasture between the pond and the hedge apple trees, however, the pond was forgotten.
Remember that sight from when you were a kid? Or maybe last winter? The blanket of sparkly white stuff that looks solid but isn’t? That freaky substance that practically screams “Come play with me!” and no matter how old you are you can hear it? Oh, yeah – snow.
I watched them stop and just stand and stare at the field. Then as they took off at a run again, I trudged inside to get my camera. And my boots. And a decent hat for Ben.
Before the kids got there, this field had a beautiful coat of snow that was just barely beginning to melt because it had the longest grass. It’s probably just under an acre, and it’s a funny shape and I don’t like to mow it because there’s more unpleasant surprises in that tiny field than anywhere else on the property. The biggest toad I’ve ever seen in my life hopped in front of the mower for a good 25 yards one day; I finally just got off and chased him to the side with a stick. I’ve had to swerve (and if you’ve ever driven a mower with zero-radius turning and a 60 inch deck, this is not easy or particularly fun) to avoid stray beams and piles of scrap steel. And since this field is between the pond and the hedge apple trees, the perimeter is a delightful experience – sandy slopes on one side, branches with 4 inch thorns on two others. Look up osage orange on the web and you’ll see what I mean. These trees are the strangest things too – it’s not like this ‘fruit’ is edible or good for much. I don’t see what the tree is protecting, but it is very well protected. And for those of you who think hedge apples keep the bugs away, I gotta tell ya that bugs crawl all over them when they fall in the yard, so… if it works for you, great, but I’m just sayin’…
Anyway, back to our Snow Day.

I made it back out to the field in time for a snowball fight, and the snowman that Abby had so desperately wanted to build since, well, last winter. There has been a bowl with buttons and sprinkles in the china cabinet since August, just waiting for the snow to fall. Baby carrots are always on the grocery list because baby carrots make cuter noses than big ones.
The snowman didn’t get a name – they couldn’t agree. The artists did agree to pose with their creation, and then I said I had to go inside. “Are you cold, mama?” Ben asked, incredulously. It’s 34 degrees out, he’s only keeping his coat zipped because I threatened him, the hat I brought him is on my head, and his three pairs of gloves are somewhere in the abyss known as their room. They are more costume than practical winter apparel.

I remember not caring how cold it was – there’s SNOW!!! I think I was about his age. It must wear off earlier in girls, because Abby followed me inside. The Capri pants she insisted were okay to wear today apparently aren’t good for playing in the snow after all. I resisted the urge to snort loudly at her. Elliott and Ben stayed out another 20 minutes or so throwing snowballs at each other and the snowman, and then we all had hot cocoa.
Monday morning, the snow was almost all melted away, and as Ben and I ran our errands, I heard a big sad sigh from the back seat.
“What’s up little man?” I asked him, thinking we’d forgotten some toy crucial to his road-trip enjoyment.
“Winter’s over, mom. I’m just sad, that’s all.”
I only spent like 14 seconds trying to explain that winter had not even really started yet. No matter how many times we look at the calendar, the concept of seasons just isn’t clicking for him. He seemed happier to hear that there would be more snow days, and then he moved on to a charming oration about what might happen if we moved to Alaska. He can dream of moose and drifts higher than our house, but the southern Midwest is just fine by me.

In Remembrance

2008-11-23T08:44:00.005-06:00

Today is the 10th anniversary of my father’s death. He was 51 when he died of bladder cancer. I miss him every day, and I still get teary thinking about all that my kids and I have missed in the last 10 years, not having him around. These are my memories of my dad. They are my memories – if you are reading this, please keep that in mind. I was his only daughter, and he was my only dad, and these memories are what I have. They are mine – they may not be perfect and they may not always be flattering to either myself or my dad, but they are my memories, and that’s what I have left. Those, and the brown eyes. And being short. That’s probably from him too.

My earliest actual memory of my dad – not one I’ve seen a photo of and can vaguely recall being there – is of his shoes. They were white. It was the 70’s and I was maybe 7 or 8, my brother was 3. Our house had a pool in the backyard, and we were all out back one summer evening. My brother and I were toasting marshmallows on the grill. Suddenly a bug – a rather large bug – flew onto my brother’s shoulder and began crawling toward his head. I’m sure I was paralyzed by the sight of a bug, or maybe I didn’t care, or more likely I was too dumb to have done anything except watch. The bug reached my brother’s skin and he began screaming and doing the getitoffme dance. My parents both came running, thinking of course that he was on fire, and I remember the sound of my dad’s shoes on the concrete. Dad got my brother’s shirt off and shook it, and out fell the bug. He squished it with his white shoe, and I think we went back to toasting marshmallows, but I don’t remember much more. I think he was wearing white pants, too, and a purple shirt. It was the 70’s.

My dad was always “Dad.” He died before we had the chance to get to know each other as adults. I only knew him as Dad, and looking back I think maybe he wanted it that way. That role was important to him, and he needed to maintain it. I learned more about him as a person at his funeral, more bits of information and insights into his personality from his friends and the more than 300 people who came than I ever learned about him in our life together. I was just starting to get hints about him as a person when he got sick. Some of that lack of knowledge is my fault. I was incredibly self-centered as a young person, and so naïve about the world, yet I thought I was smart and talented and wonderfully worldly. I believed I knew everything I needed to know about my family, and therefore spending time with them was superfluous. I believed that I knew so much about my family they were predictable. I thought I knew what would make my Dad angry (most of the things I did), what would make him happy (very few of the things I did), and what he liked to do (work and mow the lawn).

Please read that the way I wrote it – I THOUGHT I knew him. I THOUGHT that’s the way he was. I was in my 20’s and at the pinnacle of self-centeredness, give me a break.

I’m sure that’s not really the kind of man he was at all. Now that I’m a mom, and almost in my forties, I understand. He had a life, pet peeves, things that he enjoyed that made him a complicated person, so much more than just The Dad. I’m so sad that I didn’t get to know the real man, so sad that he didn’t get to know the grown-up me, that sometimes I’m physically ill. All that we have missed…
Sifting back through my memories I can sometimes pull out snippets of conversations, mental pictures of him that make me think I am a lot like him, and I get a lot of comfort from that.
I think about the few ‘grown-up’ conversations I had with him and I realize we may now share some of the same philosophies. I mentioned in my last entry a comment he made to me about Democrats and communism. My father was not bigoted or racist or mean spirited. He was an intelligent man with an incredible sense of humor (which I’m proud to say I inherited), and when he made that comment I took it for what it was worth – my father’s dry, sarcastic opinion about a serious topic that his 11 year old daughter brought up at the dinner table one night.
I sat across from my Mom and on my Dad’s left at our dinner table. My brother sat next to my mom, and the rest of that 8 person table looked exactly like mine does now: piles of mail, school papers, keys, pens, the Sunday newspaper, and that document from that place that you’re supposed to sign and return asap. I remember sitting in that chair for eternal, silent moments when I had done something stupid. I remember sitting in that chair and laughing at something he’d said. I remember sitting in that chair, so close to him but always feeling very far away. He was The Dad, after all. I always knew he loved me, never doubted that, I just wasn’t ever sure how much.

