uno, dos, tracey

Sometimes, Uniform Isn't

2012-01-31T13:38:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-25T22:29:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-03T14:06:00.000-07:00

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

2011-11-02T21:31:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-26T21:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Give me a good reason...

2011-10-20T17:32:00.000-07:00

I took this picture on Monday.

They were gone by Wednesday.

Give me a good reason why I should not send my children to live on a banana plantation.

We used all of these bowls in one day.

Give me a good reason why I should not pull a heist at the nearest Correlle plant.

Catie got into the permanent markers. Again.

Give me a good reason why I shouldn't lock her in the garage with the periodic table and some solvents until she invents Sharpie Remover, safe for...

...white boards...

...furniture...

...and, laminate floors.

Go ahead. One. Good. Reason.

Nothing New Under the Sun?

2011-10-11T20:55:00.000-07:00

Our grand-children may never know what either one was for.

I read a short story* in high school, set in the not too distant future, where over-population was such a problem, society had resorted to intentional and organized mass disaster. Every year, on the appointed day, the government would cause an oil refinery fire, collapse a busy bridge, etc. as a form of population control. Eventually, these disasters became a national spectator sport. Like the Olympics of Death.

For weeks up to the event, people would talk and speculate about what they thought would happen this time. And how they themselves would be safe. But, boy watching from a distance would be fun. The year in which our story is set, was no different. Everyone gathered around to watch. Imagine Monday Night Football in a bar. Or a royal wedding, or an inauguration. Everyone, watching, waiting, anticipating... Then all of the televisions exploded.

Do you have an iPod in your pocket, an iPhone in your purse, an iPad in front of you?

As most of you know, Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple and the creator of all things i, died last week. Most of you know, because most of you cared, at least a little. And not in a fellow-human sort of way, but because Steve Jobs had in impact on your life.

By contrast, someday, Bill Gates will die. He will be remembered as a genius and a great philanthropist. But no one will care the way they care about Steve Jobs. And, why not? Bill Gates has touched as many of our lives as Steve Jobs has. Probably more. Anyone reading this has used a Microsoft product. But no one has ever said they love their Microsoft Word. There is something about the i line of products that has wooed us. Infiltrated our daily lives. Made us happy. In little tiny increments, like a successful level of Angry Birds. And, we keep coming back for more. Because it makes us happy. In little tiny increments. And, we keep coming back. Because it makes us happy.

Bill Gates and Microsoft were sued for anti-trust violations. All Bill Gates wanted to do was corner the market. Steve Jobs, I've often joked, wanted to take over the world. And an argument can be made that he did.

My mother was born before television. When I found that out, it blew my six-year-old mind. She might as well have told me there was a time without cars, or electricity, or running water. That's how much Steve Jobs changed the world. I can't wait to regale my children and grand-children with tales of the pre-i world. Well, okay, the old iMac was just marketing, in sorority girl colors. But, the iPod and iPhone were true innovations.

And if anyone ever figures out a way to blow them all up, we are in big trouble. Just sayin'.

[*I can not remember the name of this story. I thought it was written by woman named Ute Hagen, but the only one of those I am able to find was an actor and wrote about acting. There could, of course, have been another Ute Hagen, but since she can not be found on internet, she no longer exists.]

Cook It If You Got It.

2011-10-10T14:04:00.000-07:00

In honor of National Clean Out Your Fridge Week, I did just that. Well, sort of. I examined the contents of my refrigerator, and considered the possibilities. That is how I came to serve what can only be called Bacon-Tilapia Noodle Casserole for lunch. I also grated my thumb (which really hurts) and am sporting a Lightening McQueen band-air, for my trouble. But, the kids ate it. And I am comforted by the knowledge that my future daughters-in-law will thank me for setting the bar so low.

[Editor's Note: According to the internet, which is never wrong, National Clean Out Your Fridge Day is November 15, or the third Wednesday in November. I may have been misled. But the deed is done.]

