Supermom Is Dead

If You Give a Mom a Project

2009-12-29T13:53:00.003-06:00

This post is inspired by the children's book, "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie," and my good friend, Catherine Denton, who always said this would make a good post.

If you give a mom a project during Christmas break, she will pick the bedroom closet. She will pull everything out of it first thing in the morning while the kids are watching TV in order to organize it.

After she gets the closet empty, the kids will start to ask for breakfast, so she will head to kitchen in her pajamas to pour them a bowl of cereal.

When she opens the refrigerator to get out the milk, she will notice the sausage links she bought the day before and think pancakes would be really good with sausage.

So she will mix up the batter and pour a pancake into the skillet. While breakfast is cooking, she will decide to check her email.

When she checks her email, she will remember the blog she started the night before and decide to finish it. Pictures would be good with the post, she thinks, so she does an Internet search for clip art.

While searching the Internet for clip art, she will smell burning pancakes and remember breakfast, which she will narrowly save.

After breakfast she will tell the children to get dressed and decide she should get dressed herself. She will put on clothes and go to the bathroom to wash her face.

When she washes her face in the bathroom sink, she will notice the sink needs cleaning and grab a disinfectant wipe to clean it.

Once the sink is clean, she will see that there is still plenty of usable solution left on the wipe and will not want to throw a half used wipe away, so she will wipe down the bathroom cabinets.

When she wipes down the cabinets, she will notice the bathroom trash needs to be taken out. And since she is taking the bathroom trash, she may as well take the kitchen trash.

And if she's going to take the kitchen trash, she should check the fridge for old leftovers to go out with it. When she opens the refrigerator door, she will see the box of chocolate covered cherries she gave her husband for Christmas and will eat one.

"A cup of coffee would be good with this," she will think, so she will pour herself a cup with sugar and milk and decide to drink it with the new decorating magazine her neighbor gave to her.

After she reads the magazine and drinks her coffee, she will put the milk back in the fridge and remember that she was supposed to clean out the old leftovers. She will notice the juice spill in the bottom of the fridge left there the week before by her five-year-old. So she will decide to clean the spill. And if she is going to clean the spill, she might as well wipe down the shelves, too.

After she cleans the refrigerator shelves and throws away all the old food, her sink will be full of dishes from the old leftovers and breakfast and she will want to load the dishwasher.

But before she can load the dishwasher, she must unload the clean dishes from the day before, so she starts to unload. When she opens her cabinet door to put away the clean dishes, the Tupperware lids will come falling out on top of her, and she will realize she needs to organize the kitchen cabinets.

While she is organizing the cabinets, the children will come into the kitchen asking for lunch, and she will have to stop what she is doing to feed them. And of course, the five-year-old's favorite Tinkerbell cup with the curly straw will be dirty because the dishwasher is still full, and she will cry, and the mom will have to wash it by hand before she can make lunch.

After lunch, the sink will be overflowing with dishes and the mom will need a bathroom break because of the coffee she had earlier, so she will go to the bathroom before tackling the growing kitchen catastrophe.

When she goes to the bathroom, she will look in the mirror and notice her eyebrows need plucking, so she will grab the tweezers and set to work.

Tweezing her eyebrows will remind her of putting on makeup, and putting on makeup will remind her of the date she is supposed to go on with her husband that night. She will remember she needs to call the sitter and confirm a time for her to come over to watch the kids, so she will reach into her pants pocket for her phone.

Her phone will not be there, and she will remember she left it charging in her bedroom, so she will go to her bedroom to get it. When she picks up her phone, she will see she has four messages from her husband.

After spending twenty minutes texting back and forth to her husband, she will look around and notice the contents of her closet are still lying all over the floor, so she will decide to get back to work on her project.

Revelations at 2 AM

2009-12-09T04:03:00.006-06:00

It's 2 a.m. and I am awakened by the involuntary conjugating of Spanish verbs in my head.

hice, hiciste, hicio, hicamos...

I wish I could say the conjugations were correct, but at 2 a.m. it's hard to tell. It's really more of a mixture of stems and roots floating around up there. Also, at 2 a.m. it is difficult to make your verb tenses agree, even in English, hence the reason I used the present tense in the first sentence above and the past tense in the third.

But enough about grammar. I can't sleep. It could be the spontaneous conjugation. It could be the three cups of coffee and a Diet Dr. Pepper I had yesterday. Or it could be this looming, pressing need I feel to make a plan for my life.

Yeah, maybe that.

In a year, give or take, I will have completed my BA in Creative Writing that I began four years ago. Four years I've been doing this. Four years I've been writing research papers while cooking dinner. Four years I've been getting up early, before the kids wake up, to read material that sometimes makes me want to go back to bed. Four years I've been taking an hour bus ride to sit in classes with young adults who make me feel wise and ignorant all at once. And when it's all said and done, the grand total will be five years.

Then what?

Then I will return to my life as a stay-at-home mom and write a wildly successful novel, along with an uber-popular blog that will skyrocket me to the top of the literary ladder, followed by a book of short stories, and maybe even a poem or two, just to keep me creatively sharp. And this will be achieved while getting all those things done around the house that I never had time to do before because of school, of course.

Sounds great, doesn't it? Except, how many wildly successful novelists do you know? I mean, personally know. Like, have them programmed into the list of contacts in your phone.

Yeah, that's what I thought.

See, I have professors who have published several books. My Poetry Writing teacher is a nationally recognized poet. One of her books won the National Book Award. Just to give you a point of reference, other NBA winners include Alice Walker, Eudora Welty and Cormac McCarthy. So, I'm not talking about total schleps and wannabes here. These people have at least some measure of talent and ability. Yet they also have "day jobs", because unfortunately, talent don't pay the bills.

The truth is, even some of the most renowned literary geniuses in the world never knew success in their lifetime. The pinnacle of their careers was reached posthumously.

Emily Dickinson
Zora Neale Hurston
Jane Austen
Sylvia Plath
Ralph Ellison

People, Van Gogh only sold one painting in his life.

One.

Which I know he was a painter, not a writer, but it's all art, so stay with me.

I could be the most gifted writer to ever walk the face of this planet, but reality is telling me I might be wise to leave myself some options. Especially if I am having trouble getting my verb tenses correct.

So, I've been thinking about how very much I love my Literature classes. What other class can you take where your main course of study is to read stories? Seriously, I read my anthologies for fun. I'm a total nerd. And then we get to talk about them in class and my professors have to shut me down in order to give others a chance to talk.

Reading and monopolizing conversation - two of my favorite pastimes.

What if I could put those two together to make some sort of a dream job that would actually guarantee me a paycheck while I did the writing gig on the side?

Wait a minute...isn't that what my professors are doing?

Well, Supermom, yes, it is. However did you come to such a stupendously intelligent and observant conclusion?

I'm just smart like that, you know. And rather than let all that smartness go to waste, I thought perhaps I should share it with the future of our great nation. I should impart my wealth of literary insight unto the young people of the world...or at least the metro area.

I should teach.

Well, I've spent the entire four years of my college career answering conversations just like the one below:

Them: What is your major?
Me: English.
Them: So you want to teach?
Me: NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

And now I find myself not only refuting my own objections, but looking at another 4-5 years of school for a Master's Degree, and yes, even a Doctorate.

I don't understand how it came to be like this, but at 36 years old, I have finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

A Literature Professor.

And really, doesn't it just make perfect sense? Why didn't I think of it before?

Dr. Supermom. I can see it now...just like the picture above. I will be a saintly patron of wisdom and enlightenment, leading thirsty young minds to the fountain of knowledge, where they will drink happily and heartily.

Yeah, right. Probably more like this:

So, the requirements for a doctorate in Literature?

60 hours, including 18-20 dissertation hours. That's not so bad. I can do that in two years. Two and a half, at the most.

PhD exams in two subject areas. Okay.

Write and defend a dissertation. Yeah, I knew that would be in there.

Mastery of a foreign language. Well, crap.

Four to five more years of conjugating Spanish verbs in my sleep.

Sleep. I never really liked it anyway.

Weighing In

2009-11-22T14:05:00.002-06:00

“What happened to your neck?” my friend asked. “Did a vampire bite you?” She was referencing the embarrassing itchy rash on my neck that was looking worse instead of better.

“Ha, ha,” I said, casually pulling my unusually fluffy hair down around my neck. “I think it’s poison ivy, but it’s not going away.”

She smiled. “So, that’s why your hair is so big today.”

That’s the bad thing about good friends. Nothing gets past them.

After about two weeks of treating my “poison ivy” with everything available in aisle 8 of my friendly local pharmacy, I finally broke down and took myself to the doctor. Actually, it was the Urgent Care center, because my doctor had retired from practice and I just never got around to finding another.

“You have shingles,” the Urgent Care doctor announced.

Shingles. My first thought went to skeletal, mangy pirates dying from unsanitary conditions and poor nutrition and I was momentarily horrified. Then I realized I was thinking about scurvy, which is thankfully very different from shingles. “So, what exactly is shingles?” I asked the doctor.

“It’s basically the same virus that causes chicken pox and is usually brought on by stress to the immune system,” he said matter-of-factly. Well, that was a relief. No parasites crawling around under my skin or vampires biting me in my sleep. And stress would certainly explain it. With my husband and myself both in school and three kids at home, I was averaging 4-5 hours of sleep a night and running at a breakneck pace constantly. Stress to the immune system sounded pretty accurate. So the kind doctor sent me home with nothing to be done about my rash but wait it out and wear big hair for a couple more weeks. He also referred me to a doctor with whom he wanted me to establish myself and said he would be calling me to set up an appointment with them. I was a medical orphan no longer.

Three weeks later I went to meet my new adoptive doctor. The receptionist called me the day before to remind me about my appointment at 9:10 a.m., and also reminded me to come half an hour early to fill out my new patient paperwork, which would mean I would have to be there at 8:40. So, at 8:45 the day of, I was rushing around the house in a panic, looking for steps to my morning ritual I could cut out to make me less late than I already was. As I was dashing out the door, I realized I had forgotten to make coffee. Coffee…the most treasured and sacred part of my day. How did I even manage to get my shoes on the right feet without coffee? How did I manage to put one foot in front of the other and walk myself to the front door with my keys in hand? By what miracle was I able to stand upright and not fall over unconscious? I turned back to the kitchen and, for a brief second, contemplated taking the extra six and a half minutes to brew a cup. Was it more responsible to try to keep my lateness to a minimum or to consider the safety of other people on the road by not allowing myself to drive in a non-caffeinated state? Guilty conscience won out and I rushed, coffee-less, out the door.

Needless to say, I made it to the doctor’s office in 5 minutes and 47 seconds with 20 minutes to fill out paperwork. I was probably more than a little smug when I filled out the paperwork in 10 and set down to wait for my name to be called. I mean, here I was, showered, hair fixed, makeup on and looking not too shabby for a woman running late and I filled out their stinking paperwork in record time. But this was all part of my plan. The makeup and hair would come in handy when I needed a self-esteem boost after having to be weighed. Yes, weighed. I knew it was coming. They could have poked me with a needle the size of a turkey baster and I would have been fine. I would have even been okay with a little unnecessary outpatient surgery. But make me step on the scale? I was sure the Hippocratic Oath said something about keeping patients from harm and injustice. Weighing me against my will seemed the most unjust atrocity a doctor could commit. It was right up there with harvesting organs and overcharging for Tylenol. Perhaps I could put together a malpractice suit.

I picked up the only remaining magazine on the side table next to me and began to peruse. One by one the other patients waiting in the lobby began to be called back while more people began to come in and take their seats. After about 20 minutes of waiting, I started to notice people being called back who had come in after me. I wasn’t too terribly concerned, but my magazine had run out long ago and the only other magazine available was AARP. So I sat and stared out the window and watched people in the parking lot. That riveting experience lasted for another 30 minutes before I finally decided I should say something. The people running the show obviously didn’t realize they were dealing with an addict; an addict who hadn’t had their fix. I mean, I didn’t selflessly sacrifice my morning cup of coffee in consideration for their schedule just so I could sit there surrounded by sick people reading an old issue of Better Homes and Gardens and watching the grass grow out the big picture window for the better part of an hour, just so they could take my blood pressure and make me step on their god-forsaken scale!! WHAT KIND OF A RINKY-DINK QUACK KEEPS HIS PATIENTS WAITING LIKE THAT????!!!!!

So, at 9:50, I took a deep breath and swallowed the caffeine withdrawal that was clawing its way up my throat and made my way calmly to the reception desk.

“Excuse me,” I said, oh-so-sweetly, “my appointment was at 9:10 and I still haven’t been called back. Could you please double check the time for me?”

The tiny little receptionist, who had probably never had a phobia of scales in her life, tapped on her computer keyboard and then turned to me with a smile. “Oh, your appointment was at 9:40. We wanted you here at 9:10 to fill out paperwork.” Then adding salt to the wound, she said, “Your name is next on the list to be called.”

“Oh,” I replied, digging my white-knuckled fingernails into the soft wood of the reception desk.
“Thank you.” I turned and walked back to my seat in front of the window, feeling very perturbed and humbled at the same time. I should really try to pay more attention to those reminder phone calls.

Soon after, my name was called and I shuffled toward the nurse with the clipboard who was holding open the door for me. She was smiling, too. “How are you today,” she asked cheerfully.

I’m ready to tear your frickin’ head off and throw up on your sensible shoes, I thought. “I’m good, thanks,” I said, equally as cheerful. Then I wondered how much less I would weigh if I really did throw up.

“Just set your purse down here and step up on this for me,” the nurse instructed, motioning to the chair and the new, digital scale.

Here it was: my moment of truth. I obediently sat my purse and heavy sweater on the chair, thinking perhaps I should take off my shoes, too. I mean, they had kind of chunky heels. They were thick wedges, actually. The soles were probably pretty heavy. My jeans were heavy, too - kind of new, not soft and worn out. You know, after they’re washed a lot there are fewer fabric fibers and they weigh less, but these had only been washed less than 20 times, probably. Then the thought of standing barefoot in my underwear brought me back to reality and I closed my eyes and stepped on the scale, fully clothed. The last time I remembered getting weighed at the doctor, it was one of those older scales with the slides the nurses move until they’re level. I could stare straight over them and not really read the numbers and let the nurse scribble on her clipboard in complete and blissful ignorance of what it said. However, this scale had the new digital screen, displaying the magic number in very large, very red high definition digital brilliance. I’m pretty sure the patients down the hall could see it. In order to ignore it, I had to close my eyes. Now, in a moment of dumb curiosity I had weighed myself at my sister’s house the year before. I had a general idea of what I weighed. And suddenly, before I knew it, yet another moment of dumb curiosity had seized me and I caught myself peeking. I am not a math person, but it doesn’t take a scale-phobic mind long to calculate when pounds are involved and I deduced very quickly that this scale must be broken. According to the new-fangled digi-wonder scale I had gained eleven pounds since I last checked at my sister’s house. Eleven pounds in approximately as many months.

“Okay, right this way,” the smiling nurse said, looking up from her clipboard and directing me to the room where I would have the privilege of waiting some more. I followed her inside and sat down, numb with the effects of the scale shock. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” she left me pleasantly and closed the door with a soft click. I was alone. My caffeine withdrawal combined with the trauma of the weigh in suddenly came crashing down on me like a ton of bricks and my eyes started tingling with the promise of tears. Great, I thought. This is just great. Why don’t I just start crying here and now so when the doctor comes in he can not only see my new 11 pounds but he can just go ahead and declare me clinically insane? I am a grown woman, for crying out loud! What is wrong with me?!

I blinked quickly and took a couple of deep breaths, scolding myself for being such a girl and tried to suck it up. After all, I had been under a lot of stress and not able to take care of myself properly. And my shoes probably were really heavy.

The doctor came in just as I pulled it together and he looked at my neck, which had been healing up nicely. He made jokes and we engaged in some polite doctor/patient banter and he suggested I make another appointment for a full physical sometime within the next six months. You know, since I am technically his patient and all. So I agreed to make the appointment and made a mental note to eat nothing but bread crumbs and Diet Coke in the meantime so my next encounter with the scale would be better. We shook hands and I headed to the check out desk where I stood in line to make my future appointment. As I stood there contemplating a fabulous diet and exercise plan that was sure to fail I happened to notice the woman in line in front of me. She was not a small woman and her jeans were very…uh…snug. I also noticed that on her backside, just next to the right back pocket, was a slit about two inches long that was stretched and gaping wide open, exposing pinkish-white flesh. I did a double take, thinking surely she just had on a pair of nice, flesh-colored underwear. But further observation told me she was either wearing a thong or going commando because it was not white cotton shining out of the hole.

I’ll admit, I did stare for a moment, because…well, I don’t really know why.

My initial reaction, after the shock wore off, was to tell her. It is an unspoken girl rule to always tell another woman when she has lipstick on her teeth or mascara smeared under her eyes. This would probably fall under the same category. But really, what could she do about it? She couldn’t reach back there and wipe it away with a moist towelette . She didn’t have a jacket or sweater to wrap around her waist. She would have been horrified and embarrassed and have left the doctor’s office a mess, probably drawing more attention to it than if she had walked out oblivious. So I opted to do the woman a favor and stand there quietly, waiting my turn, completely forgetting about my silly eleven pounds. I mean, it could have been worse. I could have been in public in a pair of split pants showing my shiny white butt to the whole world. So, after I made the appointment for a follow-up physical, I went home to make coffee, with lots of sugar and cream, and I might have even had a nice fattening pastry to go along with it.

2009-11-17T11:42:00.003-06:00

"Please Come Back to Blogging" was the title of the email. At first glance I thought perhaps a publisher had stumbled across my poor neglected blog and was going to offer me a ridiculously fantasical amount of money if I would only grace the blogging world with my uber-important cyber-presence. Acclaim. Recognition. Fame.

But no.

It was my best friend, which in terms of publishing, translates to something equivalent to my mother. She loves everything I do.

"And I'm following you," she wrote. "See? You already have 1 follower."

There you have it, folks. I'm on my way.

(And since she is a follower - my one and only- I will be sure to catch it when she reads that I equate her compliments to that of my mom.)

Not that she's not important. Not that I don't appreciate her admiration. Not that I don't absolutely respect and value her feedback, but I've tried coming back to blogging. It didn't work. I think the date of my last post can attest to that. And so I asked her, "How?"

"Like this," she replied. "You think of something that happened throughout the day...and just share your thoughts about it. It doesn't have to be spectacular. It doesn't have to be funny. It just has to be YOU."

She makes it sound so easy.

So, here is my attempt at being me...again.

I got a phone call the other day from my youngest child's teacher. She said my Baby - sweet, luscious, crazy adorable Baby - was having a really bad day at school. She said she wasn't listening. And when she tried to correct her, Baby said sometimes her brain just can't listen.

Granted, Baby is in Pre-K. It is her first year at school and she is a rather...ahem...energetic child. But I've never had a teacher call about one of my children. What did this mean?? What was I supposed to do?? Is it a sign of things to come? Was this phone call from the Pre-K teacher the first in a series of many troubling phone calls? Who would be next? The principal? The FBI? The (gasp!) video-rental store???

"Yes, Ms. Supermom, this is a courtesy call from Blockbuster. Baby rented "Dora Saves the Mermaids" twenty-one years ago and failed to return it. You are responsible for the ten gajillion dollars in late fees on this account. Please pay the fees as soon as possible or we will have to revoke your membership. If she had only listened to her Pre-K teacher..."

You see where this is going, right?

And you should probably know that this wasn't Baby's first reprimand for her inability to "listen". When little Pre-K-ers have a good day at school, the teacher draws in a happy face for that day on the calendar in their bright yellow folders. About every other week Baby comes home with a note in her little folder and a straight line face. You know, that face in between frowny and smiley that somehow doesn't feel quite as merciful as I am sure the teacher intends it to be. It seems to be gritting it's teeth behind that straight line mouth, saying, "Your kid is driving me CRAZY. Do something!"

So, now the teacher has resorted to a phone call. This is serious.

I listened to her explaining Baby's offense to me and my mind was racing for the appropriate response. While I can fully appreciate her position - because, after all, I do live with the child - and I want to give the teacher my whole-hearted support, I had never been faced with this particular set of circumstances before. Was I supposed to go to the school and march her home for the beating of her life, or should I apologize profusely over the phone and promise to throw all of Baby's toys out in the street? Neither one of those seemed quite right. Fortunately, the teacher let me off the hook.

"Baby's standing right here. Would you like to talk to her?"

"Yes, please." A long silence. "Hello?" I ask the silence.

"Hello," replied the tiniest voice ever.

"Honey, what's the problem?"

Baby then went into a long explanation, most of which I didn't understand because she was obviously very emotional and trying hard not to show it. From what I could gather, I believe it had something to do with singing during rest time.

I already knew the answer to the question, but I asked her anyway, "Baby, do you like going to school?"

"Uh-huh."

"Do you want me to come get you and bring you home?"

"No."

"Then you need to listen and act like a big kid." And then I went into the speech about it not being fair to the teacher or the other kids when teacher has to stop class to get on to her, blah, blah, blah. And I felt the need to tack on the obligatory parental statement of confirmation, just to say I did my part: "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

When I heard her sad, little voice and the shame she felt for letting me and her teacher and her classmates down, all I wanted to do was rush over, pick her up and hold her until Pre-K was over. "Baby," I said, wanting to cry myself, "you are a good girl. Mommy loves you so much."

"I love you, too."

And then she put the teacher back on the phone. I thanked the teacher for her patience and asked her to keep me posted. And I spend the rest of the day worrying, not about Baby's behavior, but about her feelings. Baby is the most expressive, most sensitive, most lovable child I've ever known. Yet in her excitement, she can be maddening. Not that she doesn't care about what you're saying, she just loves life, and at times, does not want to be interrupted by duty or obligation. It's not that she wanted to disrupt rest time, or take anything away from her teacher, she just loves to sing. Maybe, from the outside, it looks like I am dismissing a behavior problem. And in truth, maybe I am. But isn't it good, for everyone, to have someone in your corner? To be loved not for what you do or how you behave, but because someone out there gets you, and is willing to look beyond to the heart of what you're all about?