I remember my dad being opinionated, quietly intimidating, having high expectations, and working a lot. I remember having everything planned out, nothing ever felt spontaneous at my house. I remember doing similar things year after year after year. I remember feeling like nothing I did was going to be quite good enough for him, like he wasn’t really on my side, and that he really didn’t try to understand ME or treat me special because I was his daughter. I always felt he just wanted me to fit into the world the way it was and deal with it. I do remember a moment of comfort when a boy didn’t ask me to skate one night, and I do remember the pleasant surprise on his face when I sang a solo at church. But I also remember being on my own a lot. I remember feeling distanced from him.

Now that I’m an adult (and oddly enough, craving time on my own and just a little distance from my own kids), I look back and see the wisdom of what I believe were his opinions. I think that he believed in hard work, careful planning, and in educating yourself. I think he believed that things don’t just get handed to you, and you don’t always get what you want or think you deserve, even when you work hard, are educated and plan well. It is in those moments that you depend on family, you call in your reserves of love and energy from friends, and you make lemonade from those lemons. You don’t expect anyone to feel sorry for you – you ask for help and say thank you, but you certainly don’t expect anyone’s pity. When things do just get handed out, it diminishes the accomplishments of those who work hard. When you are coddled, it decreases your desire to work hard and earn things for yourself. There’s absolutely merit to that – I just wish I’d learned it from something other than so much example.

Then again, now that I’m a mom, I think I understand what he thought his role was, and what he may have thought he needed to do and be as a dad. If I don’t teach my kids what the world is like, how are they going to survive in it? How are they going to succeed? I do agree that the work ethic he passed down to me is a keeper. I’m a better cheerleader than he was, though. I have taught myself to be a praise freak – always hugging my kids and saying “Great job! That was awesome!” and yelling louder than anyone else out there, because I don’t remember him doing that when I was a kid and I always wanted him to. I thought my dad didn’t want to look silly. I wonder if he thought that might have tarnished his image in my eyes, or made it harder to be the bad guy when he needed to. More than likely it was just his personality. I just never got to know that part of him. I wasn’t a bad kid, but I wasn’t perfect, and I do know now that he loved me so much he couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to me. I love my own kids the same way, I’m just more expressive, more outspoken, more straightforward about what I expect of them and why. I learned from his example, and I just put my own spin on it.

I hope I turned out okay, I hope that I’m someone he would have been proud of. I don’t do all the things I do trying to please him; I do them because they are the right things to do, and I think that would please him. I look back and realize he was a good father, and he taught me a lot even when I didn’t realize I was listening. He would have been an amazing grandpa, too.

The weather was so beautiful the year that he died. He accepted his own illness and fatal prognosis with incredible grace and dignity. Even sick and dying he never let me see him as anything but Dad. True, I only came up on weekends in the last few months of his illness, and I was (again) in my own universe, pregnant with Elliott. But I don’t think that, even had I still lived at home, been single, or even been the most selfless person imaginable, he would have shared any of his fears or frustrations with me. He was still my Dad. So I will always remember him as Dad. I miss that Dad. I miss the man I never got to know even more.

Ah, democracy...

2008-11-04T09:39:00.002-06:00

I just voted. For the first time in years, I was alone, no kids to keep quiet and out of the way while I contemplated my ballot. There were only two races and one issue that I hadn't heard about or researched, so I had to consider those a little more than the others, but I was startlingly well prepared for this election. And I voted with my kids in mind this time, especially with the presidential choices.
I have a political prediction: Obama will win, and my kids will have a heck of a mess to clean up.
I remember being in 5th or 6th grade and asking my father what the difference was between Republicans and Democrats. Subtle man that he always was with me, he told me that Democrats were the closest thing to Communist that were allowed in this country.
This race has made me think more about what he said than I ever have before.
While I certainly don't think Democrats are Communist or even really have communist tendencies, I wonder about the strange Socialist-sounding phrases that are bouncing around the airwaves this campaign. "Spread the wealth." Really?
I'm certainly no genius when it comes to this stuff, but let's see if I have this right: A capitalist or market-based economy in a democratic (small d) nation provides me the means to be a millionaire if I choose to and work hard and smart enough. That economy and political structure allows us all to be millionaires if we are doing the right things and making the right choices, COMPLETELY INDEPENDENT of our birth situation, our health, our skin color, or anything else that defines us as a unique individual.
I didn't choose to be born in Nebraska to the parents I have, I didn't choose their economic standing, and I didn't choose the towns or houses I lived in growing up. My husband didn't choose his birthplace, parents, or the situations he grew up in. My kids aren't making those choices about their young lives, either.
HOWEVER:
We own a decent house and a nice plot of land, my husband works very hard at an awesome job that enables me to stay home with our kids and we don't have to worry about groceries or health care, we have 3+ well-running vehicles, I have a college education to help me through the volunteer organizations I'm privileged to be a part of, and that education will also provide me with job opportunities once my children are all in school full time. We have a savings account and retirement accounts, and we both have life insurance. My kids participate in lots of activities, and they have lots of wonderful things to entertain and educate them.
All these good things are the results of choices my husband and I made AS ADULTS. These things are ours, earned with hard work and good choices. I feel good about these things.
I'm not unsympathetic, I do care about my fellow human beings. I give at church, and I support food and clothing drives, I give when asked to help out a friend or family who's had something unexpected happen. It's my choice to give, and I hope I'm setting an example for my kids about giving and caring.
But here's where I think my kids are not going to be able to live out my example. Obama speaks to and is heard by and adored by an alarmingly large group of people in this country who, for whatever reason, believe that the governments in our country at all levels should provide them with the same things that my husband and I have just because. Because they are disabled, because they were injured at work, because they grew up in a dysfunctional household, because they grew up in an orphanage, whatever.
We have a family friend who has not had an easy life. She has a child and is dependent on state aid for food, basic household supplies, rent, healthcare and childcare. Her child has medical problems, and she herself has medical problems. She only works a few hours a week, because if she worked more she'd lose her state benefits. I would like to help her, but she really doesn't need anything: she gets more money from the state for groceries than I spend in a month. Her paycheck goes toward her clothes and cell phone bill every month, because she really doesn't need it for anything else, she simply likes the time she can spend away from her child. Recently she told me she thinks she might be pregnant again, but her new boyfriend may not be the father.
She's not the least bit embarrassed about all the state aid she gets every month. Not embarrassed at all about her living situation, the haphazard way she raises her child (soon to be children), and has absolutely no shame at all about being totally dependent on government workers for her existence. In fact, she complains about them, saying they are not nice to her when she goes in to get her vouchers. I asked her once if she didn't want to try for a better situation, try to change things so she could get off state aid and have a better life. Her only answer was that she didn't think she had any choices. Her mom was a drunk, and abusive, so she didn't have a chance to learn in school, wasn't going to be able to go to college now because of the kids, and anyway, why bother? She was doing just as well as me, and didn't have to go through all that work stuff to get there.
She's voting for Obama.
He's catering to this 'entitlement' generation, these people who really think that the government should step in and help everyone get what their neighbor has because they don't have it and they want it. Where does that leave my family?
Here's my prediction: I can see the spiral from here. Under Obama's programs, very wealthy people and businesses will start paying huge amounts of taxes, so they will stop contributing to social causes, and those organizations will begin to depend on middle-income folks for contributions but we won't be able to contribute because we have to make a choice: church and local organizations, or the big national ones, and we'll choose local for a while. But because these big companies are paying so much in taxes, they'll have to raise prices on their products and services, which means we'll be paying more for all the things we need everyday, so then we'll stop contributing to our local service organizations completely so that we can afford the necessities. Those organizations will then apply to the government for help, or just fold. Meanwhile, people who are getting so much government assistance they don't need to work will be desparate for things to do, and the rates of things like teen pregnancy, crime, and drug use will rise. Colleges nationwide will start to close because fewer people will see college as a need, and then there will be even more people unemployed and looking for goverenment handouts. My kids are going to see the death of our market-based economy, because the people who want more government handouts are going to squash it.
Maybe it won't be that bad. Like I said, I'm not exactly qualified to make these kind of predictions, but I do understand what my dad was talking about. I personally want the government to stay where it belongs - in regulation, not regurgitation.

