Nutty

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

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

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.

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'

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.

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

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

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!

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!

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!

Disturbing News

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

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

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...

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?!

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

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!

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

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

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.

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?