thankful

Living,
Breathing,
Cackles,
Groans,
Rivalry,
“m-o-o-o-o-ms”

The fact that I can’t even finish a list of thanks because the act of appearing to do anything for myself immediately draws all children under the age of 13 (which is only three of them, but still).

The fact that I listed that as something for which I am thankful even though it often pulls me straight to the brink of sanity.

In everything, give thanks.

combined influences may be hazardous to your health

Last Sunday, the pink one came home from church with a Noah’s Ark associated craft and various flashcards with different animals on them. Earlier this week, she could be found curled up against her father watching the closing few minutes of Rocky Balboa. On the surface, these two things might not be related, but be warned. Your five year old, when exposed to these influences may begin asking multitudinous questions about death and cemeteries. She also might be inclined to make up interesting flashcard games. What begins as a simple flashcard memory game might turn into the following musical:

Setting: The pig card stands before the assembled animal council near the entrance to the ark.

Pig: I came back because you missed me, missed me.

Other animals (chanting): Missed me, missed me, missed me….

Pig: I was sad because my mommy died.

Other animals: She died, she died.

Pig: But now I have a new mom, and she’s cool, and she’s a robot…a robot.

Other animals: Robot pig, robot pig…

I am sorry to say I missed the closing scenes as it was at this point that I had to quickly excuse myself from the room.

just for grins

I don't know how long I will leave these up here, but I just thought you might want to get a look at the family. Mind you, this might not give you the clearest dose of reality....





P.S. Mary's mention of comments in the comments on the last post reminded me that I wanted to thank you guys for your comments. Did I say comments often enough in the last sentence? I plan a woe is me post about commentversation at some point in the future. Knowing me, it will likely make it to print in a year or so.

i got plenty of nothin

Note: Since this post is taking me so long to write, dates are not accurate. I have also apparently killed any writing ability I once possessed.

I have been known to make the occasional error in judgment. I know it is hard to believe, but alas, it is true! Saturday was a small example of my humanity. The schedule looked something like this:

10 AM: Baseball practice for SpongeBob and the Pink One
12 PM: Get home, throw laundry in, and make lunch for the masses
2:30 PM: Drive the Instigator to his school for pre-performance band practice
3:30 PM: Return home and do more laundry while helping The Working Boy prepare for his first ever school dance.
5:30 PM: Attempt to locate relatively decent clothes for the remaining four to wear to “The Great Performance.”
6 PM: Leave the house for pre-performance dinner
7:45 PM: Arrive at the concert venue
Latertime PM: Pick the Instigator up from his post-performance return to school.
Latertime + 0:30 PM: Return home.

It was a somewhat busy day, perhaps, but do-able – done-able.

Everything was going along fine until the 5 PM mark. I even had time to do a crossword puzzle. This would be judgment error number one. From experience, I should know by now to have clothing choices made and arranged well in advance of actual departure times (and shoes located and padlocked into place pending later use), but seventeen and a half years in the trenches have apparently taught me very little.

Shortly before we would have to leave to make it a viable option, the hubster decided it would be a good plan to go out to eat before the performance (as noted in agenda article 6). After inquiring about my preferences (“I don’t know. I’d just like it to be someplace sit-down. I really do not want fast food.” Error number 2), when he attempted to further glean details as to my culinary yearnings (“I don’t know. I have no idea what’s out there in the world since I have absolutely no exposure to it and haven’t for seventeen years!”), I should have taken my obvious befrazzlement as an indication of my general mood for the day. Error number 3.

When the natives were already restless five minutes after sitting down to eat (even though it was buffet-style and they had some measure of distraction), I should have prepared myself for the trials to come. Yes, yet another error – are we sensing a trend yet?

When we pulled up to the concert venue with only five or ten minutes to spare before the start of the performance, when we noted all of the elderly people dressed to the nines, when my children almost took out two older ladies with walkers on the ramp leading inside…

There was a time when I considered myself quite astute at picking up the nuances which portend the prevailing winds of atmosphere. I can only surmise that years of ignoring the warnings (due to the certain knowledge that some fates cannot be changed when the precious munchkins are pulling the strings of circumstance) have dulled my ability to heed the alarm bells.

Strangely, the bells did finally reach my conscious mind while the hubster was arguing with the ticket master concerning the interpretation of the advertisement flier which promised half-off tickets for the family of students participating in this event. He took it to mean the adults were half-off as well. It stated the kids were but was ambiguous at best on the other terms. I married Mr. Itstheprincipleofthething.