No Mo' Mojo

2008-10-27T09:59:00.016-05:00

This is going to be a photo entry. I don't have the brain cells to write creatively this time. But the month is almost over... Here's what has eaten up all my mojo:

Football and Cheerleading:

Occupying Ben during games:

My dining room since October 14, when we started in on Abby's costume:

My kids no longer think it's cool to eat standing up in the kitchen, and frankly I'm tired of it too, but the dogs thought it was awesome.

The church fall party:

The costumes (a mermaid, Darth Vader and Annekin Skywalker):

And the Fire Fighter's Association Annual Halloween Party at the station. We went from working fire station to party central and back again in 8 hours. We had a full house this year, and I was so grateful for all the help. I ran around like a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest, and the fire fighters (my husband included) and other association helpers were great to just do what I asked and not argue, and even better, they just did stuff that needed to be done. I'd go in to make coffee and find it already brewing, I'd go to bury"treasure" in the hay wagon only to find a fire fighter directing my children to do it. It went very well but I'm really glad it's over!

Now all that's left to do this month is 19 loads of laundry, a week's worth of dishes and fast food trash (that's mostly in the van, though), and compile and submit the scout's popcorn orders. Oh, and clean out the fridge, clean off the dining room table, clean the bird cage, vacuum, bathe the dogs (spring pond water is one thing, fall pond water is too disgusting for words, but they swim in it anyway...), plan a game and a craft for the class Halloween parties this Friday, and get over the cold I got for some strange reason...

At church Sunday someone asked how many days there were 'til Christmas.

I nearly punched him.

Nursing the Baby Stage

2008-10-03T08:17:00.007-05:00

Ben started preschool right after Labor Day. He goes Tuesday and Thursday mornings for two and a half hours. His teachers are Miss Jenny and Miss Ruthie, and they greet him with big smiles and hugs. He gets a snack and does all kinds of cool stuff - they've hunted for hidden things in sand, painted a picture with actual grape jelly, and sat under an umbrella to hear a story. He's charmed all the girls in his class (surprise...) and plays Star Wars and Indiana Jones outside with the boys. When I get there to pick him up, he runs to me and says he had "SO MUCH FUN! THAT WAS AWESOME!"

So why does he work the tears from the minute I get him up until Ruthie or Jenny steer him away from my side and into an activity?

It's not like he's bawling from bedroom to classroom, it's more like this uber-big-kid thing: his eyes get red and teary, but he scrunches up his mouth and looks anywhere but at me, and clears his throat a lot. He's five, for goodness sake, and I feel like I'm watching Matt Damon gear up for a funeral scene. And even though this does have an effect on me, I help him get dressed and find his shoes and buckle him up, drive him there and walk him in the door. If I say, "I wonder what letter (of the alphabet) you'll get to learn about today?" he answers, "maybe M for Mom." If I wonder if any of the little girls he's introduced me to will be there, he sniffs and says, "yeah but I'd rather stay and play with you."

It's a 10 minute drive, and by the time we've crossed the state line and entered town, he's asking for details on our afternoon: "Are you going to come and get me? Are we going to spend the rest of the day together? Are you going to be busy or will you read to me? How many minutes do I have to stay here? Can you bring my lunchbox with a surprise in it when you come back?"

Tuesday and Thursday are not very productive afternoons - Ben "helps" with everything, so things that may have taken me 30 seconds are now taking 30 minutes.

But we are having fun, this last year of being full time mom and kid, just the two of us. I missed out on some of this with Elliott and Abby because I had them all so close together, and it's only Ben's late birthday that has kept him from being in Kindergarten now, granting us this one last year. In a lot of ways this is nice. He's potty trained, verbal, and of all the kids he actually does what I ask him to (I have to re-do it sometimes depending on the chore, but he tries). We spend more time reading and playing games than on housework or any of the other things I need to get done, but that's okay. I have the days when he gets to sleep in to get to that stuff. And now I try to get as much done as I can before I go pick him up; then I don't feel so bad sitting for an hour reading every book he brings me.

But boy, those first few days after I dropped him off? Well, okay the first day I stayed in town, close to my cell phone just in case. There were actual tears that morning. But the second day and that next week? Oh, bliss...

