Do I Have Your Attention

Sometimes, I am not the most attentive mother.  No, no, it's true.  With three kids, homeschool, the house, the laundry, the cooking, and the husband, it is possible for the kids to sneak things past me.  So, a few weeks ago, while I was unpacking boxes from our move, it took me awhile to notice Jonah scuttling out the back door with random household items.

Why a cat with a lime on his head?  Because every post needs a picture, and this one got my attention.

 "Jonah, what are you doing?"

"Preparing," he said, as he raced out the back door, and just as quickly, back in again.

"Preparing for what?" I asked.

He paused, looked me straight in the eye, and said, "The battle begins at daylight."

"Oh, well that explains everything," I said.  Or, I would have, but he was off again.  Preparing.

"Mom, you'd better get ready, too," he told me, on one of his passes through the room.

"Uh-huh," was my attentive reply.

Several more times throughout the day he asked about my state of preparedness for The Battle.  I was ready, I assured him.  I even made a few declarations about my talent for military strategy and experience in battle.  Then I forgot all about it.

Until daylight.  Are you ready?  The sun is coming up.  Get dressed.  Shower?  Coffee?  No time!

I managed to put him off for a few hours; a shower and coffee being the backbone of any good military action.  Noon is still daylight, I told him.  Finally, he hounded me out onto the field of battle.  Also known as the backyard.

He wasn't kidding about being ready.  He had several card board boxes stacked as a barricade.  His weapons included three toy swords, a bow and arrow, spears made from tree branches, and wadded up paper which turned into balls of fire with one spark of imagination.  He made a stone fortress, thirty feet high, to which to retreat.  Okay, it was brick pavers from the flower bed, stacked about to his ankle, but we agreed that he would be safe there.  He even conscripted an army; his brother Sam, who pledged his fealty for the price of a single banana and his choice of weapon.  (He didn't want to get stuck with the sword held together by duct tape.)  They were prepared to defend the stretch of grass next to the garage with their lives.

While their base, as they called it, was the lawn, mine was the patio.  I walked out and knew immediately that I owed these boys a battle.  I picked up a plastic sword off the pavement and planned my attack.  What else was I going to do?  I had no defenses, no provisions, and no where to hide.

I charged, with a primal yell, sword held high.  Like Mel Gibson in Braveheart.  But, with less kilt, and more apron.  I swashed.  I buckled.  I deflected a flying ball of fire, off the broad side of my sword, and over the fence.

Then Cate, to whom we had not been paying much attention, ran out, demanding to fight.

"No!"  Jonah yelled.

"Jonah, don't be like that.  Give her one of your swords."

"But, Mooooom..."

"Just give her this little floppy one, and she can fight on my side."

"But, Mom.  She's too aggressive."

"Jonah, she's three.  Give the baby a sword," I growled, and he did.

Cate took the small, limp sword, and without a second's hesitation, charged through the cardboard barricade.  Before they could respond, she began hitting them, furiously and hard, right on their hands, until they dropped their weapons and recoiled, in real pain.  With her enemy stunned, she penetrated deep behind their lines.  Toward the back of their base were two ice chests, which I hadn't eve noticed until then.  She grabbed the larger of the two by the handle and ran, fast, dragging it behind her, the full length of the yard.  She pulled it up on to the patio, clambered up, and danced upon it, victorious.  With hands and sword raised over her head, she shouted, "I stoh yoh thwe-zhuh!"*

Of course!  The chests were treasure.

And, yes little girl.  You have our attention.

*"I stole your treasure," for anyone who does not speak Cate.

My Brush With Infamy

Have you ever had your mind wander away from you, only to return with a story to tell?  I have, and this is one of those stories.

For the last ten days or so, my children have had the stomach flu.  That's all you need to know.  (You're welcome.)

Two Sundays ago, before we were sure one sick kid was an epidemic, I was in (our brand-spanking-new) church, when I began to feel a little queasy.  This is where my mind started to wander.  (Don't tell any of my friends from church.)  What if I, too, became ill?  I've never seen anyone vomit is church before.  What's the etiquette?

I was in the worst possible seat from which to make a discreet exit: near the front, near the center aisle.  Near, but not, to my great horror, on the aisle.  There were three new, upholstered chairs between me and my escape, two of them occupied.  And, the new carpet was so new, it still smelled like new carpet.  I was not going to be the first one to defile it.  No sir.  I needed a plan.

Then, I saw my purse sitting next to me.  It's a lovely black leather bag I got for Christmas (last July, when I bought it for myself and then called Hubband to compliment him on his excellent taste).  I am very fond of my purse.  But I could regurgitate my breakfast into it if necessary.  It was even unzipped, ready to go.

