fiveberries in texas

How your ten year old sister says "I Love You"

2012-01-28T12:21:00.001-06:00

Olivia: Charlie, do you still want to be in the Navy when you grow up?

Charlie: Yes.

Olivia: Couldn't you die when you do that job?

Charlie: Yes.

Olivia: I don't think you should do that job, it seems too dangerous.

Apples. Trees. Whatever.

2012-01-26T13:35:00.002-06:00

I forgot to pick up my oldest child from school yesterday.

Shocking, you say? Nah, not really. Not the first time I'd forgotten him. I'm not terribly proud of that fact, but it's relevant to the story ahead.

It's about a mile to walk home - but when he walked in the back door, he says, "Mom?" And my immediate response was, "OH CRAP." And "Hey, was it raining on your way home?" "Glad you're here, sorry I forgot about you, but I did get that t-shirt quilt finished I'd been promising you for two years finished this afternoon!"

I went downstairs to give him a guilt-hug and he hugged me extra tight. "Mom, I was so worried about you, I was just sure that when I walked in the door there would be a note saying 'we had to take mom to the hospital'." He said he worried about 3/4 of the way home. I asked him if now that he knew the whole story was he mad at me for forgetting him - he said no, still just relieved.

We went about our normal afternoon routines - questions (from him) about snack food and questions (from me) about homework. About ten minutes later, I realized something.

"Why didn't you just call me, you do have your phone with you, right?"

"Yeah, but I thought if there were intruders then it wouldn't really...."

And then I realized. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Because I can imagine up some really crazy terrible stuff if I want to. But I always justify it by telling myself that if I imagine it, it won't happen, so it's really the most responsible thing to do, imagining the worst.

Deep Breathing.

2011-05-25T18:01:00.002-05:00

Tonight is my first night as a cubmaster, officially, in front of wads and wads of kids. And I'm nervous. Not nervous, terrified. These parents are my friends, the kids think I'm a celebrity every time I walk by them in the school, yet, I'm all a-butterfly-ish.

I'll tell you it's mostly because the whole pack meeting is all ceremonies and patches and awards, and not really a whole lot of crazy eight-year-old fun, which I'd completely prefer. New scouts, a couple of advancements, adult recognition (Lord help me if I forgot someone!) and then a graduation ceremony. Too much to fit into one pack meeting, quite honestly, but what's a girl to do?

This girl is going to pretend like it's not all about to go down in thirty minutes, that there won't be new eager faces full of expectation and experienced faces full of hope and excitement. And parents, really hoping they can get these crazy kids in bed before it's too late.

terrified.

Worth it.

2011-05-23T10:54:00.002-05:00

Planned and implemented campout for 80 kids and their families this weekend. Had help, lots of it, but it caused a fair amount of stress and complaining from yours truly. At the end of it all, I was exhausted and beat down.

Until. On the way home, my two children who went with me called Sarge and told him all about it. Their glowing reviews and tales of fun and games made my aggravation all go away.

Time and time again, discussions happen amongst adults who have to herd other adults in this scouting world about how much work the adults make things. If it were only kids, things would be so much more fun. And so, I remind myself, as I get closer and closer to the Big Camp coming up, that once the kids get there and I get to stop dealing with all the adults, that the fun will begin. The smiles on their faces and their memories made will make all the frustration melt away.

I am really looking forward to that.

I know, issues.

2011-05-14T23:34:00.001-05:00

Charlie has been asking me to buy them a new tube of toothpaste. I keep forgetting. So they borrow mine.

Honestly, can they not read instructions? "Squeeze from the bottom and flatten as you go up, then replace the darn cap."

Maybe it's their ploy to get me to remember to buy them their own. YUCK.

Cheering Etiquette

2011-05-09T09:26:00.002-05:00

I consider myself a bit of a sports-parent-cheering expert. I offer you some of my best tips. You're welcome.

1. Cheer for YOUR team and your kid. Be encouraging when a kid on your team does something well or tries hard.

2. Do not yell at your kid if they make a mistake. I don't see you out there trying to catch the baseball, I see you on the sidelines eating hot dogs and nachos and fanning yourself.

3. Don't yell at someone else's kid. Seriously, you are on the side of the field with the parents, not the coaches. Leave that to the coaches.

4. If I can hear you screaming and yelling from two fields away and STILL recoginize your voice, you have moved beyond being an adoring fan into being an annoying freak. Honestly, no one is that excited about a touchdown, I don't care who you are. You are just being obnoxious.

5. If you see a group of fans from the opposing team, please don't plunk yourself down in the middle of them. If you do decide to make that idiotic decision, don't take offense when we cheer for our boys.

6. Don't take credit on behalf of your team when our team makes a mistake. If our kid misses a handoff or a fly ball, it's not because your guys did something amazing and cause you to cheer maniacally. Our kids screwed up, thanks for cheering for that. Jerk.

So there you have it. May my kid's team always beat your kid's team. Because we are quietly that much more awesome than you. We don't have to be jerks, our kids are better than yours.

Hopeless

2011-04-26T08:55:00.004-05:00

Have we ever discussed how hopeless I am with computers? Let's start at the beginning.

My parents are computer people. Dinosaurs, but total computer people. (Hi! Love you!). Programmers, engineers, you know them, the people who the IT guys hate because they know more than they do, yet they still have to help them from time to time? We would come to my dad with a question about some computer related topic and his answer was always, "Did you read the manual? Come back after you have." Infuriating.

We had computers where you had to insert floppy disk after floppy disk just to get it started, no hard drive. I'm pretty sure that the funny program called Prodigy where you could talk to other people on other computers - Dad, were we really beta testers for the whole internet? Did you know that my sister was at the forefront of technology when she invented internet dating? Maybe not invented, but seriously! We were at the beginning of it all!

So, with high hopes, I signed up for an AP computers class my Junior year in high school. I am so old that we were programming in Pascal. It's an ancient romance language, now. Regardless, I signed up, was going to conquer the computer world. I was going to program the computer to add math problems or to type "hello" or something amazing like that. All I know was that I, um, well, wasn't very good at it.

I remember my dad saying, "It doesn't do what you WANT it to do, it does exactly what you TELL it to do." in about as shouty a voice as he ever got. In fact, when it came to our final project, I'm sure that the Green Tractor remembers the rest of the story vividly. He says I had a bad pointer. I have no idea what that means, just that when I wanted my program to run and do what it was supposed to do, that it all went blank. ALL. My program should be the one sold to people who are going to sell their computer on Craigslist, because apparently it was the one that completely wiped the computer clean of everything.

There was a lot of floppy disk inserting and some mumbling about "DNA... genetics... what went wrong...why me?" coming from the guy who had to undo my bad pointer and reformat his whole computer and then a defeated, "Try it again, Sara" and then more floppy disk inserting and more mumbling. I'm pretty sure I was missing and end parenthesis or something silly that if the computer were doing what I WANTED it to do, never would have happened.

Fast forward a couple of years and I thought that email would never take off as a form of communication and that the internet was stupid. Thank goodness I wasn't a business major. Or a stock picker.

And now, today, I tried to enter a password that was about 38 characters and I did it about 38 times and still could.not.get.it.done so the young dude who was patiently trying to help me through my issues made the password easier so that I could handle it.

Things aren't looking good for me as I get older.

Best thing I did all week

2011-04-23T21:44:00.003-05:00

So, I have spent that last week in a book fair chairperson's haze, where you can name every book in the rolling metal carts and exactly where it goes, and even if there's an empty spot, you can name the book that once went there.

I adore the book fair. I adore recommending books to kids, helping parents find books and even encourage parents to let their kids read some fluff. I adore children coming back after a day or two and grinning and telling me about their book they read. I also love that we are raising not money, but books. We take all of our profit in books and all of it goes back to buying books for the classrooms, teachers, library and guided reading. It's a good thing.

By the end of the week, however, the milk in the house is expired, the bread is moldy and there is a last minute trip to WalMart at 6:45 on a Friday morning, because there is no dog food, the littlest one has a fieldtrip that day so he needs a lunchable and the oldest one needs poster board for social studies. I'm a deadline kind of girl, but I can promise you these things don't normally happen in quite such a red-alert fashion. Book fair week takes a lot of patience from the loved ones in a girl's household.

But, still not the best thing I did this week. I spent Saturday morning sewing things that needed to be sewn for my work, but didn't get done because I was running from book fair to baseball to swimming and surviving. I sewed all day today, ran to the grocery store and then came home in time for Sarge to take off to work and then to sew some more.

Part way through sewing something that needed to be sewn, Olivia asked me to come downstairs and outside to watch the storm outside. I told her I'd be a minute, that I needed to sew on these two sleeves. I sewed on one sleeve. She asked again. I told her I'd be a minute. And then? I changed my mind. I decided those sleeves could wait.

She and I sat on the front step, watched the lightning, listened to the thunder, petted the dog that sat with us and chatted about nothing of any importance at all. We sat there for about twenty minutes.

At one point she said "Mom, I'll never forget this." I knew before she said that I had made the right choice, but when she said it out loud, I knew I'd never forget it. And I told her that sitting out there was the best thing I'd done all week.

The sleeve has since been sewn on. And my daughter and I have made a wonderful memory, which will last far longer than that sleeve.

Spectating

2011-04-19T01:31:00.002-05:00

As much as I love watching my children do what they do, I am not satisfied being a spectator of other people's lives. I want to support my family and love them and help them to do what they do better, but I REALLY don't want that to be all that life is.

As a full time mom, I realize that my job is to take care of my children and take care of my husband, but at the same time, I don't want it to be at the expense of me. I'd like to think that I have value outside of just being a helper to other people getting to live, really live, and I'm sure I go overboard the other direction. BUT. I don't think that I can ever be that mom who lives just for her kids.

Because I intend for one day my children to leave me and go be their own people who don't NEED their mama anymore, just want their mama. I want to eventually be someone that they come to for advice and to chat with for fun, but I don't want to need them beyond when they're done needing me.

So I *maybe* jump in to a few more things than I should, I jump in with both feet and attempt to add value to other lives besides the the ones that exist in my home, and at the same time find my value and my contribution to more than just those not-as-small-as-they-used-to-be people, but at the same time with their interests at the forefront of what I do.

On being busy

2011-04-16T20:19:00.003-05:00

I find that when I'm SUPER busy, I get a whole lot done. I make the most of every second and maximize all the waking moments in the day. I can make a business phone call while washing dishes and calling out spelling words if I have to. When I'm not busy? Things get pushed to the side and I think they can wait. So then virtually nothing gets done. Finding a happy medium might just be what I do next time I have a spare second. Because right now I'm in making the most of every second mode.

Obsession

2011-02-07T10:31:00.002-06:00

So the current obsession of the middle child is definitely boobs. So I used it to my advantage.

She was walking around all day yesterday discussing how fat she is. This child is like a bony toothpick, seriously.

So after I'd had enough of the fat talk, I said, "Look, if you were fat, you'd have boobs. You don't have boobs, so you're not fat. Got it?"

She says, "OH! I guess I'm not fat then!"

Whiffle Balls and Fried Eggs and Mosquito Bites

2011-01-26T11:12:00.002-06:00

The other day, Olivia informed me that she wanted a bra.

She is nine and the skinniest thing you've ever seen - she won't need a bra at this rate for another ten years.

We discussed and that there was a possibility that when she was ten that we would purchase said item. She says, "Oh, wait, you've gotta see this!" and runs upstairs. She comes back down with two whiffle ball halves in her shirt and says, "Maybe when I get a bra I'll put these in there!"

Putting our collective heads in the sand

2011-01-25T12:58:00.002-06:00

A few weeks ago, for the sixth grader, there was a TALK at school. Not just a TALK but THE TALK. Because we live in Texas and because they are in the sixth grade it was a lovely scary talk about how you shouldn't have sex before you are married because if you do, your thing will fall off. You know the one - about all the terrible diseases you can get and all the lovely completely not appropriate things they are putting in my poor little geeky son's head. STOP IT.

I digress. I went to the parent education portion on Tuesday, the kid's talk was on Friday. The Friday before a long vacation, mind you, the tricksters. So about Thursday, I work up the courage to say something to the kid. Casually, in the kitchen, while he's having a snack and cannot escape.

Me: So they're going to talk about sex tomorrow at school. What do you think about that? (Why beat around the bush, right?)
Charlie: (complete silence.)
Me: I went to a meeting about it the other night. The guy was funny.
Charlie: (crinkling paper, avoiding eye contact)
Me: Come on, Mitchell's mom said that when they did the game he wasn't the guy who got the disease, all the girls did. (Nice one, mom)
Charlie: MOM. Stop. I've just decided that I'm going to avoid it. All of it. Stop already.
Me: Fine. Let me know when you've decided to stop avoiding it and want to talk.

Can we please go back to explaining easier things now? Like nuclear science?

Never Fails.

2011-01-04T13:48:00.002-06:00

The worms crawl in
The worms crawl out
The worms play pinochle on your snout

They eat your eyes
They eat your nose
They eat the jelly between your toes

Your stomach turns a ghastly green
The pus comes out like thick whipped cream

You slap it on a piece of bread
And that's what you eat when you're dead!