I came home and went to the bathroom and NO ONE KNOCKED ON THE DOOR OR SCREAMED FOR ME! It was awesome! I fixed and ate a bagel with cream cheese, and NO ONE INTERRUPTED ME! I GOT TO EAT THE WHOLE THING IN ONE SITTING! I made coffee, watched the weather channel and actually got to see the important part, and then...

Well, by then it was too quiet in the house and I wondered where everyone was. For the next 90 minutes, I felt like I was missing something, like I'd forgotten something somewhere. I talked to the dogs, the cats, held the guinea pig, played with the bird, picked up toys from the kid's floor and grumbled to myself about being the maid. I found stuff to do that was great - I read a magazine, organized some craft things, drank coffee - but I still felt a little lost.

I realized that when the kids are around, I have a schedule set by them. I have to feed them, dress them, clean them, untangle them from each other occasionally, and make sure they get where they need to be. When they are all gone... wow. I can do my own thing. But what is it that I want to do? Of course there's stuff that has to be done, and since that first week of aimless wandering, I've gotten much more organized. But I still have some flexibility and can do those things that I want to do. I've worked in the garden, researched some things for church and scouts online, sorted through kid clothes and gotten lots of toys ready for a garage sale (shhhh). I have also started turning all the televisions on in the house while I'm here alone.

It's just too darned quiet without all the kids. Remind me of that next summer, will you?

Faith on Two Wheels

2008-10-01T17:38:00.005-05:00

Don bought himself a birthday present this year. On the one hand, that made my life easier - he's not exactly the easiest guy to shop for; and the size and coolness factor of this gift made everything else look like a really ugly tie in comparison so I didn't even bother to shop.

On the other hand... it's an item that makes me nervous and gives me gray hairs every time it gets used.

It's a Harley. A 2003 Softail Deuce.

He's wanted one for a long time, and finally found the perfect bike, already built and in great condition for the right price at the right time in our financial lives, so I guess this was the time to do it. He's also very conscious of the fact that he has a wife and three kids who love him and need him around (after all, who else would clean the cat box, change my oil, and let the kids watch Family Guy?). He's an extraordinarily observant and careful rider, I know. What makes me nervous is all the other drivers out there who are texting, putting on makeup, eating, and just generally being idiots. I don't text and I don't wear makeup, but I have eaten while driving before - how else would I get sustenance some days? I know how it takes your attention from the road and other vehicles.

So while I'm really glad he's got his Harley after all these years of waiting and wanting, I have to admit some trepidation about him actually getting on it and riding around. Not only am I concerned about other drivers, loose gravel, and strong wind gusts while he's out on it alone, but I can't fathom going with him. Instead of being able to buy a helmet and enjoy this with him, I'm a big chicken, paranoid about tossing away our ability to walk or even our lives if a car or truck driver isn't paying attention. I think about our children going to a relative I haven't even spoken with about taking them just in case, being raised in another state away from friends and our church family. I think about the wind tangling my hair into a matted nest of "oh just cut it off already" and the very real potential for bugs splattering painfully against my face, and the idea of a motorcycle ride just loses a lot of it's appeal for me.
And then I wonder where my faith is.

When you're on a motorcycle, you experience going places in a way you just can't in a car. You can feel things, see things, smell things you miss when you're cruising along shut up in your airtight cocoon of conditioned air. Easy Rider is a cult classic, and Harley owners have their own world-wide fraternity for some very good reasons. Being part of that group opens the doors to amazing things in this world, and what's wrong with experiencing some of them? Don wants to, I know, and I love him, so I should at least support his adventure even if I can't wholeheartedly take part in all of it.

And I do have faith that God would take care of me and my children the way He takes care of Don each time he's been out for rides since the day he brought it home. Perhaps having the bike in our garage now is God's way of suggesting that I stop being so over-protective and let Him do His job. And enjoy some of His world and His people in the process.

Maybe I'll go look at helmets this weekend. And maybe I could get a cool leather jacket and some new sunglasses, too.

Don does look very, very good on the bike. He rode into the driveway this afternoon as I was picking up walnuts with the kids and I just stood there and stared at him until I had to wipe the drool off my chin. Trouble is, he knows exactly how good he looks.

Weather or not...

2008-09-23T10:28:00.001-05:00

Another Children's Message, Sunday 9/14:

It's football season. My grandmother used to get really excited about football season, but I think that's because she had two daughters and never had to go to a Little League game and sit in the rain or stand in the mud. That's where we were last night, soaking wet, but it was Elliott's first official game and we wouldn't have been anywhere else. Even the cheerleaders had as much spirit as they could muster up.
On the way home, Elliott said that he was glad his team won, but he said, "Mom, I kinda sat out most of the game."
Well I wanted to say something that would make him feel better and also inspire him to keep trying, but we got interrupted. I know, that shocks you - interruptions in my family...
We didn't get to finish that conversation, so I'll tell him now what I wanted to say.
"I know you feel like you sat out, but you did get to play some, I have pictures of you on the field. And some of the boys have more experience than you, but you're doing great - the coaches tell me so. So you just keep practicing and keep learning, and when you do get a chance to play, you do your best. The coaches are always watching, and if they see you doing your best, they'll play you more often."
Well, now that I say that, I'm wondering if I set a good example for him. I'm part of a lot of teams - church, family, volunteer groups. I know my teammates are counting on me, and I know my Coach - God - is always watching. Wow, I can think of some times when I've stood on the sidelines and hoped that someone else would do the hard stuff. Did I even say thank you to my teammates when they did stuff that might have been my job? I might not have.
Gee, I guess I have some practicing to do, too. But I bet we all can think of a time when we've stood back and hoped that mom would clean up that mess, or dad would put those toys away, or even just took for granted that our parents would make sure we had everything we need. So we can all pratice being better teammates, can't we? At home, at school, here at church, and in our community.
Being part of God's team means that we are all winners, and that's the team we have to work hardest for. Being on that winning team makes it easier to do a good job for other teams. And the best part is that if people are counting on you, you are worth counting on. So play your heart out today and every day!

Hmmm...

2008-09-19T13:28:00.000-05:00

Let's see... if lightly burned food is "toasted" and burned food is "roasted" or "broiled," and really burned food is "char-broiled," why do I not have my own show on Food Network?

Roasted zucchini muffins, anyone?

Priceless

2008-09-18T12:15:00.000-05:00

The kids did not have school yesterday, so I took them to a place called Zonkers - like Chuck E Cheezits (as Ben calls it) but nicer.