I Want to Hear All About Your Trip!

2011-10-09T22:06:00.000-07:00

Okay, so no one has actually said that to me. No one really wants to hear ALL about anything. (Unless it is how to get rich and thin without effort or moderation, in which case they will stay up way past their bedtimes watching obnoxious infomercials on tv.) But several people have asked quick questions, here and there, as our busy paths have crossed near enough to hear the sound of each others' voices. Is the apostrophe in the right place there? Other's, others'? I am rusty at this, can you tell. I can barely type anymore, let alone proof read for grammar (with two Ms--thank you Blogger spell check).

My home for ten days -- Planet Cruise Ship

Just yesterday Hubband, who heretofore would like to be known as Fabio, who sees all and knows nothing, but that is a story for another time. Just yesterday Fabio asked, "When are you going to tell me about your trip?" I have not told anybody about my trip. Well, I was pretty vocal about my ill treatment at the Quebec City airport, but that happened on the way home. Two weeks ago.

Yes, I have been home two weeks. I have not talked about my trip. I have not written for my blog. Why? Because when a homeschooling housewife with three little kids goes away for ten days, she must hit the ground running upon her return. Like anyone who leaves a job behind, the work does not stop (or get done) while you are away. So, two weeks ago, I rushed back into my daily life, refreshed and happy to be home. Two weeks, and I am just about caught up. Just about. Hubba...er...Fabio was fabulous. (Fabio-lous? Ew. Okay, I won't do that again) He really was. But there are things that only I can do.

Like blog.

Am I back? Yes. Am I back to blogging? All I can say is, maybe. Do you want to hear all about my trip?

My apologies to all my fellow bloggers for neglecting them. My thanks to Jen at Sunshine SAHM for standing vigil, eager to bear her responsibilities in the event of my untimely end (in a brawl with a skinny blonde French speaking airline employee at the Quebec City airport). And extra special double hot fudge thanks to Hub...Fabio for making it all possible.

Hope to be back soon. Really.

Housewife, Ahoy!

2011-09-13T15:45:00.000-07:00

I am going on vacation! No kids. Sadly, no husband either, as he is staying home to care for the kids. Have I mentioned that I love this man?

A ten day cruise from NYC to Quebec City. I am packed and ready to go. Nothing can go wrong now. Not the wild fires near my layover city, not a freak earthquake, not a hurricane, not a terrorist attack, not a flood, not a tsunami, not an iceberg. It's all been done people. That lightening won't strike twice! (Add lightening strike to my previous list of things that will not go wrong.) I'll say it again...Nothing can go wrong now.

Say a little prayer anyway.

If anything exciting happens, I will try to post from the road. If anything exciting happens which results in my death or permanent incapacitation, my friend Jen from Sunshine SAHM promises me she will come over here and let you all know.

The Next Bottom You Wipe Might Be Your Own

2011-09-08T21:53:00.000-07:00

Today, I asked Jonah to go around the house, find the dirty dishes, and bring them to me so that I could wash them. He just looked at me, confused.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that? There are two glasses sitting on the table next to you."

"But...I'm not a woman." His tone was not disrespectful, just really confused.

My mouth dropped open, and gaped there for a good while.

"Well, I'm not," he said. "Do I have a pony tail? Do I have an apron?" Now he was sassing me.

We had a little chat. After which he went and gathered up the dirty dishes. Well, most of them.

"Jonah, you brought me one glass from the end table, but not the other one."

"Oh, that one's not mine."

This is when I lost it.

