Make Someone Happy

Sometimes, very small things can make the whole day brighter. Take this, for example:

These belong to my baby; my itty bitty baby who has never had her fingernails painted before. How I managed to neglect this critical aspect of girlie parenting, I know not. My older daughter was begging for full manicures on a weekly basis at this age. I can only say in my own defense that my brain just ain't what it used to be, full stop.I can no longer remember what I did with everyone in their toddlerhood (though I'm pretty sure I didn't do my son's nails more than once).

But yesterday, the little lightbulb went off in my head -- nail polish! We raced upstairs, Baby giggling the whole way in the same tone she uses when she's discovered the sugar bowl is unsupervised. We sat right down in Mommy's bathroom and had us a little spa moment.

The sun came out, the angels sang, and I am back in the running for Mother of the Year.

Death by Candy

See these cute faces?

Don't be fooled. They're addicts -- all three of them. They'll do absolutely anything for a hit. They're slaves to the sugar-god.

The little one is the worst.

We spent the weekend after Halloween in a crazed candy orgy the likes of which have seldom been seen outside of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Even Mom and Dad dipped a little heavily into the sugar sauce, but eventually our poor, overloaded, elderly pancreases just said "Enough!" and we quit to seek other, more nourishing food.

But the little ones, oh the little ones...

They're pancreases (pancrei?) are young and strong and they knew no limits. When the boy lay groaning in pain, muttering "Mom, why does my tummy hurt?" and his mother lovingly answered, "Too much candy, son," he shook his head in disbelief -- that couldn't be it. Yeesh, Mom, get a clue. By Sunday evening, the baby actually refused dinner and crawled around seeing what sugar she could glean from the floor. We gave up trying to make her eat and just fed her M&Ms until bedtime.

But here's the great part. The candy is now gone.

Candy. Gone.

And no, in case you're wondering, they didn't actually manage to eat all of it. That would fall under the heading of child cruelty, to allow 3 children to consume 9 pounds of candy in 2 days. NINE POUNDS. I know, I weighed it.

I have only a hazy recollection of how much candy I brought home on Halloween, but I know it never lasted very long, no matter how zealously I hoarded it. And I have a very clear, sharp memory of people handing me one piece of candy at each house -- even the houses that had the holy grail of Halloween, Pixy Stix. Remember these babies? Just a li'l tube of sugar. Wish I'd thought of that.But seriously, these are record hauls my kids are bringing in -- if I could figure out a way to preserve it all until next year, I could easily forgo buying candy to hand out and my kids would still be able to eat themselves sick on the remains.

Anyway, Daddy took the last of the candy to work so that people there can have fat tushies and cavities, too. And really, the kids don't seem that upset about it, although the baby is still on a half-hearted hunger strike because she just knows there are chocolate chips in the house somewhere. The other two asked me briefly whether the candy was, in fact, gone this morning and when I said yes, they nodded sagely and went back to writing on themselves with magic marker.

And hey, in the absence of candy, they can always go back to sniffing pumpkins.

Feeling Defeated

I have been teaching Sunday School for approximately 5 years now, with one short break after my third baby was born. I have mostly been following my children up the grades, always in the kindergarten and under classes until last year when I stepped up to the 1st-5th classes which are led by a different coordinator than K and under. This year I moved back down to the Kindergarteners because my son asked me to teach his class and am back working under a coordinator who I have come to loathe.

Yes, loathe.

It's hard to say this about someone who is obviously dedicated, obviously sincere, obviously a Christ-follower, but she absolutely rubs me the wrong way. And I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual.

I have never been overwhelmed with love for her, but I never gave much thought to whether I liked her or not since it wasn't like I was marrying her, or even spending much time with her -- the sum total of my relationship with her was an hour a week in which I might see her for a grand total of 10 minutes, most of them non-consecutive.

In fact, I was never conscious of any antipathy until I told her I was taking a year off when baby #3 came, which decision I defend by explaining that a) I breastfed all my babies, who b) never took bottles no matter how hard I tried to get them to do so, so c) I had to be on call for feedings until they were about 6 months old, and d) they invariably needed to eat right in the middle of church and/or Sunday school. And of course e) I just don't adjust to change and increased responsibility with great ease and needed to reduce everything outside my very immediate sphere.

When I told her, this look crossed her face and I knew she thought I was pretty paltry, taking a year off just because I was having a baby. I mean, what sort of pansy was I, to be overwhelmed by major surgery and round the clock feedings of a colicky infant? Never mind that I couldn't even remember my name those first few months after the baby came -- certainly I could plan, prep and conduct a measly little Sunday school lesson?

No, I could not.

I have never pretended to be superwoman. In point of fact, I am often at great pains to demonstrate that I am the poster child for chaos theory. Organization is a painstaking labor for me and anytime my organizational routines are overset it takes me forever to recover. After this last episode it took me a year to feel like I wasn't drowning. I knew that this would be the case, so I took some steps to limit the damage caused by my complete meltdown and the subsequent reconstruction era.

And I think she has never forgiven me.

Had I not taught under the other coordinator, I would never have known how difficult this woman is to work for. The 1st-5th coordinator was encouraging without being stifling; she let me teach and trusted that I knew what I was doing (and since I was a teacher in my former life, I kind of do).

Now I'm back with a person who is as irritated by me as I am by her.

I have to consider whether it's worth teaching any of my baby's Sunday school classes in the next year or two --can I overcome my annoyance and frustration to participate in my daughter's Christian education, or will I take the easy road and teach the older grades until she's out of kindergarten? I have 10 more weeks of contact with the benevolent despot before this little soap opera is over.

I am trying not to whine.
I am trying not to lose my temper.
I am trying to be understanding -- I know she has a difficult job and I am trying to care about that.

But man, am I annoyed.

Blog Post #101

Wow, I am so glad Blogger keeps track of my posts. Otherwise, I wouldn't have known how historic this particular entry was/is/shall be. Let's hope I can live up to my own hype.

Two events which were small in seismic terms but large in effect occurred this week. The first was a long overdue Mommy Makeover, wherein I went to the Salon (and by a total quirk of fate, I go to a Salon, capital S, where I almost always feel under-dressed and generally out of step with the world of fashion) and Dave-Who-Is-Not-Gay gave me a badly needed cut and highlight combo which was so expensive that one of the children is now going to have to go to trade school.

BUT, I look fabulous.

My stylist, Dave-Who-Is-Not-Gay, always spends at least a third of my appointment regaling me with stories of his girl-chasing days before he finally settled down with wife #3 and decided to raise a family. I find this amusing, because my mother, who also goes to Dave-Who-Is-Not-Gay, has never heard these stories, so either he thinks that I think he is gay or he doesn't think that my mother thinks he is gay or someone somewhere wondered if he was gay and now he is not going to let anyone under 50 out of that chair without completely affirming his not-gay status in as many puerile ways as possible.

Or possibly he's hitting on me a little. I did wonder about the backrub before the haircut...

Whatever. He does a great job on my hair and whether he's carrying a purse like Tinky Winky or goosing waitresses at a biker bar, I don't care as long as my highlights come out right.

I'd so neglected myself for so many months that a simple cut and glow made me feel like a supermodel. I've been walking around all week swinging my hair around and smiling and nodding at myself in the mirror ("How you doin'?") a la Joey Tribiani. Some of us mom-types get really good at self-denial when we really need a little more self-respect. I've been in that rut for a while and it suddenly occurred to me that I'm not really taking one for the team, I'm just not taking care of myself. And taking care of me in this small way makes me feel more like taking care of everyone else.

The other small-but-significant event was the arrival of a book.