Here's the count:

200 tokens - $40
Tickets to ride the snake coaster and carousel: $15
Minutes it took Elliott to go through his: 41
Times I had to play Whack-a-Mole with Ben: 6
Different locations Abby left her shoes: 4
Kids too tired to fight on the way home: Priceless.

After we got home, I begged them to clean up their room so I could vacuum and I went out to mow, and here's the count for that:

Times I had to redo the starting sequence on the mower: 2
Acres mowed: 3
Mosquito bites: 7
Bugs in my nose: 3
Frogs who narrowly escaped: 2
Grasshoppers who didn't: hundreds - YAY!
Believing my dad is watching from heaven and enjoying the smell of fresh cut grass with me: Priceless.

Change and the Cable Guy

2008-09-15T12:28:00.000-05:00

I've been delivering the Children's Message off and on for a few years at our tiny Presbyterian Church (active membership - 37!) but lately I've gotten several positive comments on them. I must be divinely inspired, because they have been occuring to me in the shower on Sunday mornings while getting ready for church, but they seem to work. I thought I'd share a few with you. Here's a little background on this one -
We have had trouble finding a Presbyterian minister to work for us (as have a lot of smaller churches) because we just can't afford to pay anyone a decent salary, but we've had a slew of really great fill-in pastors over the last few years. A wonderfully engaging woman filled our pulpit all summer, and it really looked like we might be able to hire her part-time. Alas, another church closer to her home had a full-time opening, and she had to take it. She's trying to support her family, and we understood, but the change was going to be difficult. Even my kids were asking what we were going to do after Jodi left, she had made that much of an impact on everyone. It occurred to me that change in life is inevitable, but that doesn't mean it's easy. Here's the Children's Message I gave the week after Jodi left.

Last week, the cable guy had to come to my house. One of our satellite boxes wasn't working, and this was frustrating. It's the one clear in the back of our house, the one the grown-ups watch a lot, so we called the company and they scheduled a service call. On Friday afternoon, a short stocky guy knocked on the door. He checked out the tv in the living room, and determined that one was indeed working fine (because he's the expert he couldn't just take my word for it...) and I showed him to the back of the house where the other tv was. I don't think he stopped talking for longer than about three seconds the whole time he was there.
"Wow this is a long house, you must get your exercise around here! So the other box is back here? Do you have them hooked up to the phone line? Is there a phone in this room, cause I think I'm gonna need one, depending on what the problem is. Okay, here it is, now where is this plugged in? Wow, this is an old box, you've had this for quite awhile! Where is the dish? Can I get out there to see it? Okay, let's just hook up my monitor to this outlet and see what we have here. Okay, I see the problem, you're going to need a new box! I've got one in the truck, let me just hike back up there and get it. Do I cross a border or anything coming all the way back here? I'm getting my workout today, huh? Okay let's get this hooked up and I'll just need to call in and get it activated. Good! You're all set - here's your new remote and please just sign here!"
Now the old box was big and black and had this tiny green light and a remote that fit really nicely in your hand - my thumb knew where all the buttons were. The new box is small and silver and it has a really bright blue light and the remote is huge but all the buttons are in new places, and the abbreviations are different. It works, but these changes take some getting used to. I can still find my favorite shows, it just takes me longer to figure out which button to press.
Scripture tells us that change is part of God's plan. You know that verse - everyone can sing along if you want: to everything (turn turn turn) there is a season... So changes at church must be part of His plan, too. We have a new pastor today, and while we are going to miss Jodi, I'm sure that Matthew will do a great job. And even though he's new, there are lots of things about church that haven't changed a bit. I see all the familiar faces in the congregation, Sunday school was the same group you've been with all summer, and things are all still in the same place as last week.
With my new remote, I can get new and different information about the shows I'm watching, and I can find out about the different channels, and I couldn't do that before, so I'm learning something new with the change at my house. I'm sure we're going to learn something new and different from Pastor Matthew too. Change is an adventure, and we need to trust that the changes God brings our way are part of His plan for us.

I'm not used to the remote yet. I have to hold it at arm's length and then some to see some of the abbreviations (and even then I don't know what they all mean yet), but I can still find CSI reruns to entertain me while I cook dinner, and that's what counts, I guess.
It's probably a good thing that the cable guy came. I knew I wanted to have my message be about change, but I was going to take in baby pictures of the kids and embarrass the heck out of them...

September 11th Anniversary Thoughts

2008-09-09T10:18:00.000-05:00

On September 11, 2001 I was at a doctor appointment with my month-old daughter and my 2½-year old son. Elliott raced small cars around the floor with another toddler, Abigail slept peacefully in her baby seat, and the adults in the waiting room silently watched the horrifying events on the wall-mounted television.
I wondered what political belief, what religion could possibly be so powerful to inspire these horrible acts. What institution promised its members so much to get them to take their own and other’s lives? What could possibly be worth that? I decided I didn’t know.
As I drove home that afternoon I spotted a huge American flag, billowing at half-mast. My chest tightened, the tears sprang to my eyes, my stomach dropped to my feet and I realized: I do know. I, too, have something worth fighting for, worth protecting, worth dying for. It’s called The United States of America – my home.
So what’s the difference? The United States of America was born, flourished and continues to thrive because it’s purpose is to ensure life, liberty, and opportunity for all its citizens. Terrorist groups exist simply because they have an enemy. They have no higher purpose, and their failure is inevitable. They have no foundation but hate.
September 11th is now my New Year, my resolution day. I resolve to teach my children love, compassion, charity, tolerance, goodwill, understanding and peace. I resolve to practice these things myself, for in them the higher purpose of the United States of America, and all its children, will live forever.

Into the Fray

2008-08-20T10:14:00.000-05:00

August 1st really marked the start of the school year. The kids didn't start classes until the 14th, but we started football and cheerleading practice on the 1st. Which meant, "where are my tennis shoes? Do I have to take my pompoms? Can you put my hair up? When do I start tackling? Did you get me a water bottle? I can't get my helmet on! Are you staying to watch? Where do these pads go? Is dad going? How long will it last? Watch me - I remember all the cheers from last year! Do you have to bring Ben? I'm hungry. Black practice pants? Everyone else has white! I forgot to go to the bathroom!"

It also meant that I had to plan dinner far in advance, prepare the ingredients so that when we got home at 8:45, I could throw together something that resembled nutritious food and get them all fed and in the shower before they collapsed from exhaustion. I'm getting that figured out, and we've only had to have frozen pizza once. So far.