Kinda like my mom, or my best friend, who love what I write, even if it's not necessarily Pulitzer winning material.

When Baby came home that day, she said she had a surprise for me. She handed me her yellow folder, and when I opened it to the calendar, she had a bright orange smiley face for the day. After I gave her the squeeziest hug ever and kissed her bubble gum cheeks, she ran off singing at the top of her lungs.

Music to my ears.

The Problem With Princesses

2009-01-16T09:06:00.007-06:00

I'll tell you a secret. I've always wanted to dress up like a princess. As a child I wore dresses to play outside in the dirt. And when all my friends were buying Guess jeans in middle school, I still preferred a skirt. Then there were formals and proms and the ultimate...my wedding. I chose puffy sleeves and skirts with lace and roses and all the romantic touches so important to my inner princess. But alas, I grew up, and this new, less romantic, less idealistic person rejects anything even remotely resembling a ruffle. (Ruffles, you know, accentuate all those things I am now busy trying to hide.)

Though my days of ball gowns are over, my inner princess resurfaces now and then, but only when an occasion arises that merits her highness enforcing her monarchical rule. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I have two girls who inherited the same princess gene. When my youngest wanted a Sleeping Beauty dress for Christmas, I was giddy with excitement. Truth be told, I may have even planted the idea in her unsuspecting little head. How would you like to have a fluffy, pink, Sleeping Beauty princess dress for Christmas? Would you? Huh? Huh? It was the epitome of selfish, vicarious acts, I know. But it worked. And we placed an online order for the dress, the sparkling tiara and bejeweled shoes, all matching in shades of gold and pink. After all, when the inner princess speaks, it is within your best interest to obey. My little one's joy on Christmas morning almost matched mine as she paraded around in her royal accoutre. She was a confection.

Then, of course, a few weeks after Christmas, I discovered the Sleeping Beauty costume and all it's glittery accessories on sale at the mall. As I was checking out the discounted price tags and feeling kind of sick about the money we narrowly missed saving, I noticed the pink brocade Sleeping Beauty shoes seemed different than the shoes we received from the online Disney Store. These shoes before me were bejeweled, with large pink plastic gems to delight the eye of every potential princess aged 1 to 101. I remembered then that the online photo showed the same shoes, but the shoes we actually got were absent of jewels. Not only did I pay full price for the shoes, but I didn't get what I ordered. The inner princess was not happy. What good are simple pink brocade slippers with a glittery heel when there are jewels to be had?! Off with their heads!
That evening I went home and sent a short and sweet email to the good folks at DisneyStore.com. It simply said:

"In early December I ordered the Deluxe Sleeping Beauty costume for my daughter, along with the tiara and shoes. However, the shoes pictured online have jewels while the shoes I received do not. Why?"

Two days later I received a generic email from Guest Services asking for my name, order number and item number of the shoes. Alas, I did not save the order number, because that would require thought and foresight on my part. I had blindly put my trust in Disney, not even recognizing the mistake until weeks later, after my daughter had practically worn them out. Does that sound like someone who saves order numbers to you? So I sent them back another email with my name and the item number, letting them know that I did not save the order number. The very next day, I received this super chipper email from the UberDisney Store employee, Joe, who is so very happy to help, I wonder if he has had too much Pixie Dust:

"Thanks for the email and the chance to help!
I was so pleased to hear from you and would be happy to assist you in resolving your concern. Regrettably, I will need additional information in order to do so. At your earliest convenience, please send your full name, address, telephone number and online order number. We will review your order and will get back with you as quickly as possible.
Please include any other emails you may have concerning this issue, so we will have a full understanding of your concern.
We look forward to hearing from you again very soon!
Have A magical Day!!
Sincerely,
Joe"

I'm not sure I've ever had anyone thank me for the chance to help me, and especially not with an exclamation point. I didn't know if I should feel honored or creeped out. Yet the inner princess was pleased with his posturing, even if he did ask for the flippin' order number again . I replied to Joe to let him know that the order number was still an enigma floating somewhere in cyberspace and happily supplied him with the remaining information.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, I got a reply. On the dot. Joe had passed the request to his friend, or possibly twin sister, Jessica, who was equally enthusiastic and exclamation point happy. Jessica thanked me for allowing her to bring more magic to my experience and apologized profusely for my inconvenience. Without question, without hesitation, Jessica offered to send us a brand new pair of shoes free of charge and no need to return the jewel-less shoes.

I'll be honest. I wasn't expecting that kind of painless service. I expected her royal highness would have to make an appearance and throw around her weight a little bit (which is quite a lot at this time in her life) and probably still not have resolution because I didn't keep the order number. But, the Wonder Twins, Joe and Jessica, came through for me, exceeding all my expectations.

How do you suppose that makes me feel?

Like a princess.

Changing of the Guard

2008-08-05T12:58:00.003-05:00

Today I left my children.

I left them for nearly seven hours. And from the looks of things, I will leave them five days a week for the next ten months. I left them at a school.

Of course this doesn't sound so dramatic if you don't know I have homeschooled them for five years and neither of them - ages nine and six - have ever been to school before.

After a harrowing school year here at home last year while trying to juggle mine and hubby's continuing educations and the kids' educations and hubby's job and all the other stuff life has to offer, we made a decision to send the kids to school on a two-year plan. In the span of that two years I would return full-time to finish my degree. At the end of that two years my oldest would be ready to start middle school and my youngest - age three now - would be ready for Kindergarten. The perfect time for reevaluation.

Much struggle came with that decision, but in the end we did feel it was the right one. So in May, the plan was made. As long as that plan stayed looming in the future, it was easy to live with. Kind of like that long distance relative you send a Christmas card to but never really want to invite over to stay for the holidays. It was great in theory.

I started feeling some nerves about its impending approach last week, waking up in the middle of the night in a panic, sometimes not able to go back to sleep. However, I was holding up pretty well. Surprisingly well. I was able to talk about it without getting emotional even though everyone else seemed ready for me to break down at any given minute. Friends called and emailed me, poised to step in and pick up the pieces, but the pieces never fell. I even managed to make it through enrollment and school supply shopping without even a hint of drama.

But it was very surprising - nay, freaky - that this morning while I walked them to their classrooms in their tidy uniforms and bulging backpacks, I didn't even feel a lump in my throat. I even worried a bit at my lack of emotion.

But see, that's the great thing about denial. I never really believed I would be leaving them. I never really believed the day would come.

It was only after I kissed my daughter's soft cheek and began taking those first steps away from her to the double doors that would separate us did I come to feel what had been hiding beneath all along. I taught them their letter sounds. I showed them how to put them together to form words. I made paper solar systems and peanut butter playdough. I was there for every lightbulb moment to see the spark of discovery ignited.

For the first time in their lives, I had made a commitment to turn those moments over to someone else.

My steps became quicker and more frantic as I raced against the tears I could no longer control. When I arrived at the van, hubby had the tissue box ready. He knew it had to come. Not sure why I didn't. Walking out of that school and coming home without them was...wrong. Leaving them there without knowing what they were doing for seven hours with people they didn't know...it was wrong.

Even though I know it was right.

I have applied makeup twice today in the hopes of fooling my face into feeling good. But it has only been washed away.

I miss them.

The picture above was taken just before I walked them into the building. I would like to tell you that they are indeed crying at the prospect of being apart from me, but the truth is that the sun was in their eyes. I would have taken another picture, but they were in a hurry. Sniffle.

Chasing Lovely

2008-07-15T08:09:00.000-05:00

"Oh my god, did you see that woman in the gingham swimsuit?" My friend and I are sitting in the kiddie pool at the water park watching our little ones. What started out as a conversation about suits we like has become a critique of the bodies filling the swimsuits and I am becoming uncomfortable. She is three months pregnant and looks more svelte than I. I suck in my stomach a little to try to shrink the roll around my middle and simply say, "Yeah, I don't really like that suit." A woman in what looks like a knee-length sundress made of Lycra swimsuit fabric crosses our line of vision. "Now that I like," I quip, pointing her direction. "Lots of coverage. I wonder if it comes in floor length...with long sleeves...and a turtle neck." She laughs at my obvious self-deprecating joke and the conversation takes a turn elsewhere.

I am not a small girl. In fact, one could argue that, on the cusp of my 35th birthday, I am not a girl at all. But since I am being frank about the matter of size, I should be allowed the kindness of lying to myself about my age. So, let's pretend I am a "girl". The truth is, I have never been small. Not even at my smallest have I been considered small by our freakishly waif-obsessed society. And now, let's just say I am not at my smallest. I spent the first seven years of motherhood hiding somewhere on the fringe of the confident-in-a-swimsuit crowd, never getting in the pool, sometimes donning shorts and a T-shirt if necessity required. I mean, I didn't even think about a swimsuit. But somewhere along the way, I grew some wisdom with my gray hairs and I finally decided I wasn't going to let my insecurities ruin the fun I could be having, especially with my children. So when it came time to suit up last year, I actually shopped for a swimsuit. I bought the cutest suit I could find - sort of conservative with a little bit of sexy - and jumped in. This year, I didn't even flinch. At times I've even felt myself feeling - dare I say it? - confident. Dimply thighs and all. After all, who is anyone else to tell me I can't be beautiful the way I am? For crying out loud, it's the kiddie pool, not Miss America.

So, back to the kiddie pool. My friend begins telling me about a conversation between her and a mutual acquaintance. This particular acquaintance - I will call her Marni - has been divorced for several years and was sharing with my friend about how much she would love to be married again. "Of course I didn't say this to her," she says, "but I was thinking that if she really wanted to, she could do something to make herself more...well, you know...fix herself up a little."

I feel a hot flash completely unrelated to the summer heat rise up the base of my neck to my ears and pound inside my head. I hold back the anger that is my initial response. I am pretty sure I know what she means, but I ask anyway, innocuously. "What do you mean?"

"Well, she just dresses so old and looks much older than she really is. She could change some of that if she really wanted to meet someone."

I ponder for a split second that perhaps I should just sit in silence or make a joke that might distract her again, but the words are coming out of my mouth before I can even think about what I really want to say. "Well, that's where I just feel like she should probably wait for someone who loves her the way she is."

"Yeah, but even you fix your hair and makeup before you go out with your husband."

Then my little one needed a minor rescue and the conversation was left dangling. But it ate at me the rest of the day and into the next. She was right. I do spend extra time on my appearance when I go out with my husband. But that somehow seemed unrelated to undergoing a makeover to land a man.

And I left there feeling as if there were whispering going on behind my back. You know, that Supermom would be so pretty if she just lost some weight. Look at her thighs!

Why this preoccupation with appearance?

I want to say that any effort I put into the way I look is just for my own sense of self esteem and has nothing to do with anyone else.

But I can't.

Ultimately, I want to be admired, by my husband and yes, by others.

I'm not saying that is necessarily bad. I believe we were created to work that way. It is called Survival of the Species.

But why is there still this association that beautiful equals good? I read an article once that went so far as to say pretty babies get better care from their mothers. I have no personal experience on which to base this because all my babies were heart-stoppingly, breathtakingly beautiful, therefore I cannot compare. But isn't that what every mother thinks? Don't all moms think their babies are the most beautiful creatures to grace the planet? What happened to beauty being in the eye of the beholder? Are pretty babies easier to love?

We want to see beauty that holds no weakness or flaws. We would rather look upon the taut mom in the bikini rather than the soft, bulging stomach in the gingham swimsuit. Why? Because that woman has a weakness she cannot hide, a struggle manifested in her ample body. And her weakness makes her bad. I actually heard a preacher from the pulpit talk about keeping your weight down so as not to be a stumbling block to others. Of course, I am paraphrasing here, but he said if you were overweight, everyone could tell you obviously wrestled with the sin of gluttony. At the time - fifteen plus years ago - it made perfect sense to me. But then again, I also believed the whole premise of Christianity was to make myself as sinless as possible.

While the mom in the bikini could be a raging alcoholic that beats her children, her beauty is hailed as the standard by which we should all be measured. Because if you look good, you obviously have everything else together, too. And God forbid that you not have everything together. If you care enough about yourself to look good, then you must approach everything else in your life with as much attention to detail. After all, you can't love others until you love yourself, right?

At the risk of sounding completely "After School Special", I believe Marni needs something on the inside more than the out, obviously. However, it seems mean and unfeeling to try to tell her she should be okay with being alone because I am not. I cannot even pretend to know what she is going through. But I certainly will not tell her that the secret to having a lasting, lifelong, intimate relationship with someone is all in buying a new wardrobe.

I find myself at a crossroads. I want to rail against this, but at the same time I perpetuate it. I will shop for clothes that camoflauge my hips and thighs, though there is no hiding them. I will color my hair to disguise the premature gray I have been growing for ten years. I will put my best face forward, yes, to please myself, but moreover because it pleases others. After all, were I on a desert island with no one around to admire me, would I take the same pains "just for me"? Maybe I would. But there is something about knowing what others find attractive that drives my idea of beauty and makes me want to strive for that. Why is it important for me to feel attractive? It means acceptance. In the end, it is still more about society than myself.

However, I am going to the water park today. I am wearing my swimsuit. And if you can't stand the sight, too bad. I'm not hiding anymore.

Phantastic Phourth

2008-07-07T20:59:00.002-05:00

So, whadja do on the fourth? Cookout? Fireworks? Sweltering heat? More of the same?

What did I do? Well, nothing much, really. I only sat in an air-conditioned theatre and watched a live performance of the longest running Broadway show in history.

The Phantom of the Opera.

(Cue driving organ theme.)

In the eighth grade I had the soundtrack memorized, never even knowing what the show was or was about. Two years ago when the movie came out, I bought the DVD out of sheer curiosity. It was then that I finally put the music with the story and could fully come to appreciate the hype about Phantom.

On Mother's Day of this year, I received the Mother's Day gift to end all Mother's Day gifts. Tickets to see the show on July 4th, with a dear friend, no less, to spare my husband the, ahem, experience. Independence Day? Celebrate our country's freedom? Screw that. Momma's goin' to see the Phantom.

Walking into the already crowded Performing Arts Center my excitement was bubbling over in the form of schoolgirl giggles. Had I not been surrounded by theatre patrons I would have jumped up and down clapping my hands in child-like glee. It was better than Christmas. Better than blowing out birthday candles. Better than...well, I should be careful. Suffice it to say, I was excited. Silly, sappy, crazy excited.

We found our seats on row N, dead center. That is thirteen small rows from the very front of the stage. And we waited breathlessly. "You know," I said to my friend. "My favorite part in the movie is the beginning, when the chandelier lights up and the organ starts booming out the theme. You think they'll have that in the play?"

"Uh, maybe," she replied, pointing to a large tarp covered mass on the stage. "That might be what's under that sheet that says 'CHANDELIER'."

Hey, how could I possibly be expected to read or spell under such thrilling circumstances?

Soon, the lights dimmed and the MC came out to introduce the show. "...and now I am pleased to present to you, The," Pause. "Phantom," Pause. "of the Opera." Riding high on waves of electric applause and elated expectancy, I found myself getting teary-eyed, a reaction I did not expect. And then we were in the opening scene at the auction. The auctioneer auctioned off the poster, the skulls and the grinding organ monkey music box. Then he came to "lot 666"...the chandelier. He told of the phantom folklore surrounding it and informed the crowd that it had been reworked with electric lights. "Perhaps," he leered, holding up two light switches. "We can scare away the ghost with a little...illumination." He hit the switches and sparks showered the stage with a thundering explosion, ushered in by the simultaneous drive of the eerily familiar pipe organ theme. The chandelier came to life in a blaze of glory. I jumped in my seat, deliciously scared, and for the next two hours and fifteen minutes lost myself. I pouted at the interruption of intermission, wondering how these people could so quickly get up from their seats and walk out for a Coke as if reality had not escaped them. I mean, the masquerade ball was next! Who needs a bathroom break with a masked gala at hand and a killer on the loose?

But it was only fifteen minutes and before long I was at the ball singing "Masquerade" under my breath and crying with Christine in the cemetery. Spellbound.

The end came all too soon and I had to tear myself from my seat to offer a standing ovation to the cast, especially The Phantom. He was brilliant. I clapped so hard my hands stung and my shoulders ached. Could I hide under a seat unnoticed until the next show? Probably not. With leaden feet and an even heavier heart I turned to go, trying to memorize all the beautiful details I knew I could never recall the next day and the last note still ringing in my head. I would have to come back. I resigned myself then and there to be one of those Phantom geeks who have the airbrushed mask and rose on a black license plate on the front bumper of their car. I will have to buy the T-shirt. I will have to drive people insane discussing the wrenching dichotomies and subtle messages within the story, singing the songs throughout my day in ear-splitting operatic falsetto.

As it is written, so shall it be.

I have been obligingly sing-songy ever since. My family LOVES it. Loves, loves, loves it. Really. Yeah, they do.

Wait till I buy the soundtrack.

Alone In My Mind

2008-06-26T02:38:00.001-05:00

“Mama, what are these called?” my three-year-old holds up the crunchy cellophane cereal bag, almost as long as she is tall.

I look up from my book – my third in three weeks – and give her a succinctly sufficient answer. “Crisp Rice.” It is a dark, rainy June morning and I have just started reading a new book with perfectly brewed, perfectly sweetened coffee in my bright yellow sunshine coffee cup at the kitchen table. It is a lazy summer Monday that feels like an autumn Saturday. Just me and my book. And those three underage people who live in my house and depend on me somewhat for their existence and livelihood. But other than that, I’ve got the day to myself. I keep reading.

“Mama, I want some cwisp wice,” comes the inevitable response. “In a cup. With a spoon. NO MILK!”

I put my open book pages down on the table to signify that my pause is brief. Bookmarks actually denote a much longer break. Let it be known I am not putting the book down. I am only pausing. I take the bag from her as she holds it up to me. “Really?” and I look at her expectantly.

“Pwease?” Ugh. She’s so cute I could almost forget she has interrupted my pretend day off. She doesn’t play fair.

“Sure, I’d be happy to.” I stand to oblige.

The other two are watching TV in the living room and I had managed to slip by them unnoticed. Apparently my disguise as a mere passer-by looking for coffee and a good read coupled with the distraction of television was effective on them, but this one is cunning. She caught scent of my trail quickly and followed it here to the kitchen table. I’ve been flushed out into the open.

I pour cereal into a small plastic cup and grab a plastic spoon, crunching some as I shove it hastily in. “Here.” I offer it to her and she takes it back to the chair beside mine to eat. She no longer has to climb into the chair the way she did last summer, but simply stands on her tip-toes and finds her bottom level with the seat and slides in.

My book – a memoir – has me riveted from the beginning. I am only ten pages or so in, but I am hooked. Exotic locations. A spiritual journey. And though I am by no means a fan of romance, there is even a bit of that added to the delectable mix. The author is locked in an embrace with a mysterious foreigner and the sexual tension is palpable.

He is about to kiss me, I know it. His breath…Mama…is close and warm. His eyes…Mama…are liquid blue and drawing nearer. I close my eyes…MAMA!

No one can say the girl isn’t persistent. I look up at the third and most exasperated chant of my name. “What?” I ask my dark-headed elf, trying to act as though I hadn’t been ignoring her, lost in a juicy, somewhat seedy, scene. I am, after all, immune to such twaddle. Really.

“I pee pee in my pants,” she answers matter-of-factly, continuing to shovel cereal into her mouth with her plastic blue whale spoon. I sigh and look down to find the chair beneath her dripping into a puddle on the floor, mingled with bits of crisp rice. She is looking at me, chewing noisily, awaiting a response. Her face shrinks a little in mock naivete that works in her favor. Large and crystal blue, she can have anything at all she wants in life with those eyes alone.

“Why?” I ask, knowing full well she will have no good explanation for peeing in the floor, but needing to seem as though she should have one.

Crunch. Crunch. “I dun know.” She abandons her spoon and resorts to eating her cereal with her fingers, one infinitesimal piece at a time.

I could jump up and clean the mess, and probably should, but it is my self-declared day off and I’ve already made her breakfast, for crying out loud. She doesn’t seem bothered, as she hasn’t even broken stride feeding cereal into her hungry little pink mouth and the puddle isn’t going anywhere. I continue to read.

After a few minutes, I cannot help but notice from the corner of my eye some motion that seems unrelated to eating. A glance in her direction tells me she has dumped her cereal from the cup and is crushing crisp rice with her thumb. She then sweeps the crumbs to the floor and repeats the process again, further complicating the situation beneath her chair. I sit and watch her in silence, trying to decide if I should say something to dissuade her from doing it or continue to let her experiment. I mean, she does seem very engrossed and it could quite possibly be one of those rare educational moments of self-discovery that could lead to a breakthrough of historical proportions - Something like Ben Franklin and electricity or Marie Curie and radium. Who am I to interfere with destiny? But I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that a solid and a liquid, once mixed, form…well, sludge, and once they are unified, there can be no separation.

“No, honey, don’t do that,” I say, feeling more than a little irritated with this, the second and slightly more labor-intensive, interruption of my day of leisure. “You are making a bigger mess.” I scoop up the remaining intact cereal and dump it back into the cup, also making a pile of crumbs out of her reach to be left until I am ready to tackle the clean-up process, which is, at the very least, a chapter away. I may even leave it until tomorrow.

She looks at me, again with the eyes, and reaches her hand out to touch a vagabond grain of crisp rice. Never taking her eyes from mine, she pulls that one, tiny grain back to her slowly – oh, so slowly - underneath her index finger. Unblinking, she slides it off the top of the table, holding it there between her finger and the rounded edge. Then, eyes locked onto mine, in true Easy Rider, “stick it to the man”-fashion, she crunches that little grain into oblivion. I sit, speechless. I could not have been more shocked if my sweet, little cherub-faced toddler had jumped up, flipped me the bird and shouted obscenities across her mushed up, milk-less breakfast. She may as well have said, “What the f---, woman?! Step off, b—ch, and let me eat my ceweal in peace!”