I am not comfortable with public confrontation. I was in my late(-er) twenties before I could even go up to the counter of a fast food restaurant and tell them if they got my order wrong. Clearly, we are opposite extremes. I had hoped that some of our kids would get a bit of each and wind up somewhere in the middle.

At any rate, while this little discussion was taking place, I had the sudden and extreme urge to simply take the kids out to play on the ramp while Da Man went in alone. I ignored it. I’ve lost track of my errors somewhere along the way, but I know of at least one math geek who will likely read this, so maybe she can let me know later.

It was an abnormally warm and beautiful spring evening as we entered the heated auditorium.

The lights dimmed before we even had a chance to look at the programs (or we would have noticed the vital detail that the boy and his school’s marching band were in the very last number of the night).

The sweat trickled down our faces before the performance even began. The children continually opened and closed their chairs, letting them slam shut with a squeak-bang before repeating the process. Spongebob practiced burping in different rhythms. Freckles stuck his head in the seat and his fingers in his ears. The Drama King complained in Broadway whispers that the night was simply not to his liking and he was ready to go home. The hub and the Pink One engaged in a rousing performance of the Seat Versus Lap Ballet, and I sat silently fanning myself with a program – smack in the middle of the brood – wandering if there was any chance people would believe I wasn’t a member of this party (especially the elderly couple in front of us who clearly paid full-price and whose chairs the Spongemeister was repeatedly kicking, bumping, jostling or caressing - despite numerous scoldings).

And then there was the opening note.

And the husband’s barely stifled laughter.

And my inward groan.

The Culps took female form, donned an evening gown, and bastardized Gershwin (while, technically singing not one note off-key). The first five minutes finally passed about a week later. The heat increased. The wiggles and whines intensified. I found myself, at one point, crawling on the floor with a curly-headed boy locked between my knees while I searched for three pairs of discarded shoes. I applaud myself that I managed this without more than a rustle of sound.

By and by, the first half did come to an end. The intermission in the cool night air while thunderous gusts of pre-rain breeze lowered our temperatures, brought much cooler tempers as well.

I have to admit, the second half was better (despite the husband snapping his fingers loudly and just inconsistently enough to purposefully drive me crazy).

We sat in two different rows upon our return – separating the least pacific of the children in the process. The air seemed cooler. The Pink one dancing in the aisles was adorable (at first). The temperature in the room seemed to be slightly lower. But, the biggest aid to our decreased agitation had to be the ability to look at the programs and estimate with relative accuracy just how much time we had left to endure.

And finally, it came – the very last number. As the narration laid forth the final sentence of a song’s history, as she spoke the words, “Strike up the band,” the lights came up; a whistle sounded, and in marched a very small contingent of our son’s high school marching band.

“Let the drums roll out.” And they did, in exhilarating, modern-urban fashion. The band-front coaxed pep from the pep-less. The band reached the foot of the stage.

“Let the trumpets call!”

1 beat (I see the shift of the Instigator’s eyes toward the 1st trumpeter)

2 beats (his lips prepared, his fingers poised)

3 beats (almost imperceptible irritation and embarrassment briefly flashes over his brow)

3 ½ beats (the slightest of movements indicate the possibility that he will simply put his trumpet down)

And then…

A weak and off key melding of notes squeezed slowly from the bell of two of the three horns (alumni who learned the song that very day) spurs him to finally play his note (dead on).

And it was in that moment that I was grateful to the vocalist for her powerful voice as her shout of “Strike up the band!” erased the momentary worry from the Instigator’s face. But, I’m still not quite sure I will forgive her for the rendition of “Bess You Is My Woman Now”.

The moral of the story: When blessed by the overwhelming presence of active youth, don’t go to the Gershwin; make the Gershwin come to you.

that day

two months ago, I wrote a small post about a morning trip to the dentist with my father. I left quite a bit out of the telling. I actually wrote that piece while sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. The rest of the day went downhill from there. I’ll present it in bullet points.

The set-up:
- the driveway to the assisted living place is largely dirt, and there are very few places to actually park

-people coming by for just a moment are prone to blocking part of that driveway

-the dental appointment was during a relatively warm spell so the ground was muddy

The drama:
-when you don’t have a lot of confidence in yourself to back up through a maze of three cars on a dirt driveway into a relatively busy and curvy rural road, you are likely to make a three point turn

-making a three point turn on a muddy driveway is not a good idea

-getting stuck in the mud is not fun (especially when you do NOT want to let your father know you are still present on the grounds due to intense emotional rawness)

-waiting two hours for your son to come pick you up because your husband does not want to spend money on a tow truck is even less fun (especially when you missed breakfast, it is slightly past lunchtime, your stomach is growling, you have nothing to eat or drink in the car, and there is NOTHING within walking distance).