That song can gross out eight year olds, gets the thirteen year olds, too.

Thanks mom!

My, how time flies.

2010-12-20T13:45:00.004-06:00

When I first started blogging, these were the people that I was blogging about. I had a four year old, a six year old and an eight year old. It was preschool and elementary school and all of it was new. It was cub scouts and Kindergarten and potty training (still).
These are those people now. I don't blog as much, I feel like all the stories are still the same. Now it is elementary school and middle school. I will soon have an eight year old, and nine and a half year old and a twelve year old. Teenage years are right around the corner (they already smell bad and roll their eyes) It is Boy Scouts and being the Cubmaster for the cub scouts. It is running the Twilight Camp that I used to joke about having so much fun at with eight little boys.

I should know better that to swear I'd never be one of those people who say that you should cherish the moments and that you'd miss those little people. And most days I don't miss the little people because I'm too busy enjoying the big ones. But sometimes, just sometimes, like when I take a picture of those people for a Christmas card, my heart gets caught in my throat a little and I find tears in my eyes.

And I am grateful that I wrote down those daily silly things that we did and that happened to us. I should remember to do that more often. If not for today, for myself in four years when I have all my kids done with elementary school and our daily life is driving and broken hearts and finals and college applications. Because this will feel like just yesterday.

Who won the Alamo again?

2010-06-11T00:01:00.003-05:00

Oh, let's not kid ourselves, I'm not even sure who the teams were.

History is not my greatest strength. The remembering of random dates and facts is something that I rarely do, and when I do it, I like for it to be relevant, like "don't forget that baseball is tonight at six" or my anniversary, or "don't send the kids to school today, it's summer." But remembering all those battles and all those people who just couldn't get along? Nevermind.

BUT. I signed up to teach at Twilight Camp this year, you know, that annual cub scout camp? It's Robert's turn to get to go, and I had plenty of help with his group, so off I went to volunteer for something else! In my defense, I originally tried to do something different, like composting or watching paint dry or hammers (!), but there were other ideas for me.

Me and about 400 kids. Learning Texas history. In an hour and a half. Well, them an hour and a half, me about two weeks. There were Native Americans that lived here! And settlers! And longhorns are really just some happy accident! And Six Flags actually has meaning beyond "Spend wads of cash here and still listen to whining all day" -- it's the number of flags that have flown over this large state! And we had to change up the words of our state song when Alaska joined the union and upstaged us! And the mockingbird and the armadillo and the pecan tree and a GIANT STAR (not the one at Jerry's place). It's all rattling around in my brain!

And does anyone know how hard it is to make 50 bingo boards? They have to all be different! That was not in my plans, people!

Oh, you poor, poor seven and eight year olds, you have NO IDEA what's coming your way. May your fourth grade teachers not be able to hunt me down and find me when they have to come and fix all the mistakes I made.

Floor-mania!

2010-06-10T23:37:00.006-05:00

Painting the floor. Leaving our mark. Before the kids really actually woke up, honestly. But it had to be done, because about ten minutes after the guys got here, they'd covered it all up with plywood!

Raw wood, above. This is old pine, we are told from an old gym in Irving, Texas. Not the floors, but the structure. Remilled to be made into our floor. Below, staining.

After the stain, but before the poly coat. Those are still on my camera. Those poor guys, I tell ya, they put up with a lot of photography. And me trying desperately to find that place in my brain that still speaks Spanish. They were terribly amused by my Spanglish.

So I'm a little slow on the update of the floor, but my goodness that's a dusty business, and I'm STILL trying to put my car in the garage. But mostly the boxes are unpacked and the mess is back to a normal mess.

And already, less than three hours after the dogs arrived back home, I found myself complaining about the quantity of fur that they left behind on my floor! Charlie so kindly pointed out that they were leaving all that fur behind before, we just couldn't see it all. So now I obsessively vacuum and Swiffer and dust mop. But I'm becoming immune. And I bought my very first rug today.

Mayhem and Chaos Ensues...

2010-05-18T08:11:00.004-05:00

Ode to my carpet.

2010-05-15T13:39:00.002-05:00

So my carpet is all being ripped up on Monday, and as I've been moving everything I own around the house and out of the house, I'm taking a tour of all the stains on the carpet.

Some are questionable. I have no idea how they got there. Some bring back such great memories I thought I'd share.

There are not as many upstairs, so I'll start there.

There's the awesome one in my sewing room where Oakley came upstairs in the middle of the night when he was mad at me (the dogs are not allowed upstairs) and he had his on-command-explosive-diarrhea on the carpet in the middle of the room. Olivia looked in the next day and said, "mom, there's a weird stain on the carpet, like someone spilled coffee in your sewing room!"

And then there's the one at the top of the stairs where Charlie didn't quite make it to the bathroom on the night that he ate about 12 pieces of bacon for dinner. Didn't really digest any of them. Bacon scented vomit cured me from eating bacon for a good six months.

So downstairs. There's the spot where Maggie always pukes whenever she pukes. Right in that one spot where you simply cannot cover it with furniture. And there's more on-command-explosive-diarrhea spots, especially that lovely one where he hit the wall, too.

And then there are the random black spots all over the family room from the time that I was making my homemade soft scrub and forgot all about the reaction between vinegar and baking soda, but was happily shaking my container away when the top flew off and my mixture that had dish soap in it too went a good 15 feet across the kitchen into the family room, all over the back of the couch, on the dog and sprayed little spots all over the carpet. Dish soap is like a magnet for filth.

Oh, and when we had our ant issues when we first moved in, and the vegetable oil container cracked on the way home from the grocery store but I didn't know it and I set it on the carpet by the garage? And the ants came up in that random spot for weeks?

And the spot where the couch is, that's like the best piece of carpet in the house. That and the spot outside the laundry room that ALWAYS has piles of laundry on it.

Oh, carpet, I'm not going to miss you and all of your memories.

So then.

2010-05-05T22:48:00.003-05:00

There's a quiet battle in my house going on currently. It's the air conditioning vs. the windows open battle. I'm about to cave, but only because my sewing room is the hottest room in the house. Really, I swear that's the only reason...

Dirty Boy

2010-05-01T21:38:00.001-05:00

Robert played the worlds filthiest baseball game today. I think everytime he neared a base, he just layed down on his belly and slid. He had dirt in his underwear.

Two weeks of rainouts make for a very excited baseball player.

living my way

2010-04-27T21:14:00.003-05:00

So finally, at 35, I've decided how I want to exist on this earth. And I'm pretty close, most days.

I want to live a life where I am a good wife, mother and friend. I want to be kind to strangers, because you don't know when a stranger will become a friend. I want to be honest in every interaction I have, in my words and in my intentions.

I want to live simply. I want to have a life where I have what I need, I consider what I want and get rid of the things I neither want nor need.

I want to waste little. I reuse the comics and make bows from magazine pages. I compost my kitchen scraps and I sell and buy on craigslist. I am going to use old barnwood for my floors and I will buy it locally and use local craftsmen to put it all together. I will repair my appliances rather than replace them (even if they don't match! gasp!).

People first, things second.

I like knowing how I want to be so that I can measure my day's success and make tomorrow better.

Flashback!

2010-04-24T21:38:00.002-05:00

There was a field trip on Friday to the movie theater. I felt like I should apologize to all the people who worked there and all the people who thought they could catch a midday movie while no one else was there. There were like 200 kids from our school there. You see, first and fifth grade went to go see Oceans. And they all needed popcorn. And to pee during the movie. Ahh, yes, just another quiet Friday morning at the movies.

But this isn't the flashback part. I'm getting there.

After the movie, both grade levels went to a local park to eat lunch and play at the playgrounds. We went to two different parks, as there were just SO MANY OF THEM.

I went with the first graders to Park A, we'll call it. One first grade teacher did not get the memo that the fifth graders were too cool for Park A, and she brought her daughter's (who is a fifth grader) lunch to Park A, while the fifth grade daughter was at Park B. So I ran it over to Park B, with the perfect excuse to embarass my fifth grader (I say in my loudest voice, usually across a crowded room, "HI SMOOCHIE BEAR!! MOMMY WUVS YOU!!" I never call him smoochie bear except when the situation calls for it, which is only in a room full of his peers. It's called humility training.) Ahem, so, where was I?

Oh, yes. Once upon a time, when I only had two children and one was able to be carried around in a bjorn, I thought I'd be a good mom and take my kids to the park! A new park! A fun park! Yay! I went to Park B. And I put the sweet little three year old on the slide and was going to run around to the bottom and catch him, because I was in a race for the mom of the year award. And as I turned to run to the bottom of the slide, life suddenly went in slow motion as I saw about five hundred enormous children come over a hill and swarm like fire ants on this park. Before I could get to the bottom of the slide, meanwhile pushing and shoving these giant children to the ground to get to my precious, I swear he had fallen and had been stepped on by these enormous children.

Now, you all know how these memories get skewed as time passes, but I swear I hadn't blinked before these monstrosities had completely taken over the playground.

And as I laughed and joked with these adorable fifth graders on Friday and pretended to eat their lunches, I had a moment where I felt like I had been punched in the gut and felt an overwhelming need to run to the playground and yell, "GRAB UP YOUR CHILDREN AND RUN. WATCH OUT! RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN! THESE GIANT CHILDREN ARE ABOUT TO SWARM!! PROTECT THE INNOCENTS!!"

I controlled myself. And as I got back to Park A, I saw a mom and dad leaving with their three year old and a baby in a bjorn. And I looked at those giant children swarming the playground there.

Crazy Teeth

2010-04-22T22:45:00.002-05:00

I may have offended the dentist today. But I'll start from the beginning.

Literally, On the piece of paper that said "reason for visit," I wrote, "Crazy tooth"

I'm sure they were charmed with my technical terminology, but they they saw my kid's mouth and said Oh, I get it now. You see, he has a terrible case of sharktoothitis. He has only ever had one gap in his mouth and had until today lost four teeth. And he has five adult teeth. You do the math. If top teeth usually hang vertically toward the floor when you're standing, this little fella was horizontal. No exaggeration here, friends. This happened with the other front tooth, which eventually fell out, but this one was not going anywhere. At all. Ever.

So to the dentist we went. And they suggested that this was going to happen again with the tooth next to it, so they should pull it too, as that little episode is imminent, and we have summer vacation photo opportunities planned.

To the part where I offended her. Ahem. Yes. They gave the boy a little laughing gas and pulled those two suckers out, one mostly attached and one firmly attached. By a root. That is also attached. And comes out with the tooth. And when she tried to show me the spoils of her venture, I flinched and looked away. And lets be honest, I may have let out a little girlish squeal. Apparently afraid I was going to pass out, she quickly hid it from me and may have commented under her breath, "baby" Or not. I couldn't be sure for the deep breathing I was doing just to stay upright.

Even though I may have offended her with my squeamishness, I'm pretty sure she took one look at that mouth and saw dollar signs, so I bet she'll let us back in. And to make up for my squeamishness, when Robert showed Olivia the teeth as soon as we got home, she inspected it closely and demanded to know if that was the root and if so why it was attached and on and on and on. And she wanted to see the bloody gaps in his mouth. That part of her - not from her mother. At all.

Seriously?

2010-04-09T21:51:00.001-05:00

My husband had to remind me that I am 35. I had to add, subtract and count on my fingers, but guess what? He was right.

Darn.

Getting through the hard to get to the good.

2010-03-29T14:38:00.003-05:00

There are parts of parenting that are really, really hard. Really emotional, really draining. They're the moments when you question deep down whether or not you're doing it right and whether or not you're scarring your child for life, even though you're 99% sure you're doing it right, that one percent risk just might not be worth it.

Like following through when you hand out a punishment.
Or sticking your ground during a temper tantrum.
Letting them go to summer camp. Without you.
Like leaving them home alone for the first time, just for a minute or two while you run out.
Like not letting them get away with lying.
Making them eat their vegetables, even when they're gagging (is it fake? real? Probably fake.)
Making them do their homework - or not? Letting them suffer the consequences? Gah!

Every time I make one of these decisions, usually every day, I know that I am making a big one, a big difference in the way that life goes. And every day I have to know when I make a decision that I'm making it for reasons that I KNOW are right and reasons that I can live with if things go wrong. I have to know in my heart that I have my child's best interest at heart, every time I make one of these.

And every time I follow my heart and I suffer through the garbage and the hatred of a kid and once we get to the other side, it's always better. And just a little sunnier. And sometimes they even tell me I was right.

Do you have another big one to add to my list?

The Singles Club. For Socks.

2010-03-27T21:56:00.003-05:00

So laundry is one of my least favorite tasks. To keep myself from crying with boredom, I make up stories in my head. It's like when I exercise I do math - I can't help being weird, I just go with it.

Anyhow. We have a basket that lives in the laundry room. The children named it the singles club for socks.

We added new members today, and we made a few happy matches. It was a good day for the singles club. For socks.

Misunderstandings

2010-03-24T09:32:00.002-05:00

Me: Hurry UP!

Robert: I'm looking for an old man shirt - it's dress like you're FIFTY day today."

Me: You're confused, buddy, it's fifties day at school.