So, that was my plan.

In the event of an emergency, I would get up, very calmly and excuse myself, but if the worst happened, I would use my purse.

Perfect plan.

But, wait.  My Kindle was in there.  It is a lovely Kindle Fire that I got for my birthday (which isn't for a few more weeks--Hubband is an efficient gift giver).  I am very fond of my new toy, but it is not, as far as I know, vomit proof.

New plan.

In the event of an emergency, I would get up, very calmly and excuse myself, but if the worst happened, I would dump the contents of my purse on the floor before using it.  Distracting, sure.  But it would spare the carpet, the chairs, the people between me and the aisle.

As my mind wandered back to the sermon, (I swear this is true) the pastor was teaching about one of our sister churches in Southern California which, in the early 1970s, tried to make their hippie-surfer congregation wear shoes, so that the tar from their feet would not ruin the new carpet.  That policy lasted only until the pastor found out.  He cared more about the hippies than the carpet.  People are more important than things.  Amen, brother.

But, I kept my plan.

I never did get sick, which is a good thing, because as the service was wrapping up, I realized that the purse in my plan, was not, in fact, my purse.  It was identical to my purse, but it belonged to the woman sitting next to me.  The woman whose small frame I was prepared to knock to the floor to make my escape.  My purse was under my chair. 

I am so glad that my stomach did not wander where my mind had led, because, while I do believe that people are more important than things, and I know my pastor cares more about his congregation than his carpet, I do not want to go down in church lore as the woman who lept up in the middle of service and puked in someone else's purse.

Sometimes, Uniform Isn't

My three little square pegs are going to have to make their own holes, I'm afraid.

He is actually wearing his uniform in this picture.  He is just wearing it with pajama bottoms, external underwear, and sunglasses.  The sunglasses are tucked in the underwear, in case you missed it.

At the beginning of the school year, I went and outfitted my children with uniforms.  Why?  Because it saved money.  And, time.  And, laundry.  But mostly because they were adorable.  Nothing is cuter than a three-year-old girl in a skort.

I know it is a little silly to have homeschool kids wear uniforms, but it worked for us.  I use the past tense because we haven't really followed through.

The uniforms attracted attention, and, understandably, questions.  Not malicious; just curious.  People wanted to know, "Are they in private school...a club...a cult?"  "No.  They're all mine.  They're homeshooled," was my usual, smiling reply.

Then one day, at the park, a retired gentleman sitting on a bench asked me, "Do you run a special school?"  As I prepared to give some variation of my standard answer, I turned to gaze lovingly at my children.  Jonah was prone in the middle of the play ground with his face pressed against the recycled-atheltic-shoe-rubber matting, because it felt warm.  Sam was trying to ride his scooter backwards, hindered greatly by the Captain America shield he had strapped to the bottom of his foot.  And, Cate was licking the slide.  It occurred to me, maybe the gentleman on the bench was not asking about the uniforms.

But the real down fall of the uniform, was this boy.

The benefits to me did not out weigh the struggle with him.

So now, when you see us in the park, I am indeed running a special school.  But, we won't be wearing uniforms.  Matching clothes just attract unnecessary attention.

Way Awesomer

Wow...would you look at this...my blog is still here. 

I've dropped in to say, "Hi."  Many of you have been really sweet about missing me.  Though those of you who actually know me, and see me in person, (and by in person, I mean on Facebook, because let's be honest...I don't get out much), I know it is not me you are missing when there is no blog.  It is the blog.  Which is a way awesomer.  

But, I am rusty.  (I can barely type anymore!  I had to ask Hubband where to find that exclamation point.)  And, I feel like I need to catch everybody up before I just start posting again. 

So, let's catch up!  (Found it myself that time.) 

September to January is our busy season.  And this is why...

There's school.  I do that at home.  You might remember this big day back in mid-August.

Then in late September, we celebrated Sam's birthday.

If you think he has a blue smile, he does.

That used to be Cookie Monster.

Then, two days later, I left on vacation.  All alone.  [A hush falls over the room.]  Well, not completely alone.  My mom and I went on a whirl-wind cruise of New England and Eastern Canada.

It was awesome!  I finally got to meet Boston, and my friend Jane, and the Rockettes (yes, in Boston!), and my first Dunkin' Donut, and Canadian airport security.  I was nude-y scanned and they took my maple syrup.  There is a lot of story here.  But, I should save it for another day.

By the time I got home it was October, and we had to catch up on school.  This involved, baking an apple pie...

..."churning' our own butter...

...and, some "real" work.  Like building and using an anemometer. 

There was the annual apple picking trip...

 and the annual pumpkin patching trip...

and the annual Halloween.

In November, Cate turned three.



