Oh. My mistake.

Ashley's friend Ashley Mask is here helping Ashley clean her closet.

Heard from the other room: "That was easy. That was easy. That was easy. That was easy. That was easy. That was easy. That was easy."

Me: "Awwwwww, Jonah! Ashley gave you her easy button. How nice!"

Jonah: "No, actually it was Ashley."

"Mom!!! Eventually, King Neverkizzever believed in the true God!!!" --- Jonah, talking about the Bible history regarding "Rack, Shack & Benny" (a.k.a. Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego and King Nebuchadnezzar).

In which the boy expounds on the benefits of bunnies.

Jonah: We should get a rabbit because a rabbit is like a mower except it's smaller. And? When the rabbit dies?  (finger gun) You can just use your mower again.

(It all boils down to the lawn mower for my little man.)

But you said every good game for boys has hot lava...

Me: "Jonah, Aunt Nancy asks about your baseball game yesterday. She wants to know if there was any hot lava."

Jonah (with a grin): "We're the Fireballs, not the Hot Lava Balls."

On the way to pick up Mom for her labs and radiation appointment this morning:

Jonah: We're taking Grandma to the doctor again?

Mary-Beth: Wow. She's always sick.

Jonah: No she's not, Mary-Beth. She's not always sick.

Mary-Beth: Yes she is.

Jonah: No she's not.
Mary-Beth: Yes she is.
Jonah: No she's not!
Mary-Beth: (giggle) Yes she is.
Jonah: No she's not infinity!

Mary-Beth: Oh yeah? Then why do we always take her to the doctor? (tongue out at Jonah)

Me: We take Grandma to the doctor for a special medicine she has to use every day. She has something called cancer. Mary-Beth is right, Jonah. Grandma is sick.

Mary-Beth: Oh. (pause) So does she cough a lot? Or sneeze a lot.

That must be it.

Ashley this morning: "Hey Mom, the neighbor lady across the street, her arm's in a sling. What happened?"

Me: "Oh wow, I don't know. Surgery? Or maybe it's broken. I wonder what happened."

Jonah: "Maybe she fell off her roller skates. Then (insert crashing sound)... y'know... broken."

My hero!

Mary-Beth bounded into my bedroom this afternoon sporting Jonah's red superhero cape. Standing there, chin up, hands on hips, she says to me in her best superhero voice, "Mom? Can I go outside and save! the world!?" I kissed her on both cheeks and said, "Yes, you may. Please go and save the world in the back yard." She replied, shoulders now slumped, "But there aren't any people in that world."

Um, ew?

Mary-Beth: Um, Jonah? Your breath smells like trees.

Some questions don't need to be answered.

Jonah: "Hey Dad! Do you have anything big and sharp I can have?"

You learn something new every day.

Jonah: Hey Mom! Guess what! When your body grows? It even grows all at the same time. Not only half of it grows, but ALL of it grows. Even. your boobs.

Me: *ahem* Boobs?

Mary-Beth: He means "boobies." (With a knowing glance at Jonah. You know the one. If you have teenage girls, you've seen it. "Oh that poor woman. Will she ever catch up?")

Me: *ahem* Boobies?

Jonah: (eyebrows up, nodding) Yeah. I learned that (finger gun) at sign language class.

Now where in the world did I put that syllabus from ASL class? It's around here somewhere...

Dear God, please don't let him find half a frog.

Jonah: "Mom? This pocket right here is sooo big, I bet I could fit a whole frog in there."

Maybe I should sew that one shut.

Wow. That's tall.

Jonah: "The trees at the cabin are almost as tall as God and Jesus stuck together."

Almost.

That long ago, eh?

Jonah: "WAIT! I have seen a rabbit before. It was at the pumpkin patch........ That was back when I had all my teeth."

I'm betting that won't be the last time he'll have to say that.

It's all about the lums, yo.

Mary-Beth: "When we cough or sneeze, really our lums are just squeezing the germs out. (nods, eyebrows up) They are."

I believe it, every word.

Overheard at the kitchen counter

Mary-Beth: Hey Jonah, let's play that you're a lousy doctor.
Jonah: Okay.... You? Are dead.

(That's lousy, alright.)

Jonah says we should move the toaster.

"We should put it over there (finger gun pointed at the coffee station) by the cinnamon and sugar. (shrug) Y'know, for when you're making toast. It'll be closer to the cinnamon and sugar. (shrug) Then you could put cinnamon and sugar on all the toast. (finger gun pointed at me)"

Why didn't I think of that?

Ask a stupid question...

Jonah: "I don't like green beans, Mom."

Me: "Really? Wow. Green beans rock! Why don't you like them?"

Jonah: "I think it's the beans part I don't like."

It's a man thing.

Jonah found out he was going to get to visit with my friend Debbie's son Emmitt (who is 13 years old and super fun) while I was out running errands. He said, "Ooh! Can I wear a baseball shirt? Cuz I wanna play football with Emmitt and (insert finger gun) have a race."

She's good at so many things.

Jonah and Mary-Beth were playing "Don't Laugh," a game during which you try to keep a straight face while the other person tells you not to laugh.

It's harder than it sounds. Go ahead and try it. Don't laugh! Don't do it. Don't you laugh!

See?

So Jonah had just lost at his turn and, at the end of his laughing fit, said, "Y'know, Hazel is REALLY good at this game."

Meet Hazel:

Fun sucker.

Jonah: I'm a snoooow! dinosaaaaaaur! Rrrrrrroooowwwwrrrrr!

(pause)

Mary-Beth: You're not even a snow man.

Alrighty then

I just had to tell Mary-Beth that lip gloss doesn't belong on her eyebrows. She disagreed. She's lucky that pink is her color.

More "don't ask don't tell"

I'm choosing not to pursue the facts regarding the orange peel I just found inside the boy's sock. I'm just.... not going to ask.

Don't ask, don't tell

A transformer in our neighborhood blew this morning. The noise of it drew us all outside to see what we could see. Dan said he'd seen a puff of smoke, I grimaced and said "Yikes. Must have been a squirrel." My niece Lily (Luke and Melissa's oldest) thought for a second, then looked up at me and said, "Do squirrels do that?"

It's got Mary-Beth all over it

I found this little poem while out on the interwebz searching for copywork quotes for Jonah. Who does this bring to mind?

Singing Time
by Rose Fyleman

I wake in the morning early
And always, the very first thing
I poke out my head and I sit up in bed
And I sing and I sing and I sing.

Your honesty is refreshing

Mary-Beth came to me this morning wearing her most innocent look. You know the one: the chin is pressed to the chest, the eyes are looking up at you over the glasses, the bottom lip is sticking out. That look. Knowing her as I do, and having seen that look before, naturally I smelled a rat.

Her: Mommy? Jonah almost throwed that car at me.

Me: Really? He almost threw that car at you?

Her: Yes, he did. He almost throwed that car at me and it keeps making me mad every day.

Me: Hmmm. Did he throw the car at you, or did he almost throw the car at you?

Her: He almost throwed it.

Me: Ah. Well, why would he throw a car at you? Did you throw a car at him?

Her: Yes, but I keeped missing him.

Now we're getting to it.

Who asked you?

Mary-Beth: Mommy? When I'm 7 years old, will my feet touch the floor when I'm on the toileeyet (toilet)?

Me: Yes, I'm almost sure of it.

Mary-Beth (after a pause): Mommy? How old are you?

Me: Thirty-eight.

Mary-Beth: Wow! That's a loooooong time ago!

At least she knows the right answer

Me: Mary-Beth, are we supposed to put the whammy bar up our nose?
Her: Nnnnnnnegative.

That takes care of that

Mary-Beth (in a voice so low it's almost a whisper): Mommy? There was a ear twig crawling by my toes on the ground over outside by the garden.

Me: Oh, you know that ear wigs can't hurt you, right? Did you walk away from him?

Mary-Beth (same low whispery voice): No. I killed him with a shubble.

That'll work.

That might be a problem.

(Jonah, calling from his room to Mary-Beth's room.)
Mary-Beth!..... Will you come help me organize?

(Mary-Beth, calling back in a sing-song'y voice.)
Nooooooo.

(Long pause, then Jonah again.)
Mommy? Will you come help me organize? Because I don't know what "organize" means.

"Mommy? Swinging high on the swings is a weally. impoh-tant. job."

For the record, she should get paid for it. She's weally. weally. good at it.

And the wisdom to know the difference

Mary-Beth has become something of an informer in recent months. Don't tell her any secrets, and don't do something tattle-worthy in her presence.

On Easter she tattled on her cousin Roman. I reminded her that it's not alright to tattle unless someone is getting into something dangerous. Y'know, someone's left the yard, fell off the swings, licking the barbecue, all that normal stuff kids do. What? Your kids don't lick the barbecue? Hm. Maybe mine tastes better. Anyway...