Oops.

How Charlie lost his shorts.

2009-12-20T20:56:00.003-06:00

My son is "that kid." You know, the weird one who wears shorts even when it's twelve degrees outside. He wore them while we were camping and it was nearly freezing. He wore them to fifth grade science camp when it was freezing.

I am a believer in letting my children make choices for themselves and suffering the natural consequences. I think there is no better way of learning. So I've been letting this one go. On and on. It's December. And while I recognize that this is Texas, life is still a little uncomfortable in shorts and a sweatshirt (Oh, did I mention? He also refuses to wear a jacket.)

I console myself when we walk to school that surely people understand, that they aren't judging me, as my other two children are completely appropriately dressed for the weather, sometimes over dressed and usually not matching, but not cruelly dressed for the wrong season. I hope people don't judge. Too much.

And there was the day that Charlie came home from school explaining that he didn't like that people in the fifth grade put everyone is a box and labeled them and he was hoping to escape labeling by being too weird to categorize. Um weirdo category, anyone? Hellooooo. But, I felt a little better that day about allowing him to express his independence.

But yesterday. Yesterday. I reached the end of my rope. We were doing a trash cleanup along a creekbed. We bought our rubber boots for the occasion, the weather was expected to be a balmy 34 degrees. He had to wear his cub scout uniform. We had an old fashioned three year old style temper tantrum. All because he needed to wear pants.

And because I also believe that the punishment should fit the crime, he is wearing pants for the forseeable future. Until he can quit whining about it. His friend's mom noticed this afternoon, and said, "Oh, Charlie got new pants?" I said, "Um, no. He's had them for quite some time. That and another pair of jean, a pair of khakis and two pair of athletic pants. He just refuses to wear them."

The upside? Hand-me-downs in perfect condition.

Ode to a minivan

2009-12-13T22:50:00.002-06:00

Introduced my son to the joys of Barney music.
Had a Barney CD stuck in it, along with a penny, a dime and a calling card.
Brought two children home from the hospital.
Brought one of them back to the hospital again and again, sometimes in a hurry.
Had my first car accident.
And my second.
Went through the drive thru a million times.
Spilled french fries a million times.
Was barfed in.
Pooped on.
Stranded me on the side of the road.
Stranded me right near the fabric store.
Drove us to California.
And the Dakotas.
And Mississippi.
Only had one working window.
Had crayon melted in one seat and a milk dud in another.
Brought us to football practice (again and again and again and again)
Was only washed a handful of times.
Spent a lot of time in the shop.
Didn't have many original parts.
Used a quart of oil for every tank of gas.
Had 172,328 miles on it the last time I saw it.

That minivan has a new life now - it was likely an organ donor, but it's not mine anymore. As sentimental as I might seem here, I'm not at all. Except when the kids start talking bad about it, I feel a little protective, like someone's talking bad about an ex-boyfriend who you're still fond of, but you're totally over.

No need to be mean, kids, just because we've upgraded boyfriends.

I noticed something.

2009-07-12T23:07:00.003-05:00

I haven't spent much time at Wal-Mart recently, but I took a little trip there the other day and noticed something about their generics.

Used to be that the generics looked as much as humanly possible like the thing they were trying to copy without any copyright infringement. But suddenly? When it's cool to be frugal and cheap? Their generic branding is starting to look a little like the plain yellow generic boxes of my childhood.

Because suddenly, we're all doing the right thing by buying generic rather than actic embarassed by it.

I don't know why all this "in this economy" blah blah blah makes me want to rebell and spend, spend, spend. Maybe all the reversy pyschology is working on me...

There's an App for that.

2009-05-30T22:11:00.004-05:00

My iPhone and I lost thirty pounds. Well, with a little help from the treadmill.

So recently I've finally lost all that baby weight. Only eleven years since I started putting it on, but honestly, who's counting. Oh, yeah. That would be me.

So the most often asked question is "HOW?" And while I think that most people are truly wanting to know, there are a few people out there who want me to bust out with my magic pill or surgery tales. Seriously? If I'd had surgery, I'd fire my surgeon for not finishing the job!

But here's the thing. It was painfully simply. And a little embarrassing as to how simple it was.

My iPhone. I love it. I have two free apps that I used and I love. One was used all the way through, Lose It. It simply tracks your calories consumed and used. You set your goals and off you go. And you always have it with you, so there's no excuses for forgetting that donut you had. The other one that I would have used all the way through had I discovered it, was a GPS. It keeps track of how far you are going and how fast, so you can go off and wander and still know your speed and distance, which is essential for calorie counting. And it makes life far more interesting than going on the treadmill day after day and looking at your unmade bed.

And then there was the not-so-free piece of equipment. The dog. Honestly, if you've ever had a workout partner who barks at your for an hour until you go for your workout, you know what I'm talking about. For the price of a little dog food and a can of tennis balls per week, I have a built in won't-take-no-for-an-answer workout partner. And he helps build upper body strength while walking every time we see a bunny rabbit. Which, in this neighborhood, is a LOT.

That's it. Calorie counting. Exercising. I've never been one with any self discipline or self control, nor have I ever been a good dieter. So this? Nothing short of a miracle.

And now, now that I'm getting close to my goal, I so wish I'd taken before pictures/measurements. I was too horrified before, but now I wish I had it to look back at and remember every time I want to have ice cream for breakfast.

Evolution of the bald spots.

2009-05-21T22:45:00.005-05:00

Shortly after I started this blog, I was admiring the three sweet bald spots in the grass under my children's swings. Sadly, the grass is mostly healthy and thick under their swings these days, save a little under the middle one.

The bald patches have moved. The two biggest ones are at home plate and the pitcher's mound, where much time is spent by Sarge and the littlest one playing baseball for hours every day. There are smaller bald patches in the yard around first, second and third bases for when the family baseball games are played.

And as much as I wish we had one of those golf course fabulous green grass backyards, I think I'll be sad one day when I do have it. I'll long for the bare patches in my backyard and the noise and laughter and fun that go along with it. Even now, under the swings, the thick beautiful grass makes me a little bit sad.

Setting the bar high.

2009-05-18T16:12:00.004-05:00

My grandmother died this week.

But she did it in such a way that we were all left wondering, "Will I be able to do this so well?" Honestly, who ever admired the way that someone else died?

Me.

All six of her living children were able to drop everything and come to be with her in her last week. Grandchildren came from different parts of the country, just to tell her how much we loved her.

In her last week, she made us laugh. She laughed with us and at us. She gave us, even in the last day, stories to tell and laugh about. She could light up the room, even when she could do little more than smile.

She told stories and listened to stories, and in all her humility, she told us to stop telling her all those wonderful things about her, that we were making her feel uncomfortable. So we told her funny stories about mistakes she had made or funny things she'd said when she was frustrated. And she laughed and appreciated those stories more than any others.

And then, when her body finally gave way, she went peacefully and beautifully from this life to the next.

And, unlike my aunt, who wants to go up in a fabulous dramatic way, I want to go just like she did. With enough time to tell everyone that I love them, with everyone who loves me to come tell me stories about how I affected their lives. And then I want to go. Quickly and peacefully.

Even in death, I admire her. Extraordinary.

Avenge Yourself.

2009-05-08T02:56:00.003-05:00

My grandma always had a needlepoint on the wall in her house that said, "Avenge yourself. Live long enough to be a problem to your children." Her children thought it was funny.

My grandma is 92.

I was a child of the eighties, and my mom was a working mom. During the summers, we would get shipped off to grandma's house. I know, feel sorry for me. Only don't.

My grandma taught me to knit. She was up before dawn every morning with her cup of coffee that she only drank from a china mug. She taught me to needlepoint, but refused to teach me to crochet (still bitter, taught myself. Pbbbbt, Gram.) She had a yarn closet built in her last house. She had little knitting projects at different stages of finished all over the house. Even on the back of the toilet. And she would only finish a sweater in the early morning, sitting by a sunny window.

She is left handed, and she takes such pride that she has one son, one grandson and two great-grandsons who are left handed. Both of those great-grandsons are mine. I always loved to watch her sign her name - she did it with such flair, and it was so pretty when she was finished.

We spent our summers going to the library, reading, playing cards, watching game shows in the morning and going to the beach in the afternoon. It's where I learned what the perfect summer felt like. And Gram always said, "It never rains at the beach." And she was right. I can still smell the freshly laundered towels from the Mauna Kea, where we swam.

The sound of golf cleats on pavement makes me think of her, as we would meet her at the pro shop after she'd golfed and my sisters and I had played either at the beach or at the pool. Her name is up on the wall at Mauna Kea, because that lady got a hole in one, which I've always thought was so cool. And at the pro shop, she would let us order iced tea, from a real glass and it always came with a slice of pineapple in it.

Once her dryer broke when we were visiting and we spent a lot of time playing cards at the laundromat. That's where I learned to make lemonade out of lemons. And once the cows got out near her house and got in her yard and she chased them with a rake.

She only made cookies in grand style. She would make four different kinds of cookies at a time of all her best recipes. She'd fill up those cookie jars, and we'd all try opening and closing them without making a sound. But she always knew. Always.

It didn't occur to me when I was younger, but she had to be extraordinary, because not only has she had a child or two of hers living in her house or next door as long as I can remember, but their spouses, too. And if you can live with or next door to your mother in law, you've got to be a pretty good mother-in-law. Which, if you're a good mother-in-law, you're extraordinary.

Oh, and my mom named our cat after her. And they are still on speaking terms. Extraordinary, I say.

She would come visit us and after my dad would get home from work, she would get a grin on her face and say to him, "Have a beer with me, Terry?" And so they would. When I was a kid, the only time my dad would have a beer was when my Grandma came to visit. And I think they both kind of liked it.

I have her feet. So does my daughter.

She always drove a little zippy car. And sometimes she would just get exasperated with her cars, because they always went too fast. It wasn't her lead foot, oh, no, it was the car.

When I came to visit, she always made sure that she had Kona Coffee ice cream in the freezer, just because she knew it was my favorite.

My mom said tonight that she says that the only thing about dying that makes her mad is that all her favorite people will be there and she's going to miss the party. Extraordinary.

Mom was right. Again.

2009-05-06T20:31:00.001-05:00

It IS impossible to get a decent picture of a ten year old boy.

He either A.) has his finger up his nose, B.) has his finger up someone else's nose, C.) is making a crazy face or D.) only half of his head is in the picture.

The best pictures I have of my son since his tenth birthday are of the back of his head. Here's hoping for eleven.

Pipe Dreams

2009-05-01T23:14:00.001-05:00

My daughter informed me tonight that she intends to be a street mime when she grows up.

She said that she even expected tomatoes to be thrown at her if she isn't good enough, and if that were to happen, she would move to another city. If that didn't work out, she'd move again. She intends to wreak havoc on all fifty states, then her backup plan will be all seven continents. Then, if tomatoes are still being thrown, she'll work in the desert.

Clearly she was trying to get all of her talking out of the way.

Reassurance.

2009-04-26T23:10:00.001-05:00

Tell me I'm not alone here. Could it really BE any grosser?

Observations from behind the mower

2009-04-22T10:05:00.003-05:00

I mowed the yard today for the second time in my entire life. I figured out a couple of weeks ago how many calories it burned, and man, I was so on it. Today was the first day that I was able to get out there with Sarge and mow. Here's what I observed:

1. You earn every one of those darn calories. Every. One.

2. My yard has a hill. All these years I've lived here, I've always thought of my yard as flat. I'm here to tell you today that there's a huge hill back there in poo corner. HUGE.

3. No matter how well you think you do cleaning up poo corner, you always miss one. Or two.

4. I know why Sarge has a yard mowing pair of shoes. See #3.

5. I will never laugh at Sarge again for hitting the bird houses with his head every week. I swear, every time I cut his hair, he has a new gash in the top of his head from those things. I laugh and make fun of him, because, you know, haven't they been there for three years, in the same places? I managed to hit all three of them.

6. It's time for a mower redesign. I swear, it's the same design my dad used back when he used to mow the yard a LONG time ago. Push the button, pull the cord. Pull the cord again. Pull. Say a curse word. Pull twice more and go. And then the handle and the fence and the four fixed wheels, it's all just so awkward. MR. DYSON, I'M TALKING TO YOU AND YOUR BALL TECHNOLOGY.

7. Next time I'm totally going for a cool design in my grass like the baseball fields. Sarge says that I should just aim for straight lines, but I say shoot for the stars!

8. I smell like gasoline and grass. And I itch.

A day in the life

2009-04-17T21:38:00.004-05:00

If you saw me in the last two weeks and it looked like I hadn't combed my hair or looked at my face, it's because I hadn't. There were noisy critters living inside my house above my bathroom and it was all I could do to get a shower and get out of there before I started screaming like a little girl and dancing like I had ants in my pants.

I love my dogs more than I love my dinner plates, which is a lot, and which is evidenced by the fact that both dogs are still alive even though when I came in from helping eradicate the giant bird's nest from my dryer vent there was a broken plate on the floor and not one speck of chicken anywhere around it and all the 342 pieces it was shattered into.