We stay frozen in a standoff stare, both of us somewhat bewildered by what just happened. Her look changes from one of defiance to wide-eyed horror of slow realization. It is written somewhere in that book of unbreakable rules for mommies that thou shalt never allow blatant, outright disobedience to go unpunished. And punishment for such behavior should be as painful and unforgettable as said child might endure, like no Dora videos for a week or hiding all the Barbies. And if the mommy of the offending child fails to follow through, she will be sentenced to a lifetime of bratty behavior.

We sit.

We stare.

And somehow, in the end, it’s enough for me today that she appeared to be afraid. All my correcting, directing and objecting will have to wait until tomorrow. Today I am off.

I pick up my book and continue to read.

Rock N Roll

2008-04-15T22:15:00.004-05:00

There's an obnoxious squeaking in my ears.

Two weeks ago we celebrated Brother's ninth Birthday. A couple of days before the party a friend calls me on her way home from birthday present shopping.

"Okay," she says. "First of all, tell me thank you."

"Thank you?" I'm nervous.

"I found the coolest present for Brother with lots and lots of tiny pieces," she gushes. My knuckles tighten on the phone. "But I knew you would kill me if I got it, so I got something else." Ah, good friend. It's always great to have a sympathizer. She went on to tell me that she got him something equally cool and how excited she was for him to open it and that I would, of course, love it, too.

In that case, I thought, it must be a magic wand. After all, what could be cooler than that?

Party day came and Brother got some pretty cool stuff. None cooler, however, than the present from the afore-mentioned friend. It was a rock tumbler!!

What the heck is a rock tumbler, you ask?

It is - and I quote - "A high-tech tumbler that transforms rough rocks and minerals into smooth, shiny gemstones."

Well, I guess if I, uh...I mean, Brother, can't have a magic wand, a rock tumbler is the next best thing. It comes with beautiful agates and semi-precious stones in the rough and jewelry findings to make your own jewelry.

Oh, yeah. What nine-year-old boy doesn't dream about this day?

I couldn't wait to get started tumbling. I mean...Brother couldn't wait. The first thing we do is read the instructions. We learn the first step takes 2 to 4 days. Then the second step takes 3 to 7 days. The third step another 3 days, at least. And the final step a minimum of 4 days. We can expect to have polished, beautiful gemstones in a mere 2 to 4 weeks.

So, it's a process. We can handle that, right?

Then we move on down to the Helpful Hints section and find that tumbling rocks is noisy. Again, I don't think too much about it. I figure I can plug it into the laundry room with a towel underneath to absorb some sound and we will hardly notice. A little noise is a small price to pay for such a rich educational experience.

So, a little noise for a couple of weeks. I'm game.

However, while I expected some noise to be generated from rocks rolling around against each other inside a plastic barrel, I wasn't quite prepared for the noise emanating from the machine itself.

Here. Take a listen. Be sure and turn the volume up so you can enjoy it as much as I do.

The towel on top has a dual function.
1.) To muffle the sound.
2.) The darned thing won't go without pressure on the lid.

And we get to hear this for 2 to 4 weeks.

But hey, no little pieces!

How To Know It Is Past Your Child's Bedtime

2008-03-30T20:30:00.002-05:00

When you ask them to put away their shoes and put on their pajamas they dissolve into tears and shriek, "WHY DO YOU MAKE ME WORK LIKE CINDERELLA?????!!!!!!"

In the event this happens to you, you will know, without a doubt, that said child has been pushed past the appropriate limit for being awake and you should drop kick, (ahem), I mean, deposit them as quickly as possible in the nearest sleeping recepticle.

2008-03-28T21:57:00.003-05:00

Mrs. Ashley died today.

I know to most of you that means nothing, and really, in my day to day, it doesn't mean much. My life has not been altered. I sit here in my house, typing on this keyboard, listening to the dishwasher run and I have no reason to believe that I will not get up tomorrow morning and do the same things again.

Mrs. Ashley was my teacher in the second grade; my first teacher at a new school. She was small and freckled, with dark shiny hair cut like Dorothy Hamill. She was kind and soft spoken and brought an eggplant to class one day and cooked it on a hotplate for us all to taste.

This morning she got up and brushed her teeth and probably put on a sweater as a cold front came in overnight. She got in the car with her husband and they drove. They probably talked about their jobs, their two grown children. Maybe they were planning a trip this summer. Maybe they argued.

Someone ran a stop sign and now Mr. Ashley lays in a hospital trying to figure out how his wife, who was there with him this morning is gone forever this evening.

She was just there.

And the Lord Taketh Away...

2008-03-03T20:48:00.002-06:00

I'm a big meanie.

Since implementing the new Clothes In the Hamper rule, the floor in my hall has stayed remarkably clothes-free. Well, when it's not overflowing, anyway. In fact, Sister has been The Enforcer, stuffing any stragglers she finds lurking around the outside of the hamper back in their proper place.

Amazing.

Since that rule worked so well, I thought I'd apply a slightly different version of the same rule to their rooms. I took a tip from my blogging friend, Kelli, and told them whatever was left on their bedroom floors after bedtime would not be there in the morning. This rule, I was hoping, would be especially helpful for Sister, who seemed to take such a liking to the laundry rule and who can never seem to find enough energy to pick up whatever she drags out.

A little back story here: About a month ago I took Sister shopping for shoes as her tennis shoes were suddenly about two sizes too small. But, alas, Sister is not a tennis shoe kind of girl. She is more of a sparkly, make-a-loud-click-clacking-on-the-floor shoe kind of girl. You can imagine the kind of mind-numbing, hair-pulling kind of torture that ensued. I finally got her to agree to a simple pair of white, no-frills tennis shoes, but only after promising to spend an extra eight dollars on a pair of gold, glitter flip flops.

Much to Sister's delight, we have had a few days of early spring and the weather has been flip-flop wearin' warm. She has worn those glitter flip flops more than the tennis shoes.

Surprise, surprise.

However, just before bedtime tonight, they were in the middle of her bedroom floor, along with some valuable Build-A-Bear accessories, a favorite princess lip gloss locket, Barbie's horse and various other trinkets. When I gave the "10 minutes till bedtime" warning, she was very busy playing robots with Brother and I knew this evening wasn't going to fare well for her. Wanting to give her every possible opportunity to rescue her golden shoes, I even reminded her about the rule. "Okay," was her flippant response.

I gave the five minute warning and nothing had been put away.

Then the one minute warning, thinking she might shift into hyperspeed and, by some great miracle, pull it off.

But, no. She didn't get it done. Truth is, she didn't even try. So, when I told her I needed to brush her hair so she could get in bed, she stared at me in disbelief, and then the tears began. She started down her list of excuses, trying to tell me it was Baby's fault and that she wouldn't help pick up (they share a room). I reminded her that I had already been in there with Baby and made sure she picked up her share. She tried to say I hadn't given her enough time, which again, didn't pan out. She was reaching for anything and getting more upset with each new excuse and all I could say was, "I'm sorry." And I really, truly was. Even Brother was upset and almost got himself grounded coming to her defense. After brushing her hair I told her to go pick out a story and I grabbed my trashbag to clear the floor.

Then the real wailing began.

And it didn't stop. She wailed during the three books we read, pausing to ask if I had thrown away any of her favorite toys. "I don't know," was all I said and she continued to sob on my shoulder. Afterwards I got them all in their beds to start the tucking-in process. It was then she realized her shoes had been collected by the mean, stupid-rule-making, mommy monster and her sadness turned to despair. It was heartbreaking. Really, it took every ounce of willpower I had to not turn tail and rescue those shoes from the big, white trashbag waiting in my room for its fate.

Oh, but I wanted to.

I brought her tissues and a drink of water and lots of hugs. "Mommy," she said, finally calming down. "Can you buy me some more sparkly flip flops?"

I looked at her huge, blue eyes and splotchy face. "No, honey," I said, sounding resolute, but feeling like I could crumble any minute.

"But, Mommy," she said, turning on the tears again. "Shoes are a basic need! You can't take away a basic need!"

Smart one, she is.

Blast From the Past

2008-02-27T05:24:00.003-06:00

More than a week since I last posted. Pitiful, I know. But in my defense I had a couple of blogs started and Blogger lost them.

Lost them.

Like they were saved as drafts and then "poof"! Vanished into thin air.

So today, we're going back in time, to one of my very favorite posts. I came across it the other day and it made me laugh. It was so not funny at the time, but thank goodness I can laugh about it now.

Kind of like Blogger losing my blogs. Not funny now, but maybe later.

Or not.

Oh yeah, I like this one, too. And I'll get to work on rewriting the other posts.

$*#*$@! Blogger!!

Review: Deceptively Delicious

2008-02-19T07:39:00.000-06:00

Okay, if you have those dream children that eat every bite put in front of them, move on. You are a perfect parent and I suck in comparison to you and I don't wanna hear about it. But if you, like me, have kids that balk at most vegetables and routinely ask, "How many bites do I have to eat?" then you may be interested in what I have to say.

A little more than a week ago I found Jessica Seinfeld's cookbook, Deceptively Delicious, on sale at Barnes and Noble. I was intrigued. She proposes that she hides vegetables in her children's food without them even knowing...and they LOVE it. She has a brownie recipe containing spinach.

Spinach.

I don't even like nuts in my brownies. Spinach?!

So I brought it home. Well, first I paid for it, then I brought it home. And I couldn't wait to get started on my evil plan to lure my children into actually ingesting vegetables unawares.

The first recipe we tried was Chicken Nuggets with pureed sweet potato in the breading. Sounds weird, I know. Now, the trickiest part is actually sneaking in the sweet potato without them noticing, which I will tell you, if you're kids are always wanting to help cook, is no easy feat. But once I presented the finished product no one was the wiser. In fact, my little ones went wild over these! In fact, I was quite surprised at how good they were.

Our next recipe was Pancakes with sweet potato puree. Another hit. Last night it was Italian Meatloaf with carrott puree and Mashed Potatoes with cauliflower. The potatoes were excellent and though the meatloaf had a nice flavor, the texture was a little mushy, which turned my kids, and myself, off. However, with enough ketchup, you can disguise almost anything.

You might be thinking, as I did, that if you trick your kids into eating vegetables, they will never learn to eat them knowingly. However, she addresses this issue as well and never suggests that you stop serving fresh vegetables on the side and even as crudite while you are making dinner. But if you know they are getting at least some vegetables - however deceptively - then you don't feel like you have to spend the meal nagging and negotiating with them about eating. Personally, I hold the belief that kids are kids and eventually grow up and stop complaining about onions and peas. I eat loads of stuff now that I wouldn't touch as a kid.

Of course, I still don't do liver.

All in all, I highly recommend this book. So far, the recipes have been simple, kid-friendly and tasty. What more could you ask for?

And now I'm off to make Banana Bread with cauliflower.

2008-02-14T08:34:00.004-06:00

Ooooooo, you're gonna be so jealous when you see what I got for Valentine's Day!

Lookie!

It's the cutest little digital camcorder EVER! Now I can record earth-shattering events like this:

Imagine what this means for my BLOG!!

And it has zero fat, zero calories, zero carbs so it won't make my butt bigger...unless I record my butt...which will add ten pounds...but we won't talk about that.

I did not even ask for this. Didn't even know it existed. And my hubby - the world's best gift giver - surprised me with it, knowing I would go ga-ga. Oh, it's the best Valentine's present EVER!! (gush, gush, gush)

Stay tuned for more ground-breaking video journalism from the trenches.

(By the way, I don't know why it's posted the video twice. I cannot edit it out either. Guess I will have to spend my day playing with my new toy to figure it out. Gosh darn it.)

Hey! Did I Tell You?

2008-02-13T20:13:00.001-06:00

I got an 86 on my first College Algebra exam.

Applause. Applause.

Of course, I was a wee bit disappointed it wasn't an A, but the semester is young...

Mystery Solved

2008-02-13T17:44:00.005-06:00

Every now and then I stop to ponder some of life's greatest mysteries, such as:

Stonehenge

Crop Circles

Why my family cannot put their dirty clothes in the basket.

Seriously. Note the pink basket inside the closet. Note how empty it is. Note the incredibly large pile of dirty clothes on the floor directly IN FRONT OF the basket, even TOUCHING it. In fact, the clothes on the upmost top of the pile could easily topple over inside the basket with a good stiff breeze.

New rule:

Any clothing found on the floor does not get washed. If it is there for a week, it gets tossed.

Think I won't do it?

Watch me.

I'll keep you posted.

Memoirs Of An Addict

2008-02-12T14:00:00.000-06:00

Coffee is my drug of choice.

I'm not in denial. I fully embrace the fact that I am an addict. I don't even hold the conviction that I should quit.

I'm a full-blown junkie.

One to two cups every morning. Two sugars and a splash of milk.

This morning, I shuffled to the kitchen, as I do every morning, to get the crack a-cookin'. I'd had an especially difficult night with Baby, who has some kind of yucky respiratory thing going on. She was up and down all night coughing and blowing her nose while I kept administering medication and drinks of water, trying to ease her discomfort.

It didn't help that I was up until 2 a.m., either.

So, I go through the motions with my eyes only barely open. Empty old filter. Put in new. Two scoops of coffee. Six cups of water. Flip the switch. I shuffle back to the computer to check my email and wait anxiously for my brew. After a few minutes, I notice I can't hear the familiar sounds of percalation or smell the delicious aroma that would normally have me salivating at this point.

You know how you get in the habit of doing something and before long you don't even pay attention to what you're doing? It's the whole "autopilot" phenomena.

I automatically think I must not have really made the coffee. I can't even remember doing it. Silly me. I need coffee...bad.

I head back to the kitchen to make it for real this time, since I have obviously been on autopilot too long.

But the coffee pot is on.

I check the reservoir. It has water. What about coffee? Check. Plugged in? Check.

But it is not making coffee. It is not doing anything. Not even a pulse.

My coffee pot is...(sniffle)...dead.

A moment of silence, please.

Good-bye, old friend.

But there is no time for a proper memorial. My addiction is greater than even my grief and everything is secondary to my need for a fix. I begin to bark commands and have everyone dressed and loaded into the van within twenty minutes, myself included. As far as addicts go, I look the part. Sunken eyes, no shower, no makeup and last night's dirty clothes. My children cry as I rip their half-eaten breakfasts from their mouths and drag them out into the bone-chilling cold so mommy can score a hit. But I feel no shame. I am numb.

Driving bleary-eyed along the highway I try to formulate a plan. I will stop at the nearest fast food drive-thru and get me the largest cup they have. If it costs me four dollars, I will pay. But I cannot think clearly. In my stupor I drive past every available drive-thru and find myself close to Wal-Mart. Forget the drive-thru. Why pay a dealer when I can make my own at home? I need a new pot. I screech into the parking lot on two wheels. I cannot even speak complete sentences as my children ask me, "Why, Mommy? Why?" Coffee...hurry...can't...please...

The store is warm and bright coming in from the cloudy, gray cold and I steer us to the small appliance aisle. It is full of shiny coffee makers in black, white and chrome. They beckon to me and I am at their mercy. The commercial coffee pot at $94 is enticing. I could make a lot of it really fast. I could share it with my friends. Fortunately I don't have $94 to spend and I grab the $19.95 Black and Decker, ready to find an electrical outlet then and there and have my coffee in aisle number eight of my local neighborhood Wal-Mart.

I make it home with all three children, the Black and Decker, a new bag of freshly ground coffee at $7/pound and a box of Chai tea, shaking as I carry them in the door. In my crazed need for caffeine, I may have overdone it a bit, but I will have to deal with those repurcussions later.

Must.

Have.

Coffee.

Meet my new best friend:

I can even program it to have my coffee ready and waiting for me when I get up in the morning. Isn't it lovely?

Exquisite, it is.

My precioussss...

Lamenting Algebra...Again

2008-02-05T21:10:00.000-06:00

It's down to the wire now. After two semesters of non-credit preporatory Algebra classes, I am finally in College Algebra. After this semester, I will wash my hands of math classes and will be the bonafide ownder of a...

Drum roll, please...

Associates of Liberal Arts degree.

Then it's on to the Big Kids College for the B.A.

But for the next twelve weeks I will be sweating through Algebra yet again. Only this time, it counts. Whatever I make goes straight to my transcript.

Yikes.

Tomorrow morning is my first College Algebra test.

I should be studying.

But I don't wanna.

I hate Algebra.

Wanted: Grandparents (or anyone else willing to babysit for free)

2008-02-02T20:52:00.000-06:00

I have the sweetest little neighbor lady across the street. Ms. Cindy's husband died about five years ago and we try to look out for her. Ms. Cindy has a daughter my age and two grandsons that love to play over here when they come visit grandma...which is every weekend.

Now, I love Ms. Cindy. I love her daughter. And I love her dear little grandsons. But I have to admit, I feel a tinge of jealousy every weekend when her daughter drops off those little boys and leaves them to spend the night at grandma's house and she and her husband go do whatever it is childless grownups do on a Saturday night while I sit here at home surrounded by noisy, messy children and Hubby is at work.

Where do I get one of those?!

Don't get me wrong, my parents are fabulous grandparents. My kids adore them and they are great at coming, staying for an hour, spoiling the kids senseless and leaving. But they've never kept my kids overnight.

Never.

Part of it is my fault, really. I was very protective of Brother and wouldn't let hardly anyone hold him, let alone keep him. But with each child, I've become a little less protective and a little more desperate. Seriously. Take my kids. Please.

I've tried to tell myself that my parents probably would sit for us if they didn't live an hour away, but it's little consolation as I have a friend whose parents live in a neighboring state and still make arrangements to take the kids for the weekend.

Was their some kind of secret grandparenting class my parents missed? Shouldn't this have been in their contract? Can I sue for breech?

So who's free next weekend? Don't be afraid. The kids come with their own straightjackets and weekend supply of Benedryl.

2008-01-31T17:42:00.000-06:00

Brother is 8, about to turn 9. Since he learned to ride his bike, we have given him more freedom to ride down the street about half a dozen houses to where he has two friends right across the street from each other. Their names are Camden and Marcus. Today we got lots and lots of snow and made a special trip to the store for galoshes and gloves. As soon as we got home, Brother was itching to throw on the new galoshes and have a rip-roarin' snowball fight with his buddies. He caught me heaving in groceries and girls and pelted me in the back of the head with "Hey, Mom, can I go to Camden's to play?" Knowing he'd been waiting anxiously all day, and it was already 3:30, I said yes and he said he was going to walk instead of ride his bike. I turned and looked at him. "Okay, but you have to be very careful," I warned, feeling uneasy about his decision. And he, of course, assured me he would.

Later I am in the house with the girls when I hear a knock on the door. I figure it is probably Brother and Camden coming in for hot chocolate or a Playstation break. When I answer it, I see Camden...alone. "Can Brother play?" he asks.

My heart stops and feels as though it will never beat again. "I thought he was with you," I said, already reaching for my shoes. He shook his head. I look at the clock and realize Brother has been gone an hour and has not been where he was supposed to be. "Camden," I reach for the phone. "What is Marcus' number?" "I don't know," he answers, "but I'll run down there and see if he's there." I begin to gather the girls, not bothering with coats, and somehow end up with my purse and car keys, though I don't remember grabbing them. My head is going to very dark places and I see and hear things in my mind on which I can't bear to dwell. My boy...I let him walk.

God, please...please.

I take the girls outside and look down the street. I look for his bike which could be down the street at Tommy's or Tabitha's, but they are not even home. Sister wants to stop and make a snow angel, but I yell at her to get in the van and though I don't want to scare her I can't think of what she is saying to me even though I hear her voice. I automatically buckle up Baby in her car seat but do not wait for Sister to buckle before I back out of the driveway. If he isn't at Marcus' house, where do I go next? What do I do? What will my husband say?

I park the van in front of Marcus' house and see Camden's bike in the drive in front of the gate. I run to the front door and knock. Camden answers the door. "Is he here?" I ask.

He nods his head "yes".

I grab the door frame to keep from collapsing on their front porch. Camden's mom is on the treadmill and calls for me to come in. Brother meets me and that face, with the freckles and the eyelashes and the missing teeth - that face I worried would be lost to me forever - and he knows immediately what kind of trouble he is in. "Get your things and get in the van," I said quietly. He apologizes and tells me he was going to call me but he forgot. "Get your things," I repeat. He is gathering his things nervously and Marcus' mom tries to calm me by showing me their new puppies. I try to be social but I finally just have to say, "I'm sorry. I can't do this...I'm shaking..." and she understands and gives me a smile as we leave.

Brother continues to talk and try to apologize and explain and make excuses but it is caught between my desire to scream at him and take him in my arms. Just before I open the door, I turn to him and my tears will be silent no longer. "YOU DIDN'T CALL ME! I DIDN'T KNOW WHERE YOU WERE!" I choke. He stares at me, his own gorgeous blue eyes welling up. "Don't cry, Mom," he pleads. And here we stand. It is though he sees through me to this love I have for him, so dangerous and intense, and he is wounded that he wounded me. In return, I try not to cry in order to keep from upsetting him more and I silently open the van door for him to get in.

He continues to cry and apolgize the entire 45 seconds home and even into the house. I do not respond except to tell him to sit at the kitchen table. I get the girls settled and go to the kitchen, still trembling. He tries to talk. "No talking," I say. "Just listen."

"But, Mom..."

"NO TALKING! JUST LISTEN!" He is quiet but is breathing heavily and loudly and I finally realize he is having an asthma attack. I hand him his inhaler. I sit across the table from him and wait for his breathing to regulate. Then I begin the emotional lecture. How do I impress upon him how dangerous this world is without scaring him to death? Morever, how do I handle this conversation without beating him?

In the end, he got up and came to me - came. to. me. - and hugged me and I grabbed him, thanking God all the time that I could feel his hair tickle my nose and smell his sweatshirt damp with snow.

And he didn't pull away.

2008-01-29T21:39:00.000-06:00

Do you ever find things like this in your laundry? Do you ever ponder ponder what on earth happened to it?

Then do you fold it neatly and tuck it right back in with the others?

I did.

Music Appreciation

2008-01-28T07:36:00.000-06:00

When teaching Music Appreciation at the Superhouse, we are sure to expose our children to all the classics: The Doobie Brothers, Van Halen, Toto, Lynard Skynard and ZZ Top. On this particular evening, Hubby had put on "Sweet Home Alabama" and our kids released their inner rock stars.