-when you have half an hour at home after your son picks you up but before your husband gets home to take you back out to try to free the car, your time would be better spent getting something to quell the growling gut than in posting a blog entry and feeding the children but forgetting about yourself.

-when your husband can’t get the car out after the first few tries, you would be better served aggressively suggesting the tow truck than meekly staying out of his way

-when, after several hours, the tow truck finally gets your car out (after a mere five minutes of effort), you may cry tears of stress and gratitude over your cold steering wheel for a few minutes before regaining the ability to drive

-when you get home at 10 PM, it would be a good idea to go straight to bed

-when the insurance check arrives a week later reimbursing the entire cost of towing, you may need to stifle the urge to hit someone with a cast-iron frying pan

Happily, the subsequent trips to the dentist were largely uneventful…

reaching

This man sits erect next to me – rigid with the knowledge that the world is out to confuse him. He just spoke to the offices yesterday. He was supposed to be at the other office today and this one in two weeks. How can they remove teeth before taking impressions? How will the impressions be accurate if there are no teeth to model? This office is trying to steal business from the other, and now he is going to get a bill from the other doctor too – for a no-show. He just talked to them yesterday. He wrote it down on the card in his wallet. See? It is written right here. His daughter is just trying to confuse him. This office must have everything backwards.

Pent up from the non-confrontational tendency to pacify by agreement, I must support a position based on second-hand knowledge. No, I didn’t talk to the oral surgeon myself. Yes, my sister did. Yes, I know you did too, but I am taking her words over yours – trusting her more. Yes, I understand that you cannot admit I was right about the office and instead have to make new defenses about dentists charging you double and changing the routine instead of you perhaps, just maybe, writing it down wrong. I reach out from my own hurt and isolation – understanding your fear when faced with direct proof that you cannot trust your certainty. I reach out knowing that in ten minutes, we will repeat the cycle. You will accuse me again. I will explain again. You will use your sugary voice to persuade the nurses that your daughter is horribly confused. I summon power from the God-seed deep within. I’m too young and vulnerable to find that power in my own character.

I am seven years old. Today I will blow out the candles to prove it. Where are you? You said you were coming. You even called me with the sole purpose of blessing me with that information. I don’t live with you, but I adore you. Maybe it is easier to do because I never remember a time when we did co-reside. The party ticks by. The cake is delayed. Your car never pulls into the all too empty space in front of our town home. The phone gives me no apologies or assurances – only empty rings.

After everyone leaves, I venture out to your town home – just a few blocks from our own for the first time. Your car isn’t there. There is no evidence of emergency. I just fell to the bottom of a priority list. The maturity of newly seven is certain that I am less valuable than doing drywall for a friend in return for a few beers and easy conversation. I am not worth the top of the list. I’m not even worth remembering.

My hand reaches out to touch your door, and it is cold just like the stiff shoulder turned to me now. The years of walls built to keep the pain away have been stripped gradually. I have no protection from the chill.

You walk through the doors into the chair. When I see you again, you will have six less teeth, but a full measure of bitterness toward me – bitterness that you will somehow remember even after you have forgotten what it is for.

I love you.

the refrigerator

The outside of a person and the inside of a person are often very different things. I’m not talking about muscles and blood and body organs either. Inside of each human, there is a depth that makes them tick, gives them purpose, and defines who they are.

Refrigerators are backwards.

On the inside of a refrigerator, you will find the foods which sustain us, but which also go into the make-up of our external bodies – the foods which nourish us and those which add character to our hips, our waists – our outward frames.

In many homes, the outside of a refrigerator is rife with preschool drawings and family pictures. Our home isn’t much different in its capacity to show the inner workings of the mind – the medium is just different.

There is a chore calendar – laminated in hopefulness to allow a white board marker the freedom to cross off accomplished chores. It bears no marks.

There is an enormous magnetic band-aid perched above the memo pads for recording needed groceries (blank) and telephone numbers for callback purposes (also blank).

There are various free magnets from assorted solicitors by mail.

There is a bumper sticker, held down with an earth magnet, bearing the words Fat people are harder to kidnap.

And there is a new addition.

On Thanksgiving, at my sister’s house, the entire family enjoyed playing with the magnetic words they had on their refrigerator. This enjoyment was obvious enough that my mother gifted us with our own set for Christmas.