And it was birds living above my bathroom. I think I might like them less than mice, but maybe not. We'll see who's harder to permanently get rid of.

And thank goodness for the ten year old who came up with the idea for the rigged ten foot pole that we created to eradicate said bird's nest with two pieces of wood, a hanger and half a roll of painters tape. If only we could have found the duct tape...

And pre-view Marley and Me before you sit down with your children to watch it. Because you need to be prepared to answer questions about the entire cycle of life. Let's just say frisky adults, three babies, one nicknamed 'whoops' and a dead dog. It's ripe with questions from children aged 6-10. I'm just sayin'.

My dog has lived with us for almost a month, and he looked at me curiously when I was unloading the dishwasher, like he's never seen me do such a thing before. Weird.

I'd like to thank all my friends and family for being so sweet about me losing weight. And for biting their tongues for all those years when I was gaining it and not saying, "so, hibernation this winter?" or "worried about the food supply going away?" or "eating for two still?" Ahem. You know you wanted to.

Adorably quirky

2009-04-10T08:12:00.004-05:00

When Sarge and I were first dating, I was living in an apartment in Boston with three other girls. We were in college, but for all of us, it was our first time with our own kitchen. We loved to cook and bake.

And of course, when my new boyfriend came over, I just LOVED to bake for him. Because, you know, that's what you are supposed to do. But it never failed, I always forgot an ingredient. And usually didn't discover that I didn't have the ingredient until I was ready to use that ingredient. Sarge would laugh and then trot down four flights of stairs to the convenience store and purchase the ingredient that I'd forgotten.

It became a joke. Ha, ha, what are you going to forget this time? I'd insist that I had all the ingredients. But then wouldn't have something essential. It always happened. Sarge, because it was all still fresh and new, found it mildly irritating, but I'm sure thought it was adorable. Because you know when everything is fresh and new, quirks are adorable.

Fast forward fifteen years. I have a kitchen of my own, which is usually well enough stocked, but I also have grown up neighbors that actually have eggs, not like the people in college who have beer and ketchup in their refrigerators. So he doesn't even usually know when I forget an ingredient anymore.

BUT. My cute and adorable quirk has transferred to my work. I can't get to a person's house to hang their curtains and have all the ingredients I need to hang them. Usually the item that I need is something that I knew I would need, just didn't manage to remember it before I got there. And of course, who do I call to rescue me? Sarge.

I'm pretty sure he doesn't find it cute and adorable anymore. He had to rescue me from myself twice yesterday. My client said to him, "She's very impressive with her skills with tools!" and he replied, deadpan, "She'd be more impressive if she could just remember them."

Time Flies.

2009-04-08T21:20:00.001-05:00

We are officially step-stool free in this house.

There are three step stools, and they are all put away in closets. I'm considering freecycling them, but then I think maybe, just maybe, I could fit them into their baby books. Doesn't seem like they'd be lumpy at all.

And I never thought I'd feel sentimental about two IKEA step stools and one made from scraps of wood and stained blue that once held several pairs of underwear that were making my bathroom smell. But here I am, feeling just a little sad over the fact that all my kids can reach the soap from their own two feet. Now whether or not they actually do is another story.

Like an old married couple

2009-04-06T08:28:00.003-05:00

They line up for the dinner buffet together before five PM.

They nap together in the afternoons.

They bicker, but one can't be found without the other.

He cleans off her face if she has a little dinner left, or he'll clean her ears whether they need it or not.

Two weeks. I never, ever would have thought.

Bad habits my new dog will break me of

2009-04-01T19:17:00.003-05:00

Leaving socks on the floor.

Leaving anything else on the floor.

Leaving shoes outside.

Not cleaning the muddy dogprints off the patio table.

Saying, "I'll just take the dog for a walk tomorrow."

Eating on the couch.

Eating anywhere except the kitchen table.

Wearing clothes with dangly strings.

Sitting down. Ever.

the things that keep us up at night.

2009-03-31T09:09:00.001-05:00

"Mom, what's spontaneous combustion?"

"It's when something explodes suddenly."

Quiet.

Then, "Do people spontaneously combust?"

"No. Now go to sleep."

Quiet.

"Are you SURE?"

Settling in.

2009-03-30T23:32:00.003-05:00

Phwew. The dog. He changed. When he got here, he was all submissive and quiet and laid down every time you petted him.

Don't get me wrong. He's still sweet. He's still adorable. And he's helping me to keep my house clean. And he's breaking us of our "drop our socks on the floor wherever we are" habit. Ahem.

Because he eats things on the floor. Whatever they may be. And he can climb on top of the patio table. And he does. And when he's supposed to go in his crate at night, he'll roll over on his back and make it impossible to pick him up and put him in his crate. But once he's there, he just lays down and goes to sleep.

And in the morning, there's not getting up and lounging around. No way. One must play ball to get all the dog's wiggles out. Because otherwise you will find a dog jumping like a jumping bean in your kitchen. And I'm not getting any time to sit around any other time of the day, because he demands to be played with and petted when it looks like I'm not doing anything productive.

And Maggie? The old dog? She's coming around. She might actually like him, except for the annoying little brother aspect of him. They've come around enough where they follow each other around most of the time. Until he starts licking her ears and trying to get her to play with him by nipping at her. Which usually she throws her nose up in the air and walks the other way. Sometimes she'll play. Sometimes she'll tell him to go AWAY. But I think, in the end, they're friends. She certainly came around WAY faster than I thought she would. Thank goodness.

And then there were seven.

2009-03-21T17:58:00.003-05:00

The newest member of our family. His name is Oakley.

Because I'm a complete idiot and a glutton for punishment. That, and I didn't have anything else to keep me busy. Ahem.

My old dog doesn't like other dogs, so it's all about the fun around here. She's only drawn blood one time. Fortunately he's smart enough to stay out of her way. Most of the time.

Dumb.

2009-03-18T01:26:00.003-05:00

The youngest child cried tonight. He cried as he said that he was "just so dumb." And then I cried, too.

I told him that he shouldn't lie to mommy like that and tell things that aren't true. And then I went downstairs and we all discussed the impact of name calling. Because he had started to believe the names that they call each other. And that's not okay with me.

It's a habit that they get into now and again, and sometimes it gets to be just too much. And this time? Too much.

Some of their favorite TV shows involve a fair amount of name calling (Spongebob, I'm looking at YOU). And so, the TV shows are no longer allowed until they can get a handle on the name calling. And other consequenses.

But, oh, woe is ME that the electronic babysitter will not be so entertaining. And oh, woe that I will have to listen to all the tattling that will inevitably come out of this. But there is no woe that is worth my baby thinking that he isn't a smart boy.

Hiking in Texas

2009-03-18T01:23:00.002-05:00

Honestly, we spent about twelve minutes in Oklahoma today. Well, more than that, but we were driving and driving and driving, because I'd promised the kids Oklahoma ice cream after our long hike. Because, you know, it's different from Texas ice cream. Whatever works, I tell you.

But yes, we spent the day in Texas, looking across the lake to Oklahoma. And my kids did great. I can't wait to make them do it again soon.

All they will remember is that they got Oklahoma ice cream (from a little freezer in a little convenience store on the side of the road - not actually different, for the record) and the middle one is sure to remember that she fell four times. She will not remember that she failed to bleed each time.

Finding culture

2009-03-16T22:02:00.003-05:00

This week is spring break here, in the land of spring break before spring actually starts.

So we are taking this week and doing fun stuff around town. You know, that thing that all the newscasts are talking about but the word is so unbelieveably annoying. You know what I'm talking about. That thing we were doing even when all the other people had plenty of money to go on real vacations and we were sticking around town, doing what fun stuff was close to home.

We went into the big city on Saturday and again on Sunday. We went to a giant quilt show on Saturday and to a museum with a big event on Sunday. And my kids? They loved the quilt show and the event at the museum. We wandered around a little, taking our time to get to the car each time. We stopped at the farmer's market and bought tomato plants. I made them stop reading (gasp!) and look out their windows.

I'm thinking that we should stay in the sterilized suburbs, though, because on Monday morning, my kids got busy while I was on the treadmill. They walked in to my room, dressed in funny hats, using a baseball bat and a giant candy cane as canes, scarves and carrying mugs. And begging for money. That I should put in their mugs.

So the city. Culture. Opened their eyes to new things. Just not quite the things I had intended. It's okay, though, because we're heading to Oklahoma tomorrow. I can't wait to see what they come home with from there.

Assorted Randomness

2009-03-10T23:42:00.003-05:00

The youngest one has been having a recurring nightmare lately. He describes the creature and all I want to do is start giggling, because he's describing the creature to the left, almost to the letter. Points to who knows what movie it's from and what it's called. And if my sisters don't get this one, I'll freak out, because we watched this movie hundreds of times as teenagers. It keeps him up at night, but makes me want to laugh. Is that bad?

And I think it might have to do with the rabbit/mouse that I saw running through our front shrubbery that's got him worried. Remember, he's the one who's been afraid of the bunny rabbit who was living in my vegetable garden.

Speaking of which, that rabbit better watch out, I'm not going to be as nice this year as I was last. Take note, rabbit.

And I invited my oldest child to punch me in the stomach tonight (because I have rock hard abs, duh). After he obliges, he states, "You know, Mom, that's how Harry Houdini died. He asked someone to punch him in the stomach, but didn't have a chance to tighten up first." I didn't bother looking it up. I'm sure he's right. That's just the kind of thing he remembers. I hope it serves him well one day, and not just for playing Trivial Pursuit with my cousins.

Boys and Duct Tape: Nature or Nurture?

2009-03-08T23:13:00.002-05:00

I have spent a good portion of the last few months with a small group of boys between the ages of eight and ten. We've been involved with a program called Destination Imagination. I lovingly call it competitive problem solving.

The kids are given a choice of challenges, for which they are to do all of the work, from the idea stage through the implementation stage. The challenges are extraordinarily open ended, and there is no right or wrong answers, only points for creativity.

So once the kids had decided what their challenge was going to be, I purchased and assembled a large assortment of products that I thought they might use. They had drawn a prototype of what they wanted, so I was able to purchase things that were in line with their imaginations. This challenge involved building two machines that had to travel, so wheels, wood, screws, nuts, bolts, hooks, eyes, magnets, sticks, paint, glue and at the last minute, I threw in some duct tape.

We drilled, we screwed, we assembled, we painted, we glued, we velcroed. No matter what, when one of the other methods of assembly failed, these boys went straight for the duct tape. Sometimes the staple gun, sometimes both, but usually the duct tape.

The props didn't stand up? Duct tape 'em. The magnets won't stay on? Duct tape 'em. The wheels fell off? Duct tape 'em. The axle broke on one of the vehicles? Duct tape.

Their go-to item in the large tub they were given, as well as my garage full of stuff, was always the duct tape. Which begs the question, was it born into them? Is this the way that boys are wired? Or should I just not have put the duct tape in the tub in the first place? I suppose we'll never know, but I do know that I'm creating a new generation of people who think that duct tape can solve anything.

And, for the record? Duct taping the axle on a car designed to hold two boys doesn't work. Neither did the velcro work for anything involving that many preteen boys. And power tools make all boys smile, no matter the age.

Craziest thing EVER.

2009-03-05T23:52:00.002-06:00

Got out of the house tonight. Watched a girly movie with a bunch of girls. Didn't hear even one person whine. Laughed a lot. No butts to wipe. No baths given. All was quiet when I walked in the house. Weird.

Dieting with a daughter watching your every move.

2009-02-27T22:41:00.003-06:00

It's been a madhouse around here, with tomorrow being the culmination of months of work for two different activities. If I build one more thing with a group of ten year old boys, I might scream. But. Other things.

My daughter. My seven year old daughter has had body image issues since I can remember. When she was getting ready for bath when she was about five, she would suck in her gut as much as she could, all her ribs showing, and her belly button practically touching her spine and ask me, "Mommy, what would you think if I looked like this?" Inwardly, I would cry, but I would always tell her that she didn't look healthy to me like that, that I liked to see more muscles and a strong body so that she could do anything she wanted.

And still, every time the school talks about health, there is my daughter counting calories and getting on the scale. One day, she got on the scale. Got off, ran in place for ten seconds, then got back on. One pound less. So she did it again, hoping for more. Again and again. It only worked the first time. She was disappointed. We discussed.

So all these year, I've been terrified to go on a diet, that I'm just sure that my daughter's body image issues will only get worse. I'd go on diets and act like I wasn't on one, but decided that secret dieting was probably worse.

So this most recent time, right now, I've decided that I'm not going to hide and pretend that I'm not dieting, but that I'll phrase it differently. Mom is getting stronger and healthier. And hoping that my daughter will see her mom losing all her squishy places and growing muscles. So yes, I'm counting calories, I'm watching what I eat. But when my daughter wanted to share her chocolates, I graciously accepted but quietly counted those calories, too. I want so badly for her to watch her mom do this body image thing right.

And so we celebrated when Mom ran a mile tonight. All of us. Because the oldest one needed to hear too, that here's something that Mom has NEVER been good at, but I've been practicing a lot and have been really working hard at it and is proud of her accomplishment. And the middle one needed to hear that her mom is getting strong, and will race her. And beat her. And they'll all watch their mom beat their aunt at a push-ups contest. That she doesn't know she's going to be in. (that's my strategy to win - not tell her to practice. See? Brilliance.)