Is there anything more adorable than a toddler in a pink tutu playing air guitar?

2008-01-22T22:27:00.000-06:00

Tell me, parents, is the Christmas honeymoon over? Are your children wandering around bored with the umpteen million presents they received - nay, BEGGED FOR - for the holidays? Has the very gift for which they would have sold their souls lost its luster and lay forgotten at the bottom of the toy box?

Well, have I got a tip for you.

Tell your children to clean their rooms.

My kids can be walking around, underfoot, telling me they're bored and pining for something to do. I send them to their rooms to clean and, lo and behold, when I check in on their progress, every toy in their room has seemed to magically hold their attention in a way it never has before. The toys that had only minutes before seemed completely unattractive are now endlessly fun and beguiling. They will literally be transfixed for hours.

Of course the room never gets clean, and it does, of course, reinforce negative behavior, but it's great for a moment's peace.

Hey, I never said I was a GOOD mom.

The Voice of Reason

2008-01-14T13:58:00.000-06:00

You remember when I bought my new washer/dryer combo, don't you? It was June...maybe July. Ok, it was August. Click here for a refresher. That was about five months ago. But now I am beginning to lose faith in my dynamic duo. About a month ago, maybe two - Ok, it was October - the bleach and fabric softener dispensers stopped working in my washer. Fortunately the repairman came out, ordered the part and fixed within a week free of charge. I say "fortunately" because it was fixed and it was free of charge. However, a family of five cannot go a week without a washing machine and come out unscathed. So, "fortunately" we managed.

This morning, with an hour to go before I must leave for class, I realize I have nothing clean to wear. Lucky for me I have this beautiful state-of-the-art washer and dryer with speed cycles on them, so this is certainly not a problem for a supermom such as I. I throw my needed load in the wash and deposit last night's load of whites in the dryer. I start them up and proceed to the shower. But when my load in the washer is finished, I notice my whites in the dryer are not. In fact, the whites are still quite wet and the power on the dryer is completely off.

What the...?

I poke the "power" button several times successively, thinking a good, hard poke will show it who's boss and scare it into starting. But apparently, I'm not that scary. I remove the lint filter, thinking somehow it was full and tripped a magic safety switch that will keep us all from a dying a horrible, fiery, lint-related death. But no, the lint filter is clean. I send Hubby out to see if we flipped a breaker somewhere, though that has never happened before. Alas, no luck.

So, what does a supermom do when she has Algebra class and no clothes?

CUT CLASS!!

Yeah, like that thought didn't cross my mind.

Being the dedicated student I am, I dug out a pair of sweatpants from the dirty clothes and decided there were no noticeable spots and threw them on. I deserve an "A" for that alone.

Hubby got the lucky task of calling GE. As I was packing up my book bag, I got to hear the conversation. Keep in mind that my husband has a nice, deep, smooth voice. He should have been in broadcasting. All the while, he kept a nice, even tone, never raising his voice once. Not even a tinge of sarcasm. This is how the conversation went:

Hubby: Yes, I have a dryer that is not receiving power. (pause) Yes, I checked the breaker. (pause) I don't know, it won't even come on. (pause) Well, we've had it less than six months and had to have the washer repaired a few months ago. I thought it was a fluke, but now I'm beginning to wonder. (pause) Next Monday, the 21st? No, that is not acceptable. (pause) Yes, ma'am, I understand. I would like a repairman immediately. (pause) I spent (insert dollar amount here) on this washer and dryer and have had two problems inside of six months. I want someone out here immediately or I will be a customer service problem until I receive satisfaction. (pause) Between 8 and 5 tomorrow? That would be great. Thank you.

Sigh.

I love that man.

Twins Separated At Birth

2007-12-18T21:18:00.000-06:00

Look closely. The monkey in the top picture is Curious George. You may know him from the beloved children's books and more recently the Curious George movie and the hit TV show on PBS. He is known for getting into trouble and looking adorable.

The eerily similar monkey in the above photo is my very own Baby. I am considering have her name legally changed to George. She loves climbing, bananas and is also known for getting into trouble and looking adorable.

Allow me to expound.

Today I put Baby down for a nap on my bed, which usually works out best if I am putting Sister down for a nap as they do share a room and mayhem and merriment ensue if I allow them to "nap" in the same room. I believe the term is "divide and conquer". So Sister in her room, Brother in his room and Baby in my room.

I had returned to the kitchen ready to relax and enjoy my newly-created kid-free zone when Brother comes in and tells me that Baby had a dirty diaper and had taken it off in my room.

Now, when I say "dirty", I am trying to be polite. A dirty diaper is not merely wet, but...well...how shall we say?...gloppy.

Did I mention my room is very light-colored?

I hurry to the bedroom to find Baby - aka "George" - standing diaperless on the light beige carpet with the aforementioned gloppy diaper lying on said carpet precariously close to the the white bedding and an open box of baby wipes attempting to change her own diaper.

I scanned the room quickly as I know monkeys are known for doing creative things with their...ahem...gloppiness. Fortunately my monkey is slightly tame and the mess was contained to the diaper and her person. A quick bath and wardrobe change later and Baby was napping comfortably in a glop-free diaper.

Where is the man in the yellow hat when you need him?

2007-12-16T21:54:00.000-06:00

For any of you students out there, or any that might be contemplating returning to school, I'll let you in on a new trick I've learned. If you ever want out of taking your finals, all you have to do is arrange for an ice storm to blow through the week of finals and devestate the local trees and power lines, thus throwing your city into a virtual blackout for a solid seven days. Your school of choice will be forced to close due to lack of electricity and light - a handy thing when taking a test - and may consider cancelling your finals.

Hey, it worked for me.

Although you may want to take certain things into consideration. Say, for instance, you have a neighbor with a boat. In this case, the whole ice storm/tree devestation thing could be a bad idea.

Bad Feet

2007-11-09T04:43:00.000-06:00

I have Algebra on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Literature at 9:30, Algebra at 11:00. Lately I have been having a hard time making my feet take me to Algebra class. I have an argument with them about being responsible and that "it will only make things harder if we skip". I have tried telling them we only have a few weeks left. I always win, but still, they fight me.

Yesterday morning I had my usual Tuesday/Thursday morning coffee with friends, but it was made gloriously longer by the fact that my Literature class didn't meet. An extra hour and a half to basically goof off. Two friends left for class as another arrived and she and I spent some much needed time catching up at the coffee shop. She is the friend who knows me. Really, really knows me, inside and out. And if anything is bothering me, for some reason, it always comes out when I'm with her...ususally in the form of tears.

The problem is, I've been walking around on the verge of tears for days, probably even weeks. Don't ask me if I'm okay. I don't have time for the nervous breakdown I deserve. Yes, life is stressful and hard beyond reason, but there are other things. Things I'm not ready to divulge here in this forum, but things she, of course, already knows. So when she sat down next to me, just she and I, and asked me "How are you?", I wanted to sob. But with Algebra class looming in the background, I couldn't afford to open up the floodgates. At this point, there is so much dammed up, I probably couldn't get them closed again. She understands my need to hold it together and we chat about other things. Soon the dreaded hour has come and I'm having that argument with my feet again.

Me: "Just get up and go. You'll be glad you did."

Feet: "That's what you said last time."

Me: "And you were, weren't you?"

Feet: "Never. Let's go eat soup."

Me: "We can't afford to miss class. We will get behind. You won't know what you're doing next time you go."

Feet: "We don't know what we're doing anyway! How about salad? Fuji Apple Chicken salad. We haven't had that in a while since you put us on a budget."

Me: "Wow. That sounds really good. But that's so irresponsible."

Feet: "You know you want to. Here your friend sits, who you haven't had any time with lately. You could hang out for another two hours. You need a break. You need some fun. You need some salad."

I look at the time. 10:28. I would have to leave in two minutes.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

My feet win.

"I'm not going to class today," I announce resolutely.

She stares at me in shock, her eyes like saucers. "Really?!" It's more like a squeal of glee, even though she's trying to be a good friend and not influence me negatively. "I mean, are you sure?"

It is amazing, really, the peace that came with that decision. I would have expected I would feel guilty. But it is surprisingly easy to live in denial and pretend you don't have a care in the world - least of all, Algebra homework - when your feet absolutely must have salad.

Remember Me?

2007-11-07T10:50:00.000-06:00

Have you ever had one of those friends you haven't called in a while and then you start feeling guilty about calling, so you put off calling even longer because you know they will want to know why you haven't called and when you tell them it will just sound like empty excuses so you put off calling even longer to try to avoid feeling more guilty and before you know it you decide you can never, ever speak to them again for fear of being a complete and total loser?

That would be me.

A complete and total LOOOO-ZER.

More than a month since my last post. And every time I sit down to blog I can't deal with the guilt so I avoid it altogether.

So let me just sum up in the last month in a nutshell for you.

Two words: Algebra Sucks.

I spent six...count 'em...SIX freaking hours on Algebra yesterday only to score a record-breaking 62 percent on my quiz.

I hate Algebra and I hope whoever invented it died a slow, painful death.

Just when I think I'm getting it, turns out I'm not. It's like that bi-polar friend who loves me one day and hates me the next. But the college won't let me cut her off because I have to have her for my degree.

Stupid degree.

Remind me again...why am I doing this?

Girls Night Out

2007-09-28T06:38:00.000-05:00

"Mommy, will you play with me?"

My oldest daughter, the very undemanding child who knows how to entertain herself, asks me this at least a dozen times a day. The problem is, I don't say "yes" very often. Not because I don't want to (although, if I'm being honest, sometimes I don't want to), it just seems like there is never time. When I'm not doing homework, there's all those annoying chores.

And then there's that thing where you go to bed and close your eyes and lie very still. What is it called? Sleep?

Ugh. I never wanted to be one of those moms.

I fear she is suffering from the proverbial "Middle Child Syndrome" and I am suffering from "Chronic Maternal Guilt".

Not just guilt, but I truly want to be with her and do fun "girl" things.

So I planned a night for us, no boys or toddlers allowed. No interruptions. No "can you wait just one minute?" Just she and I. Full, undivided attention. We called it "Mommy/Daughter Date".

I secretly bought tickets to Disney on Ice's "Princess Wishes" and - hard as it was - kept it a secret.

Although Hubby let the cat out of the bag the day of, it all still worked out nicely.

She picked the restaurant for dinner, which was, lucky for me, Carrabba's, and not McDonald's.

Look at her. Is she not the sweetest thing ever?!

And just let me say (Kyle, you would be proud) the staff was so very friendly and attentive to her. They treated her like a young lady and made us feel very special. We felt as though we were the most important people in the room.

After dinner we headed to the show. She requested Van Halen and we listened to "Jump", bopping around the van and singing at the top of our lungs. Then we played a rhyming game, at which, incidentally, she is very good. She rhymed "canteloupe" and "antelope".

Am I being ridiculously biased, or is that a great rhyme?

And then we arrived (after 45 minutes of looking for a parking spot). She literally had me by the hand, dragging me as fast as her legs could go.

We were NOT disappointed. It was a spectacular show. At one point, the dragon from Sleeping Beauty actually breathed fire onto the ice and THE ICE WAS ON FIRE.

Awesome.

But the best part? My little girl was constantly hugging me and holding my hand. If I took my arm from around her to take a picture, she quickly put it back. I didn't have to stop to change a diaper or unload the dishwasher. I didn't have to think about anything but her.

On the way home I told her how much fun I had just being with her. And she said, "We should do this more often."

I couldn't agree more.

Works For Me Wednesday

2007-09-26T08:21:00.000-05:00

Got bows?

Since I have two girls (and a serious addiction to making bows) we have...a few.

Okay, 114. But who's counting?

While I realize most people probably don't have quite that many, this is still a good idea for storing them.

I painted a picture frame, without the glass or the back, and attached strips of ribbon (which you can't see in the picture) with a heavy duty stapler. I clip the bows to ribbon and VOILE! A handy bow holder. Then hang it on your wall and it also serves as frilly, girly wall art.

Of course it will probably only hold 25-30 bows. Ahem. Which is probably just right for normal, rational people.

Celebrate!

2007-09-26T07:11:00.000-05:00

It's official.

I'm old.

Today Hubby and I have been married fifteen years. FIFTEEN YEARS???!!!!! It can't be.

Fifteen years ago today I was a child. A month away from 19 years old. And I got married.

Luckily, to the world's most patient man.

Fifteen years and I have no gift. I've racked my brain for months, but how do I buy a gift for fifteen years? What do you give someone who has devoted fifteen years of their life to you?

A sweater?

Fifteen years ago I went shopping with my aunt, who was celebrating her own wedding anniversary. It was their twenty-third. We went to Hallmark and bought a card. That's it. And I remember her saying, "When you've been married as long as we have, it's just another day." That was a horrific thing to say to a newlywed.

Perhaps that's what happens when you've been married twenty-three years. But for me, today, it is NOT just another day. In a society where marriages are made and broken like cheap toys on an assembly line in China, I recognize the significance of another year we have kept our promise.

And we still like each other.

Actually, it's LU-UV. I love him now more than ever. Love in a way I never knew existed.

Do I need a gift? Nothing seems appropriate.

Unless I could find a 1963 Chevy Impala like the one he sold nine years ago so we could buy our house. For free. Anybody have one of those lying around?

Well, maybe this is one of those instances where the thought really does count.

The odds were against us. This could have been a disaster. At times, it nearly was.

But here we are.

And here we'll be for another fifteen...and more.

Happy Anniversary, Honey. Here's the rest of my life.

Sorry it's not wrapped.

2007-09-22T22:18:00.000-05:00

You'll be happy to know The Very Hungry Caterpillar is alive and well. We caught him Thursday.

Have you ever seen anything like it??!!

Baby brought it to me, proud as punch and oh, so fascinated. Of course, I have to admit. I was pretty fascinated, too. It was HUGE.

And all I could think was, "Please don't squeeze it. Please don't squeeze it."

Can you imagine the mess that monster would make?

But she released him onto the trunk of a tree, where he went on to eat his way through one apple, two pears, three plums, four strawberries, five oranges and various junk foods.

After that he probably made some hungry bird very happy.

Bedtime. Bah Humbug.

2007-09-19T21:48:00.000-05:00

I'm going to buy my children new beds.

Hospital beds. With restraints.

Wonder if they make those in bunk beds?

Bedtime is going to be the death of me. Or them.

I have this idea that bedtime should be a time to unwind. A calm relaxing time, where everyone speaks in hushed tones and we read soothing stories and snuggle then everyone shuffles sleepily to their respective beds, where I kiss them, tell them I love them and drift peacefully off to sleep.

Instead bedtime is this:
"Brother, get dressed for bed. Sister, brush your teeth. Baby, bring Mommy a diaper. Sister, did you take your medicine? Brother, get dressed for bed. Brush your teeth. Get dressed. Diaper. Teeth. Dressed. NOW. BRUSH YOUR TEETH. DID YOU HEAR ME??!! I SAID GET DRESSED!!! HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT??!! WHERE'S THE DIAPER???!!! NO STORY!!! NO KISSES!!! GO TO BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDDD!!!!"

Then once they are finally in bed, Baby gets up at least a gajillion trillion times telling me she has a dirty diaper (she doesn't) or her Dora doll needs to be dressed (she doesn't) or the sky is falling (it isn't).

Please tell me your bedtime looks like this, too.

And tell me this - Why do my children bicker and/or ignore each other all day and suddenly, between baths and bed they are bosom buddies, frolicking and hanging from the ceiling together as if it were the most natural thing for them to be enjoying one another's company so completely?

Bedtime? What is that? Look, Mommy Dear! We love each other! We are adorable! You can't possibly think about bedtime now!

Uh, yeah. Watch me.

So, the beds. I'm thinkin' it's the best idea I've had all year.

And if the restraints don't work on the kids. I'll use them.

To hang myself.

Braggin' A Bit

2007-09-15T09:22:00.000-05:00

Everybody thinks their children are beautiful. And I am no different.

But seriously, look at these pictures!

A friend of mine took these while the kids played at the park last week. He gave me a CD with about 80 gorgeous pictures. Wish you could see them all.

Thanks, Chad. You are a very gifted artist.

And of course, the subject matter isn't bad either.

A Story In The Making

2007-09-15T04:27:00.000-05:00

Sunday in church the conversation centered around stories. Everybody has one. Everybody came from one. Everybody is still writing their own. Unfortunately, nobody gets to pick the story from which they came.

And then we were all asked to think about our own story.

Easier said than done.

I've been trying to get away from those beginning chapters and pretend my story starts in the middle. If I reread the beginning and bring it all to light, then there is some responsibility on my part to deal with it.

And I don't want to deal with it.

I'd rather be silly, crack jokes and hide behind humor and sarcasm, because then it will look as though I'm really okay.

But I wasn't in that room by accident on Sunday and I'm just going to say, I'm not okay.

My dad was not an affectionate man. He was gruff and abrupt. That's not to say he wasn't a nice guy. He could be very funny and approachable with most people. Just not with his children. He was critical, and found it difficult to say the encouraging, even the loving words. My entire life I wrestled with feeling valued and loved by him. This is not to say that he never had his moments. I do have a few very precious memories, but they are so small in comparison to the overall feeling that my father just doesn't have any desire to have a relationship with me.

The most recent blow came when the kids and I made a trip to see he and my mom one weekend. He holds his arms out wide to my children and is so happy to see them. And truly, whatever he lacked as a father, he makes up for as a grandfather. But when I tried to hug him he never even responded. His arms hung at his sides. And no matter how I try to rationalize or deny it, it hurt like hell.

Why am I blogging about this for the whole world to see? I've struggled with it all week. I've gone back and forth about posting it. It seems weak and whiney. But it is chasing me. Maybe this is the first step to turning and facing it. My dad crippled me in some ways. I don't hate him for it. I don't even blame him for it. But all I want in life at this moment is to move past it and have some resolution and to stop feeling like that needy little girl waiting for him to notice.

That's my story, in a nutshell.

Monkey See, Monkey Do

2007-09-04T19:21:00.000-05:00

I was just giving my girls a bath and gave them the neato little plastic measuring medicine spoons full of their allergy medicine, as allergy season is wreaking havoc upon us all. The medicine is a funky purple/gray color, but must taste yummy because they get all excited when I get it out. So I give Sister hers first and she downs it, leaving a little smudge of purple/gray schmootz on the tip of her adorable turned up nose.

Next Baby takes hers and follows suit. Just as she finishes, she glances over and sees Sister's nose. She then takes the spoon and rubs it on the tip of her nose.

Then she hands it to me.

All done.

The Non-Monday Blues

2007-09-04T09:37:00.001-05:00

It's not Monday, but it sure feels like it.

We play this really fun game in our family. It's called Automobile Russian Roulette. Because we are students living on one income, we are not in the position to make car payments. Instead, we buy and sell used vehicles every few months in the hopes that we will one day end up with a keeper.

Oh so fun.

Not.

Just last week we traveled a couple of hundred miles to get a Honda Odyssey. A really sweet deal.

Love it.

However, Friday night on our way home from a birthday party, the wheel bearing broke. And we had to have it towed to our mechanic, who was, of course, closed for the holiday weekend. So we left it there for them to discover this morning and, hopefully, repair today.

So we are down to one car. One very old, very large Lincoln Town car, belonging to my husband. It is like steering an ocean liner. Had it not belonged to his father, it would have been long gone, but we keep resuscitating the poor beast. Joy of joys, I get to drive it to school today.

Allow me to switch gears and tell you about my Tuesday and Thursday morning ritual. I meet a couple of friends for coffee at 8 a.m.-ish and we chat until I have to leave for class at 9 to get there at 9:30. It's a very short little burst of socializing to get me through till my next fix. Not to mention the butt-kicking caffeine shot.

This morning I'm feeling way behind and dog-tired and my head is heavy and allergy-laden. I have so much homework and I only got about 3/4 of the way through it. My Brit Lit assignment was reading "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight", translated from the Old English, but still pretty wordy and quite long at 50-some pages. I have about 14 left to go.

Now, I actually like Sir Gawain and have enjoyed the story itself immensely. But that nagging little troll called Time has been elbowing me in the ribs and reminding me I will never get through it in time for class, not to mention the mind-numbing, excruciatingly painful Algebra homework weighing on me like a ton of bricks. And, oh yeah, those other two classes I'm taking.

But that's another post altogether.

I'm really very sad that I haven't finished Sir Gawain. I sincerely want to and I feel cheated.

I get to my coffee appointment around 10 after 8, and I'm grumbling about those precious 10 minutes I lose with my homies, but glad to sit and chat with them and a cup of super strong coffee and pretend like I'm going to read 14 pages of Old English poetry in the next 50 minutes.

I have about 20 minutes left of my morning solace when I realize my husband has been trying call me and I've missed him. 3 times. I call him back only to find he has forgotten to leave the key for the mechanic and needs me to take it by.

Right then.

I have to leave my friends and my cup half full and drive all the way back to the mechanic's shop which is by my house about 10 minutes away, the opposite direction of my class. However, I should have just enough time.

But I'm not happy.

So, off I go, to be a responsible adult and do what has to be done, begrudgingly, all the while trying to cheer myself up by telling myself what a good wife I was for not whining and complaining to my husband or berating him for forgetting the key, even though I really wanted to. I arrive to find two other men waiting in front of the shop for them to open. One is a very friendly, little elderly man, who greets me with a warm "Good Morning!" I return it and think to myself how very sweet he is and how he actually made me feel better with his smile. I place the Honda keys in the key drop and head back to the Beast.

I get in.

I turn the key.

The Beast is dead.

This can not be happening.

I try again.

Nothing.

I remember that we had a little problem like this earlier and my husband showed me a neat little trick under the hood to rectify it. I pop the hood and try the trick.

It doesn't work.

The sweet, little man comes to me to try to help, but he cannot. I call my husband and tell him the good news, even though I know he can't do anything because he his home with the kids, without a car. But I need him to be the voice of reason before I have a nervous breakdown right there in the parking lot and ruin this sweet, little man's day.

He walks me through a couple of other tricks, but alas, nothing works. He talks to me calmly and helps me understand that being late to class in this case is not equivalent to murder and it will not throw the universe into a catastrophic state of supernova proportions.