We celebrated by taking her to her first movie.

Yes, she look a little manic.  She's drinking a soda, and eating popcorn, and watching the biggest TV she's ever seen.  And, it's her birthday.

We had Hubbnad's family stay with us for Thanksgiving.  I cooked.  The turkey was dreadful, but the sides are always more interesting than the bird anyway.  My oven has never been so proud of itself.

After Thanksgiving things slowed down a bit.  There were only three more weeks of school until Christmas break, when there would be time to breathe.

So, we decided to move.  On the tenth of December, we decided to move on the nineteenth.  We could have waited until the first, but I thought I would rather spend my school break unpacking the new house than living half-in and half-out of boxes at the old house.  It sounded reasonable.  It would have worked too, if it weren't for that meddlesome Christmas.

We spent it at my mom's which made it easier.  And, Nana enjoyed having all of her grandkids under one roof, and they enjoyed being there, even if you can't tell from the best picture I could get of the four of them.

We rang in the new year with family, and more family.


Then Jonah turned 7.

Notice how there are no pictures of Jonah's birthday party or cake?  That's because he had neither.  We chucked him a new box of Legos, and told him we'd make it up to him next year.  Okay, so it wasn't quite that bad.  We did celebrate the way he wanted to.  And Hubband and I promised each other that next year, we will pace ourselves.

Well, that's it.  You're caught up.  

Also, I have widened my page to allow for bigger pictures.  I am interested in feedback.  Is it too wide to read?  Are the pictures too much?  If you have an opinion, please, don't keep it to yourself.

Perfect

It is a November day, but most of the leaves are still green.  The weather is moody; first sunny, just warm enough to not be cool, then bright grey and gusty, and now I see more sun in the west.  Moody, but perfect.

My children are playing in the backyard.  All three of them.  Together.  I am not privy to the rules of their game, and probably won't be, absent an egregious violation requiring my intervention, or a ride to the hospital.  There is an elaborate fantasy world out there, involving costumes, weapons, negotiated loyalties, and the not infrequent use of the word butt.  And, (this is my favorite part), as for as I can tell, they are all on the same side.

But, it is a school day, and at some point, I must make them come in, sit still, and learn something on purpose.  They won't like that. And neither will I.  So, for now, for a just a few more minutes, I sit at my desk, my cold toes telling me flip-flop weather is over, listening to my children make friends with each other in the whole wide world that they have imagined for themselves.  Because it is important to learn how to do that, too.

A Little Riddle

My keys.

Jonah's favorite toy.

Three containers of yogurt.  One full, one empty, and one half-eaten with a spoon stuck in it.

What do these things have in common?

I found all of them hidden in Catherine's room.  The yogurt was under her bed.  And my keys, which had been missing for three days, were under her pillow.  Her pillow!  So, when I asked her the day before, "Catie, have you seen my keys?" her confused look was well acted.  The little, grr....

Catherine as a lion for Halloween

Princess, and I use the term ironically, will turn three next week.  Three, as in, not two.  I take some comfort in this.  But, I am afraid it is still going to get worse, before it gets better.

There Ought to be a Law

In California, where I live, you need permission from the government to do almost everything.  To drive a car, you need a license.  To ride a motorcycle, you need a different license.  Your car and your motorcycle each need a third and fourth license of their own.  You need permission to open a business.  If that business sells food, you need another license.  If  it sells liquor, you need license.  If it allows dancing, you guessed it, you need a license.  You can even smoke marijuana legally if you have the right license.

At this point, you may think I am on some political rant about how big government has insinuated itself into the minutia of our lives.  But, no.  This is about Halloween candy.

You should need a license to buy Halloween candy.  And I don't mean the mail-in-or-pay-online kind that you need to become a certified navel piercer.  I mean the kind you need to carry a concealed firearm.

There should be a back ground check, complete with blood work, an assessment of need, and a psychological questionnaire, at least, if not a full profile.  Is the applicant diabetic?  How much trick-or-treat traffic can reasonably be expected on the applicants street, based on historical trends and census data (adjusted for the fact that Day Light Savings Time now ends after Halloween).  Has the applicant ever consumed twenty mini Recess Peanut Butter Cups in one sitting, or more than fifty in a twenty-four hour period?

These are questions we, as a society, should ask before we let people walk into Target and buy seventeen pounds of candy a full six days before Halloween.

That brings me to the last step in the application process.  A waiting period.  Successful applicants would be required to wait until noon on October 31 before making any licensed purchases.

You see, this, like seat belt laws and cigarette taxes, will allow the government to protect us from ourselves.  And, set a really good price for the seventeen sixteen and a half pounds of black market candy hidden in the back of my closet.