While our ponderings varied from silly to profound upon my sister’s cooling vessel, they have yet to gain such loft on our own.

From the freckled boy on Thanksgiving came these haunting words:

Speak the word slowly as though a whisper can be judged.

He is a bit amazed at all of the fuss those words received claiming not to truly understand them himself. I, on the other hand, have contemplated the heritage of assembling text that somehow speaks the inner workings of the soul while remaining only the messenger that carries them to the outside world.

But alas, perhaps our own refrigerator’s surface just as accurately captures the little idiosyncrasies that make us who we are.

The Drama King (9):

Pedal when drunk
and
crush the light

driving could be eternity


The Freckled One (12):

pound, stare, and love a puppy


The N Boy (17):

I as wet of a storm
smell beauty spring and
sausage heave


Spongebob (6):

TV’s purple finger
why love time


The Brat (old):

drool sweet juice there in the dream
music of honey spray


Da Man (older):

Stop leaving a smear


And a bonus anonymous entry (which may be attributed to the Instigator (14)):

Dress in shaking peaches
blood is behind shining pictures


I’m sure the Pink One will be contributing soon, but she has yet to learn how to sound out words. Once she does, I am betting we are all in trouble.

the tale of the dog that licked you

I have been remiss. In my all too frequent absence from this blog of late, I neglected to mention that we got a new dog. We were not intending to do this quite as quickly as it happened, but the eldest’s boss, upon hearing of our loss, asked if we would be interested in taking one of their dogs (personality conflict between dogs forcing them to get rid of her). So, we began the sudden adjustment that comes from severe downsizing, and made room on our laps for Daisy the Dachshund.

Daisy thinks she is a big dog. She is very loving and wonderful with the children and parents, but she is extremely protective. A ringing doorbell or knock at the door will immediately set her off on a frenzied rush of barks and growls as she runs back and forth from door to resident, “Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”

The husband has enjoyed this trait since discovering that doorbell rings on the television produce the same result (or telephone rings, elevator dings, game show buzzers…). He is now able to combine his two favorite pastimes – playing with the DVR remote, and teasing mercilessly (all in good fun, of course).

We have construction going on in an upstairs room of our house right now. Normally, we would be handling this by ourselves, but we threw caution to the wind, and actually hired someone to do the drywall this time around. The constant opening and closing of the front door combined with the speed of a certain weiner dog led to the necessity of leashing Daisy during certain times of the day. At one such time, S, the instigator, sick of holding onto the leash, attached it instead to the piano chair. Now, I call this the piano chair, but in reality, it is your standard wheeled office chair which just happens to reside at the table upon which the keyboard rests.

I was on the phone with my mother. It was turning into a relatively long conversation since, after several days of laryngitis, I finally had most of my voice back (and I haven’t been over to see her in an entire week), so I did not immediately notice the leash situation. When I did, I set off to locate the responsible party. Before I could make my way to the other room, happenstance interfered.

It is a dark secret of our “little” family that the TV is a member of the household. Often, even when no one is actually watching the thing, it is left in operation. After all, we wouldn’t want it to get lonely or bored. Apparently, the television would very much like to be the dear husband when it grows up, for it chose that moment to peal out with the ring of a doorbell.

Dachshunds are not very big dogs.

Suddenly, the piano chair went flying through the living room, hot on the trail of a barking tornado – through the obstacle course of a living room recently abandoned by young children at play, on to the dining room.

We live in a 100 year old house. I don’t know if you have spent much time in old houses, but it is a somewhat common anomaly for such houses to have floors which are less than level. In short, our dining room works well for science classes studying the effects of gravity.

The chair started catching up with the dog.

Being a person of gentle heart, I should feel guilty that I didn’t help the poor thing sooner, but I must admit that I was simply laughing too darn hard. My greatest regret? I didn’t have a video camera handy, so I won’t get to use that wonderful phrase, “No animals were harmed in the making of this film.”

the cone of silence

DH: How old is your mother?

Me: 66

DH: How long have you known me?

Me: 22 years.

DH: Which made your mother how old when you met me?

Me: Duh, 44.

DH:

Me:

DH:

Me: Oh my goodness, that's how old you are now!

There's just something wild about that fact.

eek eek eek

N will officially be 16 in two minutes! Eeeeeeeek! Hold on, hold on, I can put off my freaking for another hour and a half if I think of it as his actual birth hour. If all goes well, I could be asleep by then and wait to deal with this until tomorrow....