Backstory: Middle child has been a source of tremendous concern lately. He is prone to tantrums, prone to disobedience, prone to sass, prone to physical responses to parental control. At school he's a perfect angel. At home, he's a terror. He has moments of great sweetness, but lately he devolves into tantrum mode so quickly and so often, that we're hard pressed to see the sweet shine through. Anything that didn't go his way was a signal for him to start having a fit. We were seriously considering counseling because nothing we tried with him seemed to have any effect and the stress of dealing with him was just exhausting, particularly for me. Then my sister recommended we try reading this book called Parenting with Love and Logic.

We'd heard of it, at least the title, in various church groups we'd belonged to over the last 2 years. But it was a parenting book and we were leery of some new parenting fad that wouldn't really last over the long haul or be relevant to what we felt was becoming a serious situation. In the end we bought it to see what it had to say, not because we thought it would be the cure-all for what ails #2.

Enter the book. I've been reading it since Sunday and on Tuesday I had the chance to put some of its principles into action. I used their strategy for dealing with tantrums with my boy and for the first time in weeks -- months -- I feel like I regained some control of the situation without completely draining my own energy. There was no arguing, there was no yelling on my part, there was no loss of temper on my part, no lecture, no harping, no lingering feelings of incompetence or failure for me whatsoever.

In one instance I was able to defuse the tantrum altogether, in two other instances we went through with the whole tantrum protocol and he emerged from it calmer and more in control of himself. That right there is a big step for both of us. Today we backslid a bit, mainly because I handled the situation improperly. This method is going to take some practice, mostly in how I phrase my responses, since some words are triggers for kids (certainly the word "no" for my son either sends him into a tailspin or sends his brain racing to find a way to do what he wants to anyway -- either way he stops listening as soon as it's out of my mouth).

Baby steps, baby steps. I'll post more as I get more into the book.

Our Playlist

Here's what we've been watching on You Tube lately. This is a big hit with the under 2 crowd. And hey, 1 million viewers can't be wrong.




Doncha just wanna hug some puppies?

Ahhhhh Silence...

School started last week.

I sent my middle baby to kindergarten and while I had a few moments of reservation the night before, when the actual day arrived and I saw how fired-up he was to go, the last of my worries melted away. He got on the bus like a pro, found his classroom with only a tiny bit of help, boldly ordered chocolate milk in the lunchroom, and ran all the way home from the bus stop. And, he saucily informed me, he didn't miss me at all.

Hmmph.

I, of course, spent that first day wandering around like an idiot -- what should I do with myself? When the baby went down for her nap, I had 2 full hours to kill and the swirling galaxy of possibilities was so overwhelming that I did what anyone would have done in my position.

I took a nap.

What's in a Cupcake?

A whole lotta nasty goodness. And these little babies are all that and more. I got this recipe/idea from Bakerella, who is the goddess of these little yummies. Mine aren't quite as polished looking as hers, but this was my first attempt. Even still, the dipping was easier than I expected and it was a very do-able project, if a little time consuming. The results made it absolutely worth it. You eat these rich little treats and you just know that they are bad for your waistline, arteries, overburdened pancreas, whatever...and you just don't care.

That's how good they are.

These were for my daughter's 7th birthday in lieu of the traditional cake. They were a lifesaver because she didn't have a "theme" for her birthday this year, other than kind of a loose Hannah Montana/I want to be a Rock Star/Libby Lu vibe that she was trying to convey. We could have gone with the edible cake topper thing, but I didn't find Miley Cyrus on a cake all that appetizing. We went this route instead and YUM I am glad we did.

Even though the whole dipping process (and the cake making/altering) took about 3 hours, it was so fun to do something creative like this. Everybody at both parties (kid and family) clamored for more and my husband is trying to hoard the 5 leftover pops for himself.

In other news, my 7 year old took a couple friends to Libby Lu for her birthday and got all dolled-up (to the tune of $25 per kid -- how do people afford whole parties of this stuff? Three kids nearly broke me.) and here's a picture of her in all her glory. Note the world-weary it's-another-day-of-glamour look on her face. It's so hard to be famous.

Library Rage

Went to a special storytelling time at our local library when the kids' host from our local PBS station was speaking. The kids were so fired up about the library after his talk that we got in line so they could sign up for their own library cards. This was when my baby decided to stage a revolt. She screamed, she writhed in my arms, she shouted "DOWN DOWN DOWN!" until I finally let her stand next to me.

That's when she bolted.

Naturally, the five year old thought it was a game and took off after her, so I grabbed my oldest, said firmly (and loudly) "Stay right here!" and went after them.

I got back 30 seconds later to find that the woman who had been behind me had taken my spot. That's right, she CUT IN FRONT OF A 7-YEAR OLD.

I mean, come on -- what is so rushy rushy that you have to CUT IN FRONT OF A 7-YEAR OLD to complete? And don't go fooling yourselves that she thought I wasn't coming back. If you've ever met me, you'll know that I am not blessed with a soft and gentle voice. My voice CARRIES, especially if I am trying to impress upon one of my children that I expect complete obedience to whatever I'm saying. And since my baby was putting on a circus sideshow for the benefit of everyone in line, there is no chance at all that she wasn't watching, in the same way we can't help looking at a traffic accident when we drive by it on the highway.

I was beyond mad when I got back; for a mother (she was with two quiet, well-behaved girls) to so utterly betray another mom like that...it just floored me. To be so lost to any sense of decency or fair play... I wanted very badly to say something to her, to at least make her acknowledge that she had CUT IN FRONT OF A 7-YEAR OLD, but since I was with my children I chose to keep silent. I thought it was more important for them to see me handle it all with whatever grace I could muster, rather than watch me go off on a total stranger. And that total stranger very assiduously avoided any eye contact with me as she left the library. Oh yeah, she knew exactly what she'd done.

So lady, wherever you are, I hope you're happy with yourself. I hope, too, that as you're lying in bed tonight, replaying the events of your day, you realize with blinding clarity that you modeled a complete disregard for other humans in front of your daughters; a total lack of principle, compassion and integrity that I seriously and uncharitably hope comes back to bite you in the very near future. You taught them a big lesson today. Way to go, champ.

It's Not Easy, Being Green

Especially when the grocery store is out of the permanent bags. But, Hallelujah and Save the World, they got them back in at last and I was finally able to purchase 8 and I test drove them at Target today.

Although I felt a little self-conscious walking into the store with them (and I was the only person who brought her own)I can't overstate how virtuous I felt leaving the store with my four green bags, full of Target goodies, not a scrap of flimsy plastic bag to be seen anywhere. Since i have now been to Target 3 times this week, it was good to know that at least this time I didn't contribute to landfill issues and marine life endangerment any more than I had to. As a bonus, these bags are kind of pretty. They're that lovely acid-apple color that I so long to find in bath towels. Yummy. And my children, who were with me, will soon come to see this behavior as entirely normal and expected: you shop, you bring your own bags.

Obviously I've pulled out of my nervous breakdown of about a week ago and am feeling somewhat better. That would be because WE SOLD THE OTHER HOUSE. Praise God and what a relief. In just 4 weeks that house will be someone else's to mow, trim, rake, scrape, paint, mop, dust and vacuum. I will miss it because it was our first house, the house we brought all our babies home to, the house where I created my first really fabulous garden. But I will not miss the financial, emotional and physical strain of trying to maintain two places. The couple purchasing it is expecting a baby in September and that makes me especially happy -- I like to think of another family starting out in our little house.

What a difference changing realtors made. Our new realtors had very savvy tips about what to fix, repaint, tidy and change and although we probably spent about $2000 (including repainting the exterior) it was more than worth it when the house was only on the market 36 hours before we got an offer. Sure wish we'd signed with them from the outset. Then we might not have sat on the house for 9 months.

Sold. What a great word.

Dark Night

full of dark thoughts. Maybe it's the stress of maintaining two houses and paying multiple mortgages/utilities, but I feel like I'm going to crack. I can sort of hold it together during the day, but at night, especially when I'm alone, I feel like a piece of china teetering on the edge of the shelf.