Adventures in having sons.

2009-02-23T10:49:00.002-06:00

I cleaned the bathrooms today, which is an even in and of itself, but when I walked into bathroom #3, which is the kids' bathroom, I was pretty excited. I thought, I think the toothpaste on the counter is grosser than the toilet. This could be easy!

Although my toothpaste issues are well documented, this one did take the cake. The toothpaste tube itself was covered in toothpaste (and with as cheap as I am, you have to know it was disgusting, because though half full, I threw it away), and there was toothpaste splatter clear to the top of the mirror, and all over one sink, which documents their issue with one of the sinks, no one will use it, weird.

So, gross toothpaste. Check. I made it.

Then the toilet, which at first glance, was in pretty good shape. Until I remembered that I have two sons, the younger of which has decided that it's time to stand up to pee, which isn't a big deal to me, if he'd just lift the seat (!) but whatever, for another day. I have sons, I should probably look around the toilet. All around. And in the awful crevices that some brain surgeon puts all over the base of the toilet. And in the ground. And on the tile. And ON THE WALLS.

And it totally beat the toothpaste, even with my issues.

And when I was done, I decided that the kids are old enough to clean their own bathroom.

TEN.

2009-02-14T21:33:00.003-06:00

My biggest boy is ten today. Just typing that sentence really kindof makes me want to cry. But. Ahem. This is about him, not me.

Tonight, he's having his favorite friends over to spend the night. There are five of them in my living room right now. And here's the thing. There was no elaborate party required.

These boys have spent the afternoon and evening playing a board game, having all out war with the nerf guns and other artillery in the house, jumping on the beds and eating boy-made pizzas, ice cream sundaes and trail mix. They are now watching Star Wars. They have plans to watch all six, but I'm pretty sure we'll start losing them to exhaustion around the second movie. Which is fine.

What is missing? Nothing. They haven't requested a fancy media room or surround sound. They haven't requested soda. They haven't needed any extra entertainment or magicians or shows or clowns. They are just together, with their imaginations and a little supervision. That's it.

It helps that they are great kids, but honestly, they don't need much more than that. Satisfaction guaranteed.

Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

2009-02-12T22:34:00.004-06:00

When I met my husband, I was barely nineteen, straight out of California and confident that I was going to be a feminist, if I wasn't already. No one, NO ONE could tell ME what to do.

And then I met him. And he called me "baby." It was a term of endearment, don't get me wrong, but it rubbed me all kinds of the wrong way. "Baby?!?!?! No one calls me Baby. Don't you DARE."

And he tried. He really did, but he was from the south, and well, that's just what they do.

Eventually, I accepted it as a term of endearment, not that he was belittling me or putting me in my place as a woman. He called me that because he loved me and cared about me, and that's just what you do.

And now, fifteen years later, I use it all the time. I call him that. I call the children that. I call the children I see at school that. I call the dog that. It's likely my most used term of endearment. And I like it. I use it because I love these people and I want them to know that I'll take care of them. Or maybe it's because I'm a southerner now.

Update-o-rama

2009-02-07T23:24:00.002-06:00

Things round these parts have shore been interesting lately. But not innerestin' enough to write about. Clearly.

The oldest's ear drum ruptured. Again. He gives me no warning. Just, "my ear hurts" then two hours later screaming in pain, then relief in the form of bloody pus pouring from his ear. It's quite lovely. Then he jumped off the slide playing tag and hurt his foot. I almost didn't want to take him to the doctor for fear that the report of another child being hurt while playing tag would mean a ban from tag on playgrounds nationwide. Newsflash: children get hurt while acting like children. It happens. Get over it already. Anyhow, I think he'll be fine. Just a little limping.

The littlest one lost his first tooth. He's been sporting a set of shark teeth now for about a month, so I'm glad to see at least one of them go, though he's a little worried that when he shows people that they won't know he's lost a tooth because the new one's already there. And, good news! He doesn't have any broken bones! I just thought I'd state that for the record, because he always seems to have one. But never fear, baseball season's right around the corner!

The girl child went to her first daddy-daughter dance. She had a fancy dress with sparkles that she loved because it left a trail of sparkles wherever she went. And, reportedly she refused to do the chicken dance, apparently with a look of mixed horror and disgust at the people doing it. Her father's daughter, that's for sure. And I'm thinking that he loves her more than me, because he'll actually dance with her. Though at bedtime, she did report a pain in her toe, due to the fact that contact was made by her father's shoe on her foot, so you know, maybe there's a reason we don't dance.

And me? I'm in a heated competition with a few family members to see who can lose the most weight before April. And I'm in a competition with another family member who doesn't know she's in competition with me to see who can do the most pushups at the family gathering this summer. And I'm not telling her so that I have a snowball's chance in, well, you know where, of even coming close. Because I can do eight in a row. NOT ON MY KNEES. HAHAHAHA. Ahem. Yeah. And I'm a grownup, too.

And I'm celebrating the fifth anniversary of my 29th birthday today. And next week it will be fifteen years that I've known my husband. Well, I didn't know he was going to be my husband, but you get the picture. And you know what? I'm still totally smitten.

Sick Sarge. Poor Me.

2009-01-28T20:48:00.004-06:00

I can handle sick. I can handle throwing up, I can handle ruptured ear drums, I can handle breathing treatments. I can handle the flu. I may not like it, but I've got it covered. As long as it's the kids.

But. This week? Sarge got the flu. Down for the count for a week. Four days, then just sorta here for another three.

And, confession time. I was a terrible wife. I hated every minute of it. I threw the box of tissues at him when he needed them, I brought him medicine, but with a scowl. Water? FINE with a hint of overdramatic sigh. I hated it.

Not that I couldn't handle the house or the household duties by myself. I am perfectly capable. I can get the kids off to school, take out the trash and bake a cake, all while standing on one foot and balancing a stack of plates. Under control.

He wasn't so sick that I needed to worry, just pick up your own darn tissues and wash your hands every time you get up and DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING. But. I hated it.

I like this life better with him in it, present. He was there, taking up the whole couch, but he wasn't there. We couldn't debate the newspaper or laugh at the children or roll our eyes at them. We couldn't discuss anything really, because he was just not well enough to even hold his head up, really.

So, if it's any consolation, Sarge, that's why I'm so terrible to you when you're sick. It's not that I'm mad at you or that you're too much work, I just like life better when you're in it, right next to me, forging ahead together. So maybe next time you'll feel a little better when I throw the box of tissues at you.

Perspective.

2009-01-26T14:44:00.004-06:00

The youngest child has been under the weather this week, and just started feeling better on Saturday. Good thing, too, because his birthday party was on Sunday.

I made him take a nap on Sunday afternoon before the party, because I know he was still recovering. Nevertheless, he spent the first half of his birthday party bouncing like a maniac and the second half in my arms. That baby didn't even eat cake. Or pizza.

It was seven o'clock and he was ready for bed. B-E-D.

He did perk up when he got the cake topper, Luke and Darth Vader with light up lightsabers. But otherwise he was exhausted.

Later, as I was putting him to bed, I said, "Buddy, I'm so sorry that your party was kind of a bummer."

He looked at me like I'd just told him that Santa wasn't real. "Mommy, my birthday was the funnest EVER."

And there you have it. A fun party where you won't look at your friends for half the party, and the memories are only good. I'm so grateful.

Note To Self

2009-01-25T10:42:00.004-06:00

Remember that the children put a fake mouse in the pantry. Somewhere. Please, please, please remember that it's fake.

Thanks, self.

P.S. I bought the children a little prank kit. Fake boogers, a fart whistle, funny glasses. The whole bit. Clearly there was also a fake mouse in there. And the roach I found in my water glass. I'm not sure I would have bought it if I'd a known that I was going to be the victim.

Underwear stories.

2009-01-22T00:07:00.001-06:00

I was disappointed today to find that there were no used underwear under the step stool in the bathroom. Because it would have so much more easily explained the smell in there.

This is what my life has come to.

I'm TOO good. Lucky Me.

2009-01-20T21:55:00.003-06:00

When I came home late Thursday night, I kissed my sleeping children and went to sleep myself.

Friday, I noticed that something was amiss with the oldest child. He wasn't quite himself. By afternoon, I was pretty sure, and went ahead and made him an appointment with the doctor. Who said it was just a virus and move on with your life already and quit wasting my time. Come back in ten days if he's still sick. It's just a little fever, quit worrying already.

His weekend agenda?

Saturday: He laid on the couch. Took a bath. Put himself to bed.
Sunday: He laid on the couch. Took a bath. Put himself to bed.
Monday: He laid on the couch. Took a bath. Put himself to bed.

On Monday afternoon, I talked with a friend who was recounting her husband's bout with the flu. It was eerily similar to what the oldest child was dealing with. Pretty sure if I'd have waited a day, we would have done a flu test. But I was too early. I looked in my baby's eyes and knew.

I should have asked. I should have thought of it. I should have waited?

Just like tonight, when I looked in my youngest baby's eyes and knew. Tomorrow? I'm totally asking. Because I'm so tired of sick kids.

Stuff is just Stuff without a story

2009-01-15T22:58:00.003-06:00

I recently had the opportunity to dig through lots of Stuff that wasn't mine. My parents recently moved, and I offered to help them unpack boxes as a way of pretending to help them, but really to take a break from my children. Ahem. Anyways, I was saying.

So much of what we own and save for the sake of saying really is junk. It's just old junky stuff that we can't bear to part with. BUT. It has memories. It has a story. It has a story that we recall each time we think of it and each time we touch it. The things that we save are the things that make us feel warm and good and loved.

I rescued from my mother's house the following: a thirty year old teddy bear that has a dimple from some scissors that, um, accidentally came in contact with her cheek and a bandaid where she has a hole. A stuffed bunny, a thing that might be called a mouse, but the seventies were a cruel, cruel decade for style and some needlepointed and embroidered pictures. The pictures were done by my mother and they hung in my childhood house as long as I can remember. They say "home" to me. They aren't hip or cool, and I don't know if they'll hang in my house. But each time I think of them or touch them, I will smile.

Now, if when I am old, my children were to come across such treasures from the hippest decade of the twentieth century, they would likely say, as I did to my mother this week more times than I can count, "UGH, MOM, WHY??? Why on earth did you keep this crap?" And I will tell them the story, like my mom did so many times this week. And then maybe, just maybe, they will smile when they see them, too.

I think oftentimes the story is far more valuable than the actual thing. The story is better than the ratty old baby bonnet with only one string. But you need the thing to remind you of the story. And so you should keep your stories.

Paying it forward.

2009-01-10T19:30:00.005-06:00

There I was, three children. The airplane was decending and two of them fell asleep. The baby and the middle one. The oldest was just over four years old. I had to make it down the aisle of the plane and the jetbridge until they gave me my stroller back. I had enough stuff to keep three children clean, un-smelly, fed and occupied for four hours. That means I had enough luggage for a normal adult for a month.

Two children were asleep - that was at least fifty pounds. I had at least three bags and a four year old who was unwilling to go far without a hand held. I needed help, plain and simple. The state of humankind? This was the moment where I was going to find out.

And find out I did. I sat. I watched people get off the plane. I was going to wait. I had no idea what I was waiting for, but I knew I couldn't do much of anything at that moment.

While I sat, I had no less than five offers of help. Young men, business men, grandmothers, business women. So many people offered to help. Being the independent soul that I was, I refused at first, then realized that my daughter was not going to wake up, and there was no way I could carry them all, so I relented. A couple, probably on vacation, helped - one carrying a child, the other carrying all my bags. I had a baby and a hand to hold, that was it.

I cried. I was so grateful to them, and to all those who offered. I vowed to myself that when I had the opportunity, that I would do the same for some other overwhelmed mother of young children traveling. So Monday? If you're traveling, I'm ready. I'll be the one with the ipod, the trashy magazine and the giant smile. I'll help you. You just have to be ready to accept the help.

Seven Frivolous Things I Love

2009-01-05T23:52:00.002-06:00

Because any other list would have to be all sappy and stuff with my wonderful husband and children, and I'd probably make someone mad because someone else was higher up on the list than the other (which reminds me, the oldest child asked the other day if it was really, really true that parents didn't pick favorites - he asked only at a moment when I was the least exasperated with him, coincidentally)

1. Dr Pepper. Who's list is this not first on?
2. Fancy fringe with beads AND tassles, because one OR the other simply isn't enough.
3. My iphone. My gosh how did I live without it two weeks ago and all the rest of my life???
4. Deal or No Deal. There is no other show in the world that has caused me to be late to pick up my children from school.
5. A fire in the fireplace. And not only because it means the children aren't home. It's just magical.
6. My haircut. Mostly because it's about darn time I have an adorable haircut.
7. My painted rooms. I just keep walking into them and staring with my mouth open and drool hanging out. They just make me so happy.

So there. Seven things that I can absolutely live without, but I just don't wanna.