I can't just sit, so I talk to the other parents and crochet. Yes, it's kind of an ancient hobby, but it keeps me busy, and the kids' blankets are finally getting done. Some of the other kids are actually quite interested in watching me make a square of fabric from a bundle of yarn. I now have requests for blankets from four of Abby's cheerleading buddies.

The question they all ask is so cute - "do you know how to do that?" Well, yes... obviously. I tell them the story of Mrs. King, who lived across the street from us when I was little. She had two hobbies: crochet and gluing sequins on felt calendars. I didn't understand that one then and I still don't get it, really, which was fine because she wouldn't let me near the piles of sequins and toothpicks and dried drops of Elmer's glue on the card table in her living room. Instead, in between games of Go Fish (during which she would occasionally ask me for a deuce and I would stare blankly until she reminded me that was a 2), she taught me to crochet. I remember ending up with a huge pile of single chain from some scrap yarn she had and holding it up for her to examine. She would look and point out the places where the stitches weren't even, watch my hand position, make little corrections. I don't know if I actually thought this was fun when I was younger, but I'm very grateful for the lessons now. It gives me something to do while I'm sitting and waiting, and the result is a blanket or dishcloths for someone I love. I'll take requests, but be prepared to wait. :)

Football is going well - Elliott got ready for a shower last night and came running naked to the back room, pointing to his upper arms. "Dad! Look! Check out these bruises! Aren't they cool?" Dad's response: "Yep. Chicks dig scars." Please don't let my son marry a 'chick.' Cheerleading is going well, too. She remembers cheers from last year and is helping the new girls. A W E! SO! ME! Awesome awesome awesome are we! Go Vikings! No cool bruises, though.

First games are September 13th. Where? Don't know yet. What time? Not a clue. Why? There are no moms on the football coaching staff.

More Words

2008-08-06T08:46:00.000-05:00

Okay, so in a quick few minutes here, I want to tell you the story about the Dictionary of American Slang. I love this book - got it from QPB, a club to which I have belonged for more years than I have bookshelves. Some of what I get is interesting to Don, like the Intellectual Devotional of American History (today's entry is about Reconstruction in the south after the Civil War, the first federal initiative that had government directly impacting ordinary citizens' everyday lives, or attempting to anyway). But more often his reaction to seeing the cardboard box on the table is, "How big is the bill this time?" To my credit, I'm an excellent bargain hunter, only paying full price for stuff you seriously can't get anywhere else and I seriously can't live without, and he doesn't argue with me. I think he's glad that I buy books and not shoes or jewelry - he always has loved me for my brain.
So anyway, one day several months ago a box arrives and it was on a rainy day when Don happened to be home. He brought it in and unwrapped it. Staring at the cover, and then at me, he looked decidedly perplexed.
"How many dictionaries to you need?" he asked quirking one eyebrow as if I was sending the publishers ideas.
“This one’s really cool,” I said. “It’s a collection of all the words that just sort of fell into the language because of popular use.”
“Like what?” he asked, clearly still skeptical of how anything called a dictionary could be cool (even after 12+ years of marriage and all the old dictionaries he’s lugged home from garage sales and dusty bookstores for me, and even after he acknowledged that the Encyclopedia of Omens and Superstitions is actually pretty informative).
“Look up sh*t” I suggested, going to the kitchen to start lunch, leaving him and his skeptical eyebrow at the table. He opened the book.
It’s a good thing the kids were embroiled in a video game at this point, because he followed me all over the house for the next 15 minutes reading entries. Like a good red-blooded American male, the word he looked up was not the one I suggested, but the F Word.
There are 38 entries, beginning with the word itself (11th century Europe to describe the sex act) and ending with the ultimate insult “____ you” (1940’s).
He sat down at the dining room table again as I put a sandwich in front of him, book still in hand. “Wow, who would have thought a dictionary could be so… entertaining?” he asked.

Well, me.

He's a Keeper

2008-08-05T13:29:00.001-05:00

Sorry, ladies, he's taken. Very taken.

A conversation between my avowed Athiest husband and his son, Ben, at the dinner table a few nights ago:
Ben: I wonder who made God.
Don: Who made trees? (relating to a previous conversation)
Ben: I don't know.
Don: Who made you? Take another bite, please.
Ben: I don't know.
Don: Who made the planet and everything else?
Ben: God?
Don: So who made you? Take another bite, please.
Ben: God? (at this point, he was laying across his chair, feet in the air, fork blindly reaching for his plate)
Don: Sit up, please. So who made trees?
Ben: (around a mouthful of pork roast) God.
Don: So if God made all those things, He's been around a long time, right?
Ben: Yeah. I know, take another bite.
Don: So then God just is.
Ben: Okay, can I be full now?
Natalie: Yes, you can. (to Don) That was pretty good for an Athiest.
Don: Yeah, well when I'm groveling on my knees in front of Him, I'll tell Him to thank you.

So even though he professes that there is no such thing as God, one higher power that controls everything, I think he does appreciate the need for others, including his children and his wife, to believe in something greater than themselves. He believes in love, being kind, helping others, and working hard. If the application of his beliefs is restricted to those in his immediate family most of the time (his agressive driving is an example), well... he's at least on the right track and there is hope for the future.
So I'll keep him.

It's My Party, and I'll Cry 'Cause I Can't Stop

2008-07-31T09:37:00.000-05:00

I seem to have overactive tear ducts again. This is the third time in my life I've had this problem. And it is a problem. Let me explain while I have control, and probably another 15 minutes of private time this morning.
Crying for me has never just been that sweet little 'shining eyes and sniffling' thing some people have mastered. No, if I start crying, my body takes over and I have to go somewhere and sob into a towel. And sob. And sob. Then, after I can finally mop up the snot and get off the floor, my sinuses are throbbing, my eyes look like I went three rounds with Tyson, and I can do a fantastic impression of Janis Joplin. I do not have control of this, and I really wish I did.

1992 was a meteor shower of events that completely rocked my world: I dropped out of law school after thinking for years that law was my life; the boy I'd dated for four years broke up with me at a wedding; my parents put our 15-year old dog to sleep; and then my grandmother passed away. After that, I found it difficult to speak to my family. The tears would come with even the merest thought of how things had changed. I'd pick up the phone only to put it down again and run for a towel.
When my dad died of cancer in 1999, I had a little more control, which is strange because I was also pregnant for the first time. I think because it was simultaneously the saddest and the happiest things ever, I was more balanced and less prone to sobbing despite the hormone hurricane. I did my share of crying, but I seemed to acquire the ability to pull it together when I really needed to.
My father-in-law died 9 months after my own father and, post-partum, the sobbing returned. I finally just quit picking up the phone to call Don's family - I'd dial the area code and then couldn't see the rest of the numbers.
And it's happening again. My mother-in-law died in April and I've been a mess ever since. There are four amazing women that I really need to stay in touch with - not for their sakes, for my own. They are my sisters-in-law and my mother-in-law's best friend and I haven't been able to do more than forward silly emails to them. Even now, my throat is constricting like I swallowed a whole butterscotch disk.
I'll be back...