My own version of Sundowner Syndrome.

Worse, my body has decided to get into the shattering act: I have random pains, shortness of breath, headaches. And I keep waking up in the morning with my teeth clenched together so tightly that I can now confidently say I know what lockjaw feels like. It hurts.

Each night when I turn off my light I have a moment of pure panic. What if I can't sleep? What if I lie here, tossing for hours, frying my brain with sleep deprivation so that I can't function as a mom tomorrow? So far I am sleeping okay, but the fear that I won't is all too present.

And really, I am just barely keeping it all going during the day. I can do the bare minimum for survival -- laundry, cooking, enough cleaning to keep the the really egregious dirt at bay -- but I'm not setting any landspeed records for anything and I am overwhelmed by anything not strictly critical to keeping the family bus moving.

I am so tired. Tired of feeling so swamped, tired of the continual frisson of worry about whether the house will finally sell and how we're going to pay the shortfall when it does, tired of the aches and pains and the nagging little fears that they bring with them. Going to St. Louis -- to not be here for a few days -- was so great. It was like being allowed to step out of a very painful skin for a while. But now we're back and it's night and I'm alone and I'm worried, worried, worried.

It's gotten to the point where Tim and I can't really talk about how stressed we are by all of this. It's not productive, for one thing, and it only leads to discussions about how much we still have to do on the old house, which makes me feel even more depressed. It's the elephant in the living room that we very much know is there but which we are tired of exclaiming over.

I think on some level that I'm depressed. No, I know I am. I don't know if it's bad enough for clinical intervention, but it's certainly bad enough for me to admit that I am there -- down and not sure I feel like getting up again. This holding pattern that we're in with two houses has forced us to postpone all sorts of things -- our getaway weekend (we've had one in the last 8 years and were really hoping for another one this past fall. Didn't happen), any and all work on the new house, any major purchases like a playset for the backyard, a kitchen table, a new couch, desperately needed new blinds for several rooms...all on the back burner indefinitely.

I just want to feel like a normal, healthy, functioning, capable person again. Not like a bundle of agitated, irritated, stretched-to-the-breaking-point nerves.

Home of the Free and the Beer

I am not a beer drinker, but I want to make a little plug here for Anheuser-Busch, which is in the midst of a nasty takover bid by In-Bev, some nutty Belgian firm who's trying to buy them. Beyond the fact that I'm having trouble imagining all the clydesdales relocating to Brussells, there's the very big issue of all the great stuff A-B does in St. Louis, where we recently spent 5 days of vacation.

If you've never vacationed in St. Louis, you might not know that A-B generously supports all manner of nifty stuff there, like our favorite tradition, Grant's Farm, which is a zoo/animal park much beloved by kids and parents alike. And it's free. As in no cost at all. You do have to pay to park, but it's $10 per car -- we took 7 people in for $10. You can park a bus for $25. No matter how you average that out, it's a cheap date. But a very, very fun cheap date. And in case you're wondering, it's a small zoo, but classy. There are elephants and parrots and giant tortoises and capybaras and camels and eagles and llamas and other nifty stuff. And it's free. FREEEEEEEEE. When you're tired of looking at the animals or bottle feeding the baby goats, you can go to the beer garden and Mom and Dad can have 2 free beverages each, all of the alcoholic kind -- various beers and hard lemonade. Or you can buy frozen lemonade or dippin'dots or whatever turns your crank.

And all this is compliments of the good folks at Anheuser-Busch.

Here's some other great free stuff in St. Louis:

The St. Louis Zoo -- world class and totally free (pay to park)

The Science Center -- twice the size of our science center where we pay $8 to get in and this one is FREE.

The Arch Museum -- you have to pay to ride to the top of the arch, but the Westward Expansion Museum is free and very cool with hands-on demonstrations for kids throughout the day.

Costs Money but Worth It:

Missouri Botanical Center -- this is the former Shaw's Gardens and it's just lovely. Check out the cool victorian hedge maze and the Japanese bridge. Neat display garden for home gardeners and nice displays of daylilies.

Minor Rip offs:

The City Museum -- holy cow, is this an expensive attraction. $12 per person, regardless of age. $6 more if you want to see the aquarium. Usually very crowded and VERY loud. Lots of signs warning you to use the exhibits at your own risk. People do get injured. This is really designed for kids 10 and up.

The Busch Stadium Store -- skip this if you're looking for Cardinal gear. Try a Target, Kohl's, Penney's or Wal Mart instead and pay about 1/2 what you'd pay here. Or just go a few miles up the street to Union Station, a big mall with not much in it unless your hungry. However, they have 2 nice Cardinals stores, including one just for kids.

I can't think of a better place to take the family.

It Is Your Destiny

to throw the best dang Darth Vader birthday ever.

Being now a veteran of some years' standing with respect to children's birthdays, I think I prefer boy parties to girls. Girl parties are fun to plan, but there's about a 50-50 chance that some of the girls won't buy in to whatever you're doing. More natural cynicism, perhaps? Not sure. But boys...boys dive in head first and require no cajolery. They just buy into the fantasy, right off the bat.

So this year, in spite of the fact that my boy has not actually seen Star Wars (too scary), we threw a Darth Vader party. It's what he wanted, even if he really doesn't know who Darth Vader is. So I went to the party supply store and bought some light saber-shaped water pumpers for $1.50 each, a soccer ball pinata, some Darth Vader party blowers and Star Wars stickers and confetti. The party ware was just plain red or yellow stuff -- plates, napkins and cups. We splurged on a Darth Vader mylar balloon for $8, but tried to use generic colors for everything else 'cause that trademarked stuff is expensive.

I carefully peeled the black tissue soccer ball pattern off the pinata and spray painted the whole thing silver. Then I glued on a 4" circle of paper over the fill hole and painted that silver as well. I painted a black equator around the middle and concentric circles on the round bit and voila! the Death Star, all ready for little boys to bash with the power stick of doom. Or whatever.

The cake was a little problematic, in that Target wouldn't sell me the cake art topper unless I ordered a cake to go with it. Soooo, we went and found a Lego set with Darth Vader in it (the only thing in the toy dept. we could find with the big bad guy in it) and used that instead. My son was pleased with the result, and I have to say it was the easiest cake I have done in ages.

We ran off pictures of Darth Vader and some Imperial Storm Troopers and covered them with clear contact paper before nailing them to a few of our trees. When the boys got their water pumpers, this is what they shot at before they started really getting into it and shooting each other.

The whole party lasted an hour and a half and it was perfect -- just long enough to get everything in, but not so long that anyone was saying "what else are we going to do?" Little boys were running around the yard yelling "I'm light saber man!" and "Come on Jedis!"

It was awesome. As my son said while he was refilling his pumper, "this is the best birthday ever!"

Mother's Little Helper

I love this mug.

I know it's ugly, but it holds almost 24 ounces of Hot Liquid Kick-in-the-Pants, otherwise known as coffee. It's the reason I am able to function in the morning. It's also the reason I am able to function in the afternoon. It is occasionally the reason I don't go to bed before 11 p.m., though usually I am pretty responsible about my caffeine intake. For instance, if I somehow get sidetracked and can't get my afternoon whoopdeedo until after 3:30, I usually forego it entirely to be sure I won't be spending the evening with Conan and Craig.

Today I was determined not to cave in to that desperate need for a pick-me-up at 2 p.m. Caffeine, I reasoned, should not be necessary in the afternoon if I can find some way to keep myself occupied. I guess I was hoping to distract myself from needing it.

I failed.

And I actually tried the best distraction of all -- I napped. I mean, sleep should cancel out my need for something to cancel out my need for sleep, right?

Wrong.

So I had a nap and a big cuppa joe, and now I will most probably find myself reading at 11:29 p.m. instead of blissfully dreaming. It's a vicious cycle, really. The only way I see to break it is to go away for a week and actually get the sleep I need. Naturally I will have to go without the kids.