She came back about 20 minutes later and tattled on Roman again. I asked, "Mary-Beth, are you tattling?" She giggled and replied, "Nooooooooo. I'm not tattling. *gigglegiggle* I'm tell-ling."

Pardon me. My mistake. Carry on. ;)

Are those cobwebs?

Jonah flopped on the couch after lunch today. I asked him if he was sleepy, trying to stifle the joy from my voice at the prospect of naps. "No, my tummy just hurts a little bit." I remarked that his tummy has been hurting after every meal lately. He replied with a sigh, "Probably it's because I'm almost 6 and I'm almost an old guy."

I wondered about those wrinkles.

Thanks for clearing that up.

Mary-Beth: "Mommy? I like bananas."

Me: "You do?"

Mary-Beth: "Yeah, but I'm not a monkey."

Heard from the back yard...

Dan: Mary-Beth, you may not throw snow at Jonah's face.

Mary-Beth: Oh.... right...

Jonah's Evil Plan

I was on the phone with Melissa a few days ago when I heard a noise from the boy's room that can only be his dresser hitting the wall. Of course, I go investigate. What I found had nothing to do with the dresser, still not sure what the noise was about.

I did, however, find Jonah standing on his bed's footboard - teetering on one foot, really - with a big long stick in his hand. On the end of the stick was a cup that, when exposed to light, will glow in the dark. The cup on the end of the stick was wavering dangerously close to the lightbulb on the ceiling. The light bulb is exposed because the fixture's shade has given up its ghost to a golf ball. Ahem.

So if you know me at all, you know that my first instinct is to grab the stick ("Gimme that!") and shoo the boy off his bed ("Feet go on the floor!"). For some reason, something in me just had to know what was really going on so instead of my usual growl, because trust me, we've been here before, I simply asked Jonah what was going on.

"Son, what's goin' on?"

"Don't worry, Mom. It's aaaall part of my evil plan."

Cross my heart hope to die, he looked me dead in the eye and, as if he were telling me he'd put his shoes away, he assured me that the scene I'd happened upon was indeed no accident, but it was all part of his evil plan. Relax, Mom. Got it covered. Nothing to see here. Please go back to your dishes or whatever it is you do. Melissa, still on the phone, was shouting, "Oh my heck, did he just say "evil plan?" Find out the plan! What's the evil plan?!"

"Uhhhhmm, er, uhhhh, what's your evil plan, son?" I asked, trying not to laugh.

"OK, sooooooo, I put this cup on the end of this big stick, and I knew if I couldn't reach the light from my bed I could get there from the table or maybe my dresser. Sooooooo I stand here and I reeeeeach and try to put this cup on that light bulb. But there's only one problem." (He's got his little finger-gun pointed at me. That's how he points. Finger gun. Cocked a little to the side.)

"There's only one problem? Hm. What's the problem?"

"Yeah. I don't really know how to get the cup back down."

"Son? Would you like me to charge your cup up for you so it will glow?"

Finger gun. "That'd be great."

I took the cup off the stick, charged it, and handed it to the boy who was already under his bed with his sister, waiting for the charged cup. I left the room - with the stick, which is now in Toy Purgatory with the golf ball - and finally let the laughter out.

So what did I learn from this? Well first, I think I'm a little too quick to jump to the "Gimme that stick!" approach. That over-in-an-instant, no-nonsense, how dare you act like a kid approach. How grinchy am I! If I took the time to ask him what's really going on a little more often, instead of just thwarting his evil plans, I might just be shocked and entertained. I don't think I stopped smiling the rest of the day.

And second? Seriously, what is that kid watching on television? Evil plans? Really? Time to unplug.

Watch out, boys.

Jonah: Mary-Beth! We should go to Cameron and Jesse's house to play today!

Mary-Beth: No, I don't want to go to Cameron and Jesse's house because Jesse is always mean to me because he is mean to me.

(pause)

Jonah: I can easily handle Jesse.

Right you are, son.

Jonah, tonight at the dinner table, out of the blue:
"Mommy? A five-year-old is not an old man."

This one's for Jordan

Just so you have an idea of what you're in for in about 3 years.

Mary-Beth, from the bathroom: Mommyyyyyy! I pooooooped!
Me, going in to wipe her: Good job, baby!
Mary-Beth: Yeah! I pooped one BIIIIG one and one yeeeeeeettle one.



Thank you for sharing.

Fascinating.

Jonah (from the back seat of the only other woman in Dan's life, his Monte Carlo): Mommy? Do you like to hot rod this car?

Me: No son, I don't.

Jonah: Oh, because Daddy loves to hot rod this car.

Me: Oh, rrrrrrrreally.

If you're into Chicken Pox parties, gimme a call.

We've got 'em, we're happy to share. Bring lollipops. :-)

Mary-Beth was checking out a mole I have on my cheek.
"Mommy? Do you have chickit pops too?"

Fellow knitters!

My friend Betsy turned me on to this opportunity to knit for a good cause. Knit (or crochet) scarves for the participants of the January 2009 Winter Special Olympics! Here's a link to the 4-1-1 on Coats & Clark's web site (they're the sponsors, I believe) where you can find more information and the free pattern.

Thanks Betsy! :-)

Tomato, tomahto

Mary-Beth: Mommy, I don't like lettuce. I only like salad.

"Pete & Repeat were on the fence..."

Jonah: Mommyyyyy! I hurt my penis on my bike!
Mary-Beth: Mommy, me too. I hurt my penis, too.

Is that right? Fascinating.

Mary-Beth walked up to me this morning with a very serious look on her face. Usually that means she's about to tattle on her brother (we don't call her The Informer for nothing) but not this time.

Very serious look.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, baby?"

"I'm wild and cwazy."

Alrighty then.

Can there be any other opinion on the subject?!

One of my favorite lines from Pride & Prejudice, only because my fake British accent sounds really cool when I say it.

I don't know if you've ever heard of The Illuminati. They're the extreme lunatic fringe, in my humble opinion. I don't much like Wikipedia either, since anyone can go in and edit the information you find, but in this instance they're right on the money.

That's why I was so shocked to discover that I actually agree with something The Illuminati has to say. My friend Zanna forwarded this YouTube video to me and I'm so thankful she did. I've never been more sure of what's wrong and what's right than I am right now.

Broad brush I'm painting with, I know. But seriously. Watch the video (preferably with no children in the room) and then let me ask you: Can there be any other opinion on the subject?

Faster than a speeding bullet!

Jonah - Oooh! The moon is roundy tonight! I wish we could go up there in a plane or a rocket ship and see it for real.

Mary-Beth - Or you could wear my super hero cape, Jonah. You could wear it and see the moon if you want!

Everything looks big when you're 3 feet tall!

If you've ever seen me, you'd probably guess that my dainties aren't so very dainty, and indeed are big enough to actually need folding. (If you've actually thought about it, ummmmm... ew. Stop thinking about my underwear. That's icky.) So it should come as no surprise to me that my children notice the amount of fabric it takes to sew together a pair of knickers for their mother.

While folding *ahem* laundry the other day, Mary-Beth stopped by the couch and stood there watching me. After a minute or so:

"Wwwwwooooowwwww. You. have really. big. panties."

"Yep." I mean really, what else is there to say?

Mary-Beth threw her arms open wide and said, "Yeah. I have a yittle bottom and you have a biiiiiiiiiiiig bottom."

Thanks, kid.  Am-scray.

So THAT'S what's in there. I've often wondered.

"Oooooooh. I don't wanna break my head open. Then all my air will get out! And all my CEREAL!" -- Jonah

I've been thinking about that article

Had a great conversation with Debbie today about the article I posted a few days ago. Her perspective was one I hadn't seen before and it was eye-opening. That article wasn't so much about homeschooling as it was about values, and what we decide is important. About whether we decide to follow the politically correct party line and accept society's standards as our own, or if we choose to make the tough choices and risk offending people because it's what we know is right. Do both parents slave away 12 hours a day in pursuit of the almighty dollar and all it's trappings, at the expense of precious time together as a family? Or do we decide that our tent will suffice as our vacation home, our television is plenty big enough already (and turned on too much as it is) and we don't need a speed boat or more cars than we have drivers.

Sooo, my motivation for posting the article? See, unless you've been confronted by someone who's offended with the philosophy of homeschooling, you wouldn't really understand where I was coming from when I shared the article with you. I guess it's really my curiosity about what fuels such opposition to homeschooling. And the answers are probably as numerous as the people who hold the opinion. Some people out there are really angry, y'all. I mean rabidly, vehemently, fundamentally opposed to homeschooling. Why is that?

I've often wondered if it was because they're feeling like they're not 100% comfortable with their own choices and priorities, and are feeling insecure and defensive when presented with someone who made different choices. Could be.