Happy 13 Years

2008-12-30T15:38:00.003-06:00

To me, the most romantic anniversary present ever. Happy Anniversary, Sarge -- here's to many, many more.

And because we're so romantic, we're taking the kids to dinner. My sister calls their anniversary the birthday of their family, so I guess we're taking them out for our birthday.

All these toys...

2008-12-27T16:32:00.003-06:00

And they've spent the last 24 hours playing their own version of hockey with wrapping paper tubes and some random ball they've had for years and years.

Next year? I'm buying a new refrigerator and giving them the box for Christmas.

Merry Christmas, y'all.

2008-12-26T19:07:00.003-06:00

It doesn't feel like Christmas - it's like a hundred degrees outside. No worries, I'm sure it will be snowing tomorrow. That's just how we roll in Texas.

I think that Christmas was successful - I didn't get caught, but I didn't put the Elf away. I forgot. The elf? Y'all have got to get one for next year - the Elf On A Shelf - so cute holy moly my kids loved it! And seriously? They totally thought I didn't move the thing. For kids that are supposed to be so smart...

Next? Painting. I'm itching. I'm also itching to put away Christmas decorations, though my sister would have my head if she found out I wanted to put away Christmas before the end of December.

Changing Tactics

2008-12-16T09:06:00.004-06:00

My daughter has been pretending she's a dog every day now for months. My method of operation has been to ignore it, hoping it will go away, or to tell her to quit crawling, she's getting holes in her pants.

Sarge and I had a discussion the other day about the way we (read:me) were going about it. We decided that it clearly wasn't working. So I tried something new.

I ran with it.

She has eaten her last two meals on the floor. She had milk on a plate this morning, and she's been eating Cocoa Puffs and Kix, because they look like dog food. I've been petting her head and haing her do tricks (though she does make me promise to do other tricks after 'play dead' before she'll comply). I didn't even get mad when her jeans got a hole in them after playing dog all afternoon.

I figure, it's bad now, but she'll get bored with it, right? I mean, who can eat cocoa puffs for every meal? Wait. Don't answer that. Gah. This could make for a very long holiday vacation.

Seriously? (Warning: PG-8 or 9)

2008-12-15T14:51:00.006-06:00

I vividly recall walking through Hobby Lobby about four and a half years ago and the middle child asking me if the Easter Bunny was real. Because I won't ever lie to my children, I told her no. She promptly told her brother. She then asked if the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus were real. I delivered the bad news. She shared with her brother.

They both forgot this conversation when Christmas arrived, up until about three years ago, when the oldest figured it out. AGAIN. And I told him that now he was part of the grownups, getting to play Santa for the younger kids.

Well, now? They all act like they believe again. The youngest has no clue, the middle one is determined to believe and the oldest one acts like it's actually possible for Santa to come to that many houses all over the world in one night. I blame the Polar Express and all those darn bells they keep ringing.

Because, darnit, I want credit for all this shopping I've been doing. I've been in the toy store more often in the last two weeks than I've been in it all year, and boy, do I ever remember why.

GTG, I need to move the elf on a shelf.

New and Improved!

2008-12-09T22:29:00.007-06:00

I have spent the last week or so changing my whole house around. Which, I really didn't have time for, but I really didn't NOT have time for, because it made my whole life so much better. SO MUCH BETTER.

I had finally convinced Sarge to let me have the play room. It was only a toy storage location and a place for the kids to make a giant mess in, then complain bitterly when it was time to clean it up, and so on and so on. So I took it.

We changed what was my sewing room, which is the first room you see in my house, into a sitting room. It is full of books and games, along with two chairs and a lamp. And for the last week, magic has happened there.

Magic like this:

And this:

And even this:

We are so excited that we are taking over the computer/treadmill/assorted junk room and turning it into a room with a table and chairs and a buffet. Some people might call that a dining room, but we're filling the buffet with games and puzzles, and we'll fill the table with fun. Sometimes dinner, but not too often.

Same space, very little money spent (so far!), and life is so much better. I love my new sewing space and don't have to look at it when I don't want to, and don't have to be overwhelmed by it as soon as I walk in the door. But when I walk into the space now, I mean business, and boy do I get a lot done. Phwew!

The last three weeks, in one horrible runon sentence

2008-12-06T18:15:00.002-06:00

First, there was the fact that I couldn't stand my children, that I couldn't stand being a parent and wanted to quit, but I couldn't bring myself to write about it because of the guilt, oh the horrible guilt, but then I was walking home from school one day and there was my oldest child's bike right there in the middle of the road, but he wasn't anywhere to be found, just his bike until about two seconds later (which, incidentally, is long enough to go through about twelve of the worst case scenarios ever imagined) and my husband emerged from my house which was in view of the bike and told me that he'd fallen off his bike but he was totally fine just a little over dramatic which means that he was also totally himself but it made me realize that my children are like air - as much as I wanted to quit being a mom, all those worst case scenarios made me realize that I simply cannot live without them, although I was perfectly happy to drive them to Mississippi for a week with a hug and a toothbrush while I sat at home and watched sappy sad movies on Thanksgiving and ate a pumpkin pie - who needs turkey, honestly - while my husband worked, which was unfortunate because I got two dead husband movies and it didn't sit all that well with me, but I moved on and watched more sappy movies that made me cry until it was time to pick up my children again, (really, it was a week already?) and then decided that who cares that there's only three weeks until Christmas, I'm going to rearrange my entire house, which I did until the oldest child vomited all over the carpet and then I couldn't sleep for three days with the horrible, terrible fear that practically gave me an ulcer that someone else was going to start heaving and I hate cleaning up throw up more than I hate cleaning toilets but no one did, so I got a lot of work done in my new sewing room, which used to be the play room, and now Christmas is practically over, so I don't really need to put out Christmas decorations, do I?

Oh, my, I'm out of breath. I promise to get writing again. I like my children again, which is miraculous, because we just got home from the mall. On a Saturday. In December. Oh, and we went to the toy store.

If wishes were horses...

2008-11-14T23:02:00.003-06:00

I was being the most terrible mother in the land today.

I made my son eat his soup. Well, I take that back. I told him if he wanted another piece of bread, then he had to finish his Butternut Squash Soup (Yay! Football is over! I remember how to cook again!). There wasn't much. He could walk away from the soup and be done with dinner.

Instead, he cried. And sobbed. And I set a timer.

"I just wish I didn't have taste bugs!"

Add that onto the dog refusing to lick my bowl, and I'm feeling pretty darn good about my cooking right about now.

The Twilight Zone -or- How I Thought My Car Was Going To Explode

2008-11-13T11:38:00.003-06:00

Sarge went one quiet evening to take the boys to an event, while I was to take the girl child. He went to his truck. It wouldn't start. Weird, but whatever. The oldest child came in to get me, explaining that Daddy needed my help.

So I went to start my car. It wouldn't start either. Only weird because it happened on the same day as Sarge, but kind of par for the course for my sweet and adorable "experienced" minivan.

So we're left with two cars, neither of which work. I do what any girl would do. I call my Daddy. Well, first I had to call my sister, because I didn't have Daddy's work number, but while I was doing that, I ran to my neighbor's house and bugged her to let us use her car to jump start ours. And then I called my Daddy.

Meanwhile, Sarge jiggled a wire or two in his truck and while I was on the phone with my father, his truck miraculously started. Phwew. Never mind, sweet and generous neighbor - just wait another day, and I'm sure I'll need another favor.

So he went on his merry way to his event to go to with the boys, while I was able to walk to mine with our daughter. Settled, for now.

Fast forward a couple of hours, sun sets. We try again, thinking that we've both got to be somewhere tomorrow, and there's no way we're all getting up in the middle of the night to take Sarge to work. And by the middle of the night, I mean six in the morning. It won't start, so we start removing the battery.

My magical father calls again, I lament and whine, he asks a hundred and fifty questions. We reconnect the battery, as he tells me it can't be that dead, don't be ridiculous. But then comes the part where I thought my car was going to explode. I turned on the headlights, just to make sure it's the battery and not the starter. They came on, though dim. I turned them off. Well, I tried, but the lights stayed on. I start panicking now.

I was unable to turn the lights off. Until I could, but then, they were flashing on.off.on.off.on.off dimly. My poor father was trying desperately to understand what my babbling freaking out gibberish meant and was just trying to solve the stupid problem and get home from work already.

"the switch, it's off, but my lights, they're on. Ahh, I can't turn them off, it just won't work, do I need to get out of the car? Is it trying to tell me to get out NOW? Is it possessed? Should I roll it into the river?" And in my head, I'm deciding which dealership I'm headed to the next day to buy my new Suburban.

But then we reconnected the jumper cables and the thing started right up. I considered leaving it running, unlocked over night and hoping for the best, but alas, I decided to be practical and that my Suburban would have to wait.

And my father? He has a few new gray hairs, and I'm pretty sure he's avoiding my calls for the next little while, just until his heart rhythm goes back to normal. And Sarge's truck? He has to jiggle the wires every time he wants to go somewhere. And to think, that's our reliable vehicle.

Adventures in cup wearing

2008-11-12T17:52:00.002-06:00

I am a girl. I am a girl with two sisters. You could say that I lack experience with this sort of thing.

So when we started this football adventure, one of the items that we purchased was a cup. And the underwear that went with it.

We called the cupholder-thingie a diaper. Because that's what the youngest thought it looked like, and well, I thought it was funny.

There was the time that we stayed after a football game to watch a friend's game. The oldest child was removing some of his gear and handing it to me. Until? Until he started to reach down in his pants in the stands. In the stands, in broad daylight, my nine year old child is reaching in his pants. And I knew exactly why, and said, "Oh, no you don't - you are NOT taking that cup out and handing it to me right here in public. It's one thing to hand me your helmet and pads, boy. Don't even think about it."

And then there was the time that it looked like a balloon full of pee exploded all over my bathroom. MY bathroom. Why didn't he use one of the others? Because it was just my day. I'm pretty sure not even a drop went into the toilet. He says, "But Mom, it was hard to manage with my pants and my cup and I just couldn't get it right." Get it right? Are you kidding? My bathroom smelled like an interstate gas station bathroom!

So, yeah, I was pretty excited when I got to wash it and box it up with the rest of the football gear. I'm pretty sure that I'll feel nostalgic toward football season about the time it's sign-ups again. Just like childbirth.

the most wonderful time of the year

2008-11-09T18:32:00.002-06:00

She's on her second list. She says, after ten solid minutes of writing furiously, "this one is more reasonable, Mommy."

Considering the first list contained every single item in the American Girl catalog, I'm thinking that it must be more reasonable. But I doubt it's reasonable.

When I asked her to put the prices next to each item that she requested on her first list, her response was, "But Mommy, Santa doesn't have to pay!"

She just asked what she should put down for item number 54. I think that a discussion about greed may be in order.

Sarge:2; Mouse:17

2008-11-07T20:47:00.003-06:00

Except that Sarge's are the only two who count. Because he means business. I've avoided the garage today, except for tiptoeing through it to get to my car on the other side one time. Only once? Yes, because the car is now parked out front (the garage is in the back, don't ask, it's a Texas thing and you DON'T want to get me started on that, I promise).

But when Sarge came home from work tonight, he came in with the good news, "Hey, the mouse got lazy (or so fat that he could barely crawl because he'd eaten so much in the last few days) and he's in the trap! What's for dinner?"

So yes, two mice. I wonder if there's any more. I'm not taking any chances. The car's staying in the front, and I'm making the kids go in the garage for me.

Mouse traps: found

2008-11-05T19:20:00.002-06:00

They were being hidden behind the pieces of wood where we thought they were. The mouse has cleaned them twice now, just this evening. I'm thinking that the mousy mastermind is left.

It's a battle of wills. I'm going to win. Although the youngest is apparently rooting for the mice.

Growing up

2008-11-04T09:24:00.002-06:00

The oldest child rode his bike to school today. He had a responsibility at school where he had to be there about twenty minutes earlier than we normally get there. We've known about it and have been planning for it for a month or so. This will happen every day this month.

When I got to the school with the younger two, I saw him right away. He was standing at the curb in his reflective vest opening doors and helping kids out of the cars. He was smiling. He never smiles before 8AM.

After I said goodbye to the younger children, I sidled up to him. He couldn't help it - he was grinning. He said, "I want to do that every morning, not just on the mornings that I have safety patrol. Please?"

It was a little bit of independence. Enough for him. Enough for me. Baby steps. It makes me so happy. Almost as happy as it made him.

Experience

2008-11-03T15:40:00.004-06:00

We recently switched insurance companies for our home and auto. Ordinarily, this isn't very interesting ( I guess - it's only the second time I've ever done it...), until I read my policy.

We qualified for a discount. Well, rather, I should say my minivan did. It qualified for the "Vehicle Experience Discount" Which, I suppose, means that they threw us a bone because my minivan is about to fall apart and isn't worth much. I'm guessing that they're pretty sure that it won't last much longer.

Is that like a senior citizen's discount for a car?

Sarge:1; Mouse:0

2008-11-03T09:28:00.003-06:00

We actually called the mouse hunting expert, Green Tractor for advice after the last piece where we just fed the mouse a delicious meal.