I think I can handle that.

Wonder Pets, Wonder Pets, We're on the Way!

And let me tell you, I need some rescuing.

My youngest has developed some sort of mommy-radar that tells her when I'm trying to take a shower. This is her signal to levitate, from wherever she is in the house, to the space right outside my bedroom door and commence screaming and crying. And not just garden-variety screaming and crying, it's rabbit-being-torn-apart-by-wild-dogs screaming. She seriously sounds like someone is skinning her.

It would be more heart-rending if it hadn't happened every morning for the last 5 days.

She does seem genuinely upset, and clings to me like velcro when I finally open my door. I have tried being callous, just letting her wail on and on, occasionally drowning her out with the blow-dryer, but I can't do it indefinitely.

So today I went to Target and bought a Wonder Pets DVD in hopes that I can get just enough time for a shower tomorrow. I figure if it works, the allure ought to last for about a week, so I am basically paying $12.99 for a week's worth of showers. And I'm both bribing my toddler and getting her to watch more TV at the same time. Talk about your Faustian bargains....

But hey, I gotta have nice hair.

More Musings

Yesterday we scored some early-evening childcare, so we did the most romantic thing we could think of after 11 years of marriage. We went over to our old (still unsold) house and tidied up the yard.

Naturally, the garden was lush, overflowing with massive peonies, poppies, 4ft tall columbines, and the first of the roses.

Don't believe me about the columbines? They were a self-seeded batch of "black" Barlows and they've never been that tall before. Don't know what got into them this year.

It was so beautiful and so depressing, I came home very blue -- the kind of blue where you either have to sit down and place a major order with a plant nursery, or you have to eat a lot of ice cream. Since we have no money and no ice cream, I was up a crik, as they say.

What I have right here, in my new house, is chicken scratch compared to what I had at my old house. And I know that that garden is 9 years old, that it's evolved pretty extensively, that it was made at a time in my life when I had lots of disposable income and no children to keep me from doing what I wanted to do, at least from a gardening perspective.





This is a hastily cut bouquet of Abraham Darby (middle top), Mary Rose (left) and Sydonie (2 right bottom). Sydonie is one of the ones I couldn't take a cutting from last fall and I'd so like to take one now, but am not sure I have room for it -- it gets about 5 feet tall with branches that arch over and make it about 6 feet wide. So pretty, all covered with blooms. The bud is Comte du Chambord, which is finally looking excellent after 9 years of sulking. Naturally, it outdoes itself the year I move.

I have been moping all day, missing my garden and all the little maintenance tasks that I so liked doing -- pruning and dividing and deadheading and otherwise fussing over everything. I think I just need to get started here, do something to give myself a feeling of hope that this garden can be at least as enjoyable as my old one. It will never be the same, and I probably need to find a way to just let that go, but it's hard when you've poured so much sweat into a place.

I need to just take hold.

Am I Blue?

Oh yes, I am.

This is part of my mother's day present. It's Hydrangea "Endless Summer." I love the purply-blue flowers. It's probably not as utterly beautiful as "Nikko Blue," but Nikko doesn't bloom reliably in my climate zone.

I love blue flowers almost as much as I love pink. In fact, in my former garden I had so many blue flowers that bloomed in the spring that the whole effect was a little somber from a distance. I had meant it to all bloom with some lemon yellow daylilies, but the flowers had their own ideas about when they'd show up.

This is a Siberian iris. It's much more purple than this picture shows and I'm pretty sure it's one called "Caesar's Brother." It's quite tall -- about 40 inches -- and very elegant with long, slender stems and these softly architechtural blooms that seem to float above the foliage. In my old garden, these bloomed with the first flush of roses and I grew them in full sun. In my new home, these were a pleasant surprise, found growing in dappled shade.

Another blue, though more in the category of excellent background notes is Hosta Sieboldiana "Elegans." This was one I planned to take from my old garden but my husband accidentally killed mine with Spectracide. I was debating whether or not to just buy another one when two huge ones popped out of the ground next to our new deck. What an unexpected pleasure that was.

It's been raining here for days and days and Sunday I went out and shot some water droplet pictures of these hostas. Man, there is nothing like a really beautiful plant, beautifully grown. These massive babies (they're 3 feet across and nearly 3 feet high) make my heart happy.

I've been missing my old garden a lot this spring and I seem to be unable to get a grip on what I'd like to do with this space, especially since my husband tosses out these caveats from time to time, like "No trellises!" and "Nothing with thorns!", which make it hard for me to know what direction to take things. Then, too, having a dirt-eating toddler around is kind of a deterrent to digging and planting and generally making any kind of progress at all. At least I have a few things that soften my loss.

And it all Unravels

Today is a classic scenario that reinforces my extremely anal approach to children and sleep:

Kids go to baseball game. Kids end up being out until 10:15. Kids finally wind down and fall asleep between 10:45 and 11:oo p.m. Parents end up staying awake until 11:30. Baby wakes parents at 6 a.m. Other children must be awakened by 7:15. Crabbiness commences.

Oldest daughter has minor meltdown in car because mother won't allow her to make thank you cards for her teachers this morning. She asks to make said cards as she is getting in the van to go to school.

Middle child conducts reign of terror in grocery store, annoying baby until she screams like a tortured rabbit. Then son shoves shopping cart into mother's abdomen and seriously endangers his chances of remaining in family. Mother has a little repent-and-be-saved talk with boy which involves a number of dire threats.

Baby engages in "piling on" whereby she screams at the mother repeatedly "CAN I WALK? CAN I WALK? CAN I WALK?" after which she attempts a suicidal leap from the shopping cart, which mother is fortunately able to thwart before any head injuries result.

Mother's head begins to pound like it's riddled with jackhammers. Mother calls Father and tells him that if he ever takes the children out late again he will be taking the follwing day off to deal with them as the mother hereby abdicates.

And that's just the morning. No doubt the fun will only increase when oldest child gets home from school.


These kids are so going to bed at 7 tonight. All of them.

Just a Reminder...

Hubby took the two older children to a baseball game tonight and I was quivering with anticipation -- what would I do with 2 child-free hours once I got the baby to bed? Then I wandered downstairs and remembered:

Clean the kitchen.

And as that thought was sinking in, I heard a beeping upstairs.

Oh yeah, and fold laundry.

Just 'cause they're gone doesn't mean I get to loaf around. And round about 9 when I'm thinking about a little spin on the treadmill while I watch 48 Hours, I'll probably be reading to one of my little sleep-resisters instead. Ah well.

Like one little baseball game was going to rescue me from my eternal crusade against dirty clothes and dishes. Ha!

A Moment of Serious Reflection

Not even sure how to write about what's been on my mind all weekend. When I read that Steven Curtis Chapman's youngest daughter had been killed in a tragic accident, my first thought was "nonononononono," or something equally indicative of total denial.

Because it is unthinkable, to lose a child. And to lose a child like that, at the hands of a family member, magnifies the tragedy to epic proportions. What they must feel, the anguish of loss, the self-recrimination, the guilt that so often goes hand-in-hand with this parenting gig, the desperate, desperate desire to just rewind that day and have their little one restored to life, and the terrible certainty that had they just done something different, it wouldn't have happened at all -- however untrue that feeling might be.

This same thing happened to a woman I was attending a Bible study with about 5 years ago: her husband was moving some brush on their property with a mini-front loader and backed over their 3 year old son, killing him instantly. They were interviewed for a newspaper article about a year ago, an article that profiled several families in our state who have been victims of this kind of accident -- something that happens with frightening frequency -- and they said that they will never be the same, though they believe their little one is with God. There is a hole in their family that is always there, and as their other children get older and larger, that child, who will be forever 3, is as much present in their thoughts as the ones who are playing soccer and performing in dance recitals.