Eeeeek!

(I just discovered the time stamp on these posts is wrong by about 7 minutes. How odd)

will i ever learn?

How incredibly naive I can be. When I saw J playing with his new build-a-bear koala complete with baseball uniform, why oh why did I make a suggestion? Suggestions go astray so easily. It seemed harmless enough, "Maybe the next time the paper towel roll is empty, you can use it to make him a baseball bat."

You can see it coming already.

J: "Mom, when I went in the kitchen, there was a puddle of water on the floor. I didn't see it so I slipped. I went round and round and then fell down. When I got back up, I could see it, so I cleaned it up, but there are no more paper towels."

Me: "That was almost a new roll of towels on there!"

J: "It was a really big puddle."

And to think, I was just sitting here ready to post about the advent of new technologies and my normal gratitude for the increased absorbancy of disposable diapers and pull-ups. I say normally because at this moment, there is a nice little pile of non-sweepable gel granules in my upstairs hallway (what happens when corner of door repeatedly meets discarded sodden pull-up device). I really do need to hire someone to come do some potty training around here, then I can use those leftover pull-ups for more important things - like cleaning up really big puddles.

a sticky situation

When I was younger and had three children, I was ever vigilant. I learned by harsh experience that I couldn’t go to the bathroom, sleep, do laundry….blink. These little people, they have a way of finding exactly what they shouldn’t do, and doing it. Over the years, I have become more relaxed. With time, the oldest three have gotten big enough to share the responsibility of disaster management. There is almost always someone near at hand to notice any unconventional activity. I’ve gotten soft.

I should know better. Logistically speaking, there are times when every person over the age of ten in this household is blinking at the same time. There are those moments when everyone thinks someone else is on guard duty. Years ago, it was not uncommon to enter a room to find the words, “Are you sure you want to delete the contents of your C drive?” plastered across the computer screen. Age brings forgetfulness – and perhaps a touch of stupidity.

I mean, who in their right mind buys glue sticks in bulk anyway?

Yes, while the pink one was busy at work on her sidewalk chalk wall mural, the T-monster deployed stealth mode. I just have one question. Does anyone have any suggestions for removing glue from every key of the keyboard, the desk, and that wonderful phone cord which was the topic of a previous post?

Should you wish to respond, I’ll be hiding in the bathroom. Remember to use the secret knock.

tick tock tick tock

In one week, my biggest baby will be sixteen.

I don't even have anything profound or moving to say about that at the moment; I just thought if I put it in print, it might get my behind in gear around here. It should serve as a screaming reminder of just how quickly the time passes, make me take advantage of every moment, jump start me into action. Instead, I sit here playing spider solitaire while trying to pretend I get to keep them all with me forever.

Ah well, I still have a week to go. I am sure I can think of some better avoidance tactics in that amount of time...

humor in retrospect

The dice rolled. The dh was sniffling all night, and everyone else was still sleeping, so S and I set off together for football alone. We took along the handy-dandy garmin, the ezpass for tolls, directions from mapquest, and our spirit of adventure - or as much of that as we could muster, not being morning people. The trip up was relatively uneventful. I missed one turn, but set myself to rights before the garmin could even say, “Recalculating.”

After arriving, the team did the standard hour of standing around doing nothing. I still have yet to understand why they are expected to arrive two hours before a game when things don’t even start happening until about 40 minutes before game time. So, most of the boys stood around playing catch while S used me as a sled and pushed me around the field. Uneventful to the extreme, until….

Have you ever noticed that there are “untils” scattered throughout your life? Every situation could be viewed in respect to its speed bumps and obstacles. Sometimes those obstacles take you on a path that is grand and glorious but that would never have been possible without a negative occurrence. Sometimes, they just cause grumpiness. This was one of the latter.

Right before weigh-in, the team was suiting up. It was at that moment that S noticed his mouth guard was no longer attached to his helmet. Great. Wonderful. We scoured the field in search of its fluorescence, but found it not. I made the long trek back to the car, searching every inch of ground as I went. Nothing. The team was getting weighed in when I made it back. I asked around, and none of the coaches or team members had a spare mouth guard. The stand which usually stocks them on the field was sold out. We had driven an hour and a half, stood around for an hour and a half, and now it would be for nothing. I tried to remember the stores we had passed in close proximity. There hadn’t been many. This field was pretty close to being in the middle of nowhere. Still, I had to try.