I am frantically searching my book bag for my syllabus with my instructor's number to alert her to my situation. I do not want to be lumped in with the slackers who can't drag their hungover selves out of bed for class.

I know this would not be the case, but one must remember I am not thinking rationally.

Just in the nick of time, Ward, our mechanic, saunters up to unlock and sweet, little elderly gentlemen tells him of my situation and he comes over to take a look.

He uses that trick. You know, the one I tried?

And it works.

Apparently I needed the car in park, not neutral, in order to perform the trick successfully.

I thank him and my elderly friend quickly, but sincerely, and speed away to try and make the half hour trek in 18 minutes.

Hubby finds my instructor's number online and I call her from the car. Of course, she doesn't answer, but I leave a very apologetic voice mail and decide I've done all I can do. I will go to class late and homework incomplete. I will face the music. I will survive.

But I still drive fast.

And I still want to cry.

Several times I blink back the tears and wish I could start this semester over. I feel overwhelmed and disorganized. Instead of having certain blocks of time I can devote to school, I feel as though I've been forced to squeeze in a little here and there between the cracks and I HATE it. It has to even out. The madness has to stop.

I call a friend I left at the coffee shop and tell her what has happened and ask her to say a prayer for me.

If I can make it through the day without crying, it will be a miracle.

And miracles do happen, as I made it to school with about 30 seconds to spare, but not a minute late. I breathe a little easier and rush to class, only to find the door locked and the light out.

And a little sign posted:

"Brit Lit II NO CLASS TUESDAY, SEPT 4
Labor Day Holiday"

I thought I might actually collapse with relief.

So I have an hour and a half before my next class. Time to do homework. Time to blog.

And what makes me most happy?

Time to finish Sir Gawain properly, without being rushed.

I'm such a nerd.

Too Good To Be True

2007-09-02T19:59:00.000-05:00

I am not what you would call "well-versed in the fine art of potty training". I am potty-phobic. Potty illiterate. Deficient in potty training skills.

All of the above.

My first two potty training experiences were nightmares. I started Brother a couple of months after he turned two. He finally got it at about age 3. I waited until sister was well over three. She finally got it at 4 1/2. It was a full excruciating, frustrating year for each.

And all those moms that told me how they potty trained their children in a week, a weekend or even a day?

I wanted to hurt them.

Seriously. Hurt. Them.

If you are one of those moms, save the success story. I don't wanna hear it.

So this last time around, with Baby, I've said I was waiting until she was five. Until her curiosity was so piqued she was begging me to let her use the potty. I mean, I homeschool. I could TOTALLY get away with it.

However, she has been asking me to sit on the potty lately and being the sweet mommy I am, I have indulged her. In fact, on one occasion, I had to pry her from the seat kicking and screaming so I could put her to bed.

She is nowhere near five...not even three. We are NOT potty training.

So today, I saw her assume the position. You know...the squat, followed by the quiet, intense stare of focus and concentration. I left her alone to do her business and returned a few minutes later to do mine.

"You poo poo?" I asked, grabbing a diaper and the wipes.

"Uh, huh," she answered. But when I checked the diaper, it was clean. Nothing there.

"Baby, do you need to poo poo?" I asked again.

"Yeah, on the potty!" she exclaimed and ran full throttle to the bathroom. I followed and allowed her to put the Blue's Clue's potty ring onto the toilet seat, take off her diaper and climb aboard, as though she were an old pro. Sister sees her and, feeling it is her duty to impart all her worldly wisdom of five years unto her little sister, asks if she can bring her books.

"Bahbie!" says Baby. (Translation: Barbie.)

Sister brought her a Barbie book and a Sleeping Beauty book and brought over the stepstool next to the sink for Baby's feet. She told Baby what a big girl she was and I tore myself away from the heartwrenchingly precious scene to avoid the pressure...

On me.

I'm feeling a bit nervous. I know this is a pivotal moment. I know she is practically saying, "Mommy, please teach me!" Could it be that I actually have one of those fabled children who practically potty train themselves? I don't wanna mess it up. It's my last chance for redemption.

I return to find Baby hard at work. I sit on the bathtub beside her and watch. A few seconds later, we have success, and Baby looks to me with her face so small and beautiful and expectant, radiant with accomplishment.

I want to cry.

"Baby, you poo pooed in the potty!" I squeal, in a voice about three octaves higher than normal. She smiles proudly and Sister, hearing the merrymaking, joins the celebration. We clap. We dance. We hug and squeal some more.

"I do more!!" Baby announces resolutely and resumes her station.

We wait in silence.

Then comes the telltale "plop".

Again with the dancing. There's a party in the potty.

Just before bedtime, as I was changing Baby into her pajamas, I asked if she'd like to go potty again. She jumps up and runs to the bathroom, as though I've just handed her the keys to the candy shop.

More success.

How do I feel? Shocked. Elated.

So so proud.

Of her.

Maybe tomorrow we'll break out the underpants.

Knock on wood.

2007-09-01T15:24:00.000-05:00

I have this light colored comforter on my bed.

I thought it was ivory.

I washed it today.

Turns out it's white.

Huh.

Things I Read In The News This Week

2007-08-24T07:54:00.001-05:00

Age Ain't Nothin' But A Number

It Explains So Much...

Oprah Saves The Day...Again

A Question Of Faith

Finding Family

2007-08-22T15:08:00.000-05:00

It's back to school for me and Algebra is as mind numbing as ever, even on the Intermediate level.

However, I am taking a Dynamics of Family Relationships class that is proving to very interesting indeed.

Chapter One: What Defines A Family?

As you might guess, the definition of a family is very broad and is not neccessarily limited to mom, dad and 2.5 kids. Everyone in the class is pretty much on the same page with this view.

However, our instructor asked us to list 10 Characteristics of a Healthy Functional Family. After completing our lists, we were supposed to team up with another person and share. While I didn't hear everyone's complete list, I got snippets here and there of a few. This is where I was more than mildly surprised.

Here are three (I can remember) characteristics that seemed extra special:

multiple cars
4-5 children
church going

First and foremost, I don't believe there is a healthy, functional family on the planet. I believe we all have varying types of DYSfunction, some more acceptable than others. But am I doing something wrong if we only own one car? Do churchgoers have a better family life?

Are these things people really see as important to the family life?

So, tell me, what would your list say?

2007-08-20T21:56:00.000-05:00

First day of school.

I'm pooped.

I hate Algebra.

More later.

Jitters

2007-08-19T22:45:00.000-05:00

Breathe in. Breathe out.

No, I'm not practicing Lamaze. I'm trying to recover from a slight panic attack. It's been a wonderful, leisurely summer without homework or papers or 9 o'clock classes.

But tomorrow it all changes.

Tomorrow is my first day back to school.

Time for my pre-term freak out.

What am I doing? How will I keep up? Will my children be ok? And the real question, CAN I HACK INTERMEDIATE ALGEBRA?!

Breathe...

I do this at the beginning of every semester. It will be fine. I will be fine. My family will be fine. No need to worry.

Fine.

Right?

Like Apples?

2007-08-19T08:12:00.000-05:00

I have an addiction.

Well, WAY more than one, but this one is relative to this post.

It is the Fuji Apple Chicken Salad from Panera Bread. When I get hungry, I CRAVE it. Crunchy dried apples, succulent lemon-herb chicken and that dressing - DEAR GOD, THE DRESSING! - tangy, apple vinaigrette drizzled over crispy salad greens and sweet purple onions, topped off with creamy crumbles of feta cheese and crunchy pecan halves.

Hungry yet?

Well, since Panera isn't next door to my house and that dreamy salad will cost me seven dollars a pop, I decided to turn to my friend who knows everything.

The Internet.

I found several recipes for Apple Vinaigrette, but this one seemed to be the closest. I bought all the ingredients and yesterday tried my hand at it.

This dressing was so good, it was as though I had died and went to Panera.

And now I'm sharing it with you.

These are the ingredients for the recipe I found online:

1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
2 teaspoons grated sweet or purple onion
1/2 teaspoon dry mustard
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup vegetable oil
3/4 cup finely chopped apple

Puree together in a food processor or blender and Voile!

The first time I made it, I substituted dried apples because I forgot the fresh. I also added about a teaspoon of lemon juice and about 1/2 cup of water. It was divine.

The second time I made it, I used the rest of the dried apples I had and filled in with fresh to make it about 1 1/2 cups. I also cut the sugar to 1/4 cup and omitted the lemon juice (only because I was out of it) and it was probably even better. The texture was smoother and it tasted more like a fresh apple. I'm guessing it would be even that much better made entirely with fresh apples. (For the record, I used Gala instead of Fuji.)

For me, it is key to have feta cheese in the salad. It is pricey, but so, so worth it. You can leave out the chicken and pecans and it is still crazy good.

Now, go forth and make dressing. Let me know what you think.

A Clean Fridge Is A Happy Fridge

2007-08-17T15:30:00.000-05:00

I need to go buy some groceries today.

However, my refrigerator was a nightmare. I could not, in good conscience, buy fresh food and subject it to those kinds of living conditions.

I had reached that point when the filth is up to your eyeballs and you can stand it no longer so you just have to jump in, hold your nose and get it done. There was yeast spilled along the back wall, sticking to it like wet sand, chocolate pudding hardened like plaster, requiring a knife to chisel it away, cilantro that had passed away and decomposed in the crisper, leaving behind a lacey, green skeleton and a large puddle of something stickey and brown in the bottom.

I don't want to know what that was.

I removed all the shelves and soaped them down in the kitchen sink. I wiped down the inside walls and used my Magic Eraser on the door. Forty-five minutes later, the fridge sparkled. In fact, I kept going back to it, opening the door and admiring my handiwork.

Never mind that the milk jug was sweating from all the warm air coming in. A clean fridge is a beautiful thing to behold.

So now, I head to the store to buy cherry tomatoes that can be pushed to the very back and forgotten and grape juice can be spilled inside. But I am wondering, does anyone out there have a good system for keeping the fridge shiny and happy? Do you clean it weekly or do you have little elves that live inside and do it for you?

I'm hoping for the elf thing, but I should probably be a bit more realistic.

I mean, the elves probably cost too much.

Flirty or Friendly?

2007-08-12T16:07:00.000-05:00

There's a new love in my life.

I've admired him from afar for years.

He's large, well built and washes all my clothes. Here's a picture of him and his brother.

Aren't they beautiful? If I could just get them to fold and put away the clothes, they'd be the perfect pair.

But that's not really the point of my post.

A week or so ago Hubby, the kids and I went shopping for these guys, as the old ones were on their last leg. Hubby had been shopping for months, actually, but he wanted to take me along to see what I liked. So we headed to a large home improvement chain to look at the choices. Our helpful sales associate that day was Joe, (we'll call him Joe, because I really don't remember his name, and it's not at all important to the story) who was average in height and skinny as a rail. In fact, the term "squirrely" comes to mind. Joe was a nice enough guy. He made eye contact, cracked the occasional joke and was all to eager to show us his vast knowledge of washing machines. He directed several questions at me, since I am the "little lady" who would, he assumed, be doing the majority of the laundry. I answered a few and redirected some of them to Hubby who will be doing his fair share of laundry once I return to school next week. I was nice. I was friendly. I even cracked a few jokes of my own. We made our selections, arranged for delivery and went home to happily await the new arrivals.

The next morning Hubby said in passing, "You were flirting with that guy."

"What guy?" I asked.

"The guy who sold us the washing machine."

At first, I thought he was just giving me a hard time. That's kinda his way. "Oh, yeah," I retorted. "He was hot."

Sensing my sarcasm, Hubby tried to drive his point home. "You were."

"You can't be serious." Joe was certainly not the kind of guy I would call "flirtable". His butt was smaller than mine. That's a biggie (no pun intended). Not that I was looking at his butt, but judging from his very thin frame, I'm making an assumption.

"It's okay," he replied. "I'm not mad, I'm just saying..."

"I was NOT flirting. How was I flirting?"

"I don't know. You just were."

This conversation went back and forth, though Hubby could never give me any sort of concrete example of exactly what it was I did that he considered flirting.

Men.

A couple of days later, I was at the bookstore with a friend. She was reading a how-to book and I was flipping through a photography book. A couple of chairs away sat a young man doing the same thing. A Joan Baez-ish female was singing along with her acoustic guitar over the speakers:

"Liar, Liar..."

I snickered and looked up at my friend. "I thought she was going to say 'pants on fire'." We got a good chuckle from that one, as did the young man next to us. I looked over at him and said, "Didn't you?"

From there he proceeded to play off my joke and we laughed and talked for a bit, just seeing how far we could stretch that funny line. Pretty soon we returned to our books, the bookstore announced they were closing and my friend and I left.

Once in the car she said, "I think that guy was flirting with you."

What's UP?!

Feeling a bit defensive from my husband's observations earlier that week, I said, "I WASN'T FLIRTING! I WAS JUST BEING FRIENDLY!"

"I'm not saying you were flirting. I'm saying, he was flirting with you."

Do I know the difference?

Truth is, I like being center of attention. I'm just being honest. Perhaps it comes from being the baby of four children and always feeling like I had to fight for it. I don't know. But I do try to temper it. Perhaps there is a really deep-seeded need in me to be noticed. As much as I hate to say that.

Another thing, I just like people. I like watching them. I like meeting new ones. I like talking to them. I find people fascinating. I see an opportunity to talk to someone and I will more than likely take it. But I'm not singling out men. I do the same with the stressed out mom in Wal-Mart or the receptionist at the pediatrician's office. I seek connections.

What's the verdict? When is friendly really flirting?

Lesson of the Day

2007-08-06T08:18:00.000-05:00

And this, my little ones, is a lesson in patience.

I've been wanting a child-sized table with chairs FOREVER.

So, maybe not forever. Well, since Sister could climb up to the kitchen table and terrorize Brother during his school lessons, anyway. It seems a good idea to have separate work spaces for them.

But not just any table would do, as it would probably be a permanent fixture in my living room. Fisher Price plastic would have been fine, but I hated to pay that kind of money for plastic that I didn't even really like all that much. Even people selling them at garage sales seemed mighty proud of their plastic. Then there were the flimsy character card tables for $20 at Wal-Mart that could never withstand my family's punishment.

What I really wanted, was the beautiful, wooden, Pottery Barn-style table with whimsical mismatched wooden chairs. It didn't have to be from Pottery Barn, mind you, I just liked that style. But again, my champagne taste far exceeded my beer budget.

Actually, not even a beer budget. More like a "generic cola in a can" budget.

So I've been waiting for the right deal to land in my lap. And last week, I was almost killed by a super-duper, mega, ultra deal landing in my lap.

Behold!

Guess how much this cost me?

Nothing.

Okay. Technically it cost me seven dollars in paint.

A teacher friend gave me the table, which someone had given to her for her classroom and she ended up not needing. It had some water damage and the paint was in bad shape. I bought pink spray paint and some silver glitter paint and Voile! A table fit for a princess...or two.

She threw in the chairs, too. Which are plastic, but hey, they were free.

Tell me it's not the cutest thing EVER.

See? Good things come to those who wait.

And know how to paint.

Eat your heart out, Pottery Barn.

How To Make Good Coffee

2007-08-02T12:52:00.000-05:00

Put in clean filter.
Add two heaping tablespoons of ground coffee. Preferably NOT decaf.
Pour six cups of clean, cold water into reservoir of coffee pot.
Turn switch to ON.

Reason # 179 why I should not operate household appliances before 8 am:

I left out step #2.

And the rest of the day has been just like that.

Change Is Good?

2007-07-30T07:50:00.000-05:00

A friend asked me the other day, "So, why did you decide to return to blogging?"

I can understand why she was curious to know. Especially since I had told her only a few weeks before that I might "never return to blogging".

It's a legitimate question.

So I tried to think of something smart to say that would make perfect sense and make me seem as though I knew exactly what I was doing. In the end, I had to give in to the truth.

I am flighty and indecisive.

Here's proof.

Remember earlier this year when I had this brilliant idea to move all three of my children into one room and make the spare room a playroom? And then I would turn their bedroom into a medieval castle?

Well, scratch that.

The girls have moved into the playroom and Brother has his own room again.

I don't know what I was thinking, putting two girls and a boy in the same room without any space for them to be alone.

Actually, I do know what I was thinking. I wanted to paint a medieval castle on the wall.

So, with Brother alone in the castle room, I had to rethink things. He certainly wasn't digging the princess on his wall. The easier, and perhaps smarter, solution would have been to just paint a knight over the princess and continue with the castle theme. But when have you ever known me to do things the easy way?

I had to repaint the whole thing, of course.

So, this morning, the top half of the wall is a nice football brown and the bottom half is sky blue. What's next?

Wait and see. It could be different tomorrow.

And the winner is...

2007-07-27T08:18:00.000-05:00

Loni at My Little Blogging Home!

Congratulations, Loni, and thanks to everyone for participating. If you MUST HAVE the bow, visit my website, http://www.punkinheadhairwear.com/, where you find this bow on sale throughout the month of July. In August I will feature a new bow and this one goes back to regular price.

Thanks again!

Denial

2007-07-25T07:35:00.000-05:00

I'm only kidding myself.

In an alternate universe, I scrapbooked. I filled three volumes within Brother's first year. Along came Sister and though I fell slightly behind, I still made time to get two volumes for her first year and two more for Brother.

Then we started homeschooling.

Then we added Baby #3.

Incidentally, Baby has two pages.

So a few weeks ago a friend, who also happens to be an avid scrapbooker, suggested we try to get me caught up before school starts. She began weaving this scenario - a beautiful lie, I know - and like a true junkie being faced with an old habit, I began to believe her.

I'm only four years behind. I can get caught up in a month. Totally.

She suggested we pick a day. I would get a sitter for my kids. She would take hers to daycare. We would rendezvous at her house - a veritable scrapbooking Mecca - and scrapbook.

Without kids.

All day.

I said, "SIGN ME UP!"

We set the date and I wrote it on my calendar. However, two doctor's appointments and four prescriptions came out of nowhere and my Scrapbook Day/Babysitting Fund was quickly depleted. I made plans to cancel.

But then, on a Sunday morning, three days before the Blessed Event, a young dad stood up and announced he was hosting a Mom's Day Out at his home.

On Wednesday.

The very day.

Free childcare.

I took it as a sign from above. A Holy Calling, in fact.

I must go.

So I went.

I spent the day - more like six hours - cutting, stamping, leafing through pictures, and shooting up the creative juices I thought I had long given up. She introduced me to new stuff, too. Stuff I'd never tried before.

Good stuff.

And before I knew it, I was sucked into the swirling vortex of scrapbooking again, giving myself over to the euphoria of creating pages of stickers and stamps and oh-so-adorable pictures. I got six pages done and told myself I could do this. I felt empowered...invincible.

BEHOLD! I HAVE BROUGHT FORTH SCRAPBOOK PAGES!!

That night I left my scrapbook supplies on the couch, because I was going to do more after the kids were in bed.

They were still there the next day.

And the next.

Finally I moved them to the middle of my bedroom floor, because I was totally going to do more.

It's been a week.

But I won't put them back in the closet. Because I'm going to do it. I will make more pages.

Really, I will.

Totally.

FBI or Mensa?

2007-07-24T07:23:00.000-05:00

Yesterday morning I went to Sister and Baby's room to get shoes for my youngest. Lo and behold, all the shoes had been kidnapped from the closet! But a very brief search (just turned around, really) led me to the Barbie box, where all the shoes where standing at attention in nice, neat rows.

Good, little shoes.

Last night, while getting all the kiddie teeth brushed and ready for bed, I noticed Sister pulling out all the shoes from her pretend play stash and lining them up in the same neat rows.

Mystery solved.

This behavior from Sister is suddenly turning up everywhere. Sunday morning in church she arranged the crayons in a perfect sunburst pattern. Yesterday morning she spelled her name with dominos.

It's either creative genius or criminial mastermind.

It's A Freebie!

2007-07-22T22:12:00.000-05:00

This contest has ended, but go to www.punkinheadhairwear.com to purchase a beautiful bow like the one you see here.

Shannon over at Rocks In My Dryer is hosting a blog giveaway. (Yes, I know. She always has all the good ideas.) Problem is, I wasn't sure what I, the Bow Lady, who makes bows and has her own bow website and owns over 100 bows for her own girls could possibly give away. A book? A CD? After hours of agonizing contemplation and racking my brain, I finally I decided I would give away a bow.

Shocking, I know.

So, leave me a comment during the week of July 23 and on Friday, July 27, I will draw the lucky winner and ship them this lovely bow for free.

Yes, FREE!

So, leave a comment. Your little girl's hair doesn't like being naked anymore.

Cleaning Is Overrated

2007-07-21T22:49:00.000-05:00

This would be the glass on my storm door. I cleaned this glass today. For the first time in at least 6 months. I cleaned the sticky mouth marks and crayon scribbles from it. It was spotless. Crystal clear. As you can see it is no longer that way.

Wonder what happened? I greased up some kids with sunscreen and they made up a fun new game.

It's called "Stick Your Greasy Gut To The Glass And See The Cool Smudge It Makes On The Shiny Door".

Fun, huh?

This is reason 536 why cleaning is a waste of time.

Parenting In Absolutes

2007-07-19T23:35:00.000-05:00

I before E, except after C...

It was a momentous day I realized my son could read, made even more amazing by the fact that I, without a teaching certificate or even a college degree, taught him. We started out simple, learning the letters by sight. Then we moved on to letter sounds, which became more complicated by the fact that some letters make more than one sound. And then we learned when paired together or put with certain letters in a particular word, those same letters make yet another sound. But then again, they could make a totally different sound for no good reason, defying all rules of phonics.

"But, Mom, why is the "i" in "kind" long when there's no "e" at the end?" And what about the word "wind"? You have to read the sentence and ascertain its context before you can know which way to pronounce it. Very tricky, indeed. Many words are not pronounced at all the way they are spelled phonetically and one has to learn them by sight and just know what the word is simply by the way it looks because...well, just because.

Where are the absolutes?