It could also be that some don't get to make the choice. I know that when I was a single mom, I hated to see moms out and about with their kids during the day. That mom was probably married, she got to stay home with her kids and I hated her for it. I hated her for doing what I couldn't do. I wanted to be home with Ashley so badly but I just couldn't. I had to work! I had made certain choices and as a result was the only one capable of making money (Ashley couldn't reach the sink so I couldn't get her a job at Denny's as a dishwasher). That responsibility fell on me and wiped all other options off the slate.

So what's the source of all the anti-homeschooling animosity? Is it that they want to homeschool but can't for whatever reason? Is it that they don't want to homeschool and feel bad or guilty about that, feel like they have something to prove? Like we love our children more than you love yours because we want to homeschool? (That's not true, by the way.) Do they think we're feeling smart and smug and superior? Hardly. More than half of us would probably say that we know we've made the right decision but at the same time we feel woefully under qualified and humbled by the task. Or maybe it's that almighty left-wing attitude that it takes a village to raise a child and homeschoolers flaunt an independence and self-sufficiency that Society At Large finds distasteful.

I truly don't know where the animosity is coming from and I probably never will. Each person probably has their own set of reasons why what I'm doing is wrong. And when I think they may have a valid point, I really do sit down and think about it.

I'm sure I'd be able to think clearer if I had a big old speed boat to lounge on, though.

Do I make you uncomfortable?

I'm always amazed at how vehemently some folks oppose homeschooling, more now than ever in light of the craziness that's happening in California. I came across this article (link no longer works) at a homeschooling blog I frequent that helps shed some light on what could be the source of the indignation. Read it with an open mind, since there's bound to be something in it that makes the anti- or non-homeschooler feel uncomfortable. Sorry 'bout that, can't be helped. No hard feelings, right? Since I respect you and you respect me? Righto.

Oh, but before I let you read the article I feel I must disclose something for fear that if I don't you might think my own children behave themselves at the grocery store. They so totally don't. They really, really don't.

You'll see what I mean in a minute.

****************

SONNY SCOTT:Home-schoolers threaten our cultural comfort 6/8/2008 9:39:01 AM Daily Journal

You see them at the grocery, or in a discount store.

It's a big family by today’s standards - "just like stair steps," as the old folks say. Freshly scrubbed boys with neatly trimmed hair and girls with braids, in clean but unfashionable clothes follow mom through the store as she fills her no-frills shopping list.

There's no begging for gimcracks, no fretting, and no threats from mom. The older watch the younger, freeing mom to go peacefully about her task.

You are looking at some of the estimated 2 million children being home schooled in the U.S., and the number is growing. Their reputation for academic achievement has caused colleges to begin aggressively recruiting them. Savings to the taxpayers in instructional costs are conservatively estimated at $4 billion, and some place the figure as high as $9 billion. When you consider that these families pay taxes to support public schools, but demand nothing from them, it seems quite a deal for the public.

Home schooling parents are usually better educated than the norm, and are more likely to attend worship services. Their motives are many and varied. Some fear contagion from the anti-clericalism, coarse speech, suggestive behavior and hedonistic values that characterize secular schools. Others are concerned for their children’s safety. Some want their children to be challenged beyond the minimal competencies of the public schools. Concern for a theistic world view largely permeates the movement.

Indications are that home schooling is working well for the kids, and the parents are pleased with their choice, but the practice is coming under increasing suspicion, and even official attack, as in California.

Why do we hate (or at least distrust) these people so much?

Methinks American middle-class people are uncomfortable around the home schooled for the same reason the alcoholic is uneasy around the teetotaler.

Their very existence represents a rejection of our values, and an indictment of our lifestyles. Those families are willing to render unto Caesar the things that Caesar’s be, but they draw the line at their children. Those of us who have put our trust in the secular state (and effectively surrendered our children to it) recognize this act of defiance as a rejection of our values, and we reject them in return.

Just as the jealous Chaldeans schemed to bring the wrath of the king upon the Hebrew eunuchs, we are happy to sic the state’s bureaucrats on these “trouble makers.” Their implicit rejection of America’s most venerated idol, Materialism, (a.k.a. “Individualism”) spurs us to heat the furnace and feed the lions.

Young families must make the decision: Will junior go to day care and day school, or will mom stay home and raise him? The rationalizations begin. "A family just can't make it on one income." (Our parents did.) "It just costs so much to raise a child nowadays." (Yeah, if you buy brand-name clothing, pre-prepared food, join every club and activity, and spend half the cost of a house on the daughter’s wedding, it does.) And so, the decision is made. We give up the bulk of our waking hours with our children, as well as the formation of their minds, philosophies, and attitudes, to strangers. We compensate by getting a boat to take them to the river, a van to carry them to Little League, a 2,800-square-foot house, an ATV, a zero-turn Cub Cadet, and a fund to finance a brand-name college education. And most significantly, we claim “our right” to pursue a career for our own
"self-fulfillment."

Deep down, however, we know that our generation has eaten its seed corn. We lack the discipline and the vision to deny ourselves in the hope of something enduring and worthy for our posterity. We are tired from working extra jobs, and the looming depression threatens our 401k’s. Credit cards are nearly maxed, and it costs a $100 to fuel the Suburban. Now the kid is raising hell again, demanding the latest Play Station as his price for doing his school work … and there goes that modest young woman in the home-made dress with her four bright-eyed, well-behaved home-schooled children in tow. Wouldn’t you just love to wipe that serene look right off her smug face?

Is it any wonder we hate her so?

Sonny Scott a community columnist, lives on Sparta Road in Chickasaw County and his e-mail address is sonnyscott@yahoo.com.

Appeared originally in the Northeast Mississippi Daily Journal, 6/8/2008, section 0 , page 0

Wear your dainties, ladies.

Just a heads up. My own little Public Service Announcement. Someday you'll thank me.

If you're ever standing in line at the Barnes & Noble with two toddlers who just can't seem to behave, be sure to wear panties under your skirt.

That's all I have to say about that.

Speaking of domestic bliss...

What could be more the embodiment of domestic bliss than hanging sweet-smelling wash on the line on the perfectly not-too-warm breezy day (with the perfect apron by the way, the pockets of which hold an enormous amount of clothes pins, yo) with music from the front room floating around the yard on the breeze, while watching the children play together as if they didn't have a wicked thought between them. Their laughter, the wash, the weather.

My heart's swelling today, y'all.

The perfect Mother's Day *snort*

The "It's all about me" version:

* Coffee's already done when I wake up. (Usually is, Dan's up with the chickens. Oh, don't worry. I totally know where my bread's buttered.)

* The children would bound out of their beds in the morning and say "Happy Mother's Day! We're so thankful for you and all you do, Mom. The cooking! The cleaning! The precious gift of life! You've let us live this long despite finding our toys in the toilet and our coats on the roof. We just couldn't wait to sing your praises this morning. How can we ever do enough for you today?" Yeah, I know. I was laughing half way through it myself. Usually they just shuffle out and mumble, "Can we have cereal?" so anything besides that would be acceptable.

* Breakfast out! Like, at a restaurant! The kind with napkins and silverware that aren't wrapped together in plastic. Food that comes out on plates instead of in bags. We never do that.

* Mom-only time all. day. long. I'd hit the book stores, the yarn shops, get a pedicure, sit at the coffee shop and knit, sit and read over lunch. Then I'd browse about a dozen different stores - slowly! - without yanking one thing from some child's hands and putting it back on the shelf. Yuh-huh!

* Nap! No, I mean for me. Nap for me!

* Cook dinner for the fam. I love to cook, so it's not work for me. But I'll *ahem* let someone else do the dishes.

* Go straight to bed and read uninterrupted until I fall asleep.

Riiiiiiiiight. Okay. Now that I'm done dreaming, this is what will probably happen on Mother's Day.

* Coffee's done when I wake up. (Thanks, honey!)

* Children shuffle out and say, "Can we have cereal?" while they're still rubbing their eyes. Sigh and be thankful that at least one thing in life is predictable.  Whisper a prayer to God that I have them.

* Go to church and swell with pride as I watch 30 of my favorite children sing and act their little hearts out for their moms. Ignore the fact that one child is picking her nose, since she does it every time, we can't stop her, and we love that girl anyway so what good does it do to embarrass her about it? Just remember not to shake hands with her later.

* Have burgers on the grill at home for lunch.

* DOXA practice at 2pm. We're getting ready for an audition on 5/17 and we're perfecting the 3 songs we've picked. We polled the moms, they were all down with it. We kinda forgot to poll the dad, we're a little bit hoping his wife doesn't slash our tires. If she's mad I'm totally blaming it on Jim. ;-)

* Home by 5 or so for dinner. I'll cook, since I love to, but I'll *ahem* let someone else *coughcoughAshleycoughcough* do the dishes.