Someone remembered seeing a Sears at some point. It was worth a shot. I yelled to S that I would be out shopping, and ran for my car. I drove to all of the shops I had seen – nothing. The Sears just carried clothes, there were multitudinous drug stores and realtors, but nothing was going to fill my particular need. As I drove, I called the dh. He got onto the computer, and promised to call me back when he found anything. With his return call came proof to any interested party that we would never survive the Amazing Race.

Him: Where are you now?

Me: Driving North on _ _ _.

Him: Are you coming up on any crossroads?

Me: No.

Him: Do you see ___ ____ Park?

Me: No, where would it be?

Him: I don’t know where you are.

Me: I’m coming up to a road now.

Him: What road is it?

Me: I don’t know, these roads are marked really poorly, and you can’t see a sign until you are past them.

Him: Did you take my Garmin?

Me: Yes.

Him: Is it turned on?

Me: Yes, but I can’t look at it while I am holding the phone and peeking at the directions to see what roads I am getting ready to pass.

Him: You don’t need the directions. I am LOOKING at the directions.

Me: you don’t have to talk to me that way. I am not an inept individual.

Him:

I ended up driving down winding roads through trees and cornfields in search of a K-Mart that, apparently, does not exist. Finally, he found an athletic supply store a few miles further on.

After rapidly picking out a mouthpiece that I wasn’t sure about (they didn’t carry the brand the boy prefers), I again scurried off to the car in hopes that the more direct 13 miles back to the field would take less time than my circuitous outbound journey. I was coasting along fine for 6 of those miles, until….

You know, I have noticed that “untils” are much more likely to occur when you can least afford them to do so. That may not actually be the case. When you get a new car, you suddenly start noticing just how many people are also driving the same kind of car, even if you never remember seeing one of that type before in your life. Did everyone go out and get a car the same day as you did? Not likely. Perhaps the “untils” go unnoticed when they don’t cause inconvenience to your plan of action.

Road construction. I had noticed it the first time we came through the area on the way to the field, but at that time, traffic was not heavy, and it caused not a blip in our plans. This time, I spent miles behind a semi, going between 0 and 20 miles an hour with no view of what was ahead. Finally, I did make it back to the field. A quick look at the clock told me that I had likely missed the entire first half of the game. Still, all was not lost. Ignoring my swelling bladder for the sake of my child, I sped off to the field to give him his new mouthpiece.

It didn’t fit without molding.

A side trip to the concession stand had to be delayed – my bladder would no longer take on the martyr role. Either I visited the port-a-potty, or I wore wet clothes. That handled, I stood in the enormous line with the simple hope of obtaining a cup of hot water to mold the mouthpiece.

My objective was finally accomplished. The mouthpiece was duly molded; things seemed to be looking up, until…

Have I ever mentioned that I have a tendency to beat up on myself when things go wrong? I can feel guilt over anything, even the uncontrollable - sometimes, especially the uncontrollable. And here it was raising its ugly head. The mouthpiece still didn’t fit. The ends would need to be trimmed from the back in order for my child’s lovely palate to be protected. Whatever the odds that two first aid kits, a bunch of men, and an anal retentive mother (myself) would all be without any kind of sharp implement with which to cut the plastic, I am sure they were small. Then again, I am good at falling against the odds.

All of that for nothing, he didn’t even get to play. The team lost too (made harsher by the fact that one of the opposing team’s touchdowns was scored while they had one too many players on the field, which escaped the notice of the officials even if it didn’t escape the video cameras of our screaming fans).

There are more “untils”. I drove, briefly, the wrong way on a one way street. I almost forgot to look at my gas gauge, which would have been traumatic. The signage and turns were confusing at times (thus the wrong way adventure). Yet, we made it home safely. And if there is one thing I have learned over the years it is this: grumpy ‘untils” are the glue that holds relationships together. After the grumpiness settles, all that is left is a funny story. Sharing those moments will serve me well when I reach my rocking chair years.

the games people play

I came home from football practice with S this evening to find the dh, N, M & J playing a lively game of Monopoly. I may have mentioned before that the man hates playing with me, because I won't trade properties. Somehow, anyone who trades with him always ends up on the short end of the stick, even if it seems like a mutually beneficial deal at the time. It might have something to do with the fact that he played in tournaments when he was younger. That he always seems to be coming to your aid when you are in a tight spot doesn't hurt either. I guess, in a way, that's how many real life monopolies got their start (thinking Grapes of Wrath and the dustbowl here).