Sunday morning I had everyone ready for church, all set to leave right on time, without being rushed or panicked or snapping off their adorable little heads in the process. If any of you have tried to do this without the aid of a spouse (mine works all day on Sundays) you understand the miracle involved here. Brother has gone on out to the car and the girls and I are closing the front door behind us. Brother comes back up to me, breathless. "Mom, Tommy has lost his dog and he needs me to help him find it!"

"You can't now. We have to go to church." As soon as the words leave my mouth, something sounds a little off, but I'm concentrating on getting Baby down the front steps without dropping my armful of stuff.

"But, Mom, he's really worried and he needs someone to help him!"

"He's got sisters and a mom and dad. They can help him. Let's go." It just doesn't sound right. Am I telling him he can't help out a friend in need?

Brother is sounding desperate. "But they won't help him!"

I look up to find him walking off down the street, looking back at me to see if I'm going to stop him. He disobeyed me. He defied me. What am I going to do about it?

I'm going to let him follow his heart, that's what. Though there is a voice of reason telling me the most important thing for him to do is obey me at all costs, I can't bring myself to play the heavy when my boy willingly, even passionately, answers a call for help.

So often I look for the absolutes. Absolutes are easy. Do this and it will produce this result. But parenting isn't like that. No matter how many books are written, no matter how many doctors and talk show hosts give us the answers, there is no one right way.

How scary is that?

I get the girls in the car and drive down the road to pick up Brother. He sees me, comes over and opens the door. "You find the dog?" I ask.
"Naw," he answers, getting in. He turns to wave goodbye to Tommy, who is standing by the road, looking as though he's lost his best friend. Suddenly we see a shaggy black and white mutt come running out from behind the house, apparently lost in her own front yard. Tommy is reinflated and Brother closes the car door, smiling at the happy reunion.

"You know," I say, as we drive away. "I'm really proud of you for being so compassionate toward your friend. That was a nice thing you did."

"Yeah," he says. "Are we gonna be late?"

"Naw."

The answers to life's questions aren't written on the wall. So many times I don't know how to teach my children the important things. I'm perpetually terrified.

But this I know.

Love God. Love others.

Absolutely.

Innocence Found

2007-07-16T08:33:00.000-05:00

I have often wondered if Brother has an overabundance of testosterone flowing through his eight-year-old man-cub veins. He's a large boy. Larger than most boys his age. He has a very deep voice for a child and a voracious appetite for sports, fast cars and all things mega manly.

This morning we got out and ran a few errands, enjoying the air-conditioned car during the midsummer heat. We were on the highway that runs next to our neighborhood, which has been under construction for what seems like an eternity.

But it's good. I almost sank my car in one of the potholes last year.

So, we're toodling along, being good law-abiding citizens, driving the 55 mph suggested by the signs posted amid the orange cones and barrels.

Okay, it was more like 60, but you go with the flow of traffic, right?

When all of a sudden, a bright yellow Mustang goes shooting past us, going at least 80. Brother rises up out of his seat and lets out a "Whoa! A Mustang!" He settles back once the car is out of sight and says, "Wow, that was sweet! How fast you think that was? 70? 80?"

I sit in silence for a moment, thinking there is no way in this lifetime I can ever let him behind the wheel of a car. I know this is a teachable moment and any good parent would use it to point out the error of Mr. Mustang's deviant ways. However, I also know that he is a boy - a young man in the making - and to expect he will never ever want to drive a car very, very fast because it just isn't safe is a bit naive. So I deliver the speech about how the driver of that car wasn't being very smart speeding like that on the highway in a construction zone and that he put himself and everyone else, including us, in danger. And then I tell him it's perfectly okay to drive fast if you are on a race track.

Yes, I know. My brilliance is astounding. But what's a mother to do?

Later on that day we are going the opposite direction on the same highway taking one of Brother's friends home. He and his friend are reading billboards and commenting on the pictures. We come to a billboard for a casino featuring a lovely, buxom young lady in a bikini swimming in a pool, smiling sweetly at these two innocent, young boys riding in my car.

Brother chuckles. "Hey, look at that," he says in amazement to his friend.

My knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. This cannot be happening.

"Yeah," says his friend, smiling.

What the heck??!!!

"You see that?" Brother asks.

"Yeah," his friend says again.

I cannot believe my ears. These little boys, seven and eight, leering like grown men right in front of me. I know I should say or do something, but I'm completely caught off guard. I need a Daddy...stat! Their conversation continues.

"You know what that is, don't you?" Brother asks.

"Yeah." Oh, no, here it comes. "A swimming pool!" comes the innocent reply.

"Yeah, a deep one, too! You think that's nine feet?"

"Yeah, or maybe ten..."

"Think you could touch in that?"

The Grape Undertaking

2007-07-13T00:03:00.000-05:00

Don’t let the big baby blues fool you. My five-year-old daughter has the face of an angel and the iron will of Stalin – a perfectly diabolical combination. This was never more evident than two weeks ago Monday, when I dared to lay down an ultimatum, and having prepped her the day before, she braced herself for the impact.

“Honey,” I said on Sunday, “You are going to have to start eating more fruits and vegetables.” Sister has never liked fruit from the beginning. Even as a baby, she made it clear applesauce and strained peaches were not for her, no matter how many times I offered. She will eat the occasional apple slice without the peel and sometimes part of a banana, but other than that, fruit does not pass her lips. And as I am prone to doing, I picked another new habit that was sure to make life better for us all that would, of course, start on Monday, the magical day of the week where dreams begin. “Tomorrow we are going to try some new foods,” I tried to pick something palatable to normal children. “starting with grapes.” Sister hates grapes, or so she says. Truth is, she’s never actually tasted one. She likes grape juice, grape jelly, grape popsicles and raisins. Grapes seemed like the reasonable choice.

I fully expected a rumble -- some whining at the very least. Instead there was only silence. “Honey, did you hear me?” I asked, not sure what to do with this reaction. She nodded. I took this to mean she understood my resolve and was choosing to quietly submit to my authority, knowing full well Mommy meant business, poor, simple fool that I am.

Along came Monday, soon followed by lunchtime when I asked my crew, “Who’s ready for lunch?” There came a rousing “ME!” from all three and I set to work preparing three lovely plates with half a turkey sandwich, baby carrots and grapes on each. They soon came running eagerly, Sister heading up the rear. While the other two clambered to the table, ready to dig in, Sister stopped short of the table when she saw her plate. “I didn’t ask for those,” she said, eyeing the grand total of three grapes I put next to her sandwich as if they might jump up and eat her.
“Yes, I know,” I answered, “but today you’re going to try them, remember?”
“Uh, I’m not hungry,” she said, almost convincingly.
“Oh,” I replied, not missing a beat. “Well, come sit down and eat your grapes and then you can be finished.”

And then came the whining. “I don’t waaaaaaaaant grapes. I don’t liiiiiiiiiiiiiike grapes. I haaaaaaaaate grapes.”

Finally.

Tantrums I expect. Resistance I can handle. But that cold, calculated seemingly submissive silence is just a little too Children of the Corn, you know? I nonchalantly pointed out that there were only three grapes and went on about my business as if Sister had been eating grapes all along.

Then came the tears.

But I was not to be moved. Even though I knew all the child psychology experts would say it was wrong. Even though I knew forcing your children to eat certain foods would scar them for life. I was out to prove them all wrong. "Just eat those three and if you don't like them, I'll never ask you to eat them again," I said and went on pretending I was the Queen of Stoicism.

12:17 PM - Sister is crying at the table.

12:32 PM - Sister is still crying and asking to go lay down and take a nap. Brother and Baby have finished their food and I have the brilliant idea to offer them Pringles, Sister's absolute favorite, in an attempt to lure her into eating the grapes. "If you eat your grapes, I'll give you Pringles!" Bribery. Another big no-no. This makes her cry harder.

12:53 PM - Sister, still crying, is puffy and splotchy and can't breathe through her clogged up nose. I offer her a tissue and she asks again to lay down and take a nap. "Sure, honey. After you eat your grapes."

1:05 PM - I offer to cut up the grapes and let her use toothpicks to eat the tiny pieces, a fun alternative to eating a grape whole. She thinks this is a splendid idea and I oblige.

1:23 PM - The grapes sit untouched.

1:30 PM - The drama catches up to her and she takes a nap at the table.

1:34 PM - Hubby calls. I tell him the situation and ask him if he thinks I'm wrong. His answer: "You know what Dr. Phil says? Don't EVER enter into confrontation with your child. But if you do, never lose." Great. Another parenting infraction. Eye of the Tiger begins playing in the background. It's the point of no return.

2:16 PM - Sister awakes, refreshed, and ready for round two. She seems to think setting the timer will help her. I am skeptical, but set it for ten minutes.

2:36 PM - The timer beeps. At this point, I'm beginning to think we should all just cut grapes out of our diet completely. They must contain some kind of toxin only she can detect and perhaps she is right to not eat them. She picks up a toothpick with a tiny sliver of room temperature grape and brings it slowly to her lips. "Watch me, Mommy," she says and I feel a glimmer of hope. Slowly, slowly it nears her mouth. I hold my breath. She pulls the grape slice gingerly from the toothpick with her teeth.

I wait.

No gagging. No tiny grape particles flying across the room.

She chews.

Dare I believe what my eyes behold? Can it be?

Her little mouth screws slightly to the left. "Mmmmm, I LOVE grapes!"

Angels sing.

She chokes down the rest, none too quickly, trying the entire time to convince herself that grapes must be her favorite food. For days afterwards she declares to anyone who will listen that she does, indeed, LOVE grapes.

Has she eaten them since? Heck, no! And I'm not pushing it.

That would be wrong.

A Horrific Discovery

2007-07-10T22:00:00.000-05:00

Three weeks ago I bought coffee at the grocery store.

This morning I made a horrific discovery.

I've been drinking decaf.

That would explain the headaches and irritability.

So not funny.

Pre-Adolescent Pains

2007-07-08T19:23:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time he wore white canvas sneakers with frogs and lizards and carried a bear made from drapery samples and mismatched buttons. Then he followed me anywhere, trusted my every word and told me in no uncertain terms where it hurt.

Now he's eight and I hardly remember that little boy.

He's moody, emotional and I struggle to maintain a connection. I can't find the balance between giving him liberty to be his own person and drawing those lines intended to protect him. I can't communicate truth to him. He doesn't believe me.

It was he and I against the world, my firstborn. At six months old he lay next to me, head on my shoulder, smiling as if there were no happier place for a boy than right there with his mom reading Paddington Bear and Stop That Ball. And then in that moment I knew I could do it right. I never dreamed there would come a day when we would spend so much time in conflict and I would feel so completely out of control.

He comes to me when I reach for him. He falls into my embrace, even wondering aloud sometimes why I can't carry him anymore, though he knows good and well. But I wonder often why I have failed to give him more security and if he will grow up to be honest, kind and happy. Or is he destined to always be angry and obstinate?

Is it every parent's dream to raise a child perfectly primed to fit into society's nice little niche? Does anyone else worry they're raising a misfit?

Can I turn him?

Should I?

The Evils of Drinking

2007-07-01T17:04:00.000-05:00

I'm a pretty straight-laced gal. I've never really been one to bend the rules. I've never toilet-papered someone's house. I have my kids in bed by 9:00 pm most every night. I eat my vegetables. I've never smoked a cigarette.

But Wednesday night, this good girl got a little crazy.

We'd been hanging out with some friends pretty much all day at our house - the kids and I and my friend, Mickey, her two kids and an extra she was sitting. Five-thirty snuck up on us and before I knew it, it was time for me to take Brother to swimming lessons. While rushing around trying to feed everyone, get their shoes on and find Brother's elusive swim trunks that I know I had just seen an hour earlier when I didn't need them, Mickey offers to take my girls to her house while I take Brother to his lesson.

Actually, truth be told, Baby said something to the tune of "I wanna go with you" to Mickey and she couldn't say no. And of course, if you take one girl, you gotta take them both. So, feeling a little guilty that my girls had suckered her into it, I reluctantly agree and tell Mickey I will come pick them up when we're finished.

As promised, Brother and I arrive at Mickey's around 7:20 only to find her just getting there herself after taking everyone to McDonald's and spoiling them senseless. I see my little girls hop out of the van and make a beeline for the house and I'm thinking if they go to Mickey's daughter's room - a veridable Dora shrine - I will never get them out. But alas, I cannot park the car fast enough and they are inside, shoes off, dragging out all the toys before I can protest. Brother follows suit and all the boys are magnetically drawn to the Playstation like drones in a hypnotic trance.

"Hey, guys, we need to get going," I say, but only half-heartedly, as I know my words might as well be bubbles blown to the wind. Mickey, who has spent the better part of the day with five kids, says, "I need a drink. Want one?" She's not listening to me either. She starts putting a Dora video on in the girls' room and I resign myself to the fact that I'm outnumbered and we are obviously staying.

"Nah, I'm fine."

She starts walking to the garage where they keep an extra fridge. I follow. "No, you HAVE to try one of these wine coolers."

Oh, that kind of drink.

She doesn't realize what kind of goody-goody she's asking. I had never even TASTED an alchoholic beverage until I took a tiny sip of champagne on my 27th birthday. Scout's honor. I've tried sips of a few other things before, but I just hate the taste. Everything tastes like cough syrup. Even when they say you can't taste the alchohol, I can taste the alcohol. And beer...I could never get it past my nose.

I giggle. "Hey, I have to drive my kids home."

"Well, don't drink the whole thing." She swings open the refrigerator door to reveal Gatorade, Hi-C juice boxes and Schmirnoff. "Green Apple or Raspberry?"

Aw, a sip won't hurt. Just like every other drink I've tried, I won't like it. "Green Apple." She hands me the chilled bottle, slippery with condensation.

We peek in on the kids who are busy demolishing the bedrooms and I continue to follow her upstairs to the gameroom. She turns on the Jimmy Buffet CD and racks up the balls on the pool table and turns to me with a grin. "If we can't go to the bar, we'll just pretend."

This is not something Supermom would ordinarily do. I mean, it's close to 8:00 and my kids aren't in bed and they need baths and Baby missed her nap and who will watch the kids?

But I'm feeling a little reckless, a little tired of the goody-goody act. And my friend is obviously needing some time with an adult. It's summer. I twist the top off my drink and take a gulp. "Hey!" I'm genuinly surprised. "This is really good!" Yikes. REALLY good.

We spend the next two hours playing pool (another first for me), drinking our fruity drinks (I drank the whole thing) and listening to Jimmy sing about margaritas, cheeseburgers and Mexico all the while wondering if I can really get away with this.

Supermom reinvented.

Even though I didn't even feel tipsy, I give myself a little time before hitting the road. Finally, I gather the kids and their leftover Happy Meals and we head home in the dark, way past bedtime. I'm toodling along, windows down, quite happy with my new grown up self. We are almost home, just around the corner from our house, and I see the lights.

That's right. Lights.

Lights of the flashing red and blue variety.

I'm getting stopped.

Now, I'm a rookie. I've never been drunk. Never even buzzed. But wouldn't I know if the drink I had much, much earlier in the evening affected me? Wouldn't I feel something? I wasn't weaving. I wasn't driving over curbs. Did the Stay-At-Home-Mom Gestapo catch wind of my actions this evening and rat me out to the cops?

I reach for my license and insurance verification, suddenly feeling as though I'm being punished for my sins and right now with no makeup and my hair pulled up and my tired, ragged girls in the backseat eating cold McDonald's cheeseburgers barefoot at 10 o' clock at night, I must seem the perfect candidate.

He shines his flashlight in my eyes. "Hello, ma'am, may I see your license and verification, please?" I have it ready and hand it to him, hoping he sees my preparedness as a sign that I'm not a drunken, neglectful parent. His flashlight beam skims over the kids faces, eyes wide and mouths agape, and he drops the stern cop mask for a split second to say hello in a more kid-friendly manner, as I suspect they were wondering if poor ole' ma was gonna be sent to the pokey.

He takes my information back to his car to check me out with dispatch and make sure I'm not a deranged criminal who has kidnapped three kids in a stolen car on a nationwide crime spree wanted in three states for murder and drug trafficing. Or, for all I know, to get the breathalizer. I swear, officer. I've never drank before in my life. I don't keep my kids out after bedtime. I don't feed them McDonald's for dinner on a regular basis. I'm a good mom, I promise.

Luckily, I check out and he issues me a written warning for going 33 in a 25.

As I am signing for my reprimand, he asks me the ages of my kids. I relax a bit, thinking he's being friendly...making small talk. He probably has kids, too. "Eight, five and two," I reply proudly.

Chatty, he is not.

"The five-year-old still needs to be in a booster," he says, in a voice that is a combination of Dudley DoRight and Batman. Authoratative. No nonsense. A tad condescending. "It's for her own safety."

"Okay," I answer, caught off guard that I'm still being corrected. I left the booster in Hubby's car. Bad mom.

"And how tall is he?" he asks, motioning to Brother who is in the passenger seat beside me.

I don't know. I really don't know. "Uh, I don't know." Is it worse to not know how tall your own child is or to pretend you do? "Uh...42 inches?" That's wrong. I know he's taller than that. But I know I heard that number sometime on one of our recent pediatrician visits. Could have been Sister's height. Could have been the number of times I had to tell Baby to leave the Doctor's instruments alone. It was the first number that popped into my head. Bad, bad mom.

"Well, he still needs to ride in the back." He makes eye contact. He is very serious. "Again, it's for his own safety."

Yes, officer. Perhaps you'd like to point out that my toddler's bangs are too long and are hanging in her eyes because she pulled her hairclip out. And maybe we should talk about how bad fast food is and that I'm putting my children at risk for heart disease and obesity by letting them eat it. Did you know my kids didn't get naps today AND they are out late tonight? I also yelled at my son earlier today and let them play in the mud last week. IT WAS ONE DRINK! GET OFF MY CASE!!!!

I nod politely and accept the bright yellow slip as he tells me to have a good night.

I pull around the corner and steer wearily into the drive. I get the kids in the house with no baths, no tooth brushing, barely even in their pajamas and put them to bed. Brother, in fact, slept in his clothes.

Just say no to wine coolers, kids. It only leads to trouble.

My Blog Is Back

2007-06-28T06:15:00.000-05:00

Who am I kidding? I have to blog.

Break over.

Delusional

2007-05-30T12:46:00.000-05:00

Call CDC. I'm ill.

I have Post Relaxing Vacation Disorder. I contracted it when we returned home from our trip to St. Louis. After a week of shopping, sleeping, sightseeing and leaving wet towels on the floor only to have them magically disappear, I am having trouble preparing my own meals and making my own bed.

My symptoms include lethargy, irritability, and some mild depression. All I want to do is lay on the couch, watch movies and eat ridiculously large quantities of chocolate.

If you know of anyone who has successfully recovered from PRVD, please let me know the cure.

Have To Post This

2007-05-17T22:51:00.001-05:00

Oprah says we should reach out to our neighbors. And because Oprah is always one to practice what she preaches, she sets the example by throwing lavish dinner parties for her neighbors complete with celebrity chef and Michael Buble and hires a celebrity gardener to landscape their balconies.

I want to like Oprah. But something about her 400 carat diamond earrings makes me leery.

And she doesn't know my neighbors.

On one side I have the senile widow who likes to call the cops on us for pretend grievances. On the other side of her is the manic depressive housewife who flashes widow lady from her front yard whenever she feels threatened. Across the street from her is the middle-aged, hot tempered wannabe rock star who sings bad karaoke from his garage till the wee hours of the morning.

I have a theory that Oprah had her neighbors balconies beautified so she wouldn't have to see the less-than-glamorous exteriors on her way into work every morning. She only did this for the neighbors facing her studio. Of course, she did give the rest of the people in the building gift cards from Lowe's so they could do it themselves, but they could just as easily go get a new grill or a shower curtain or plastic pink flamingos, and really, why would she care?

I have a new friend who also homeschools her children. Yesterday we met at the park and let the children run amok in that crazy, carefree way kids do when it's 78 glorious degrees and the sun is shining. As it is with most new friends, she has been somewhat guarded, not feeling free to be herself completely until she's felt me out more. But yesterday, she let her guard down a bit and I found she has a pretty good sense of humor, as well as that other thing a lot of us women have...criticism.

Can someone tell me why we love to talk about other women? I'm not saying I'm above it. It's true. I have critiqued people, especially other mothers, behind their backs. And these are people I like.

But I'm tired of it.

While we sat in the shade and watched the kids, a little girl - two-ish - bumped her mouth on a toy. It didn't look like a hard bump, but the girl screamed that scream little ones do when something really hurts. Her mother, who looked to be a child herself, wasn't overly panicked, but scooped her up and patted her curly little head. But suddenly she turns, quickly grabs her backpack and runs for the nearest bench. And as she turns, I see the blood.

I have three kids. I'm no rookie. But this was a good amount.

This poor woman is searching her backpack frantically for something to wipe away the blood while all the other moms stand there and watch, some of them even making snide comments about overreacting. I grab my water bottle and run to her. The toddler is screaming and slapping away her mother's hands as she tries to see what has happened. I offer her the bottle, asking, "Can I help?" and she takes it without answering. She has blood all over her shirt and she is shaking. She begins gathering her things, hurriedly trying to get to the car and carry her hysterical child. Again, I offer to help, maybe carry something, but she is terrified and she rushes off, ignoring me, perhaps even wondering if I think she is a bad mom. I don't take it personally.

Oprah may be on to something, but I think her approach is misguided. Good deeds are admirable, even if it's only a practically empty bottle of water when your child is bleeding as opposed to hiring Michael Buble. But how would her neighbors have felt about an intimate lunch without TV cameras? Or a phone call? Or even having her remember their names?

I'm no saint. I just want to connect. I just want to be me and know when I screw up, the person next to me understands. I'm not interested in finding other's faults so I don't have to think about my own, though I am sure there will be times I fall into that trap.

I'm trying to be friendly to the senile widow and not think about the nights I have lain awake, worried she might call the authorities and tell them I'm abusing my kids.

And yesterday, I even waved to the wife of karaoke man. I heard he lost his job.

Maybe that's a start.