Okay, let's try this again. I need them, and I need my own family, and I have got to figure out a way to get over this. I have prayed about this before, and I think God has answered my prayers by saying, "this is just how I made you, you're not alone, cope." I've thanked Him for giving me so many wonderful things to cry about: memories of playing Yahtzee and sewing with my grandmother; walking down the aisle with my dad; hearing the kids making pancakes with their Grandma Jean.

Okay, I can see the screen again. Sort of. So here's my thoughts. And maybe another prayer answer in the form of a suggestion. If you get a phone call and the ID says it's me, but after you say hello there's just this muffled sobbing in the background, will you just hang on and wait for me? I'm trying.

A word is just a word...

2008-07-25T22:00:00.000-05:00

I went shopping with Ben today. He needed new shoes. He's been telling me daily for a week: "Mom, I could really like some new shoes, maybe some more sandals because summer is not over yet and these ones are not so nice anymore and they smell bad, and I could like a new pair of tennis shoes too, because I like to run fast and running fast is not so easy in sandals."

Side Note: Ben is almost 5, and has been speaking clearly since he was about 20 months old. It's not my doing, really, he's very intelligent and is the third child, so has heard more speech since birth than the other two combined. I do think his first words were "stop touching me" however.
Anyway.

We were in the checkout line with our little handheld basket (which conveniently limits purchases) and he was taking things out for me. He dropped the box containing his new tennies (clearance and they fit and he liked them! Hat Trick for mom!) and said,

"Oh, crap, I dropped them! I wasn't trying to juggle you, shoes! Come back here!"

Now the woman behind me started to laugh - she was alone but clearly a mom, also, and appreciated Ben's little admonishment to his shoes.

But the woman in front of us, who was also a mom and had her brood with her, let out a shocked gasp and so did the oldest of her three kids. We were perhaps 8 feet away from them, but I clearly heard the middle child whisper, "Mommy, he said a bad word!" She shushed them all, refused to make eye contact with me, and finished her transaction. Ben continued to scold things from the basket, letting them know that he had no intention of juggling them either and they would all need to kindly stay put, please. I didn't think much about it until we were driving home and Ben, who never really stops talking, suddenly says, "Mom, is crap a bad word?" and then stops talking to wait for my answer.

Wow. Is it?

Here's what I told him: "Well, it's not really a bad word, but it's not a very nice word, and maybe we could find something different to say, like fiddlesticks or squash or drat." This made him happy, and he of course used fiddlesticks and squash in various sentences all the way home, and tried with some success to find rhymes for both. That's a whole 'nother post...

Here's what I thought: I use the word all the time. I love the way it sounds, like you feel when you use it - crap. It became part of the lexicon in the 1850's in phrases like 'I have to crap' and 'that's crappy workmanship'; and then became commonplace in the 1920's and 30's when crapper became a new word for toilet. It's synonymous for bad words, but is it really a bad word in itself? I don't think so. It's not very nice sounding coming from the mouth of an otherwise cute kid, so perhaps I should teach my children something cuter to say. But I was secretly proud of the fact that he used it in the appropriate context.

So when fiddlesticks and squash become old hat or even embarrassing to say, perhaps they will be old enough to decide if and when to use crap or something else (they are their father's kids too...) or maybe we can come up with something entirely new, like "gablitznick" or "crumbledeehoo." Then again, that is probably the point when mom ceases to be funny and becomes embarrassingly weird, even though she hasn't changed a bit.

(I know you're asking how I know all that stuff about word history. That's another post, also. Suffice it to say I have quite a reference library that does not involve a search engine because I love this crap.)

Just a Typical Day

2008-07-24T10:49:00.000-05:00

Friday May 23, 2008
The day starts out alarmingly normal – I put the kids on the bus, read for awhile, and then the phone rings. It's my friend Sandy, and she says, “Um… are you watching the news?” No, actually I was watching Handy Manny with Ben (well, not really watching, just … okay I was totally in to it).
“Have you talked to your husband… this morning… at all?” Well, that got the heart pounding like a pot of coffee fails to anymore. I turn on the news as she tells me there’s been a fatal crane accident at the power plant where Don works. The news helicopters are indeed showing a nasty scene – cranes look much larger broken on the ground – and is that… could that be… sheets covering bodies? Oh God…
Sandy says, “Okay, call him and call me right back so you don’t have to be alone with the newscast.” Of course he doesn’t answer his cell phone. Of course all the horrible thoughts go through my head. Of course I’m panicked and can’t even remember Sandy’s number to call her back.
As I’m talking to Sandy about plans for the weekend (as if that really matters at this moment, but it helps me focus), my cell finally rings and it’s – thank you God – my husband. He was on the other side of the jobsite, he’s fine, didn’t even hear it go over, he’s fine, he has to go for the head count now, and he’s fine. He could tell I was laughing and crying at the same time, so he actually said “I love you” rather than waiting for me to say it and responding, “you too” in his usual way.
I wipe my nose on my sleeve, get back to my conversation with Sandy and we have a good talk about the weekend, the kids, her job, etc. Like I hadn’t just bungee jumped off a cliff and needed a change of underwear.
All morning I told myself this was the life of the ironworker’s wife – you just never know. I handled other phone calls from folks who wanted to make sure he was okay, sent some emails indicating he was fine, and then finally, once he walked in the door, allowed myself to believe it. He was fine. Others were not, and I took a few moments to say prayers for them and their families. It’s dangerous work, and we all accept the risks, but that doesn’t make it any easier when it happens.
The day goes on, the kids come home, they snack and complain and fight with each other, and I’m back to normal, for the most part.
Then they go out to ride the four-wheeler. Don’s outside also so I’m under the impression that I’m free to go about my housewifely duties, the ones I neglected this morning while all those new gray hairs came in. As I’m starting dinner, Don returns to the house a little shaken and I’m wondering if he’s had a delayed reaction to the morning’s activities. I’m prepared to be sympathetic and make him something yummy for dessert.

No, it’s much worse than that.

Abby and Ben were riding the four-wheeler on the dam by the deepest part of the pond.