* Sit on the back patio with the newspaper and something fun to drink, watching the people I love most in the world play and laugh together. It's not often you see a family that actually enjoys spending time together, so I know how lucky I am.

* Think about my friend Jordan, pregnant with twins, and try not to cry thinking about how long and hard she fought for them, and I'm just so stinkin' happy for her.

* Be thankful we're all together, we're healthy and happy, have very little to complain about.

* Realize how blessed I am, and try not to cry. Why why WHY with the crying! I do have my "mean old biddy" reputation to uphold, after all.

Yeah, you're right. The "me" version of Mother's Day so totally won't happen. Wouldn't change a thing, though. Well, maybe the nap part, but the rest of it? I wouldn't have it any other way.

So, like, NO grumbling? Like, none? Really?

I love the laundry. I really really do. I'm not kidding, either. I love the laundry.

Well, wait. Let me clarify that.

I love to sort the laundry. I'm using the word love about sorting laundry, yes. But you know what I mean: sheets go with sheets, towels go with towels, lights, whites and darks, and so on. Sheets and pillow cases meet up and whisper all their bedroom secrets to the blankets. Not many people know that light colors are happiest when allowed to hang together and cheer each other up. They have that rose-colored glasses positivity about them that you just can't help be brightened by yourself. And darks? Dark clothes just want to be left alone to sit and brood in one big lumpy mish-mash, doing their best to look tortured, mysterious and aloof. Oh so very dark smoky French cafe.

I love to do the laundry, too. Mainly because I'm the only one in my house who does it right. Truly though, washing my perfectly sorted loads, hanging what needs to be hung and drying what goes in the dryer? It just speaks to my organization-loving heart. Dude, clothes don't want to be washed with towels. Towels leave all their working class terry-clothy lint all over the privileged fine knits that populate the upper crust of Laundry Room Society. And what fool decided it was okay to just undress into the washer and run it when it's full? Hellooooo?!! There are whites in there with dark jeans, man. Whites with jeans! Sweet fancy Moses, that's just crazy talk!

I also really dig on folding the laundry. Again, I'm the only one who does it right. And yes! There really IS a right way and a wrong way, don't argue with me. Who else knows how every little thing in this house needs to be folded besides the one who knows how it all needs to fit in drawers and cubbies? Moi, that's who. Jonah's shirts hang, Mary-Beth's dresses hang, towels and trousers folded in thirds, shirts folded department store style, knickers lay flat or fold, depending on size. *ahem* So yeah. I love to fold the laundry.

But today I was grumbling about laundry. Not laundry, really, but having to turn yet another of Ashley's flap-jacking shirts right-side-out. Seriously, people. There's no Right-Side-Out Fairy who comes along, waves her magic clothespin over the basket and the clothes just magically turn themselves to rights. No, the momma does that. And do you know why the momma does that? Because you don't!

So anyway, I'm grumbling to myself: "If I have to turn one more of these shirts back to rights I think I might just finally go to the zoo!" when suddenly, God decides I'm in need of a little calibration.

"Do everything without grumbling..." Philippians 2:14

W-what? Pardon? First of all, where did that even come from? I haven't read that verse in ages. On purpose. Grumbling seems to be getting me through my day just fine, thank you very much. Sure, there's plenty of weeping and gnashing of teeth around here when I put my foot down, but the children do it too!

"Do everything without grumbling..."

So, does that mean NO grumbling? Like, none? Really? Even if it's the billionth shirt I've turned right-side-out? Even if it's the 5,143,786th time I've had to ask a certain someone I'm married to where he put my favorite stockpot... AGAIN!? Because it's sure not where it belongs!

Even after the 43rd change of panties in one day? How about after I turn off the 90th light in a room with no! people! in it!? Huh? Huh?! Do You even know how frustrating that is? Certainly cause for grumbling if ever there was one.

No grumbling, huh? WHY???!!! I don't think You know these people I live with, Lord.

Oh. So you say Jesus didn't grumble when He went to the cross for me? Yeah. I remember that now.

(Thinking on it for a while...)

Okay, God. "Do everything without grumbling." I'll do my best. You're right. It probably would help my all-around attitude tremendously. If I'm purposely not grumbling, but deciding to thank You for these people I live with instead of grumbling about them? Yeah. It'd probably make a huge difference. I'll give it a try.

I'll, um, let you guys know how it goes.

Hooverheads.

I had to vacuum the kids' heads today.

Please. Don't ask.

Elinor Dashwood? Ummmm....

Take the Quiz here!

You are Elinor Dashwood of Sense & Sensibility! You are practical, circumspect, and discreet. Though you are tremendously sensible and allow your head to rule, you have a deep, emotional side that few people often see.

I saw this quiz at my friend Sarah's blog and since I love all things Austen I had to take it. Elinor Dashwood? I'm flattered, I must say. I loved Sense & Sensibility, and Elinor has always been one of my favorite Austen characters. But am I like her? I do have a knack for getting things done without much fuss, I'm practical, and I'm often the voice of reason in my family. But I have to admit it's not often that I allow my head to rule. Usually it's my mouth. Yes, Elinor Dashwood is much better at keeping her opinions to herself than I am.

Anyway, I thought you'd enjoy finding out which Austen character you more closely resemble. Thank you, Sarah!

In which Jonah learns his Cubbies teacher Mrs. Snyder is pregnant with twins

Jonah: "Whaaa? Misser Nyder has TWO babies in her tummy? How did she get them there? How did her two babies get in there to her tummy?"

Me: "Anyone ready for a snack?"

Oh. My mistake.

Me: Son, do you have to go potty?
Jonah: No.
Me: Then take your hands off your penis.
Jonah: (pointing low and to the left) But Mom, my penis is over here.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changin'

So I needed to do some quick math to figure out how much I had left in my checking account. I happened to be sitting in the Starbucks drive-thru and didn't have pen or paper, didn't have a calculator, and didn't have my husband to do it in his head. (He's wicked smart that way. Me? Not so much.)

No worries! I generally fancy myself to be resourceful so I set about scouring the van for something that would serve useful. AHA! Mary-Beth's Travel Magna-Doodle! Yes. I was scraping out my calculations with a magnet pen on a child's toy. Who's more hip than me? I got a curious look from the cashier (which I returned - psh! Dude, what's wrong with my Magna Doodle? Jealous?) and as I drove away I couldn't help but wonder: Is it possible that I'm not the cool one? Have I lost more than my simple mental math skills since the children came along?

Hmm... Prolly.

I can't use the restroom anymore. I remember when we used to use the restroom. We always used the restroom, or the W.C. or the powder room, depending on the venue. We don't use the restroom anymore. We don't go to the W.C. or the powder room. We go potty. And we can't just go potty. We have to share! our fabulous! plan! to potty! with everyone! "Mommaaaaaay! I have to go peeeeee!"

No more breakfast meetings, lunch meetings, dinner meetings, date nights. Now we have story time, play time, clean-up time, nap time... nap time... nap time... Did I mention nap time?

We don't look for tissues to solve a nose problem. We look for the blue nose sucker thingee. Note to self: blue nose sucker thingee is just like a firearm: never point it at your face and pull the trigger.

Remember when you could walk down the hall at night without stepping on stuff? Long gone. Midnight trips to the potty require night vision goggles now, unless you don't mind extracting Legos from the soles of your feet in your sleep.

I used to be able to leave my latte on the counter. Heck, I was even known to leave it on the end table! Not anymore. If a drink is within reach of Pete & Repeat, it's fair game. Kiss it goodbye, my friend. Just kiss it goodbye.

I wasn't always able to tie The Girls into my bathrobe belt. You know what I'm talking about, ladies. And while we're on the subject, I can't remember the last time I didn't have to adjust The Girls before going through the frozen foods section at the store to make sure everyone's pointing the same direction. Don't laugh! Gravity's a bitch and she's coming for you!

There was a time that I could go out with my friends until the wee hours of the morning, and still manage to make it to work bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 5:30 a.m. Now? I turn into a pumpkin at 9:30. I'm just not built for speed anymore.

I still haven't adjusted to having to share my snacks. Nothing quite as pathetic as a grown woman hiding in the coat closet wolfing down a cookie, no? Yes, I do realize I'm supposed to be trying to teach my children to share. Mind your own, eh.

I've lost the ability to keep a clean car. I used to have a clean car, now I never have a clean car. It does sometimes smell clean, but it rarely looks clean inside or out. Once in a while I'll give it a good going-over: toss the old paper coffee cups in the trash, scoop all the shoes and hats into a basket for going inside, and anything else that doesn't say Baby Ruth on it can go in the jockey box. Just don't let the kids see me tossing the old tater tots. (Have you seen a year-old tater tot? Seriously y'all, those suckers have staying power!)