My Theme Song

2007-04-22T22:40:00.001-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNOewzn6x2M

It's Never Too Late

2007-04-02T04:28:00.000-05:00

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070401/ap_on_en_ot/first_book_at96

Blogger Burnout

2007-03-27T17:47:00.000-05:00

I think it's time for a break.

As much fun as I've had with this blogging thing, I think it's time I got serious about my intentions. I want to be a writer. I am a writer. I'm going to pursue that and I feel like this blog is limiting me.

So, for now, I am taking a blogging hiatus and channeling my literary energies into something meatier. Oh, I'll probably pop in from time to time when I have a funny story to share, but my focus is going to be working on some projects I started earlier this year.

I am so excited.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for sharing.

Here's to Supermoms everywhere.

The Gift

2007-03-21T00:00:00.000-05:00

I had made mention of it about a year ago, but found so many reasons why I didn't need it. Too expensive. Not practical. Didn't need it. Computer labs at school.

But I really wanted a laptop.

Not to look cool carrying it around campus, but because while I had been thrust from never being alone to having hours, even entire days alone with my thoughts, I became inspired. I found myself creating stories and giving narrative to my surroundings in my head and wanted to write them down. However, this inspiration didn't occur within the cold, sterile computer lab. It occured next to the window of the restaurant, watching patrons brace against the chilly, autumn wind. The same wind that gathered the crispy leaves in a maternal embrace and sent them spinning in dizzy, carefree circles through the air. Pen and paper couldn't keep up with words.

A few months ago, my husband gave me a gift. Although I picked it out. I carried it from the store. He gave me the money for a laptop, because he knew I would never do it for myself. In our fourteen years of marriage, this is the single most romantic gift he has ever given me. It surpasses the custom opal necklace, the perfume, the beautiful angora sweater I coveted for months. This gift says more than "I love you". It says "I believe in you. Go and pursue your dream." Every time I use it, I think of that. His confidence in me is astounding.

Now if I could only convince myself...

2007-03-13T17:57:00.000-05:00

So, I haven't dropped out of school...or moved to Australia, even though it sounded pretty good Thursday. I woke up at 2 a.m. Saturday morning and could not go back to sleep, all in a panic about my Brit Lit midterm. The more I thought about it, the more I KNEW I had failed. I didn't want to go to class this morning. I didn't want to face my professor. What if she said something to me about it? What if she didn't? I didn't want to know my grade. I wanted to pretend it didn't happen and move on.

I had to ask myself, what would it mean if I didn't get an "A" in this class? Would it mean I was a failure? Would it mean I couldn't be a good writer? I have friends with their baby in ICU. Another friend whose husband is in Afghanistan and may be deployed again next year. People around me - people I know and love - are hurting and I'm losing sleep over one silly exam. An "A" in British Literature suddenly lost its significance and I found myself humbled.

It's hard to shift the focus sometimes, from what makes me happy, to what makes those around me happy. And even harder to dig down so deep I lose sight of myself completely and can give from a place that is real and unaffected.

Pray for this beautiful boy.

Pray for my friend, the military wife, who has been raising two kids on her own for a year and faces the possiblility of doing it again.

God help us.

Tiny Dresses

2007-03-09T03:23:00.000-06:00

It was cotton, crisp and soft, with cheerful white daisies and red, shiny cherries floating in a sea of pink. It was small. So small I couldn't believe it used to fit my Baby, when she really was a baby, also soft and pink with that delicious little crease in her forearm that separated her arm into three sections instead of two. When I took the sundress from the box to prepare it for consigning, I lingered with it, and hesitated to part with it.

But it's only a dress. A dress too small she will never wear again and will only take up space. Besides, you bought one for Sister, too, and Baby can wear that one when she is older and you can enjoy it again.

Right. I'll let it go.

Then it was the blue dress Baby wore to my Sister's wedding last summer. Powder blue taffeta with shiny silver threads woven throughout and a skirt made of layers of tulle and organza and satin and tiny little blue ribbon rosebuds housed throughout its many folds. It was practically a confection. And the color was perfect on her. She looked otherworldly, as if she were an airbrushed photograph in a magazine.

Be practical. You can't keep it all. And that's really what you want, isn't it? Come on.

Yes, of course I want to keep it all. It all means something to me. It all has precious memories associated with it. But it's ridiculous to keep it. I don't have room to keep it.

I hung the dress on a hanger, tagged it, and laid it in the pile along with it's pink sister, trying not to think of how much I wanted Baby to wear those dresses again. A majority of the clothes Baby wears were once worn by Sister. Packing them away when Sister outgrew them was easier. I knew I would probably see them again. But this time I was not putting them in a box to treasure for the next little girl. I was sending them away forever.

I tried to think about the happiness the dresses had brought me and the happiness they would give to another mother, possibly a first time mom, who doted on her new baby and was looking for the perfect dress for her first Easter. She would find shiny white shoes and ruffley socks to match, and hopefully, a bow, and she would think her baby the most beautiful that ever was, and she would, of course, be right. This brought me comfort and I continued emptying the box I had brought in from the garage.

But then I found this. It was the white cotton nightgown I bought at a yard sale for Sister. I remembered the mother who had sold it to me. How she cried as she handed it to me. How she lovingly folded it and asked me to take special care of it. How her tears seemed a little strange at the time, but now I found them on my cheeks as well.

I did not put it on a hanger. I did not tag it. There was no price, no sentimental thought of an unknown mother's joy that could pry it from my hands. I folded it and put it aside. It would not be sent away.

After emptying the box, I loaded up the car and took the many items to the sale. During the inspection process, about four or five employees, young mothers themselves, flocked to my lovely bounty and oohed and aahed over the tiny clothes, some of them intercepting pieces they wanted for their own. At first, I felt protective, as if I needed to swat away the vultures who were delighting in my sorrow. I felt hot tears behind my eyes.

Get away! Those aren't yours! Those are mine! My babies clothes!

But I saw their faces, and the delight in their eyes, and I knew I had made the right choice. They would love them. They would care for them. And it would all be okay. For right then, I knew there was a box of size 2T dresses waiting at home for me to unpack and hang in Baby's closet, and I wasn't going to think of bringing them here next year, but look forward to the spring and the new season life was giving me.

Supermom and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2007-03-08T22:06:00.000-06:00

I've had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I think I'll move to Australia.

It was terrible because my husband was irritated with me and even though he didn't say so I could tell because he wouldn't smile and kind of huffed and puffed through his nose like he does when he's irritated and I left the house crying.

It was terrible because I cried all the way to school and was mad because I would meet with my study group with puffy red eyes and splotchy skin and my makeup would be all washed off and I knew it was silly to be crying but I couldn't stop because it's that time of the month and I always get ultra sensitive and emotional at that time of the month and I would have to tell my study group it was allergies or some other lie like that.

Do they have allergies in Australia?

It was terrible because I realized while I was studying that I had taken terrible notes and was not as prepared as I should be and the midterm was less than an hour away and there would be an essay question and I had no clue what I was going to do.

It was terrible because after we studied the rest of the group started leaving and I wasn't sure why because the class was supposed to start at 11:20 and it was only 10:50 but I figured they had plans or something before class so I just kind of hung out and got a bottle of water but then I finally figured out that my class started at 11:00 and that was where everyone went and I was five minutes late for my midterm.

I've been going to class for how many weeks and I forgot what time it started?

I'll bet they don't have midterms in Australia.

I completely bombed the essay part of my midterm and could not put two sentences together in essay form let alone formulate one single cohesive thought about morality and spirituality among Romantic and Victorian writers and compare and contrast two writers to support my analysis.

I cried some more.

I was not nice to a visitor on my blog.

I did not do my math homework and even skipped class tonight.

I cried some more.

I caved to my pre-menstrual monster and ate a chocolate chip cookie. And a Hershey bar. And a Little Debbie.

I'll bet chocolate is a health food in Australia.

But my friend says it will be okay and that everybody has those days.

Even in Australia.

If you have never read Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, this post probably seems weird to you. Go and get it today and read it to your children. It is funny and poignant and a great story, even for adults.

Freudian Slip?

2007-03-08T07:36:00.000-06:00

I was preparing to make muffins for my children this morning while my coffee was brewing.

Not a smart idea to try and use the oven and potentially dangerous kitchen tools before I've had my caffeine fix.

I got out the large 8-cup batter bowl and the muffin tin and sat my coffee cup next to it, ready and waiting to be filled.

When the coffee pot was finished, it called out to me, entreating me to come and partake. I grabbed the Splenda and ritualistically tore open two packets to prepare my cup to fulfull it's destiny and dumped it in.

But alas, I had emptied the packets into the wrong cup. I was preparing my batter bowl for coffee.

Is 8 cups too much?

2007-03-06T17:18:00.000-06:00

Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are -
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
-Ulysses Lord Alfred Tennyson

A Mom By Any Other Name

2007-03-03T06:46:00.000-06:00

I used to have this neighbor, we'll call her Julie, who, despite my best attempts, never became a close friend. Actually, she never really became a friend at all. We just never "hit it off".

Sister was about two months old and Julie had just had her first child, a daughter also. I had invited her over to get her out of the house a little and chat. She was wrestling with the decision to go back to work or stay home with her newborn.

Now, I'm no dummy. I know this issue is a very hot topic among women. And though I sincerely believed no good mother would ever leave her child to pursue a career, I certainly didn't say that to her.

I mean, she might be condemned to hell and her children would grow up to mindless, broken heathens if she went back to work, but who was I to say?

Anyway, Julie was voicing her concerns and kind of working it out there with me and finally said, "I don't think I can stay home. I mean, I'm just a busy person and I think I would be bored."

I wanted to kick her condescending butt right then and there, and perhaps that was the deathknell for mine and Julie's relationship. Seriously, what made her think I wasn't busy? The messy house? The zombie-like expression I was wearing? My inability to shower or wear makeup? Who wouldn't want that kind of lifestyle?

Julie did return to work, and they were able to build a brand new house in a much nicer neighborhood.

You see, I became a mom and I was consumed. I was going to be the best mom EVER, and for a little while, until reality took me down a notch or two, I believed I was. I was told that staying home with your children was absolutely best, even preferred by God, so there was never a question for me. My son was 9 months old before I ever left his side, and it was another year before I left him again. This was much the same with my girls. I was a good mom and good moms don't leave their children.

But something strange happened. I started feeling frustrated, inadequte, and unhappy. And dare I say, unfulfilled? But how could that be? I was a good mom. I loved my children more than life itself. And I loved taking care of them. What was wrong with me?

I had drowned.

All of a sudden I had to face the fact that I was one of those moms I had condemned. I wasn't completely happy just being a mom. I wanted more.

Some women have but one desire, and that is to be home all day long being domestic and nurturing. I applaud them. And there are certainly days I revel in my own mom-ness. But it's okay if I want to have some time to explore who am besides that, because I wasn't always a mom, and one day my little ones will fly free. It's perfectly fine if I take two days out of seven to nurture myself and learn new things because I want my own children to do the same. They should know education doesn't have to stop when you're 22.

Furthermore, when did God say, "Thou must stayest at home with thy child every minute of every day"? And I often wonder, did the Proverbs 31 woman - the original Supermom - stay home all the time? Sounds to me like she had other interests, and ten to one she left the house now and then to attend to them.

Stay at home. Go to work. Do whatever it is you've got to do. The truth is, no matter what we do we will raise broken heathen children, because we are broken heathens, too. It is what we do with the time we are given, be it after school, on the weekends or in the dead of night, that allows for the grace to function within that brokeness.

Here's to every mom out there who is busting her butt to be the best she can be and botching it right and left. Here's to pizza delivery and unshaven legs.

Screw perfection. Let's just shoot for clean underwear.

Don't Go Breakin' My Heart

2007-03-01T13:36:00.000-06:00

Is five-years-old too young to be pre-menstrual? After having two girls, I'm beginning to think the female species is born with a special mutant drama gene and PMS begins at birth...maybe conception.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning I leave for the day and wander off to college to (theoretically) gain some wisdom and knowledge, and perhaps one day, a degree. Poor Sister still hasn't quite warmed up to this idea and begins telling me the moment she wakes up that she doesn't want me to go. Our conversation usually goes something like this:

"Mommy, I don't want you to go." (said with very sad eyes and voice)

"I know, Honey."

"But, Mommy, I really don't want you to go."

"I know. I heard you. But you're going to have lots of fun with Daddy today."

"No I won't have fun." (pouting)

"Okay, if you say so."

"Mommy, I really need to tell you something."

"What is it, Sweetie?"

"I don't like it when moms go."

"I'm sorry."

"But, Mommy..."

"Honey, I know you don't want me to go, but I have to. It's good to learn new things, even when you're a mom."

"Mommy! (exasperated) I'm trying to tell you something!!"

"What?"

"I really don't want you to go."

"Why?"

"Because I...I just like you."

"I like you, too, and I like being with you. I will be with you all day tomorrow."

"But I want you to be here today."

"I know."

"Mommy?"

"Yes?"

"I really don't want you to go."

You get the idea? This continues the entire morning until I leave, and there are sometimes tears involved. But today she turned the drama up a notch and made a most heart-wrenching scene. Hubby had sent her to her room as a way to pry her from my leg and let me finish getting ready to go. This did not go over well with her. She began sobbing on her bed and performed a very emotional monologue that would rival the most seasoned of thespians:

"This is all Daddy's fault! Mommy? (I do not answer, but try to ignore it so as not to get involved in this daddy/daughter matter) Mommy?! Mommy's already gone. Daddy made me miss her! (more weeping) I don't like daddies! I only like mommies!"

And the Oscar goes to...

After a while, she finally calms down and is allowed to come out just as I am leaving. I hug her and try to talk to her about other things to take her mind off my departure, but to no avail. She is trying to be brave and not cry, but she just can't turn it off. "I want to open the door for you," she says, sniffling. She opens it and I give her another big hug and tell her I love her. I remind her to color some pictures for me so I can see them tonight when I get home as I'm walking out. She nods her head and closes the door, fighting the tears, but very unsuccessfully.

My instinct is to throw down my books, scoop her up and weep with her, but I figure that will only escalate the drama, so I pretend I don't notice and get in the car. Just as I am pulling out of the driveway she runs out the front door in bare feet in the chilly morning wind and I hit the brakes. I open my door wide and let her jump into my arms, plastering her cheeks with kisses. "I love you. I'll be home soon," I say. "Okay," is her tiny response and she heads back up the steps to the front door. I see her bottom lip trembling and her face contorting into that squished up grimace one gets when they're holding back the floodgates.

It was all I could do to back the car out of the driveway.

Nutty

2007-02-26T13:27:00.000-06:00

Spelling has always been a challenge for Brother. However, we've started a new curriculum and he has gone from about 30% accuracy to getting 92% correct on his spelling test today. Thrilling.

But vocabulary may be our next area of focus.

While working in his spelling book today, he was to choose a spelling word from his list to correctly correspond with this definition: It has a shell on the outside.

The spelling words were:
top
can
bell
nut
tip
man
but
yet
doll
cat
bill
his

The choice is obvious to you and I, but Brother struggled with it and insisted no word from that list fit. I told him to skip that one and go the next question.

Further down the line, the definition was: It means the opposite of bottom.

And Brother wrote "nut".

This is where I sat down to try and figure out his line of reasoning, and I asked him, "Nut is the opposite of bottom?"

"Yeah, Mom," he said, looking kind of sheepish. "You know...like around a penis."

HEL-LO!! My boy is equating "nut" with "testicle". No wonder he didn't understand the whole "shell on the outside" term.

I am SO not ready for this.

Adventures in Homeschool

2007-02-20T07:11:00.000-06:00

I have formally started Sister in Kindergarten. I thought this was a good idea. She is super smart and has been showing an interest in being at the table with Brother and I during school. When I presented the idea to her, she was completely gung-ho.

But the truth of the matter is that she is probably more enamored with the idea of it all. Kindergarten is a very romantic notion when you're five. Perhaps she only wants to be a Kindergartener in name only, because she doesn't really like the conformity. Literally, every instruction I gave her yesterday was met with a protest, saying she wanted to do it "her" way.

I have a great little art program that helps you teach your kids to draw. We start by practicing straight lines. On the page, you draw a straight line from one dot to the next. First horizontal, then vertical. She said she didn't want to do it that way. She wanted to do it her way. "But, Sister," I explained, "there is only one way to draw a straight line." Not so. Determined to prove me wrong, she made her straight lines wavy.

For President's Day, the kids and I read some stories about George Washington and Honest Abe, found a great website with funny film clips about Barney, President Bush's dog (www.whitehousekids.gov), and did some cutesy President's Day activities, like the one you see pictured below.

This is Brother's version of Abraham Lincoln's log cabin, complete with evergreen tree and Abe himself peering out the window.

This is Sister's. She said it was hit by a tornado.

Her creativity will either make her very successful one day, or she will refuse to conform and live out of a cardboard box in the alley just to spite me.

Melting Cheese

2007-02-19T14:32:00.000-06:00

Terrible Twos. I hate that expression. I LOVE two!! It just might be my favorite age.

But today...ah, today has tested my position on two.

It began this morning, and I don't even remember how. Baby began crying uncontrollably about something that disrupted the universe that IS her. She could not be distracted. She could not be consoled. So I put her on the bed, alone, to try and work it out for herself. Brother finds this to be cruel and unusual and begs me to get her. I try to explain to him that she is getting a time out, just like he and Sister would get if they were throwing this sort of tantrum. Soon, Baby calms down and comes to me, eyes puffy, nose running and arms open wide, ready to make up. I'm feeling pretty satisfied and confident that I AM Supermom, able to tame tantrums in a single bound.

Later, as I am preparing lunch, Baby comes to me, whining. I have four slices of bread to make two grilled cheese sandwiches. Three kids + two sandwiches = disaster. However, Baby has already been snacking on carrots and hummus, so I figure I can offer her a slice of cheese and a couple of Dora cookies and she will be happy. She takes the cheese and immediately becomes distressed. "Ow!" she says, turning on the waterworks for the second time in two hours.

I sit beside her, trying to decipher her cryptic message of despair. "Out?" I say. "Down? Do you want down from your chair?"

"NO-AH!" this is the way she says "no"...adamantly.

"What's wrong?"

"OW!" she wails, becoming more despondent. "OOOOWWWWWWW!!!!"

I search her for boo-boos, but find nothing. She just keeps looking at her cheese slice, crying. I finally deduct that her cheese slice has a tiny little tear in it, and this has cut her to the quick...shaken her to the very core of her being. The cheese, defiled and unclean, is mocking her, and she cannot therefore partake of such a vile and disgusting offering.

After our earlier outburst, I'm growing weary of the drama, and I state plainly, "Either eat the cheese or throw it away."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-AH!!!" More tears. More snot. More drama.

So, I simply try to remove the cheese for her and dispose of the threatening dairy product. But, alas, she has it firm within her grasp, and my reaching for it only serves to tear the slice completely in two.

Oh. My. Goodness.

If there is such a thing as a Drama Queen, I believe what ensued after that would qualify her as the Most High Supreme Goddess of Drama, able to call down the powers of darkness to reign unholy terror upon me, one of her lowly peon subjects.

I, again, try to remove the cheese, but she squeezes the cheese into her tight, little fists and runs, screaming and crying all the way. I go after her, only to find her seeking shelter in the arms of her sympathizer...Brother. By her behavior, Brother is sure I am killing her, slowly and painfully, and is ready to fight me tooth and nail to protect her, bless his little aiding and abetting heart.

After prying her away from him, I carry Baby, kicking and screaming (to put it lightly), to the kitchen to try and pry the smashed balls of cheese from her grasp. And she is less than cooperative. I literally have to force her fingers open while she is flailing about like a wounded bird...a very VOCAL wounded bird. I have never, NEVER witnessed anything like it, except maybe on SuperNanny.

And as if one fiasco isn't enough, Sister comes into the room (with her hands over her ears) and shouts above the pandemonium, "COME LOOK WHAT BROTHER DID TO YOUR ROOM!"

I know he is angry with me for torturing his baby sister with a piece of torn cheese, and I imagine he has gone to my room and ransacked it. I walk down the hall just in time to see him stomping from my room, throwing a dirty look my way. I walk in to find...nothing. Everything looks the same. Either my room is so messy I can't tell or he really didn't do anything. Brother, who cannot keep from 'fessing up, comes quickly back to my room and hands me three picture frames containing pictures of each of my angelic babes. He had stolen them from my room to get back at me for being so mean to Baby.

Guess they really showed me. Next time I'll think twice before giving torn cheese to my children.

2007-02-13T21:29:00.000-06:00

For some reason I knew, the minute the phone rang, that this was the call. I knew because it was our home phone that rang, and it rarely rings anymore. I knew because my husband left the room to take it. I knew because I couldn't hear him laughing or talking. I knew because the cloud had been looming for weeks, months...maybe years. And when my husband came back to the kitchen, I knew.

His father had died.

Saturday, February 10, 2007, at approximately 3:30 p.m., my father-in-law, the man who smiles from black and white photos with a beautiful, chubby, baby boy, passed away.

I've been trying to decide how to write about this for days. It is difficult to expound on such a subject when there are many complex and confliciting emotions. And there have been many moments this past week worthy of being put down for posterity. But it would require a long and detailed description of family history, which I just don't have the heart to post for the world to see.

This is a bittersweet time. Maybe someday I can actually put it to words.

Movin' and Groovin'

2007-02-09T04:50:00.000-06:00

Things are moving. And by "things", I mean the aforementioned slime that has wreaked havoc on my household this week. I will not go into further details.

You're welcome.

So, I'm taking that as a good sign. Of course, I'm also awake at 4 a.m. this morning.

I will stop whining about being sick now.

You're welcome.

2007-02-07T15:06:00.000-06:00

Some days you feel like squashed bread.

I peeled myself from the mattress this morning with all the enthusiasm of a sloth on tranquilizers. Due to a snoot full of slime, my night was spent in and out of consciousness, though I'd hardly call it sleep. My throat is scratchy and feels thick and sticky, like someone force fed me Play-Doh during one of my less conscious moments. And in this house, one never knows.

Moving in slo-mo, I plod down the hall with but one goal, clinging to this one glimmering ray of hope to save me from collapse - the coffee pot. A nice, hot cup of joe will melt away the slime. Or at least give me the energy to make it to the Kleenex box.