It was interesting mostly to see the character dynamics of my family brought to light through entertainment. I know my family pretty well, so none of it surprised me completely. Dh is a sore winner, N is a sore loser, and M & J enjoy egging on whichever one is in power at any given moment. My house is emptier by one piano, and the dh kept the kiddos up an hour and a half past their normal bedtime on the evening before we have a morning football game across the state line. Grrrrrr. I have a feeling we aren't all going to the game as planned.

Come to think of it, real life's a bit like that Monopoly game. Everyone is doing things with a planned goal in mind - small scale engineering of events in attempt to reach a particular destination. Everyone has a different destination in mind - even if they are very close, they are never exact in scope. So I guess my day tomorrow depends on who is rolling the dice.

Hey, as long as my playing piece is the little Scottish terrier, I guess I'm good.

making nice

Since I have been so sarcastic about my darling husband of late, I figured it was about time I said something kind about him. After all, he does have just a few redeeming qualities. I could talk about how he loves me even though he knows me. I could go into great detail about the week he spent trying to retrieve data from a close friend's crashed hard drive. I could even wax poetic about the countless small ways he cares for our children. Instead, I just have to say this; he has informed me that he has been researching a new appliance package (a.k.a. fridge, double oven, cooktop, microwave, dishwasher), all in stainless steel. Now, how's that for love?

spongebob's last stand and other stories

spongebob’s last stand

T is sick of football and never wants to play again. Last week, we allowed him to just go to the game and not play. Tonight, I thought I would try to teach him a little bit about commitment and make him wear his full uniform, even if he didn’t get out there and play. The problem is, he thought he would teach me a little bit about choosing my battles wisely.

We were late arriving at the field, so I dropped T & J off with S while I went in search of a parking spot. The minute he was ejected from the car, Mr. Squarepants decided to put up a thorough fight, and glued himself to the side of the minivan. S did manage to peel him off, and I informed the child that he was to go to the field with his brother. I did let him know that I would be there as soon as I parked. Upon turning my vehicle around, I noticed S attempting to push a very stubborn five year old up a hill. With my verbal admonitions, the progress became slightly less sloth-like in velocity.

I found a parking spot, hoisted the portable chairs to my back, grabbed the pink one’s hand, and headed off to the field. Waiting for me, set apart from the rest of the team in a heap on the ground was a sobbing T. He was determined not to play, and equally determined not to talk about it. I set up all of the chairs, at which point, the boy relocated to a spot which would allow his siren wails to pierce the eardrum of my right ear from behind. The low wail continued for five minutes before I finally asked him what was wrong. I knew better than to expect an answer. When he has decided to make a point, he refuses to state his case, preferring instead to make you do so for him. Fool that I am, I chose to wait for him to talk. Mothers are supposed to have the upper hand in matters of control after all.

Twenty minutes later, when the dear spouse arrived, the sobbing lump could still be found, slightly in front of me along the sidelines where I had placed him until he could calm down enough to talk about it. Ten minutes after that, conditions had not changed but for the number of available ears to be damaged by his pervasive moanings.

Everyone learns, at some point in their lives, that five year olds are part noodle. The fascinating aspect of this phenomenon is that the doughy gluten travels so rapidly from one body section to the next, thereby hindering any attempt to support the metamorphosing frame. The dh tried several methods of planting the child. Feet, knees, and behind all quickly succumbed to the rubberizing influence. He considered placing T helmet down due to the unyielding strength therein, but the roundness quotient defeated his purpose. Eventually, the blubbering sponge was left in his heap.

Some around us perhaps thought us cruel parents for letting the child wail for these forty-five minutes. They know not the nature of the beast! Finally, realizing that a migraine was approaching, I called the child over to me and simply asked, “How long do you plan to keep crying?”

His tear-free reply came without hesitation, “Until we get home.”

Alas, mommy dearest found leverage! He had been told he would not get his drink until he stopped crying. He knew the Gatorade was already purchased for him. Mommy had a plan. “Okay, right, well, if you don’t stop crying before we get home, you won’t get to have your Gatorade when we get there. You will only get water.” It was as if someone turned off a breaker. Not a whimper, moan, or gulped breath followed. Blessed silence reigned. He got his sweet nectar; I got my peace.