I used to be able to remember things. Stories I'd told, people I'd talked with, things I'd said, where I parked my car, no sweat. Now? Shah! I can barely remember my own birthday. "Stop me if I've already-" "Yes. You've already told me. Twice, in fact." I've been trying to do a Sudoku every day to keep the old lady brain sharp but it hasn't really kicked in yet.

I've lost the ability to keep a clean car... Oh. I already said that? Mmm-kay.

Anyone mind a re-hash?

I was looking around for the old blog I'd done about Jonah's poop adventures because I have an update to share. During my search I ran across this old entry from December 2005. It's still something that bugs me to no end so I thought I'd bring it up to the front. I've added in a few things here and there, a link, fixed some bad spelling. Hopefully the little chippie working at the local Winco will read it? I'm just sayin.

It's a Lost Art

Alright, I know this has nothing directly to do with being a momma, beyond the fact that, as the momma, I spend lots of time at the grocery. Or the department store. Or the Starbucks drive-thru. But still it's valid and that's why I'm bothering.

Whatever happened to counting back change? It absolutely makes my blood boil when some gum-chewing dull-eyed half-wit just plops a handful of coin and paper into my hand. blam. take it or leave it. thanks for nothin'. are you still here?

It seems as though the digital cash registers of today have removed any and all thinking from the entire process by telling the cashier the right amount to give back. (Check your brain at the door, please.) A great disservice if you ask me. Don't even get me started on today's Reformed Math. Ugh.

Yes, it's wonderful that you can now move 12 customers instead of 7 through your line in 15 minutes. Yes, I'm glad your cashiers are no longer standing there staring blankly at that open money drawer, wondering what to do next. That part of the transaction makes everyone uncomfortable. Still, this inevitable influx of technology doesn't exempt your employees from displaying the most basic of customer service responsibilities... to say nothing of second grade math skills.

Consider a recent experience I had with the jolliest of fellows at a local gas station.

"Three gallons of low-grade unleaded? 'zthat all? Why that'll barely keep your car running, ma'am. Ah. I see your minivan is powered by dual overhead hamsters, so maybe you'll be alright. Just remember to toss a handful of hamster feed down the heater vents once a week. Oh. Y'say you already knew that? Wonderful! Those little fellars'll most likely survive the winter then.

"Well, thank you Mrs. H, that'll be $15.47. Out of $20? Oh my, I'd better get my counterfeit detection marker. Never can be too careful. And I see you've got a van-load of babies --- shall I bring back a few lollipops as well? What's thatchya say? Babies don't eat lollipops? I did not know that. Well, maybe next time then.

"Okay, here ya go. That was fifteen forty-seven. Here's forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty, seventy-five, and another quarter makes sixteen. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, aaaaaaaaand twenty. Now you have a nice day, Mrs. H."

See? So simple. That young gas station attendant was so polite and engaging! He was very knowledgeable about the care and feeding of hamsters, although I worry about the health of his future children. But still he was careful to give back the correct amount of change, and he's proven that he's passed the second grade. I was just so distracted by all those numbers flying around that I didn't even feel it when the oil company reached in and extracted my right kidney from behind.

You would think a store owner or manager would quiz his or her employees on the counting back and giving of change. In fact, Ashley's father is a restaurant manager; he told her she can't have a job there unless she can count back change. Yay. Too bad more don't follow his example. It would be in their best interest to do so, in my almost always humble opinion. But alas, many an employee with the Store Manager name tag has thrown change at me with the best of them.

I've recently taken to standing there in line (or sitting there, if it's the drive-thru) and manually but cheerfully counting the change back to myself out loud whenever some clod presents me with a sweaty fistful of mystery change. Hopefully the display isn't lost on the cashiers, although I know it annoys them. Especially at Starbucks! Apparently the super-trendy feel they're above such nonsense.

How rude! I can't believe she's doing that! She doesn't trust me. Hellooooo. Am I not excellently sporting my black "Expert Barista" apron?

Well, no Junior, I don't trust you. But don't be offended. I suspect you didn't complete the second grade as evidenced by your lack of basic counting skills, black apron not withstanding. I'm only looking out for you. If (or rather, when) your register comes up short today, you'll know it wasn't because you accidentally tossed a twenty at Mrs. H.

But if you did, I promise to spend it at Starbucks.

Places to visit while you're waiting around for me to blog

And if you're waiting for that, I'm sorry. You may as well get comfortable. My brain is completely full of holes lately.

But! I'm never without at least something to share. Thought I'd share my own blogs of interest, websites I frequent and online shops I like.


Bella Pamella - Isn't that stuff just ME?!!!

HTML Goodies - So you want to learn basic HTML, huh? Not me, but I'm glad this stuff is out there for them that do.

A Dress A Day - Erin shares my love of dresses, and she's so funny and creative. I'm never bored at her blog.

Tie One On - It's all aprons all the time, folks.

Friday's Feast - It's a buffet for your brain!

Yarnstorm - There's just something about a chippy talking knit.

Pandora Internet Radio - Free radio from the Music Genome Project. Enter a favorite artist or song and Pandora designs a station for you based on that artist or song style. I have a station named "Taylor the Latte Boy" that I listen to a lot.

WSDOT - I like to see what the weather's doing on my parents' side of the mountains. Love those traffic cams!

Provincial Arts - My friend Nicole is brilliant, y'all.

Mom's Minivan.com - Ever wonder what to do on the road? Wonder no more, my friend.

DesignHerGals.com - For the truly bored.

Longaberger - Retail therapy, anyone?

The Well-Trained Mind - Why we homeschool.

Trivium Pursuit - An article (long but worth the read) on why we're waiting to teach formal sit-down math until the kids are older. We'll concentrate verbally on everyday life math until the time comes.

Homeschool in the Woods - How cool are these timelines!

Brown Paper Patterns - Not that I sew, mind you.

Favorite Things - Again, not that I sew. But if anyone out there does, and feels compelled to, oh, I don't know, sew me something? Call me.

This Little Piggy Wears Cotton - The place I get Mary-Beth's bloomers. Dude, the name alone makes the store worth a peek.

IKEA - Who doesn't love IKEA?

Well, that ought to keep you busy for a few minutes. Until I find the rest of my brain and work up a real entry.

Before and After

(NOTE: This is an old OLD entry with quite a bit of inappropriate content.  You'd never catch me publicly blogging like this now that my Savior has helped me develop a filter between the brain and the mouth, but I decided not to delete it.  Just in case someone out there is having trouble finding the blessings in their current situation.)

A girlfriend of mine brought up an interesting subject yesterday. See, there was some hoopla in an online community we frequent about who works harder: the stay-at-home mom or the working mom. An argument as old as time. Well, as old as the 70's maybe. I'm not going to get into that, except to say that I've found staying at home infinitely harder and more mentally and emotionally taxing than working at a paying job outside the home. Dude, not one of my co-workers ever pooped their pants, picked their noses or melted into a puddle when someone told them they couldn't have a cookie. Well, at least, not when I was around. I can think of a few who might have indulged in a little PIP (pick in private) but I never did witness it myself.

Anyway, my friend Cheryl was curious about the kinds of sacrifices we make as mothers. Not specifically as working mothers or stay-at-home mothers. Just mothers. I have to admit, I whipped out that list of sacrifices in a New York minute and had to work a leeeettle longer on the perks. But that could be a by-product of my current mental state. (Did you know that the sound of a whining child actually reaches out and zaps a mother's brain cells? No, I swear! And if the whiner is jumping up and down you lose that precious grey matter at almost twice the speed! It's true, yo. Look it up.)

So here's what I came up with. Feel free to add to my lists as you see fit. I'll probably come back and add to it myself here and there.

Sacrifices:

• Sleep
• Sanity
• Music with bad words in it
  
• Smooth skin (hello stretch marks and Madame Crow's Feet!)
• Nice clothes
• I have to eat a snack in the closet if I don't want to share it. hee.
• Fun car (not that I had one before, you understand)
• Adult conversation. Oh how I miss grown-ups!
• An 8-hour vacay outside my home every day
  
• Sex in the kitchen, sex in the front room, sex in the car, sex in the yard. You get the idea. No more 100% spontaneous sex. Darned if these kids aren't around all. the. time.
• Along the same line - noisy sex. 'Nuff said.
• Vacations, spa days, pedicures, cigarettes
  
• TV shows that don't feature the alphabet or the Number of the Day
• Bras that don't have flappy-flaps
• Drinks and appetizers with friends any old night I feel like it
• Not having to repeat myself. Over and over. And over. And overandoverandover. I detest repeating myself.
  
• Hop on a plane and meet you in Vegas this weekend? Suuuuuuure!
  

Benefits? Oh yeah!