But the baby birds immediately notice the mama bird is up and about the nest and their requests for breakfast do not wait for coffee to brew. They land on me without taking heed of my sad state and waste no time placing their orders. But it is all mud inside my ears. I mutter something to the tune of "wait" and find the nearest spot to land. Brother asks, "What are we going to do today, Mom?"

Well, let's see, Son. Today we're going to search online for a very simple illustrated how-to guide that will explain, in very clear, easy-to-understand-second-grader language, how you can cut open Mommy's head, allowing it to drain and thus releasing this vice-like pressure on her oh-so-tired brain. And then, perhaps we will go to the park.

I spot a bottle of saline drops I used on Baby the night before for "Little Noses". Though my nose most definitely does not fall into this category, I don't have a water pik to shove up my beak and clean things out and this seems like the next best thing. After a few bungled attempts, I finally figure out the trick to leaning my head back just enough to get the saline where it's supposed to go without having it trickle down the back of my throat. This is what I've been subjecting my poor, ailling children to?! The saline gets things moving, but brings little relief, and all I want to do is whisper sweet nothings to my coffee cup and go back to bed.

But, no. I choose instead to take all three of my children on a shopping trip to the Wal-Mart Super-scary-Center. Makes perfect sense, doesn't it? I mean, when you're feeling as though a train has run you over, backed up and run you over again, why wouldn't you want to take three over-active children to the world's largest mass marketer of goods and beat back large, angry mobs to forage for food and stuff?

My underlying motive was to buy all the good legal drugs I could get my hands on. We just happened to need milk and bread, too.

But SuperCenters are not nice to sick people. And after an hour of filling one cart to the brim with groceries and the latest and greatest cold remedies, I felt as though I needed to be hospitalized with a good morphine drip. I get home, unload the trunk, only to find my bread mangled under a bag of canned goods.

Squashed bread.

Sick Day

2007-02-06T08:26:00.000-06:00

There is a funk floating around our house. Brother was the first to catch it, with Hubby a close second.

I was having such a hard time motivating yesterday - pretty typical for a Monday. But by 1:00, I started feeling achey. By three, I was parked on top of the heater with a raging fever and a pounding head, trying to chase away the chills. It's a wonder I didn't burn off my eyebrows. I had thawed chicken breasts, planning on fixing something delicious for dinner, but the kids got grilled cheese sandwiches and frozen vegetables, a magnificent feat in light of how I was feeling.

As Sister was getting ready to go to bed last night, she put her arms around me and I laid my head on her shoulder. "Tomorrow," she said, "I'll make you some tea and that will make-ted (an adorable grammatical error) you feel better."

Her tenderness gave me little goosebumps all over. Or maybe that was a chill.

"Thank you, Honey," I said, as she patted me softly. "You're sweet."

She gave me a soft, little kiss on the cheek and said, "Yeah. I am."

Today the fever is gone, but I still have that fuzzy, slow-motion feeling and my throat feels like I swallowed glue. I wrestled with it a bit, but I think I will stay home from school. With all the emphasis my professors put on attendance, I'm feeling guilty, and slightly angry that I'm feeling guilty. But it's okay to stay home when you're sick...right? Good grief, can I GET A SICK DAY HERE???!!!

Editorial Note: In case you're wondering why my slacker husband didn't help me out yesterday, he was at school. Had he been home, I am quite sure he would have given me a foot massage, cooked a seven-course meal and done every stitch of laundry...right, Honey?

Dreaming In Words

2007-02-02T22:26:00.000-06:00

I just read, devoured, rather, a really great book. It is titled Good Grief by Lolly Winston. I started it yesterday afternoon and finished it today. A fabulous read! And of course, you can't really "Search Inside", as the picture suggests. I merely borrowed that image from Amazon.

I wasn't looking for a new book, exactly. I happened to be hanging out with some girlfriends at Barnes and Noble after a movie, sipping my peppermint mocha and perusing some interesting books (which I absolutely did not intend to buy), when one of the ladies makes a comment that strikes me funny just as I am taking a drink of my nice dark beverage and I, of course, spew it onto the lovely, pristine book jacket in front of me. It just so happened to be the above mentioned book. Luckily, it was bargain priced at $5.98.

This book had the perfect mix of humor, reality and tragedy, although I found the ending a little too Norman Rockwell. But most of all, I found it inspiring. It is exactly the kind of book I want to write. So now I'm feeling this overwhelming urge to get started.

Here's the weird thing.

There is this strange voice in my head narrating my every move, every tiny little happening in my life. For instance, when I walked down the steps of my porch today, here is what freaky, narrative voice said:

"She stepped out into the cold, brisk air, momentarily blinded by the brilliant sun reflected on the glittering snow. Clutching the cold, iron rail in her naked hand, she stepped, slowly, carefully, down the first of the icy steps, which seemed determined to bring her down."

This happened with everything. And I do mean E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.

This is either a really good sign, or the beginnings of schizophrenia.

What A Relief!

2007-02-01T11:28:00.001-06:00

This morning, as I was making breakfast, my sweet Baby, toddled into the kitchen in her little pink and purple heart jammies to see if she could lend a hand. Being the big helper she is, she took the bag of cat food from under the sink and proceeded to feed the kitty, heaping big piles of crunchy brown stuff into the stainless steel bowl next to the trashcan.

As I was slicing sausage from the roll, I hear a crunching sound...and it's not the cat. My blood turns cold as I immediately think the worst - Baby is eating the cat food.

But alas, I was not to worry. Baby wasn't eating the cat food. She was only eating popcorn from the trash.

Whew!

What A Relief!

2007-02-01T11:28:00.000-06:00

Disturbing News

2007-01-31T13:07:00.000-06:00

I rarely watch the news anymore. It only leaves me depressed. However, since we are getting our third snowstorm this winter (a rarity in our fair state) I thought I'd try to catch the weather and find out what the heck is going on.

But I shouldn't have.

Today I saw something that shook me to the core. It enraged me.

A woman who had her baby in four minutes.

That's right, people. Her water broke and four minutes later she had the baby.

Talk about global warming. Talk about war in Iraq. But this...this is beyond unfair. It's unspeakable. I mean, should she even qualify as a mother? Can we take a vote and have her excommunicated from the Mom Club? Impeached? Something?

Geez. I just can't watch the news.

Red Letter Day

2007-01-29T21:19:00.000-06:00

I was sitting here, checking my email, when Brother, who was playing outside, comes up and knocks on the storm door.

"Come here," he shouts, to be sure I hear him through the door.

"What?" I ask, somewhat annoyed.

"Come here," he says, now more insistent.

"What do you need?" I am finally back up and running with my computer and am perfectly happy to have my face buried in it for the moment, thank you very much.

"Just come here! I want to show you something."

I get up and go to the door. Brother bounces down the steps and grabs his bike. I am intrigued and step out onto the porch in my socks, wondering if he is going to do what I think he's going to do.

He walks it to the end of the driveway, hops on and then takes off.

What's the big deal?

Last March we bought him a new bike for his birthday and took the training wheels off his old one. For almost a year we've been trying to coax him into giving it a shot. A couple of times we even did the whole hold-on-to-the-back-of-the-seat-take-off-running-then-let-go thing. But he was too afraid. He just wasn't ready.

But today, he did it...all by himself.

I started jumping up and down in the driveway, screaming and cheering, almost crying, acting like a complete and total lunatic. I grab the camera, I text message my husband, I call friends. The next door neighbor sees and cheers for him, too.

Next thing I know he is down the driveway, out the gate, and halfway down the street before he hits the brakes with just the right amount of pressure, slowing and stopping perfectly, just like a pro, and turns to give me a huge grin.

That's my boy.

Unintentional Vacation

2007-01-23T15:29:00.000-06:00

Where have I been, you ask?

In the course of two weeks, I have survived a snow/icestorm of catastrophic proportions, been holed up in my house for five days without a running vehicle (due to the untimely death of my minivan), housed my brother for four days, three nights, two hours and fifty-seven minutes (another blog altogether), had two family members in the hospital, and endured a visit from the ever punctual and enduring Aunt Flo. You will have to ask around if you don't know Aunt Flo. Chances are, you know someone familiar with her monthly visits.

All of this together pales in comparison to the real trauma I have suffered. The icing on the cake. The straw that broke the camel's back.

My computer died.

Yes, you're all gasping in awe and admiration. How have I survived????!!!!! But after a couple of days of cold sweats and twitching, I realized I would probably be okay.

Luckily, I still have school, and there are computers aplenty here, so I have been able to somewhat reconnect with the outside world. Unfortunately, duty calls and I must study. But I shall return...

2007-01-10T22:03:00.000-06:00

How do I do a post about one of my children turning another year older without waxing sappy and sentimental?

It can't be done.

So you must endure my blubbering, because Sister was five yesterday.

We had cupcakes for breakfast, a longstanding tradition in our house. Then we finished the rest of them after lunch and before dinner. I think we all had about three each.

If you can't eat as many cupcakes as you want on your birthday, then when can you?

It was a good excuse for me, too.

And today I am sporting a Purple Glitter manicure, courtesy of the Birthday Girl, who, like all princesses, got to do whatever she wanted on her special day.

It is interesting how all my children seem to take turns being the source of frustration and concern for me, which is good, because if they were all frustrating at the same time (which has happened on occasion) ugly things could happen. And Sister is the one who has been driving me mad of late.

But nothing makes me happier and turns me into a blob of mushy goo like a hug and an "I love you, Mommy" from her. I worry sometimes that I spoil her too much. That I haven't adequately taught her the importance of her place in the world and how that pertains to other people. I worry that because I see so much of myself in her, that I will also overlook my shortcomings in her. She is most like me, in so many ways, which is thrilling and frightening all at once.

She is my storyteller, my tender heart, my Prima Donna.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl. May the spotlight always shine favorably on you.

First Day Back or What the Heck Did I Get Myself Into?!

2007-01-09T18:07:00.000-06:00

I realize it's probably somewhat natural to have the jitters on the first day of a new semester. I also realize it is difficult to know what to expect after only one class.

But I'm thinking I may be in slightly over my head signing up for an Honors Literature class.

Scratch that.

I'm dead.

I come from a very humble background. My small school didn't exactly offer a first-class education. And the community college I attend now isn't exactly Harvard. Though I have always had above average grades, I wouldn't neccessarily classify myself as a "scholar".

And though I am a fan of literature and at one time, was an avid reader, I have a confession to make.

This is my very first literature class.

Ever.

That's it. I'm dead.

I did have some literature in my high school English class, but anything I learned or read beyond that was purely recreational on my part. It's weird, but I used to read Shakespeare for fun.

However, today when my instructor asked the class what they were currently reading, the first book that popped into my head was Green Eggs and Ham. Beyond that, I got nothin'.

And I look around and these are all kids. So young and so bright and all I could do was sit and listen. If I dared say a word my cover as a True Literary Master would be blown. And they would all know I am nothing but a poser.

Poser. How's that for a shining example of my literary exptertise?

Dead. Dead, dead, dead. As a doornail.

These kids were using words I had to write down so I can look them up in the dictionary. I did. I swear.

And then the instructor gave us a "light" reading assignment for discussion on Thursday. About 40 pages of opinions and essays on the French Revolution. Tiny print.

"If, as I suspect, modern letters owe more than they are always willing to own to antient manners, so do other interests which we value full as much as they are worth." (Edmund Burke; Reflections on the Revolution in France)

Huh?

Let's just say it's a far cry from Sam I Am.

And I haven't even had my Math class yet.

Yup. I'm dead.

Mathphobic

2007-01-09T06:01:00.000-06:00

It's back to school for me today, folks.

(Insert gleeful dancing and singing here)

And get this...I am taking half as many classes, but getting double the amount of time away from home. Don't ask me how I pulled that off. I'm just going to pretend I don't notice so as not to draw attention to it. If the Stay-At-Home-Mom Police hear I'm not actually home two days a week, the jig will be up, and I'm certain they'll shackle me to the stove, or something like that.

This semester will not be without it's share of excitement, though, as I will be taking Basic Math.

Yes. That's right. I am taking an HONORS Literature course and BASIC MATH.

My name is Supermom and I am a Mathaphobe.

It all started in the eighth grade when I took Algebra 1 from Mr. Y. Mr. Y was your average, run-of-the-mill, aging seventies disco lounge throwback, complete with gold chain and hairy chest. To make it even better, he was a smoker who enjoyed Funyuns and coffee in the teacher's lounge between classes.

During the first week of school that year, I happened to raise my hand to ask Mr. Y a question, as I was a good suck-up, I mean, student who hungered and thirsted for every golden nugget of knowledge thrown my way.

Mr. Y sauntered over to my desk, leaned in close, putting an arm on either sides of my desk, and said with aromatic breath, "Talk to me, Babe."

Ew.

I never asked another question again.

And what's really sad, is that I had to have him for Algebra 2 and Geometry as well. The only time in my life I ever made a D.

Ever since then, I've had a love/hate relationship with Math.

That's not true. It's more like a hate/despise relationship.

Before I enrolled last semester, I took a placement test to see which classes I needed, as I had been out of school for thirteen years. I scored so low on the Math part, I could only take College Algebra if I signed a waiver saying that the school had advised me against it and if I took it and bombed, it would be my own stupid fault and they had nothing to do with such a hairbrained idea.

So I'm taking Basic Math/Beginning Algebra. From there I will take Intermediate Algebra. And then finally College Algebra, which I have to have to graduate. I'm approaching this as a self improvement exercise. I figure if I'm teaching my children, it might be a good idea to know how to add 2 and 2.

That's 5, right?

Wish me luck!

2007-01-09T05:53:00.000-06:00

This is what happens when you leave candy within reach of a two-year-old and turn your back.

I suppose I should work with her on unwrapping the candy first.

Poor little Tootsie Roll...never stood a chance. Sniff.

Phase 2

2007-01-08T13:38:00.000-06:00

It's funny, really. I had talked to Brother and Sister about redecorating their room with a medieval theme months ago. I talked about painting it to look like a castle. I talked about painting princesses and knights and dragons and they were gung ho.

Especially Brother.

But I failed to mention to him that I would have to paint over this:

This is what his room looked like when it was just his. Before we decided to move the girls in with him and make the extra bedroom a playroom.

Apparently he thought I would paint the castle and such around the transportation stencil, because when he saw me doing this:

he freaked out a little.

Unfortunately, it was too late too turn back.

But I found it fascinating how much he loved the stencil, and I was glad that at almost eight years old, he still thought it was cool. I remembered how much fun I'd had painting that room for him. How anxious I was to use the stencil I had found on clearance. And how we came to decide on the bright, kelly green, which is his favorite color.

I looked at the wall and felt a little sad, too. The days of choo-choos and glow in the dark stars don't last long. And I was painting over them.

I apologized to him and promised that when he had a room of his own again, I would paint anything he wanted on the walls.

"Cool! I want Lightning McQueen!! Ka-chow!" was his reply.

Of course, he may be 21 before that happens. Hope he still likes Lightning McQueen then.

However, the room looks really cool. It feels like you're standing inside a castle courtyard.

I'll keep posting my (slow) progress!

True Story

2007-01-06T21:48:00.000-06:00

I need new bras.

Forgive me, male readers, if I have caused you any kind of discomfort or embarrassment. But it is the cold, hard truth.

And after hearing this story of a woman whose life was saved by her bra, I feel as though no ordinary bra will do. She was hit by a runaway bullet, but it bounced off her bra strap, resulting in only a graze. So now I not only need something supportive, but bulletproof, too.

Really, one never knows when it might come in handy.

So, while folding laundry the other day, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. I looked down to see this poking out of my sweater:

This, dear friends, is the underwire from my last good bra.

But I'm thinking of keeping it. Might deflect a bullet.

2007-01-05T12:51:00.000-06:00

Have you ever seen one of those really old black and white photos of a little boy in what appears to be a dress? Have you ever wondered why they put their boys in dresses?

My grandma, who hailed from the deepest, darkest backwoods of Booger Holler, Arkansas, gave me the explanation one day. It's very simple really. All her children wore dresses until they were old enough to help with chores. If she needed to get some work done, she just put the hem of that dress under a leg of the bed and sweet Little Junior was contained. The Hillbilly Pack N Play.

Genius.

And today I've seriously considered bringing back that practice.

Baby is the world's busiest toddler ever. She has no use for anything that remotely resembles an age appropriate toy. If it isn't dangerous, fragile or messy, it holds no fascination for her.

Granted, today things have been somewhat hectic. Due to my painting project, the kids' bedroom is pretty messy. Because with any redecorating, I have to do reorganizing. And with any reorganizing comes more mess, which always seems to bleed over into all the other rooms.

Why?

Because I like to do things the hard way.

So in addition to all the other crap she likes to scatter all over the house, she now has more piles to plunder. And I am about to lose my mind.

Problem is, she's not wearing a dress today. So tell me what you think...would this be too extreme?

And So It Begins

2006-12-29T20:55:00.000-06:00

So I decided today, at exactly 11:34 a.m., that I was ready to begin making over the kids' bedroom into the magical medieval theme I had contemplated in July.

Just like that?

Yup. Just like that.

I've been thinking about it again for the past few days and I suddenly got the itch to paint and Baby was sleeping and...well...it just happened.

And here is what I did.

Next I will slap some gray paint on the walls and paint a lovely stone border around this to make it into a window.

The idea is to get as much done as possible before I start school on January 9th.

Of course we all remember how great I am at finishing painting projects. It only took me eight years to completely paint my living room. At that rate, sister will be thirteen and Brother will be sixteen. Think he'll still appreciate a castle bunk bed then?

We'll see.

By the way, I'd like to thank my friend, The Pink Commander, for making her kids' rooms so incredibly beautiful that I became a covetous wretch that can't rest until my own children have dwellings equally as lovely.

You're a true friend.

Leftover Turkey?

2006-12-26T08:32:00.000-06:00

Here's a great recipe (I usually use chicken, but it's great with turkey, too):

Tortilla Soup

1 can cream of chicken soup
1 can Ro-Tel diced tomatoes and chilis
1 can chicken broth
leftover turkey or chicken, skinless, shredded
minced garlic (I usually use a heaping teaspoon, probably about 2 cloves)
onion powder
coriander (optional)
Monterey Jack cheese

Simmer all the ingredients (except for cheese) together for about 15-20 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in a handful of shredded cheese. Serve over crushed tortilla chips and top with more cheese.

Warning: Highly Addictive

Of Mice and Men

2006-12-22T08:48:00.000-06:00

I noticed it first on my countertop, of all places. Tiny, little black pellets...like chocolate sprinkles.
Only they're not.

My initial reaction was denial. I cleaned the countertop with bleach and pretended it was some kind of weird, supernatural phenomena. Coincidence. A one-time freak incident. And I went along my merry way.

But the sprinkles returned. And then a hole was chewed in the bread on top of the fridge.

I couldn't deny it any longer.

We have a mouse.

But even then I didn't come to full terms with it. Is there such a thing as "a mouse"? Or is it more like "a mouse infestation"?

I told Hubby, who said he would set some traps, and returned to my nice, happy place of Ignore-It-And-It-Will-Go-Away.

One evening while Hubby was working and the kids were in bed, I mosied into the kitchen on my way to retrieve a load of laundry from the dryer. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement on the countertop.

Unless the coffeepot sprouted feet, that should not be happening.

I quietly sneak over to inspect the situation further, with a bit of fear and trepidation, I might add.

And what should I see but a pair of beety little black eyes peeking out from behind one of my yellow apple canisters.

Shudder.

He just sits there, frozen, waiting for my next move. I wad up a paper towel and throw it his direction.

He doesn't even flinch.

Now a mouse in plain sight is bad enough, but a brave mouse sitting there staring you down in your very own kitchen is just downright creepy.

The nerve.

I went from freaked out to mad. How dare that brazen little rodent challenge me?!

So I charge him, knowing full well I won't catch him. But, by golly, I'm gonna give him a good scare.

He bolts, of course. But to where I don't know. He disappeared behind the vegetable steamer and then vanished into thin air.

How do they do that???!!!

And where's the cat during all of this? Asleep on my bed.

That's it. No more food for Cookie. I'm cuttin' her off.

I rummaged around in my box of miscellaneous junk and found a package of EZ set traps. You know, the kind you don't even have to bait because that big, yellow piece of plastic with holes in it is supposed to trick the mice into believing it's real cheese.

They are also easier to set, which saves you a trip to the ER to have your finger reattached.

I set it and put it behind my apple canisters. I even take some little pieces of chocolate cake and sprinkle them around the trap, thinking my plan is quite diabolical. That little mouse is going to be so taken with my homemade chocolate cake he won't even notice he's walking right into a yellow plastic EZ death trap.

Heh, heh, heh.

Next morning I tiptoed gleefully to the kitchen, fully expecting to see my plan had worked.

What did I find?

No cake.

No mouse.

That evening Hubby and I put the kids to bed and watched "The DaVinci Code" while I played with....uh, I mean, wrapped the kids Christmas presents.

All of a sudden we hear a loud SNAP!

And then it screams.

Dear God...the screams.

My Knight In Shining Armour heads to the kitchen to resolve the situation while I cower in the living room.

He then proceeds to tell me all the gory details.

"It's a little one! Cute, too."

Now I'm feeling bad. Sure, I wanted them obliterated and smashed into a million, zillion little pieces, but I didn't actually want to hurt them.

I retreat to the playroom while Hubby disposes of our tiny victim outside. I don't want to see it. I don't want to know. I just want to find my happy place and camp there a while.

But while he is performing the dirty deed, I hear him talking to someone.

Very curious.

Very curious, indeed.

When it's all over I come out of my hiding place and ask who he was talking to.

"The mouse," he says, rather matter-of-factly.

"And what did you say?"

"Well, I told him if he happened to survive the night, to tell all his friends that the Death Angel is coming for them, too."

My hero.

2006-12-22T07:43:00.000-06:00

This is what Sister asked Santa to bring her.

A Barbie with a pet dog...

...that poops.

Again with the poop!!

At least it comes with a pooper scooper so Barbie can clean it up.