And I imagine the Chapman's teenaged son, who was driving the SUV that struck her, feels like his life is over. His burden will be a heavy one, and there will be no easy way to lighten it save time itself. This is what makes me really wish Life gave Mulligans -- just the odd do-over from time to time. How much sadness would be saved if we could just take back a minute or two here and there.

Life is, as they say, alarmingly fragile. And we are all too apt to take it for granted, completely forgetting how an instant can change things forever.

Hug your babies today. Read to them. Enjoy the 6,000th bath you're giving them. Treasure their goofy faces and silly sayings. Oddly, it was Steven Curtis Chapman who wrote about the "miracle of the moment" -- each one is a gift and it's by no means certain we'll have as many of them as we think.

Learning Something New Every Day

Middle child completed his last year of preschool this week, and I went to his end-of-year celebration fully expecting to come out of it a sobbing, blithering wreck. This did not happen.

It threatened to happen -- the kids have been learning bell-ringing all year and their big finale at the celebration was "Friends Forever" by Michael W. Smith, which always chokes me up, no matter how it's played. If you hummed it loud enough I'd probably have tears in my eyes by the second chorus. Anyway, I was getting a little dewy around the eyes already when they put on the DVD of the preschool year -- a big retrospective of pictures set to music which has, in the past, been responsible for my rather embarrassing display of emotion. But this year, the pictures were set to such cool, peppy music, I found it impossible to cry.

The artist was a fusion of Paul Simon, James Taylor and REM and the music was funny, quirky, totally kid appropriate and kid accessible (my baby loves the whale song) yet so adult in its listenability (not a word, I know, but I can't think of a better one). I have a clear tolerance for Raffi (about 1 hour) and the Wiggles make me uncomfortable (they're just so....odd) so here are two very good videos by Justin Roberts. This guy rocks.

Ferris Bueller's Day Off

Realizing, of course, that I have just irrevocably dated myself with that reference, I still think it's appropriate for my Friday of Freedom.

Okay, I didn't steal my dad's classic car and drive all over Chicago with it, but I did get to shop for a good portion of the day, which is really the mommy equivalent. Also I got to go to the mall ALONE. WITHOUT KIDS. BY MYSELF.

And I am here to tell you that when you are ALONE, you can actually have thoughts. Long, connected thoughts about what you're doing and how you're going to do it. You can wonder how much something costs and then remember to check the price tag. It's true: children are a serious inhibitor of rational thought. I've always suspected this, but only in a a sort of dim, nebulous way because my trains of thought never go anywhere when the kids are with me. You know, you have a hunch that you're not making a bucket load of sense, but it's hard to confirm over the chorus of "MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY MOMMY!" By the time you get everyone to shut up, you forget what it was you were worried about.

So I went, I shopped, I thought, I did what I wanted to do and it was blissful and invigorating and entirely too short.

And my husband says he doesn't see why I can't have a day off every month. Every month.

I knew there was a reason I married him.

Chapter 40, In Which My Husband Gets a Clue

It only took 11 years of marriage, 3 kids and 8 or 9 complete mental breakdowns, but my husband is taking Friday off so that I can have A MOMMY VACATION.

The prospect of an entire day -- not just an hour or two stolen from the regular schedule -- is dizzying. I am trying to make a list so I can do all the stuff I've been wishing I could do but never seem to be able to get childcare for. I think I am going to flee the house about 8:30ish and then I am free as a bird until dinnertime.

My hubby, on the other hand, has to make breakfast, take oldest child to school, drop the other two at grandma's, go back to school for Read With Me time, pick the other two up, take them home, feed them lunch, get middle child ready for preschool and usher him out the door when the carpool arrives, put baby down for nap, unstack dishwasher, prepare for baby's awakening (snack and video), meet middle child when carpool delivers him, get snack ready for oldest child, load everyone in van, pick up oldest child at school, take everyone to allergist and then get everyone home for dinner.

Throw in an unexpected visit to the doctor, 2 loads of laundry and 3 phone calls while you're trying to relax and that's about my day.

My head is whirling. What am I going to do?

Color Me Frustrated

Here's my garden right now.

And let's not forget this:


I am so annoyed with the weather, my new site, the trees. You name it, it's bugging me right now.


I had intended, by this point in the growing season, to be preparing my beds for new plants. Instead, thanks to the crappy weather, I still have 9 bags of rose cuttings living in my house. I also have no clear idea where I'm going to put them once it actually warms up to the point where they can be planted out.


I have spent some weeks observing our lot and determining where the light falls and for how long so I will know where to plant things. As a result of all this cogitation, I have come to the conclusion that I don't have enough room for all the plants I want to put in.

This, you understand, is a serious problem for the gardener.


Today I gingerly approached my husband about expanding the bed in the front of the house, the only one that really gets full sun. This expansion would add about a foot of depth all along the bed, making it about 5 feet deep and 15 feet long in full sun with an additional 10 feet in partial sun. The 10 foot strip along the walk would be 3 feet deep. This is pretty skimpy, in my mind, since my last flowerbed was 35 feet long and 5-6 feet deep. It's hard not to feel cheated, or at the very least, peevish.


The real issue here is that the current bed is bounded on one side by a short retaining wall. It's not more than 3 stones high, but moving it (and constructing a new wall) is not something I can do alone. I'm not even sure it's something I can do without some fairly precise help. And naturally, it's not something that my husband thinks is really possible right now. He said, and I quote, "maybe next summer."


Next summer? Is he kidding?


I want to get that bed going NOW. It's the only place I can really grow roses and clematis and daylilies and knautia and siberian iris and all the good stuff that I am missing so badly.
He just doesn't get it. I am enduring the first spring without daffodils since 1994. I will lose my mind if I have to go without roses and peonies and sedums and..and...


I think I may cry.


In my head I'm trying to sort out what, if anything, I am going to be able to do strictly by myself this year. In my old garden I did all the work -- all the digging, edging, planting, watering, etc. Of course, I was 10 years younger and had no kids, so my time was entirely my own and my body was a lot more cooperative. I am going to have to think carefully and figure out what can be done in 60-minute increments (nap time) that won't actually put me in traction.


Also I'm going to have to figure out whether I really can wait on that front bed or whether I can finagle it somehow. Hire the work out? Maybe I should get a bid from someone.


Here's what I'm missing:

Papaver "Princess Victoria Louise"

Allium "Globemaster." Behind them is Austin rose "The Prince" and some "Husker Red " penstemmon.

Allium "Moly"

Peony I inherited from my grandmother. It's probably 60 years old; maybe older.

Austin Rose "Mary Rose" always first to bloom and last to quit in my garden.

Austin Rose "Kathryn Morley" not much scent, but blooms like masses of petticoats.

Austin Rose "Abraham Darby:" Probably my favorite, with huge, luscious blooms and a sweet, fruity scent that make you want to swoon. The color, which you can't really see here, is a gorgeous pink-coral-yellow blend that I adore.

Clematis Jackmanii --and oldie but soooo good.

How can I wait until next summer for this?

Biting My Nails 'Til They Bleed

Our other house still hasn't sold.

If we were awash in money, this might not be a huge issue, but buying this house was a financial stretch and since we bought it, we've been hemorrhaging cash at an alarming rate. If this continues, we won't be able to afford to fix the things on this house that our home inspector told us we really couldn't ignore (like the roof -- don't want to ignore that, no sir).

Until about 3 weeks ago, I was content to let it ride -- the non-selling other house, I mean. I figured we simply listed it at a bad time and the weather, which was horrid this winter, just conspired to make house-hunting unappealing. But now...now I'm starting to feel mildly panicked.

It's not that we don't have nibbles. We've had a ton of traffic through the house in the last month. For a while there, people were choosing to go with new construction, but we've lowered the price to the point that we're now beneath the tier of people who can afford either our house or new construction. And still, people have complained that there aren't 2 full bathrooms.