• Being there to cuddle the babies in the mornings
• Being available for Love Bank Deposits whenever someone needs a snuggle on the couch. Jonah's my "every 1/2 hour hug" guy.
  
• Never missing a milestone
• Knowing my kids trust me to "fix it" - whatever "it" may be
• Doing school in our "jajamas"
• Being able to sit on the floor and nurse an ouchie for as long as it takes
• Knowing Ashley loves nothing more than the smell of something baking when she gets home from school, and I love being there to do it
  
• Getting dressed & foofy for no reason
  
• Not getting dressed & foofy if I don't feel like it
• Bra and deodorant optional until 5pm
  
• Lunch with friends once in a while
• Being available for things like MOPS and homeschool activities
  
• Having my twin nephews over on Tuesdays and Fridays so my kids and their cousins will grow up bestest friends. I didn't have that.
• Teaching moments happen aaaaaaall day long
• Knowing that I probably could fix that broken outlet but I don't have to because Dan will do it.
• Having the enormous opportunity to instill in my children the knowledge of the unconditional love of God and their parents, the importance of family loyalty and unity, the responsibility of being self-reliant when the time comes, the knowledge that they're entitled to nothing in this world that they don't work hard to achieve, and the assurance that they have our full support in achieving it.
  

Seven Random Things

I was tagged by the wonderful lady behind My Ice Cream Diary to do a Seven Random Things About Me thingee. And since I'm all kinds of random and welcome any opportunity to brain barf when I can (Hi Sarah!) I thought it'd be fun. :-)

1. Lucid dreams are a total rip-off. I very seldom have a dream wherein I don't know I'm asleep and dreaming. I hate that. It'd be soooo much more fun to dream about being L.L. Cool J's favorite girlfriend ever if I thought it was really happening. Although regular dreams have their drawbacks too. Whenever I get to have a regular dream I always wake up thinking I need to quit smoking all over again. (See Number 4.)

2. I collect enamelware. Love! enamelware. I love this and this, and especially this! Aren't they beautiful? I actually have a refrigerator box like that second item, but it's the same green color of the third one. I matched that green for the paint in my bathroom. I have dish pans, bread pans, bowls, platters, buckets. Love it. Enamelware just fits right in with my farmhouse theme I'm trying on. Of course, I try not to buy a piece I won't use. Try.

3. In 1980 I began training to be a member of the 1984 Olympic swimming team, but in 1981 my mother made me quit. My brother, Markie, had drowned in our back yard pool that Summer just a few weeks shy of his 2nd birthday and she couldn't handle being around pools.

4. I used to smoke a pack of cigarettes a day. Camel in a box, please. None of those girly-man cigs for me. I quit almost 10 years ago and I've never looked back. But oddly enough I'm a smoker in every. single. dream. I've had since quitting.

5. I had a stalker (his name is a matter of public record so I'll share it here) named James Schneider in 1995 and 96. His luck ran out when he tried to climb in my shower with me at 5:30 a.m. on September 16, 1996. Of course, I screamed bloody murder. And of course, he was caught. He took the Alford plea (too much evidence against me so there's no way I could defend myself - which means I did it but I refuse to plead guilty) but the judge threw the book at him because of two things: a) he scared Ashley (4 yrs. at the time) beyond repair and that offended the judge's grandfatherly sensibilities; and b) the dude's wife was using my vacuum that he'd stolen when the police arrived to arrest him. He served 18 months of a 2-year sentence for burglary. We couldn't prove he'd been the one coming into my home at night while I slept and doing God knows what besides stealing my stuff. We could only prove that he'd been there once and that he had my stuff. I still see his name in the paper now and again.

Number 5 leads into Number 6.

6. After my story hit the AP wire (for what earthly reason, I'll never know - who cares about a girl in Washington catching a burglar?) I was contacted by quite a few people. One of them was my grandmother in Oregon wondering why she had to read about me in the paper instead of hear it from The Horse's Mouth. (Sorry Gram!) Another was Belinda Jackson, producer of the Leeza Gibbons Show. Yes, they wanted me to come and participate in a show they were doing about avoiding being the victim of a crime. Soooooo, I did it. I flew to LA in January of 1997, taped the show, and felt the entire time that I didn't belong there. The other people on the panel had been tied up and raped, stabbed, or their children stolen and murdered. "Helloooooo. Ummm, I caught a burglar? One of these things is not like the others!" They assured me it was alright, so I stayed. The show aired on May 29th of that year. I only know that because it was my mother's birthday.

7. I would sell your first born child for a big old platter of piping hot fresh-from-the-oven tater tots. They're my biggest enemy when I'm trying to lose weight. I just can't resist! If they're in the freezer I have to eat them. And really, what's not to love? Mmmmmm. Tots. Nice and crispy outside, soft and mushy inside. Seasoning salt. Fry sauce or ranch for dipping. Yuh-huh-hum! Just thinking about God's Favorite Processed Potato Product makes my tummy talk.

Dude, I'm hungry.

Time to feed the fish

Have you ever felt like you've no identity inside the four walls of your home? Yeah, me too. What's more, I'm getting the distinct feeling I'm trapped here. Just thinking about my inability to venture beyond my own doormat for anything besides the grocery or visits to the orthodontist has me feeling suffocated.

I heard this song on a Scrubs (Season 2 disc 2) re-run the other day. I don't know what it's called, but the tag line throughout the song was "I'm waiting for my real life to start." It was part of a little dream sequence in which a dying woman was singing to her friends and family about what was coming in her very near future. The arrangement was smooth and reflective, almost had a mournful quality to it without being sad. Anyway, as I sat there listening, I realized I was almost jealous of that woman. Not jealous of the fact that she was dying, God no, but that she had something different to look forward to.

I know. Boo hoo Dellaina, y'big whiner. But wait, this'll all make sense. I hope. I'm still shaking it out myself.

See, it's like this. I sometimes feel like I'm in my own little ranch house-shaped fishbowl, looking out at the world from my kitchen window... or from my minivan windows... or from the pediatrician's window... Like there's this whole big world thing out there and I'm trying to figure out a way to reach out and touch it without getting scooped up by the Laundry Net or the Dishwasher Net or the Poopy Diaper Net or the Tantrum Net and wind up plooped back into the bowl.

Is there more to it than this? Am I only Dan's wife, Ashley, Jonah and Mary-Beth's mother, Hazel's source of kibble and water, and various other roles I play during the day? What part of all this is me? At what point do they become an apron I can hang up at the end of the day so I can wear my own uniform?

I can't believe I'm saying this at my age, but it's like I'm waiting for my real life to start. And since I like to play my own devil's advocate I have to ask myself: do I even know what that means? What exactly am I waiting for? And would I recognize it once it started? Would I be happy then? And what exactly does "then" look like? Weird? I'm not unhappy, but I'm sure not feeling like "a reliable and useful engine" as Sir Topham Hat would say.

Dammit. Even my euphemisms are from children's shows. That's sick, man.

I've recently told someone that she's got a responsibility to her family to make life happen for her and her children, that to sit back and let life happen to her is unacceptable and inexcusable in her situation. Someone had to say it and we all know I'm okay with that person being me. But now, faced with having to eat my own words, I'm wondering how to practice what I preach but without hurting my family in the process.

I don't want to spend my time feeling like the invisible wife in that commercial who goes unnoticed through her home fixing this and folding that. And I'm almost positive it's not on the shoulders of those I live with to make this go away. I need to fix this myself, I know that, but somehow without neglecting my family. See, I really do love and adore them, and I wouldn't want to be out in the world somewhere, feeling liberated and autonomous, but ignoring my husband and children. Honestly, given the alternatives, I'd much rather be here in my fish bowl and be Dan's wife, Ashley, Jonah and Mary-Beth's mother, Hazel's source of kibble and water. Is there truly no way to do both?

I have about 30 regular readers who most likely have been there. So tell me folks, what's the solution? I can't be the only one to sense that stepping off your doormat and into the world without looking back won't solve the problem. Is there a way to claim my own identity without sacrificing my family on the altar of Dellaina's Lib?

Added tons of links

I know, I know. Links aren't as fun as being a fly on the wall in my Little Slice of Hell. But they'll keep you occupied while I locate my blogging brain cells.

One thing, though. When I clicked on my bookmark I didn't see any of my new links. Blogger said to try clicking my browser's "Refresh" button to get a new copy of my page rather than an old page that's hanging out as a cached copy. Of course you know I heard "blah blah blah" but when I tried it... lo and behold!

So shop away, friends! Shop till you drop!

(Oh, and P.S. - there's still no such thing as a samwich.)