We invited him back for seconds. We wedged the traps, I filled them a little fuller, squished all the good stuff in the crevices. And waited.

Sarge went back out, two traps were where we left them. Two were missing. Apparently he looked back to where we were pretty sure the mouse was hiding and apparently found it, because he came in the house and said this:

"Hey, you kids want to see a dead mouse?"

Cheers went up, my blood-thirsty children all waved their arms in delight and excitement to see the dead mouse, even after they were warned about how gross it was.

I sunk in my chair, not wanting to be asked.

They all came back in, the children totally calm and collected. I asked, "was it gross?"

The middle child, the same one who begged us to see a dead prairie dog in the road in South Dakota, BEGGED, said, "Nah, it wasn't gross at all. He just looked like this!" She proceeded to lay on the floor, on her side, legs and arms stiff out in front of her, with her eyes closed and her tongue sticking out to one side. Her younger brother nodded in agreement that her positioning was good.

Sarge came back in and told me that I shouldn't use the trash can between then and Trash Day. And that there was a little trail of blood that I should either avoid or ignore.

But here's the thing. We left the other three traps in the garage on the floor, unset, while we decided what we should do with them, if we should throw them away or save them for a mouse-y day or set them again, just in case. We both remember where the were.

They're gone. Missing.

I have a feeling that we're not done yet.

Savvy

2008-11-01T08:18:00.003-05:00

There is still a mouse in my garage. Whether it is the one that we put in the trash can or his friend, I don't know. All I know is that the mouse is smarter than me, and all of my feelings of kindness and mercy are going out the window.

We cleaned the garage on Friday, as the mouse droppings were multiplying and the sonic noisemakers weren't effective. So we got to cleaning up. We uncovered the mouse. He ran. And hid. We uncovered him. He ran. And hid again. I was entirely useless, as my husband ran around the garage with a shovel in one hand moving things and shaking things. I'm sure it would have been funny to see, but I couldn't see much with my hand over my eyes while I was screaming.

We gave up after the garage was clean, but he was hiding in a stack of wood that I have for making cornice boards. Mercy? Going out the window. We set the mouse traps. Four of them. Peanut butter with a bran flake topping.

Not two hours later, I made Sarge go check the traps. All four were still set, but licked clean.

Mercy? Gone.

We reset the traps. More peanut butter, squished in the nooks and crannies with a bran flake topping. Replaced them.

This morning? We can only find three clean traps. I have to assume he took the fourth as a trophy to his pile of friends living in my garage.

I'm going to come after him with a shovel myself if this keeps up.

Enough with the viruses already!

2008-10-30T23:37:00.003-05:00

But not the kind I usually deal with in the fall. But I can't say anything about that, because as soon as I gloat, we get something. Some sort of vomiting or random fever for a week - such loveliness.

Gah! I'm so over computer viruses. I swear, you can't even breathe near this computer without it getting something. If it started sneezing, I wouldn't be surprised.

Football

2008-10-29T08:53:00.003-05:00

My kid is the one in white with his arms wrapped around the kid with the ball. That's why I love football. But I also love that this is the last weekend. For the year.

Frustrated

2008-10-28T23:07:00.003-05:00

When my husband decided to be a police officer, nearly eight years ago, he took a rather large paycut. It was a conscious decision, one that we didn't take lightly, but we took in the best interest of our family.

When we took that paycut, we obviously looked at our bills and our expenses and also took cuts. One of those decisions was to sell the house we were in, buy a smaller one close to where he worked. This not only lowered the amount that we owed on our mortgage, but also made it so that his old truck could make it a few more years.

Here's where my frustration lies. When we sold our first house, as soon as our lender found out that we were downsizing, she offered to find us a loan to refinance that house so that we could stay. No problem, she says, I can keep you in that house.

No, thank you, I said.

No.

Yes, I understand that your corporation is willing to lend us the money. Yes, I understand that we qualify for the loan. Yes, I'm sure that you have some 5-year ARMs are really great products. Yes, thank you, but I've looked at my budget and what I feel comfortable spending each month based on the salary that my husband has and I'd feel happier with a smaller house and a smaller mortgage.

Oh, you mean I deserve a bigger house? Oh, you mean I can just tell you an amount of money that my husband makes that may or may not be true? Oh. Um. Yeah.

Could I please just have the loan that I asked for on the smaller more affordable house? Yes, thank you.

I remember this conversation so well. Clearly. And I'm frustrated. Because I don't even get so much as a thank you note from the government.

Dear Fiveberries in Texas:

Thank you so much for paying your mortgage on time every month. Thank you for not taking an ARM loan that you couldn't afford when the interest rate adjusted. Thank you for not taking on a mortgage that you knew full well would stretch your family's budget too thin.

Thanks for not asking us to bail you out. Thanks for not demanding the government help you out of the predicament that you put yourself in. Thanks for not involving us in an agreement that you made with a private corporation that you'd pay them back the money you owed them.

Sincerely,

The Government.

No changes

2008-10-23T22:52:00.002-05:00

I have been driving the same car for nine years.

I have been living in the same house for two and a half years.

I have been parking that car in the same place for the past two and a half years.

I sometimes even park in in that place at night.

So HOW did I manage to take a chunk out of my fence with the side of my car? HOW???

We did assess the damage and neither were fatally injured. Which is fortunate, because I'd much rather admit to my husband what I did than admit it to my mechanic. Because it's difficult to watch a grown man cry. BECAUSE HE'S LAUGHING SO HARD AT YOU.

Why nobody sews anymore.

2008-10-20T16:06:00.002-05:00

Because they decided that they'd learn to sew by making their kid a Halloween costume. And then they never sewed again, because all that ended up happening was broken thread, wobbly seams, wonky stretchy fabric and a kid who cried on Halloween when they had the lamest costume on the block. And lots and lots of swearing. And maybe a little banging of the head against the sewing machine.

THE END.

P.S. If fabric stores were smarter, they wouldn't carry any of that awful fabric for Halloween costumes and encourage people NOT to start with the most difficult thing ever to sew. Because slippery knits? Fake fur? Shiny? NOT EASY. And then, THEN! they have the nerve to add a zipper to the costume. Yeah. I'd totally quit, too.

I screamed like a girl today.

2008-10-17T14:30:00.003-05:00

I mean, I screamed. LOUD.

I'll start at the beginning. I was driving home from errands today, and decided that today would be the perfect day to wash the windows. It's been on my to-do list for, I don't know, two years? Two and a half years? You get the point. Today was the day.

I came in, informed my husband that it was going to happen, that I'd love to have his company. Which means, "HELP ME OR YOU'RE IN BIG TROUBLE, BUDDY." He got the point. He was finishing up his lunch, then was going to come help me. I went to go get started.

First things first. I needed to find the window stuff I'd bought a year ago, with the intend of washing said windows. I was sure that it was right there in the middle of the floor of the garage right under that pile of plastic bags to be recycled.

I picked up a bag full of bags to toss to another part of the, ahem, well organized garage. It felt heavy. Weird, for a bag full of empty plastic grocery bags. I looked inside.

This is the part of the story where I scream like a girl. And then go running in the house, yelling for my husband that I need help, and I need help right now. He, I'm sure, thinks that someone is attacking me or that I've broken my leg, except that I'm running in the house. He came running. I managed to finally speak the information he needed.

A MOUSE.

I was unable to speak further, only point at the location in question. He removed the bag in question. The mouse is now living happily, I'm sure, in my garbage can. My husband kindly pointed out that I never put anything in there anyways. I assured him that I certainly won't this week.

The good news is that not only are the windows clean, but the garage has been cleaned out, too.

I'm not sure I'll be sleeping again until Monday.

How I got my job.

2008-10-16T21:39:00.006-05:00

My sister asks:

"How did you get into the sewing/draperies business? What do you love the most about it?"

I started making drapes shortly after the oldest child was born. I made them for my house. I made them for my neighbor. I made them for her friend. I made them for her friend's friend. It snowballed from there.

I have been working only on referrals for the last nine years, without a break. Well, except for last summer when I didn't take on any new work for three months. Even though I never did get a break.

I love my job for a million reasons. I can make my own hours. I can go on field trips with my children. I work while they sleep. Heck, now I can work while they play. I never had to put them in daycare, but could still make enough money to help my family. Those are the practical reasons why.

But the other reasons? I get to work with fabric. I get to make things for people that I'd never otherwise do. I get to be creative - I can walk into a room and design a window treatment that I think will set off a room. In my head. I get to meet people that I'd otherwise not ever have met. I create something beautiful (almost) every day.

I am able to stay at home with my children, yet I have something for me that keeps my mind moving in directions other than bodily functions and cleaning. I solve problems every day, but I get to use my inability to think in straight lines to work for me, rather than against me.

I believe that my job is a gift that was given to me, for me to succeed at or to fail at. But, through hard work and honesty, I have been able to be successful, and to get better and better at it with each day. I am grateful for it in so many ways.

What would life be like if I wasn't a wife and mother...

2008-10-14T22:35:00.003-05:00

Green Tractor asks:

"Any idea about what you'd like to do as a profession if you couldn't be a wife & mother?"

There are two ways that I think of this question. What would me life be like had I not started down the path I started? And, if I am who I am now but wasn't a wife and mother?

So if my 20 year old self didn't marry Sarge, where would my life possibly have gone? You mean after the hopeless disastrous mess of sobbing and pining for the one that got away? I'm not sure I would have ever gotten past that. Ahem. You mean if I would have.

I think without Sarge, I would have gone on some soul searching adventure, like Teach for America or some such volunteer-ish adventure. I don't think that I would have stayed in Boston, but I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have gone back home to California either. I think. I'd like to think that my adventures would have led me to some non-profit organization or teeny-tiny profit organization where I could live on a shoestring in some sort of place where you carried mace with you all the time. I actually spend a large portion of my time as a teen volunteering for all kinds of organizations with all kinds of people - I'd like to think that I would have continued that, were it not for a wonderful man who got nervous when I would head out to all kinds of parts of town with nothing more than a train token on me. Practicality. Harrumph.

However, if the me who I am today were to get a job that I could get without worry of a ten year gap on my resume or a very strange job history or, oh, I don't know, qualifications? And I could do anything I pleased without worry of practicality, childcare or health benefits? Oh, my. A National Park Ranger? Alternative Energy? Shrink? Auto Mechanic? Farmer? Fabric Creator? Ice Cream Taster? Foster Parent? Bridge Builder?

Things that would NEVER fall on the list? Personal Trainer. Cop. President (they go gray so quickly). Computer Programmer - sorry dad. Housekeeper. Anything with the word "hospitality" in it. Anything that involved bodily fluids. Professional Organizer. Wal-Mart at Christmas. Sales. Anything that required precision. Hmm. I think this list might be longer.

I'm sure I could go on and on. I think that all of the things that are on the list have a common thread. I'm not terribly interested in making wads of cash. I want to create things or at least leave the world better than I left it. I would love to make alternative energy a real and viable resource for more people. I would also love to create fabrics - there are so many that I think I should be able to find that just don't exist. And, at the end of college, one of my professors planted the seed that I should become a shrink, and it's always interested me. But don't tell Sarge - he thinks that shrinks are quacky.

The ice cream tasting job - that would be for pure pleasure. I'd have to live at work, though - after a month or two, I wouldn't be able to fit out the double doors anymore. But can you imagine the job satisfaction rate for that kind of position? Or the competition for the job?

But, practicality always plays into it for me. I have an awesome job that I love (that explanation's coming - promise!) that provides me a creative outlet that I so desperately need and it gives me the flexibility to work around my family. But I work for the meanest boss. She makes such ridiculous demands and deadlines and makes me stay up until all hours of the night. If she weren't me, I'd have quit years ago.

An easier, less deep question answered

2008-10-12T20:11:00.003-05:00

My sister asks:

"If you could go anywhere on vacation (with or without kids... you choose), where would you go, what would you do, etc (if cost weren't an issue!)?"

Short answer: Everywhere. Anywhere.

As I think I've written about before, we want our kids to see all fifty states before they are adults. Mostly because my husband and I want to, and because we both like complete sets of things. It wouldn't suit either one of us to have seen 49 states. Even if the state left behind were New Jersey, we'd make the effort, simply to have a complete set. It's just an obsession we both have (I never thought I'd find anyone like me in that regard!)

So, yeah, I'd start with our country, just because there's so much of it. We are trying to decide if we want to head to the Carolinas this summer or if we're ready to hike in Colorado and Utah. I think we're leaning toward waiting one more year for Colorado and Utah, even though we're both dying to go there.

HOWEVER. Lately, I've been itching to get away just for a weekend with Sarge to a random big city, not rent a car and just take public transportation everywhere and hit all the little random restaurants that can be found in a four day period. The public transportation thing limits us a little, as does my complete lack of desire to go to NYC.

Every place we go, we always try to look at from the perspective of what it would like to live there. We have a difficult time being simply tourists, though we did a pretty good job in Tennessee (mostly because we decided pretty quickly that we wouldn't want to live near where we were visiting, that it made a much better place just to visit).