No, there aren't. The house is nearly 40 years old. People didn't pee as much back then.

And of course, there's no master suite, and the basement isn't finished, but the kitchen is competely updated, as is the full bath, all the flooring is new and nice -- I went for broke on the flooring because I thought we were going to be there longer. And there are beautiful mature trees font and back and a newly re-sided 2 1/2 car garage, albeit unattached. I don't know. It's not perfect, but it's a darn sight better than it was when we bought it, all mauve and forest green on the inside as it was.

This is the problem with the slowing market: you can suddenly afford houses you never thought you'd be able to touch, but at the same time, you can't get nearly what you thought you could from your old house. I just hope we come out of this without completely draining our savings.

Laundry Theory 101

I used to like laundry. You know, back in the day when I was only washing my stuff. And why wouldn't I like it? It took me all of 3 hours to complete and since I usually did it while watching TV it barely even registered as a chore, per se.


But now...

Now, I do laundry for 5 people. Three of them are world-class mess makers and all three of them like to spread the mess around to other people's clothes. Like mine. I can't tell you how many times I've had someone use me as a human napkin. It's so gross, I don't want to think about it.

Anyhoo, it struck me this week that I have been doing a better job with laundry lately. And by "better job" I mean the laundry actually gets finished in the same week it is dumped by the washer. I have slightly altered my laundry routine and I think that's what made the difference between the light at the end of the tunnel and the never-ending story.

What I did was simply devote Monday to sheets. That's all I wash on Monday. I strip beds and wash the sheets and make the beds on that day and I don't do anything else laundry related. And I don't even do all the sheets: I alternate kids' sheets one week, our sheets the next, although I'm going to have to change that this summer when the kids are sweatier and dirtier than they are in the winter.

So, I start Tuesday with a clean slate, laundrywise, and that's when I sort and start all the other loads. And I do those loads in triage order: most important stuff first, least important last. I start with jeans and end with towels. I ususally have about 8-9 loads and it will take me 2-3 days to get it all done, mainly because of the driving I do and because I can't do any loads while the baby it sleeping for fear of waking her up. I mean, I want to get the laundry done, but I'm not stupid.

The other thing I do is I pile all the folded clothes on my bed. This makes it so I have to deal with the piles before I sleep. On that night. The same night. Okay, sometimes I just move the piles to the floor, but I dealt with them. Not well, but I dealt with them. And in this manner, I get through the laundry by Friday at the latest. Usually. Once I finished on a Wednesday and felt sort of dizzy -- what would I do with myself, in the absence of laundry?

I took a nap, of course.

It's bizarre, how a minor success with a trivial, mundane task can make you feel like a Nobel Scientist.

Smells like Team Spirit

Today I made a difference.

I was at Target to pick up some odds and ends that I couldn't get at the grocery store, one of which was a 75-watt compact fluorescent bulb for the garage. Lo and behold, CFLs were on sale this week -- up to 50 cents cheaper than normal. So I bought them out of 60-watt mini-twists and 40-watt globe lights. All told, I bought 31 CFLs -- and yes, it was a big outlay (about $175), but since we have 55 light bulbs on our 2nd floor alone, the energy savings should be exponential.

Just replacing the 10 globe lights in the kids' bathroom should save us nearly $50 this year alone. The 21 mini-twists should save us $147 over the next year. That's a pretty good combined savings. In fact, I am feeling motivated to replace even more bulbs, like down in the basement where we have a gazillion lights which the kids never turn off. CFLs have an additional bonus: they run 75% cooler than incandescents, which means they won't make the rooms as hot this summer. Should mean that the air conditioner won't have to work quite as hard. I'm keeping my fingers crossed on that one. The CFLs might not make our power bills go down this year, but they might keep them from going up.

I've been flirting with CFLs for a while now, but have always balked at their size and the cold nature of their light. However, the mini-twists were labeled "soft light" and once installed, they are considerably warmer than the old CFLs. That being said, the globe lights are definitely a cooler light, but not so bad that you feel like you're about to undergo surgery.

If you're wondering about CFLs and aren't sure whether they really make that much difference, this article on WalMart and the Fluorescent Bulb Revolution was a good read. Not that WalMart should be the yardstick for anyone's behavior, but kudos to them for doing something not designed to screw people for a change. The part of the article where they discuss their own savings as a result of switching to CFLs in their stores (and just a tiny portion of the store at that) is impressive. The government has a site that also explains the benefits of CFLs which I found mildly helpful, especially where they delineate the shapes, sizes and types of bulbs available and which works best where. Also, they explain quite clearly why you can't just chuck CFLs in the trash when they burn out in 8 years or so (mercury) and what to do if one should break in your house (special clean up procedures).

So here's the deal -- if everyone just put one CFL in their home somewhere, we'd save an absolutely ridiculous amount of energy. Enough energy to close down two coal powered energy plants (or prevent two from being built). If you just loathe them, as I did for a long time, consider putting them where you won't be bothered by them: an unfinished basement, the garage, your porch light. Put them in your closets, if your closets have lights. Find a place where you can use one -- just one. And then feel good about yourself for the next 8 years.

Saving the world, baby. Not bad for a Monday.

GOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLL!

He scored a goal today, his first one ever. His father, the coach, was so excited. I, who can only attend 2 games this season because of a scheduling conflict with older daughter's dance class, was miraculously on hand to see it. I would have photographed it, but I was so busy being in the moment, cheering and all, that taking a picture just slipped my mind. It was awesome, and it made standing around in 40 degree weather with a sharp, damp wind totally worth it.

Another family, watching their son, was not as happy. They yelled at their boy repeatedly: things like "Stop farting around out there!" and "Pay attention!" and let me tell you that they were mad. All this irritation, and their kid scored 3 goals. Heck, my kid scored once and it was almost certainly by accident, and his father and I were thrilled. This is, after all, pee wee soccer, three on three with no goalie. Half the time the kids don't even know which goal is theirs, let alone how to get a ball into it. Watching these parents and their tension over this game was really off-putting.

It does go a long way toward explaining why our team has had so much trouble with this boy shoving his own team members. 'Cause you know, it's tough to score with all those pesky teammates in the way. Forget building skills and understanding the fundamentals of the game -- can't be a star with all those other kids hogging the ball. To me, in my little pollyanna reality bubble, it seems too early to get so worked up over a sport, but some friends of ours just pulled their 8 year old out of our soccer league because the game had become so competitive that their son couldn't move around and try new positions for fear they might lose a game. And they were 8. As in eight years old. Holy cow. Remember when sports were so that kids could get together and have some fun?

Lighten up, people.

The Hundred Years' War

Or, How I Can't Seem to Decorate My House.

Honestly, sometimes I feel like I'm lacking some critical girl-gene. I look at fabric swatches and wallpaper samples and furniture catalogues and instead of feeling a huge rush, I feel hugely intimidated.

No, more than that: I feel a surge of desperate frustration coupled with a sense of impending doom.

Right now I am living in what still feels like someone else's house and although we've put paint on some of the walls and most of our furniture lives here now, none of it seems to quite fit like it did in the old house. I am in the nether hell of having to find a new couch and chair for the family room so that the denim one (which is only 3 years old) can go in the basement because it's just a skosh too big for the family room.

I thought I'd found the perfect sofa: right size (about 10" smaller than our current one)right style (no back cushions for the kids to smash down) right color (came in a lovely carmel tan chenille herringbone that is about 2 shades darker than our walls). Then my sister, who shall hereafter be known as the Destroyer of Dreams, told me that with three kids and our future dog, chenille would make about as much sense as family night at the opera. The couch would, she swore, be rubbed bald in about a year. And naturally, I can't get it in any other fabric. Just the chenille. Just that perfect shade of butter soft chenille that will never survive the onslaught of my semi-feral children.