Can you find the errors in that sentence? Why yes, you are correct – the entire thing is a mistake! You can get extra credit if you can tell me what happened next!
The four wheeler went into the pond and they were both tossed into the water. Don brought them both into the house, stripped them naked and tossed them in the shower to warm up before coming to the kitchen to tell me. How did I miss all this? NCIS marathon on USA Network on the kitchen tv, loud enough to be heard over the running water. It’s a weakness.

He then says, “you gonna help me get it out?”
I’m very very tempted to say, “hell no, leave the death machine to rust! What were you thinking letting them drive that, and near the pond, are you insane?”
But then, it really is Elliott’s four wheeler, and he really enjoys it, and he’s never had a problem on it, even when giving his siblings a ride. So I turn off the oven, put on my boots and trudge down to the pond. The back wheel is visible over the water, and I tamp down the momentary panic, pushing the vision of my two children trapped beneath it far far away because, as I remind myself in litany as I walk, they are fine. They are fine.
Don has hooked his own four wheeler up to the back end of the sunken one and says to me, from the water, “okay, get on and pull her out.”
He seems to forget for a moment that I do not know (nor do I care) how to drive a four-wheeler. I wonder if there was some head injury he received while mowing, a low branch or something, that has caused this momentary lapse in his judgment. But then, remembering that he was out with them and Abby and Ben were on the four wheeler by the pond anyway… no head injury required, perhaps.
So I get on and he gives me a quick lesson. He also seems to forget that I do not know (nor do I care) how to drive a stick shift, and that is essentially what you must do to properly operate a four-wheeler. Take it out of neutral with your left foot, give it gas with your right elbow, squeeze your knees together to brake… I don’t know.
Some part of my anatomy must have been paying attention because we managed to get the drowning four wheeler upright and up towards the bank. Then my luck changed, because Don said (I still can’t believe these words really came out of his mouth), “Okay, take it straight down that hill towards that big tree.”
My first thought was, looking down the steep hill, that after all we’d been through today, I was probably going to be the one on the stretcher. And if I lived, I’d be staying in the hospital a good long time, milking whatever injuries I had to the fullest (Why yes, I’d love another ice water. Today’s newspaper would be great, thanks. Could you just shut that light out on your way? Another Darvocet would be lovely, thanks ever so much.)
Then he has the audacity to smirk at me when I hesitate and say, “It has reverse, I can get it out of there.”
Should this be construed as confidence in my abilities to weather a crisis, or should this be an insult that he’s more worried about his toy than his wife? No time to ponder this, as he’s standing in muddy water up to his thighs and is now irritated with me. So down I go, towards the big tree. The little four-wheeler comes slurping out of the pond, dripping mud and grass and looking for all the world like a wrecked ship. I get control of the panic again, because now I am expected to back the big boy toy out of the ravine. Again, the temptation to petulantly stomp off to the house and eat something chocolate is overwhelming, but I contain it and persevere. When both vehicles are back on the bank, and the chance for me to escape is presented, I darn near fall in the water myself in my eagerness. My hands and knees are shaking so badly I must look like the bride of Frankenstein in blue jeans heading back to the house.
Dishes needed to be done, but with the shaking hands was perhaps not the wisest choice of activities. However, here I was finally back in my element and could work on relaxing. Or at least just get the dishes done.
Don returns to the house, changes his clothes, and comes to the kitchen.
“Okay, so I have driver training, I’m going. I’ll be back later,” he announces. What this means is that he’s going to head to the local volunteer fire station where he is a Lieutenant, take out one of the big giant fire trucks, get in the passenger seat, and let the new guy drive around the area.
Fast. At night. While Don shouts instructions at him to simulate a real emergency.

I begin to shake like I have Parkinson’s and Don asks if I’m okay.
Sure, I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay? I came within a gnat’s breath of losing three of the people I care about more than anything else in the whole world today. Why wouldn’t I be able to just shake that off and make chicken? Yeah, most of my family almost died today… pass the ketchup, please. So please make my day complete and send Elliott out to play hopscotch on the highway and you go ride in that 20 ton fire truck with a 22-year old on gravel roads in the dark. I’m fine, really.
I cried all the way through my shower, which was almost cathartic enough. I sincerely hope that my sense of humor can see me sanely through my husband’s prolonged adolescence so that I’m able to enjoy what will undoubtedly be the milder rebellions of my children. I’ll let you know.

Huh?

2008-07-24T10:11:00.000-05:00

I know that folks will want to know where my blog title came from. Some of my friends and family will get it, on one level, but I need to explain that it's more than what it seems. And they will understand that, too.
There's a Jewish superstition that if you leave your oven empty, you will not have anything to cook in it when you want or need to. So placing an empty pan (clean or dirty, I assume for my own benefit) ensures plentiful food stores. So on one level, this title is about keeping something in your oven for good luck. In my case, it's humor.
I'm also the mother of three pretty cool kids, and I really enjoy being a mom. It's actually the only job I've ever had that really feels right. Yes, it's difficult, ever-changing with nothing but on-the-job training, and the paycheck involves asking the husband if I can please transfer some more money into my account (which often earns me the bonus of a roll of the eyes and an exasperated sigh). However, I wouldn't want any other profession right now. So on another level, my blog is about motherhood and all that entails.
So ultimately, my blog is going to be about maintaining the humorous aspects of motherhood and my life, so that no matter how ugly things get sometimes, I will always be able to smile and laugh. I hope you enjoy it.
Let me also add at this point that I have absolutely no idea why I'm starting a blog. I love to write, and there are a lot of funny things in my life, but I can't do anything that resembles a routine- not dishes, meals, bathing my kids or myself, or even getting everyone's teeth brushed. I've tried to force routines on my family with so little success it's stunning. If I announce that we are going to try Family Game Night, or will have spaghetti every Thursday, that night will arrive with six things on the calendar that involve being in three places at once, and no pasta in the house. I can't even discipline with any consistency. I once announced that the kids would have to earn 'screen time' by doing active things like playing outdoors or practicing karate. That lasted about a week. The kids felt restricted by the timer and the chart and we lost all the relaxed spontenaity of our normal life. I felt like I was monitoring every minute of their lives again, something I didn't need to do even when they were newborns. It was awful. Routines are something we just can't do, I've accepted that.
So if a week goes by with no new post from me, please be patient. It's not that I don't care, it's just that I don't want to force it. Life around here happens in huge chunks of activity, most of which are wonderful and perfect for us. When I have a moment to myself, I will record those chunks for posterity. And hopefully you'll laugh with us.