I used to think it was irresponsible to travel to a place where you didn't know the language, which pretty much limited me to the U.S., some parts of Canada, the parts of Mexico where they speak Spanglish and England, though I'm pretty sure there would be a small language barrier there, too. But I'm maturing, I guess, or becoming more of a Stupid American and deciding that I would love to see more of the world as an adventure. So maybe Paris. Because that's so cliche.

Still, the short answer and the long answer remain the same. I want to go anywhere. And everywhere. I want to see all the National Parks. I want to see all the beauty that this world has to offer. And I want to see how other people live. But heck, I'd even be glad to get away for a weekend to Austin. Or even Fort Worth. I'm not terribly picky.

Shameful:Shameless

2008-10-12T17:43:00.003-05:00

Allowing the pictures that your children drew in the dust to collect dust : Posting pictures of it on the internet

Why I hate computers.

2008-10-11T21:50:00.003-05:00

Green Tractor asks:

"How did it happen that computers never really caught on with you? You certainly were exposed to them earlier than most of your peers. I sure hope it wasn't your experience with NULL pointers in pascal. I guess I always expected that there would be at least one computer nerd among you three."

Again, my dad has other insight here. I can't even explain properly here what I did to my father's computer when I was in high school. I was in an AP Computers class, and if I may date myself, we were programming in Pascal. To those who are also not computer geeks, Pascal = dinosaur era programming. I think it went something like this:

"Let's see if my program works this time!"

"Um, Dad? Could you come here a second? The computer just belched and smoke started coming out of the hard drive. Is that bad?"

There was muttering and mumbling from my father, I think something about how he was hoping that my career as a computer geek would someday pay for his old folks home and then some swearing, but mostly a lot of "you need to go tell your mother this is why I save all the floppy disks for recreating the computer as we knew it before you ran your program. And all the books too, while you're at it."

Short answer: I am not a linear thinker.

I can create and think and dream up problems and their solutions but then can't follow through with the daily monotony of actually seeing the problems through to their solutions. If it weren't for my husband, there would likely be days that the children were sent to school without their shoes on.

For example. The children were sick. I researched and shopped for the vitamins and other things that they would need to actually get out of the house and stop going to the doctor every week. I purchased said vitamins. I gave them to them for a week and counted it as a success. We would still probably have those original vitamins were it not for my husband following through and actually giving the children their vitamins every day.

I can't do a job that would require me to have a predetermined set of tasks to complete each day. And for computer programming, that would require using quotation marks and brackets in the proper place at the proper time. I seem to recall some shouting at the computer when I was trying to make it do what I wanted, "BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANTED IT TO DO!!" And my dad would patiently tell me that computers always do exactly what you tell it to do. But the machine I work on would be required to do what I intended for it to do, not just what I told it to do. Because that's just frustrating.

My dad has a habit of answering the question that we ask, but not the question that he is completely aware that we are asking him. "Dad, what's up?" Yes, my father will answer "Satellites" or "the ceiling". I think it's because my father is part computer. Or just trying to get us to think like programmers. Whatever it is, it certainly incited lots of eyeball rolling from teenaged daughters.

Which, if I really think about it, this really just proves that I would make a great manager of programmers. I can think up the problems, then think up the solution, then tell someone else to do all the minutiae. And then tell them they did it wrong and to do it all over. And then go look for new programmers after all those ones quit because I'm so aggravating.

I certainly wish that computer thing would have caught on with me. I wish I could program these stupid things. I have all kinds of dreams for great websites. And what they'd look like. Just not the skills.

Answer some more

2008-10-11T08:04:00.003-05:00

Green Tractor asks:

"MY GOD, WOMAN, WHY DO YOU NOT HAVE A JOB????"

or some variations of that.

But I'll answer first, "I've wondered why you didn't get a teaching credential after college. Teaching is certainly a rewarding (and valuable to the community) career. Teachers are usually in demand so a job is available in most places. Pay is OK."

He has a little inside scoop, since he knows that I was an early childhood education major at Boston College, with a double major in human development. With a hint of Spanish in there - there was a minor -- I tried to be an overachiever and triple major, but decided to get out in 3-1/2 years instead. Latin American Studies or some such. It wasn't a realy Spanish minor, but it involved something like that, I can't actually remember. Sad.

But the short version to the question of why I didn't go on to have a teaching career is this. All the teaching that I did in college took the hope and optimism that I had and crushed it. Squished it. Gone.

Here's the long version. I was one of the shining stars in my graduating class. I did very well, I served the school in a dozen other ways and knew lots and lots of people. Therefore, they gave me the best and most experienced teachers to do all of my teaching coursework. I taught for three semesters, once a week, then in my last semester, I spent every day in a classroom. I spent a lot of time listening. Even when they weren't directly trying to teach me something.

There were two that stand out in my memory as being life changing. The first was in the poorest section of Boston - I was in a Kindergarten classroom. The children were charming and adorable and I loved them dearly. The teachers went on strike. They wanted better benefits - I have no problem with that. But I asked what happened on the days that the teachers refused to work. My teacher responded that many children were sent to school anyway - and waited on the school grounds, unsupervised until they were picked up after school hours. The children were five, and this was not long after my teacher had pointed out the man across the street was one of her former students and now supplied drugs to much of the community, doing the bulk of his work within sight of the front door of the school. Oh, but the children who didn't get left on the school grounds while no one was there were left at home. While Mom was at work.

The teacher I was with had been around a long time. She had accepted this as something that she could only do so much to change. I was still young and optimistic and had hope that I could change things as a teacher. But I saw these teachers as having given up, and not doing what was in the best interest of the children. I didn't want to teach with these women, even though that was a setting that I felt called to.

The second time was the full practicum teaching experience. It was with a woman who had been teacher of the year for the state of Massachusetts, who had been teaching more than 25 years. It was in a wealthy suburb of Boston. She was exhausted to start the school year, having had to change classrooms and was dealing with a Lupus flare-up. About a week into the school year, she told me that this was the most challenging class she'd ever had, save one class when she was a new teacher. But the challenges? Weren't the students. Most of them were from the families, from the damaged goods that we were given each day when the day started.

She managed to get one family in therapy, which did amazing things for all of them. One boy had such terrible anger issues and frustration - he reminds me now of what my oldest could be if we didn't work so darn hard every day. But his family wouldn't do anything to help. I think in the semester I was there, I saw his mom one time and never his father. There was another family, who were the nicest people you'd ever met, but their son was so far behind - he was in third grade and couldn't read - but not for reasons you'd think. You see, they were Jehovah's Witnesses, and therefore didn't celebrate holidays, which meant that for each and every holiday or party in the classroom, he'd stay home. He wouldn't do spelling words or homework that celebrated the holiday or went against their religion. Mine was the first teacher, who at the beginning of the year said, "I'll modify curriculum for him. We'll make this work. Please, just send him to school. Work with me, I'll work within the parameters you set." I left halfway through the year, my term was up, I think when we were at the lowest point with that class. I didn't get a real practice teaching experience, because we were so hard a work dealing with the problems that I became her assistant, mostly because she needed someone so badly, there were so many learning differences in the classroom. It was at the height of mainstreaming ALL children.

So when I left, I left without much hope. Because when you are 20 and you want to be a teacher, it's because you intend to teach the world to read, you intend to change lives, and because you know that you can overcome just about anything. And suddenly, I knew that I couldn't. And instead of doing my best, I chose to get out.

I wouldn't join a union. I saw what it did in Roxbury, I heard stories of teachers sneaking into classrooms during a work-to-rule strike. But when I taught preschool at a private school, I hated it so much.

So I left, and I moved on to other things. Would I go back to teaching? Maybe, but it would be for completely different reasons than my 20 year old self. But I think that between my husband's job and teaching, that I would pull all of my hair out knowing what people actually do to children behind closed doors. And in the suburb that we live in, some of it's the awful stuff that you think of when you think of child abuse, and some of it is the living vicariously through the children, and some of it is giving children so much that you are creating disabled adults. I'm not sure that I can see all of that as a teacher, hear all of the things that my husband sees and deals with and still be a reasonable parent at the end of the day. Because currently? My most important job is creating adults. Three of them.

I warned you it wasn't a short answer - and it's all connected to the other questions you have, Green Tractor. But I have a cramp in my typing fingers.

I think I'll start with the easiest one.

2008-10-10T08:56:00.002-05:00

Anonymous asks:

"And them kids of yours are smart little puppies. How'd you get em that way? I read once that a pattern of super smart kids is that they were read to, sung to, and talked to while still in the womb. Maybe that's your secret? I dunno, just something about sitting with a guitar and singing Kumbayah to a person's tummy doesn't seem right:)"

Clearly, not a long time reader, not knowing that the only thing that I overachieve at is underachieving. ;)

When I was pregnant with the oldest child, I had one of those jobs where I had to be there at a specific time every day. You know, like most people. And so I would time my getting into the car with a set of songs they always played at 7am. Every day. It was not classical music. And I blew out my speakers in my little car with this daily project. And once or twice, I worried that I was doing damage to my child by letting him listen to AC/DC every day, but then just turned the music up a little louder.

And then, there was all of the dropping on the head for the middle child. I left most of it out of the baby book, so as to not give her more ammunition for her therapist to blame me. But when she was a newborn, the oldest was holding her - it was so sweet - and then he decided he was done and rolled her off his lap onto the floor. From the couch. Lovely. I'm sure it was one of my first days home by myself with the two of them. And I'm sure I sobbed and ate chocolate. But all I remember is the dropping on the head part.

To add to my list of fabulous parenting, there was the day when I was at least 15 months pregnant with the third child and we were shopping at Target. The middle child was notoriously bad about sitting in the cart. You see where this is going, don't you? She reached for something, I kept going, she lost her balance and fell out of the cart, directly on the top of her head. So there I was, four year old standing there, I'm sitting on the floor in Target, threw my purse randomly somewhere behind me and sobbing while clutching my screaming child. I'm sure that was a lovely sight. She wasn't bleeding, her pupils were the same size, I was a disastrous mess, but at least 10 Target employees gathered around and offered ice and water. You know that you did something bad when the Target manager calls you the next day to check on your kid.

And all that was in the midst of the time when my belly was so big and my little girl was so little that I would knock her down with my belly because she would get right under me and I couldn't see her and she could barely walk.

So, Mr. W, my children are smart in spite of me and my careful, careful by-the-book parenting.

Daily Randomness

2008-10-09T15:33:00.002-05:00

1. Changing my tire is no longer fun and exciting. It's getting tiresome (Har!). Apparently I can now do it in less than twenty minutes. Lovely.

2. Why is it that when you don't need help at a store, no less than 12 people ask if they can help you. And when you actually need help? They are busy swarming that other poor woman who wants to browse in Home Depot. Because I'm sure I'm not the only woman who browses in Home Depot.

3. Seriously? Ask the berry? I thought I'd get easy questions, like "what's on your ipod?" and "what did you eat for dinner last night?" or "Fake or Real? (Christmas trees, of course, what else were you thinking?)" You people are making me think! Yikes!

4. Seven hundred photos of a two day PTA event might just be too many. I think. And does anyone know how to scrapbook? I think I might be in over my head.

Ask the berry

2008-10-07T18:46:00.002-05:00

So my sister complained. But I've got nothing, except how immensely tired I am of football, how I have more than five hundred pictures on my camera of our PTA fundraiser, and there's still one more day to go, and how I actually feel like I have a hand in teaching my five year old to read, unlike his brother and sister who taught themselves.

So, the bar is open. I'll answer (almost) any burning question you might have. And no fair calling me. Ask in the comments.

Play-date-a-palooza

2008-10-01T18:43:00.003-05:00

First, the shirt came home in one piece. He's been saved from another day of button-shirt misery.

Second, holy playdates, batman! It's gotten to that stage in our lives where it's so much easier and fun to have six children in the house rather than the three that live here. I never, ever thought that I would say that, but I didn't lift a finger the whole time. It was fabulous. And, now there's no arguing about who had more friends over or who's turn it is or it's not fair blah blah blah...

But now, I just need to finagle a way for all the friends to respond in kind all on the same day. Because that would be lovely, wouldn't it?

Experimenting with scissors

2008-10-01T13:49:00.004-05:00

The youngest child is apparently having a Kindergarten heyday with the newfound freedom of scissors without supervision. And by supervision I mean hovering mother.

On Monday, he came home with two little slices in the neckline of his undershirt. At least he had the presence of mind to not cut his favorite Tony Romo jersey. I mentioned to him how disappointed I was, but didn't impress (on his rear end with my hand) upon him how disappointed I was, apparently.

Tuesday, at dinner, I noticed that there was a small slice in one of his better T-shirts, right on the belly. I was, to say the least, annoyed.

I sat on it a little while before I decided his punishment. And then the most evil plan of all hatched in my brain. I would make him wear a collared, buttoned shirt. To school. He hates those things. Backwards, you say? A little, but the idea of having to wear one of those every day until he can learn not to cut his clothing might just be what he needs to make the temptation go away. If we run out of collared buttoned shirts without cuts in them? He wears the ones with cuts in them.

BUT. I'm thinking that today will be the only day that he wears a "button shirt." I'll know in an hour. Or so.