So, seething with frustration, I am at square one. Again.

The problem is that I have trouble committing. If I buy the chesterfield-style roll arm, I can't also have the flirty, slipcovered french settee. And yes, I like them both. And if I get the big farmhouse table, I can't also have the sleek, duncan phyfe reproduction with empire chairs. It boils down to this: I don't want to marry my furniture, I just want to date it.

See? Lacking the girl gene. Sadly, I still have the gene that is screaming at me to do something with the house, so I keep at it, in spite of feeling wholly inadequate. This weekend I am going to make myself crazy and go couch shopping some more. And maybe even order a new table. Why not? I haven't had a panic attack in at least 2 months. Time we livened up the joint.

It's a Different World

than the one I grew up in. Back in the day, when we rode ye olde stegasaurus to school uphill both ways in the snow, all there was for kiddies on the idiot box was the very wonderful Mr. Rogers and the equally wonderful Sesame Street. Now, there's this:

Can you tell what it is? It's a Yo Gabba Gabba video from YouTube. My sweet baby sits at the computer and says "Mommy, I want Party Tummy?" "Mommy, carrots cryin'? Green Beans cryin'?" Since we don't have cable (thank God) this is the only way she can get her Yo Gabba Gabba fix, short of moving in with Grandma full time. I am glad she can get a little taste of this completely bizarre show without me having to pay the cable company's extortionate prices.

And what is Yo Gabba Gabba? Beats the heck out of me, but I noticed that for whatever reason, it has spawned a lot of overdubbed videos on YouTube, some bad, some good. This is one of the good ones:

It's Elijah Wood doing the dancey dancey thing overdubbed with a really nifty song from a Romanian pop band. My 6 year old can't get enough of this.

Defining Moments

Husband: Did you notice on that show we were watching last night that the baby had the exact same sippy cup as our baby does?

Wife: No, but it's a Platex cup. They're pretty much everywhere.

Husband: Really? I was thinking it made us kind of cool.

Unfair Kharma

Sick child wakes us up at 5 a.m. with mild vomiting. After this is dealt with, husband immediately goes back to sleep with that extremely enviable talent he has for attaining a state of complete unconsciousness no matter what the circumstances. I lay there, wakeful, until I hear the baby at 6:30, because if I have to do anything more complicated than go to the bathroom I can never again achieve sleep on the night in question. I have crashing headache by 10 a.m.. I call husband and inform him that I will be going to bed early -- lights off at 10 -- and he'd better comply. He informs me that it's the NCAA final and the only way he's going to bed before it's over is if aliens land on our deck, break in, and forcibly sedate him.

I know this is not going to turn out well, but I accuse him of being mentally ill. Choosing basketball over sleep? Definitely not right in the head. He advises me to take a nap in the afternoon.

I laugh. Take a nap? With a sick child on the couch who has inherited her father's propensity for moaning? Fat chance. Still, I will give it the old college try. Pip pip and all that.

Older child falls asleep on couch at 1 p.m. I lie down on floor (we only have one couch and the bedroom is too far away for me to hear her) but cannot get comfy. Just has I am starting to feel relaxed, baby wakes up after what can only be described as a really bad nap.

Middle child comes home and begins yelling at the top of his lungs. Because he is a boy and this is what he does. Baby is cranky. Older child is feverish. I am starting to feel desperately tired.

I make dinner amid total chaos. It's a wash: all three kids reject it as poison, when in fact it's a lovely egg and cheese concoction that literally melts in the mouth. Whatever. They won't eat it. Bedtimes start rolling around beginning at 6:30 (baby) and continuing until 7:45 (oldest child). Finally everyone is in bed. NCAA game starts and husband immediately loses all contact with his environment. I go upstairs and realize that if I want to sleep, I have to fold and put away about 5 loads of laundry which are currently residing on my bed.

I finally get into bed at nine and watch an hour of TV alone. It is the only hour of the day in which I have not had someone to take care of or something to finish. Naturally, this is when husband comes up and decides to have a conversation with me. So what if he interrupts my program? -- geez, it's not like I'm watching BASKETBALL, for pity's sake.

Husband realizes that halftime is over and bolts back downstairs. I lay in bed from 10 to almost 11, reading and trying to achieve maximum sleepiness. I am almost there, so I turn off the light. This is when husband comes to bed. He is very quiet, almost considerate, but as I am lying there, I realize he has neglected to take the middle child to the potty, something we do every night because middle child has been known to get up and potty in the night, but not necessarily in the bathroom so we try to make sure he does it in a toilet before we sleep so we don't find it in the hallway (bedroom, stairs) in the morning. His father does this chore because his mother can no longer lift him. But tonight, being dazzled by BASKETBALL, husband decides to avoid this duty.

Now, I could let this go, but since I will be the one to have to clean it up in the morning should middle child have an incident, I decide to remind husband of his job. He gets up and does it, but unfortunately, this starts a cycle of extreme annoyance which eventually gets so strong I can't lie still anymore. Instead, I get up and pick a fight with said husband and end up storming off downstairs to cool off.

About 30 minutes later, he comes down and apologizes for being a basketball-watching freak with absolutely no sense of human decency. All is well, but it's now midnight of the day that began at 5 a.m. (Okay, technically it's 12 a.m. of the following day. So sue me.)

This seems to be the way my life goes -- wake up extra early, get kicked in the can by BASKETBALL, stay up extra late, feel rotten.

Where Angels Fear to Tread

There are certain times as a parent when you are confronted with behavior so outside the realm of your experience that your brain becomes temporarily paralyzed. I had one of these moments this morning.

When I took my shower, I made sure all the doors were closed upstairs. I particularly made sure the kids' bathroom door was closed. For good measure, I even turned off the light and the fan.

When I came out of my shower, the kids' bathroom door was open, the light was on, and Maggie was playing in the toilet which someone had forgotten to flush. She was soaked in urine, there were puddles of urine on the floor, a soggy roll of toilet paper was resting next to the toilet, also soaked in pee, and the whole place smelled like a public men's room. There was even pee in the trash can.

Let me hasten to say that while it certainly could have been worse (i.e. poo poo) it was just as certainly bad enough and my brain quite literally seized up with the effort of taking it all in.

Naturally, all of this happened at the precise moment that we needed to load up for the drive to school.

I stripped and washed the baby, redressed her and shepherded all three kids into the van, bravely ignoring the damp pee stains on my jeans in an effort to get child #1 to school on time. When we got home, I quarantined the area and gave it a thorough disinfecting. You may point out to me that urine is sterile. This I will allow, but no one will convince me that there weren't some germ parties happening in that toilet, where far grosser things happen than pee pee. The bathroom is now mopped, wiped and smelling like Lysol. Clothes and rugs are in the wash and my jeans have been swapped for a clean pair. Two things are now clear:

1) I will never know who the true culprit is. I have my suspicions, but no one is fessing up, probably because of the brilliant Demented Harpy impersonation I did earlier. and

2) I may need counseling for post traumatic stress

This is one of the essential functions of children, to open up the world to their parents in mind-blowing ways; ways that simply would not occur to us. Often these are beautiful and touching, but occasionally they're just revolting. I'm hoping since we've got the disgusting out of the way, I'll be due for the other kind of parenting moment fairly soon.

Despite My Best Efforts

Scene: Mom has just returned from preschool conference, where she is all a-glow from the fabulous report she's received on her 4 year old. Said 4 year old is coloring at the table and Mom decides to spread the joy.

M: Grant, I just went to your preschool conference.

G: Why?

M: To hear how you're doing. Miss Cheri says you are an awesome friend and that you share really well.

G: Yeah.

M: I'm really proud of you. It makes Mommy feel really good to know that you're being a good friend and that you are doing such a great job sharing and using your words and asking questions. I think you're an awesome kid. (hugs him)

G: (somewhat muffled) Can I have some money?