Five minutes later, my darling spouse decided to make the boy sit with the team for the halftime chat. I hope I can be forgiven for my defection; it was at this point that I suddenly realized I had dropped something on the baseball diamond last spring.



and why I can’t even go christmas shopping, let alone out of state

Returning home after the wondrously relaxing football game, I muttered something to the hub about headaches and darkness, and needing just a moment in our room. There was no dissent, so I proceeded to plop onto the waterbed and embrace the fluffy blanket and body pillow. I guess he took the request literally. A moment later, he was stationed beside me informing me that M had spilled his iced tea accidentally by launching a ball into it, and oh, by the way, he is out of iced tea now, so he has nothing to drink. The iced tea thing - a constant in our marriage for seventeen years - all hail tradition!

the cat catches stupid-itis from the mom

So, I step out onto the back porch to accompany the dog on his nightly cleansing of the intestinal tract, and I notice the cat is perched upon the garage roof with every appearance of imminent jumpage. His target is obvious, the slim edge of the slimy, green, above-ground pool. I hate to admit that part of me was hoping he would miss.

a different kind of humor

The seven year-old made up a story. It started this way.

A boy and a girl's mother died.

A big grin spreads across his face with the excitement of telling me this story.

Their father put her in a coffin. He decided to give his kids some money to spend at the store.

Bigger grin here.

Me: This is not sounding like a very happy story.

J: Oh, it's a very happy, funny story

The father told the kids their mother was just sleeping really deeply even though she wasn't.

Me: But he shouldn't do that.

J: He just didn't want to hurt their feelings.

The kids took the money and ran off to the store to buy an enormous alarm clock.

J: See, now that's funny!

Yeah, I'm just rolling on the floor here.

Shall I assume he is sick of his mother and wants her to go sleep in an underground box? He certainly has an appreciation for black comedy. The child really has been preoccupied with death lately. The stories he tells are full of it. Always, it is taken in a light-hearted manner. Embarrassingly, even though he is the fourth child to hit this age, I don't remember if it is a stage they all went through.

You know, the story's kinda growing on me. Maybe I will hang it on the fridge.

he lied to me

Last night N, my 15 and 11/12ths year old, lied to me. I knew it at the time. It was disappointing. It was quite accidental that I was witness to this lie. He and M were laughing loudly in the hallway upstairs at midnight. I went up to shoo them to bed and provide the requisite lecture. While I was busy sounding as maternal as I could, his cell phone rang. He looked at the number and said, “What the heck?” He turned off the ringer. It rang again a minute later and then a third time. “I don’t know who the heck would be calling me. I don’t know that number.”

He isn’t a very good liar, or maybe I am just a perceptive enough mother to catch him even if he is. I knew he was not ignorant to the caller’s details. Still, I let it slide. I mandated lights out and sleep before wandering back to the computer to reverse look up the number – resolving to pay closer attention, hurt by the lack of faith in me his dishonesty seemed to reveal.

This morning, he sat at the table ready for school at the prescribed hour – an hour we have missed every day this week. He looked up at me with an air of extreme repentance, “Mom, I have to tell you something. That phone call last night wasn’t an accident. I knew who it was from. It was a girl named S. We met in an online game, and I didn’t want you to think it was silly because we really like each other. She is a Christian. She is in AP History and English and wants to be a meteorologist. I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you the truth.”

Hmmmm.

Let me tell you, there were and are a lot of things going through my mind, but first and foremost, I have to say I am awfully proud of him for telling me the truth. My goodness he’s growing up all of a sudden.

shadow puppets and bubblegum

So I am preparing my lesson plan overview for the coming school year. We are starting a bit late this year due to a family trip next week. I will do the standardized testing this coming week, but wait for the "real" start of school until we get back.

The fact that I am only now getting around to the lesson plans might give you the hint that "procrastination" is more than just the title of my last entry. Have I mentioned before that my kids are raising two ADD parents? It's not just a tangent, trust me.

N's first lesson for his creative writing class has to do with paying attention to body communication. It discusses the fact that the body movements of children do not tend to match what they are saying or doing. Biting nails, fidgeting legs, picking scabs, staring into space - these are all things a child might be doing when they are supposed to be sitting still. N is supposed to observe the difference in body motions from children to adults. It mentions that adults usually have good control over their movements and are capable of sitting still for relatively long stretches.

Hmmmm.

In church this morning, you would have caught me passing notes. You see, my dear husband was purposefully instigating his children to try to make them fidget more so they would get in trouble. Cracking knuckles, scratching his fingernails loudly across the back of the seats, rustling the paper insert to the altoids as loudly as possible - these are a few of his favorite things.

I gave S a note which said, "Tell your father to behave himself."

Instead of saying it, he passed the note over.

The dh read the note then looked at me with mock seriousness and mouthed, "He's dead. My father's dead."

It's a good thing I am N's teacher, and I can grade the poor boy on a sliding scale.