Things I've learned from my friend Shawn

I've recently had a crisis of friendship with one of my oldest and bestest buddies, Shawn. That girl and I have been through it all together. We met in June of 1986, the day I showed up in her neighborhood. My mother had moved across the street from her and I followed a few months later. By virtue of our ages (same-same) and our grades in school (also same-same) our parents decided we'd become fast friends. A decision I'm sure Shawn's parents have regretted over the years. hee. Too late now, Tom and Shanon! *wicked laugh*

Anyway, I've always been The Caller of the dynamic duo. Always. Shawn rarely calls, I always do. That's just the way it's been lo these 20 years. In the last two or three years, though, I've decided I'm not okay with my title and I let her know about it. In the most mature way, of course. A caustic voice mail message on her cell phone. (Oh totally.  I'm a grown-up.)

While thinking back on our years together as chums, dredging up every instance wherein I was the one who called and she failed to call me back (boohoo), I couldn't help but remember some of the things she's taught me.

Heck, if it weren't for Shawn I might never have known that purple and lavender aren't the same color. That bedposts can double as microphones and pound cake isn't just a cake. Because of my friend Shawn I know that the best place for teaspoons is on the counter in a spooner, and that hash browns should be brown.

Coffee tastes best after 10 minutes in the cup, and every cup has a saucer. Pop cans have many uses (eek) and a good hairspray is hard to find. Roots should match their ends, and houses should be clean. Carrot juice really does have a place in society.

Dogs should be BIG.

Cats should be outside.

Always have a pre-func. Soccer is not for wimps. Bleach doesn't kill rose bushes, but Marlboro kills people. Bitter Girl can't stay bitter forever. Little girls need ballet shoes. Vegetables can taste good without Ranch, and sour cream mixed with salsa is a superior chip accompaniment.

Mall-walkers don't have to have grey hair. But if they do have greys, we can cover them up so nobody's the wiser. Because of Shawn I know about Riyadh and Dhahran (she lived there!), Nostradamus, The Spinning Song, poodles, lipstick, the yen, Black Beauties, Gevalia Appel Kaffe Kaka, sesame oil, green bud (ignore that one, Mom and anyone from church) and MGD. Oh, and sometimes choking is funny.

Soooooo, granted... lots of the things I've learned from Shawn are bad. But that's a two-way street - I'd hate to see the list of things I taught her. yeek. But hey! Who's more prepared for our kids' teen years than us? Nobody, that's who. We've been there, done that. Thanks to our checkered pasts we're ready. All over it. White on rice, y'might say.

Long story short? I love that girl. She's my oldest bestest chum on God's earth and I love her. She knows how it is with me and my mom. She knows when to shut up and listen, and when to offer unsolicited advice. She knows I know she knows I know she's smarter than me, but she's too classy to ever say it. Y'know what? If she never calls me again I'll still go right on loving her like the sister she is.

I might leave a paper sack of flaming dog doo on her front stoop, but I'll still love her.

Dang Winter Anyway!

It was so. so. cold here yesterday. A freakishly low temperature coupled with an icy wind. Just a quick trip from the house to the car had my fingers freezing. So of course I picked yesterday to get a few errands done. Made sense, since I didn't have to be home at 11 for Kindergarten girls to arrive.

Well, will somebody please slap me the next time I get a bright idea? Here's a little taste of what I get for thinking when unsupervised.

• Put on coats, hats and mittens to go from house to van.
  
• Take off coats, hats and mittens to put kids in car seats; freeze my *ahem* - and a few fingers - off in the process.
• Write grocery list while sitting in Starbucks drive-thru.
  
• Arrive at shops, put coats, hats and mittens back on babies for trek from parking lot to indoors.
• Go inside, remove coats, hats and mittens. Stow them on the bottom rack of the cart (y'know, where we used to ride when we were kids) so babies can't throw items overboard.
• Pay for grocery order; take up space in Purgatory (foyer between store and doors) to once again apply coats, hats and mittens for the trip back to the van.
  
• Take off coats, hats and mittens to put babies back in car seats. Sweet fancy Moses, y'all.
• Plan ahead for parking at mall because I have to go potty. Really really bad.
  
• Arrive at mall.
• Sit in van and try to pinpoint the moment I went completely wacko.
  
• Reapply coats, hats and mittens for jaunt from van to Macy's door (uber close to the public restrooms) which wound up being LOCKED!!!
• Walk (dance) around outside of mall until I stumble across an open point of entry.
• Power walk to the loo. The big stall is out of order; leave stroller outside sardine-can-sized stall and listen to Mary-Beth scream while I do my bidness.
  
• Get to Bath & Body Works (after putting Mary-Beth back in the stroller... again) only to find they no longer carry what I'm after.
  
• Leisurely stroll back to van. Exit mall via the Macy's door that is now unlocked, after putting on coats, hats and mittens. Macy's Purgatory is much warmer than Wal-Mart's, in case you're wondering.
  
• Remove coats, hats and mittens for proper installation of babies in car seats.
• Arrive home exhausted, but a little wiser. Take babies out of car seats, put coats, hats and mittens back on for trip from driveway to kitchen door.
• Once inside, remove coats, hats and mittens. Shove them in the closet with a growl. Kick shoes off and leave them where they land all day long.
  
• Start The Sandlot for Jonah. Ponder alcoholism... briefly... but settle for hot chocolate.

Important Note - Why take the coats off?
Outerwear can compress in an accident leaving dangerous slack in the car seat's harness. Slack could cause baby to be ejected from the car seat.
To see if what you have on your baby is too bulky, put baby in the seat in her outerwear. Adjust/fasten the harness snugly. Take baby out without loosening the harness, remove the outerwear and put her back in. There should not be any slack in the harness webbing. If there is, then there is too much clothing between baby and the harness, and you must remove the outerwear for the harness to do its job.
See CPSafety Online and the Carseat Bulletin Board at Parents Place for more information about car seat safety, the importance of extended rear facing, and other child safety restraint facts.

It's My Thin Little Slice of Hell

It's been that kind of day. And in the interest of good mental health I'm going to just brain-barf and get it over with. (Thank you Sarah! That's my new favorite phrase. heee.)

I don't know what's wrong with Jonah. He vomits every morning! Of course he gives no warning, makes no sound until he's almost done, and never seems to be near a vinyl surface. Anyway, he's fine the rest of the day. Sunday was the exception though, he vomited that morning but was lethargic and crabby all day. He took two naps - NEVER! happens. Then this morning he's finer than frog's hair. The only common thread I can see that would link Friday, Saturday and Sunday would be milk with breakfast but none the rest of the day. Today he had toast and applesauce, no milk at all. Tomorrow morning I'll give him milk and see what happens. Sudden onset of a milk allergy?

Mary-Beth will NOT... I repeat, will NOT sleep beyond 4am now since the time change. WTH?! She slept until 7 before that, which should translate to at least 6am now with DST. Again I say, WTH?! And of course, when she's up Jonah has to be up. God forbid he should miss out on any action. Or *gasp* what if she gets a graham cracker and he doesn't?!!! The Earth may just shift on its axis.

So I finally made the commitment to go mall-walking after dropping Ashley off at school, and today was Day #1 of Dellaina's New Fitness Thing. I was a good girl at Starbucks - americano instead of a sugary latte. I even splurged on a bottle of water that nobody else has ever laid their lips on. To my knowledge. Ew. I can't even think about that.

So anyway, I'm about 10 minutes into my first walk, I'm good and sweaty, borderline frothy, feelin' pretty sporty (read: able to imagine I look like Yoga Pants and not like Frumpy McFrumpinhousen) when the left rear tire on my double stroller flew off. (Yes, I did have to chase it down.) So I drug the stroller and both babies back to the van in disgust. I was encouraged and heartened by all the grandparents who were also mall-walking, they virtually gushed over the babies. Who can resist a sweet little 18-month-old girlie who waves and says, "Diiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeee!" (a.k.a. bye) or an almost-3-year-old boy who will sing "If You're Happy And You Know It Clap Your Hands" - complete with motions and fancy footwork - to anyone who wants to hear it. Glimmer of hope for the rest of the day.

On the way home - after pricing new jogging strollers at Target - I decided to brave the Winco store. (Why isn't anyone around to slap me on the back of the head when I have stupid ideas?) I had Mary-Beth in the BabyHawk Mei Tai (front carry b/c I wasn't wearing the right shirt for modest back carrying) and Jonah in the cart. Would you believe they still found a way to annoy each other? And I keep a running $ tally on a little tablet, but I had to write waaaaay up in the air because Mary-Beth was convinced that, because she could reach the pen, she was entitled to the pen. So, since I don't have that nifty-noodle Seinfeld Astronaut Pen, I kept having to thwap-thwap-thwap my pen against my to get it to work.

Somewhere in bulk foods Jonah said his tummy was hurting. Oh man. So while trying to dump the contents of my purse's protector into the basket part of the purse, I wound up dumping the whole purse on the floor. Double crap. Coins and other purse fodder skittering everywhere. So picture me on the floor, Mary-Beth on my front, biiiiiig old butt in the air, schlepping up my purse's guts from under the bulk food containers and shoving them in a plastic bag. Grrrrrreat. By the time I was able to hand Jonah the protector he said he didn't have a tummy ache anymore.