Why I Love PBS

Our local PBS station is about to embark on its annual pledge drive and the program guide reminds us to "Tune in for another year of live quilting thrills!" Oh yes. I will definitely be watching that. Needle in, needle out, red square to yellow diamond, pin the facing sides -- I'm all a-tingle.

My 6 year old wanted to know if she could stay up during the pledge drive (which around here is called Festival! 'cause there's nothing that says party like begging people for money) to watch Daniel O'Donnell performing Home in Ireland, a program I am almost certain has a demographic of 60-80 year olds. I have got to start cutting back on her t.v. watching. Either that or we've got to get cable so she can watch Hannah Montana like normal kids.

Still, it would make a nice change from the countless Dora the Explorer videos I've had to endure.

Surfing today while the munchkin naps. Visited Pioneer Woman Cooks! and gained weight just from reading the recipes. I am feeling mildly inspired to make something new which the kids will refuse to eat (as opposed to all the stuff I already make which they refuse to eat). Inspired enough to venture out in the snow to the grocery store? Not really. But I think I'll add a few things to my shopping list and give them a try next week sometime.

It's snowing again. Still trying to remember why I live here.

Random Blathering

No real direction today; just a collection of widely scattered thoughts that I felt like getting out there in a meaningful way. Since I can't actually do that, I'll just put them in my blog instead.

Grant is growing again. I know this because for lunch he ate 6 pieces of lunch meat, a whole pbj sandwich, a granola bar, a bagel, a cup of applesauce and all of his milk. I think when he hits junior high and really starts eating, we'll have to purchase him some kind of membership at Old Country Buffet so we can be sure he gets enough chow.

We arrived home from Arizona to -30 windchills and I am trying to remember why we live here. Jobs, family -- something like that, but pretty meaningless in light of the vile weather.

Which, I've noticed, the weather people on local tv are fond of giving perky names like "Canadian Clipper," I guess on the theory that the sheer jauntiness of the name will cause us to forget that our skin freezes when we walk out to get the mail.

Skin. I have ignored it for a very long time, but now that I am over (f-word), I find that it can no longer be neglected. I have to make time to slather it with lotion after showering -- no small chore, finding an extra 3 minutes in my already abbreviated, kid-attuned shower routine -- or I risk developing nasty, scaly patches, or worse, cracks and splits. These, let me tell you, hurt like the worst paper cut you can imagine, and they refuse to heal without even more attention, like antibiotic cream and bandaids on all the affected areas. I have gone to bed with nearly every finger swathed in a bandage of some sort, like some sort of refugee from a cartoon piano accident.

This morning, the kids let me have a pee in peace. This is remarkable because of its rarity. Normally, I have an actual audience in the bathroom, often an audience that asks uncomfortably frank questions about whatever they may have noticed about the Potty Experience a la Mom. If I don't have a peanut gallery (or is it peenut?) then I have people standing right outside either tattling (Abby Kate), asking for snacks (Grant), or flinging themselves bodily against the door with much wailing and gnashing of teeth (Maggie). Every mother in the world knows what I'm talking about.

I always swore as a parent I would never be a total sucker and buy all that tie-in merchandise that is put out by every children's program out there, be it Nickelodeon or PBS. I was so, so wrong. I have embraced my inner Elmo now and purchased not one, but two Dora the Explorer Valentine books -- not just tie-in merchandise; seasonal tie-in merchandise. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

My 4 Year Old, The Lawyer

Scene: the van, on the way to school. It is early morning and I have only had half my coffee. I am understandably somewhat foggy.

Abby Kate: Mom, I don't even know why A-S-S is a bad word. Why is A-S-S a bad word?

Me: (startled) Where did you hear that word?

Abby Kate: Lydia at school. She said it and said it's a bad word. But why is ass a bad word?

Me: Um....if you're talking about a donkey -- 'cause it is an old fashioned word for donkey -- then it's okay, but it's also a very rude word for rear end. Then it's not okay.

Grant: Mom, you have to put a nickel in my piggy bank now.

Me: What? Why? I didn't say a bad word (and for the record here, let me state that the "bad word" I occasionally have to pony up for is "gosh")

Grant: Uh, Mom, you did. You said "butt."

Me: No, I didn't. I said "rear end."

Grant: Uh, Mom, "rear end" means the same thing. You have to pay me a nickel.


You know I can't win; I'm outnumbered.

Remains of the Day

So, the other night I was making dinner. This activity is sometimes an efficient affair, and sometimes a metaphoric dash through a minefield, depending on how prepared/organized/PMS-y I am. On this night, I was stirring and simmering and sauteeing like a pro, almost completely able to ignore the children popping in and out of the kitchen at various intervals. Maggie had her head in the pantry cabinet, calling out "Cake? Cake?" apparently in hopes that a large, frosted yummy would materialize in there. When that didn't happen, she consoled herself by taking out all the boxes of granola bars and standing on them. Twice.

The older children wandered in periodically to say things like "What are we having for dinner? Not that, right? I hate that." and "Can I have a snack?" (No.) "Well, when can I have a snack?" because evidently the act of making dinner does not, in fact, guarantee that food will be coming your way any time soon.

Lucky for them, Aunt Flo had arrived earlier in the day and I was feeling verrry calm, almost Zen-like. Don't like my sweet and sour chicken? Wisdom is not yours today, little grasshopper. Smashed granola bars? Tonight you will not learn the sound of one hand clapping, little monster pants, because I am inhabiting a higher plane.

It's nice, being above it all. And the nicest part about it was that it could so easily have gone the other way, and so often has.

It is no small thing to feel supremely sane.

Don't Stop Now...

or people will think I've jumped off a bridge as a result of all the moving angst. I didn't, and although the move itself was very hairy (ice storm) and the kids had a little (not unexpected) trouble settling in, we all survived and I am feeling calmer than I have in months.

Then again, almost as soon as we moved in, things began breaking: door handles, cabinet pulls, shower doors, etc. It's like the house was just holding its breath until we got in and then on the exhale started popping its metaphoric buttons. Ah well, such is the life of the home owner.

But I am done writing about the move, the house and all that rit rot, at least for today. Today I want to rant about something totally different.

Politics.

When you live in a "politically relevant" state, as I do, you find that the days prior to the politically significant events in question are filled with phone calls from volunteers trying to ascertain your position or solicit your support. Yesterday I had a record 8 phone calls with either live or recorded people urging me to support 1) Ron Paul 2)Mike Huckabee 3) Mitt Romney 4)Barack Obama 5) Ron Paul (again) 6) John McCain 7) Ron Paul (yet again) and 8)Hillary Clinton.

One nice man called for Mitt Romney and wanted to know my opinion of him. I told him I wouldn't vote for him, and of course, he wanted to know why. I explained that his position on illegal immigration was reactionary and draconian , but what I wanted to say was that I don't like him because he keeps calling my house.

In the most bizarre twist of all, I got a hand-addressed Christmas card from the Millers in Puyallup, WA -- a place I have never been. As I opened it, I was trying to remember if my friend from College had moved from Chicago to Puyallup in the past year. Then the full weirdness of the card burst upon me. Inside was a Christmas letter, just like the ones you get with all the family updates, only this one was a letter from a total stranger urging me to consider Ron Paul for President, so he could single-handedly restore America's greatness.

That's just about as wacky a ploy as I've ever seen.

Of course, anyone that knew anything about me at all would know that I would never endorse someone like Ron Paul, but it's rare that a candidate should have the ability to alienate me so early in the race. Normally I don't feel alienated and disaffected until October of the election year. On actual election day, I ususally feel like I'm performing a very distasteful duty, like excising warts or assisting in a hemmorroid surgery. By then I pretty much hate everybody and am certain that no matter who I vote for, we're all going straight to hell in a handbasket.

Just a few more days and the phone calls should stop.