!!!

Is it wrong to actually wish your child would vomit?

The checkout was a nightmare! Trying to unload the cart with Mary-Beth on my front grabbing everything out of my hands. Jonah reaching back and throwing things onto the conveyor. So it was a one-item-at-a-time thing and it wasn't at ALL organized the way my anal little grocery store self likes to do it. Meat together, produce together, boxed stuff together, bulk food stuff together, deli stuff together... y'get me? All neat and tidy coming down the pike. A professional grocery bagger's dream. No such luck today.

And then???

There I am, bagging my own groceries, minding. my own. business. When this... this... woman! has the nerve to give me a disgusted look on her way out the door. I have NO idea what it was about. Nobody was screaming or crying, none of us smells bad, my ponytail looked especially Yoga Pantsy today, and I'm pretty sure I didn't shoot her dog... no rhyme, no reason. I actually said out loud, "Do you have a problem?" complete with the sideways head shake. You know the one.

But thankfully she didn't hear me. I'm all talk, and I'm pretty "come and get me" on the surface, but I don't really want to confront people. Well, I do... I just don't want them to confront me. I'm too good at arguing and it gets me into trouble. So I guess it's a good thing she didn't hear me.

I might have served her up a Thin Little Slice of Hell.

A few words to the wise

Please read and take to heart the following words of wisdom from a woman who‘s learned the hard way.

** If you have to leave the room while your toddler is sitting on the toilet... Take. The toilet paper. With you.

** Never leave your soda, your child and your step-stool in the same room together.

** Goldfish crackers float for a very long time, but they will clog the toilet.

** When the cat's away, the babies will play... with the litter box.

** At some point in their lives you will probably have to tell your children that bicycle tires are not to be eaten.

** Don't turn your back on a child with a bottle of ketchup in his hands.

** Tater tots keep for a rrrreeeeally long time in the nooks and crannies of a car seat.

** Your kids won't know you're alive... until the phone rings.

** If it's within reach, it's fair game.

** Your teenager will leave a drink on the floor, the babies will knock it over, and you won‘t know about it until you‘ve stepped in it.

** Eyes were made for rolling. (Duh!)

** You can tell your husband exactly what you want and he'll still claim you're a mystery.

** No, in fact, a broken graham cracker does not taste the same as a whole graham cracker.

** Your children will be best friends... until you're at the grocery store.

** The same child that can’t seem to lift that arm to pick up toys will suddenly sprout ten hands when you’re trying to wipe his nose/buckle his car seat/comb her hair.

Oh, there's so much more where this came from. This is all I could coax out of my rabbity mush brain tonight.

And how did I learn all this? How many hours in the cockpit of Hell's Airlines must one log to rack up this wealth of been-there-done-that? (What in the world goes on at her house?!)  Don’t ask. That is, unless you've got the afternoon free and you aren't easily upset by foul language.

I have to be honest here. Recent events in the lives of some good friends of ours have made me realize that I really have nothing worth complaining about. This may be a thin little slice of hell, but it's my slice. It's a zoo, but it's my zoo. And call me crazy, but I wouldn't trade my animals for anything else in the world.

I'm just thankful I have animals tonight.

This! is Where The Wild Things Are!

(NOTE: Another very old entry with some inappropriate content.  And so much has changed since then, both in my family and in my heart.  But I chuckled here and there so decided to leave it.)

"Tsk tsk tsk. Get a load of those kids, Harriet. I think we've discovered who took a bite out of every apple in the produce section. The mess in Bulk Foods? Mm-hm. Probably. I'm glad I brought my shopping list with me. I declare, I just can't think with all that yelling and screaming going on. Why do grocery stores have to echo so? Look! She's clomped her hand over that baby's mouth - again. As if it did any good the last time. *gasp* Merciful heavens, did she just take a drink from a flask!??!! Oh that poor harried woman. How she must look forward to naptime. Just look at those bags... No Harriet, not those bags. The ones under her eyes!"

I never imagined I'd be the whisper-ee at the grocery store, but it's happened. Oh, not because of Ashley. Now a high school freshman, the most noise I can get out of her in public is the grating sound her eyeballs make when she rolls them. No, the whispering and finger-pointing is all about the babies. Jonah and Mary-Beth. Bonnie & Clyde.

Soooooo, at what point am I required to publicly acknowledge that my children are animals? And that most probably I am the reason why they're animals? I'm sure it should be a public proclomation of some sort, like a public service announcement. I mean, it's not as if I can hide it anymore. You can only keep the animals in their cages for so long, even at the zoo. Eventually they must come out to eat, sleep and potty. (Right?)

I guess I really should make it public somehow. The acknowledgement, I mean. I don't want anyone to think that I don't know that they know I know they know. Y'know? I hate being the only one in the room who doesn't get the joke.

Ignorance really is bliss. Gone are the days when I could tra-la-la through town without an inkling of the chaos I leave in my wake. What I don't know can't embarass me. As it stands now, I feel as if I've been walking around town with my skirt tucked into the back of my underwear all day, but nobody told me. I didn't discover it until I went to put my p.j.'s on.

Dang!

And I was wearing my hole-y granny panties! The dark blue ones that accidentally got bleached, so now they've got weird spots and streaks all over them. Period underwear! Dang dang!! How come I'm never in my hoochie-momma Victoria's Secret "Wonder What's Under There" chonies when stuff like this happens!!!

So, back to the PSA. How about a bumper sticker? "Animals on Board" That would do, I suppose. Or how about "AKC Registered" instead? Do your kids have to actually be AKC registered before the American Kennel Club will give you a bumper sticker? (Will they even register kids?) Maybe a bumper sticker isn't the way to go. Something a little bigger? I need to get my message out to John Q. Public as a whole, and fast. And let's face it, I don't have my minivan with me 24/7.

Maybe I can wear a t-shirt that announces the babies' fauna status in big bold letters?

"Beware: My Children Are Animals. Keep all fingers and toes safely inside your own personal space. If you stick it in their mouths, they will bite it. We cannot be held responsible for the stupidity of those who ignore posted warnings. No flash photography, if you please."

Since the shirt itself will already be plenty big (shut up) maybe the letters won't need to be all that big and bold. Hmm. You're right. Not quite splashy enough to get the word out. The idea has merit, but it lacks zing and razmataz.

I know! I could put a concrete lawn elf in the front yard. He can hold a big sign that says "This! is Where The Wild Things Are!" I can probably get Dan to rig some sort of blinking light thingee. Oh! Oh! Maybe we can set it to music? Yeah! I think I'm onto something here.

A synchronized lights-blinking-to-the-beat-of-the-blaring-music spectacle! Tooootally Broadway. I'm sure our neighbors wouldn't mind a little "Jungle Boogie" to mask the sound of kids fighting in my back yard. And I'd have some nifty music to vacuum by, wouldn't I. Shake-shake-shake my groove thang, shed a few pounds. Kill two birds with one stone.

Eh. You're only alloted so many police visits per year, and I don't want to have The Law showing up uninvited more than my fair share. Maybe I need to try a more dignified approach. Maybe the announcement should come in the form of a speech? Yeah. A good old fashioned politicky concession speech.

I can see it now. I'm standing at the Podium of Shame dressed in my wrinkly jelly-stained mom uniform, the heel of one Sensible Shoe broken, bun askew. I'm doing my best to maintain my composure while I read my cue cards to a crowd of former supporters and smug know-it-alls. I am flanked by all my campaign insiders -- neighbors, grocery store clerks, nursery workers, friends who used to go out to dinner with us -- all of them nodding somberly, eyes downcast. Amid their chorus of hallelujahs and amens you can hear them muttering, "Yes, yes. It's true. They are indeed animals and you suck as a zookeeper. We've seen it for ourselves. We would encourage you not to quit your day job, but alas... this is your day job. So we concur, we whole-heartedly support your statements, and even though we promised never to say it... we SOOOO told you so."

Um, maybe not. Come to think of it, public scrutiny has never been my bag.

I think I prefer some bliss and a little tra-la-la. I think I'll just pretend that I don't know that you know I know you know. I'll hair-spray my bun back into place, staple that smile on, and pull my children through life by their earlobes. I'll keep my grocery cart in the middle of the aisle so they can't pull down the spaghetti sauce display. Again. (shut up) I'll post a "Beware of Kids" sign on the fence and I'll try to keep my purse stocked with "pie for that hole." I'll do my best to keep their hands out of your purse, their teeth off your end tables, and their toys out of your toilet.

But I promise never to wear granny panties again. Some things you just don't do to other people.