Not yours? I don't care if it is not yours. I asked you to bring it to me. Do you see all of the dishes in this sink? Do you know how many of them are "mine"? I do ALL the dishes. Even the ones I don't use. I wash all the clothes. Even the ones I don't wear. I brush the teeth in four-out-of-five mouths in this house. Even though I don't have four mouths. I wipe three-out-of-five bottoms in this house. Even though I don't have three bottoms. So, I don't want to hear about how that one glass, sitting right next to your glass, is NOT your glass. I want you to pick it up and bring it to me, like a boy with a generous heart. Or, failing that, like a boy with some sense, and some respect for his mother, and some interest in living in MY house until his seventh birthday. Because I don't have to do this. I am a lawyer. Do you know that? I went to school for a very long time and I took a very hard test so that I would not have to be the hired help. I am not the hired help. I am way overqualified to wipe butts and be disrespected by you.

Then it occurred to me...who isn't overqualified for this? You usually have to pay someone to do what I do. And, if you disrespect them, they will quit. Why would anyone put up with this? Maybe, as their mother, I am the only one who is qualified. Well, if that is the case, then a few things need to be set straight.

So, listen here, little man. Listen closely, and tell your brother and sister. Tell them that The Woman, the one with the pony tail and the apron, has lost her mind and she has something to say. This is OUR house, and OUR dishes, and OUR laundry, and yes, even OUR butts. I am not doing all of this for you, and I am certainly not doing it all for me. WE are doing this for US. Just because you are too young to do most of it, does not mean you are off the hook. So, I would appreciate it if, in the future, you would do what you are told, all the way, right away, and with a happy face. And if you ever tell me that what I do is "woman's work" again, well...God help you, because even Daddy won't be able to.

XOXO ~ Mommy

Counting by Trillions

2011-09-01T13:40:00.000-07:00

How many zeros in a trillion?

This has nothing to do with the national debt. It has to do with skip counting: what modern education calls counting by twos, fives, tens, etc.

Jonah, little ball of brilliance though he is, had a really hard time learning to count by twos. Wailing, rending of garments, gnashing of teeth. A typical school day, really. And, as usual, he seemed to think it was my fault, like I invented the idea or something.

He often acts as though the things I teach him aren't really important, just chosen arbitrarily and capriciously by me to torment him. (Like I have time for that.) Or, maybe he just thinks they are hard, and he needs an excuse for all the dramatics he uses to avoid them. In an attempt to further his point, he test me. If this is so important, let's see if Mom knows it.

"Mom? Can you count by 2's?"

"Yes. You know I can. I have been counting with you all day."

"Can you count by hundred's?"

"Yes."

"Well, do it then."

"100, 200, 300..." and so on, I counted to one thousand. Thwarted, but not satisfied, he continued.

"Can you count by a trillion?" It was clearly a dare.

"One trillion, two trillion, three trillion..." I began to wonder when I could stop. What comes after a trillion? And how many trillions does it take to get there? What was that going to be like? "Two hundred million trillion, three hundred million trillion..." My mind boggled. I didn't have all day to stand in my kitchen counting by a trillion to prove something to my six year old. Somewhere around twenty trillion, my counting trailed off.

"Why did you stop?"

"Well, I..." I started to explain to him, what I just explained to you. But, I didn't get very far.

"I guess you aren't so smart after all," he said, and he kind of wonder away.

"Maybe not," I hollered after him. "But at least I can skip count by two,"

Okay, no, I didn't. But I did get to show off my skip counting skills for the rest of the week while we practiced and practiced and practiced, until he was ready to kill me, or get it right. He got it right. And, he was so proud of himself.

The hardest won victories are the sweetest.

Now, onto telling time. I anticipate more drama...at first. I"ll let you know how it turns out.

Back To School

2011-08-29T16:38:00.000-07:00

We are homeschooling again this year. Officially, only Jonah is in school. Hello, first grade! But, Sam and Cate need some learnin' too. Sam is pre-kindergarten, and Cate is pre-pre-kindergarten. We keep each other busy.

Three students ready for the first day of school. Two of them are even happy about it.

Her very first letter. Ever! Don't worry. She went right back to writing like a two year old and has not written anything legible since.

What I Did This Summer -- Part 5: Oods and Ends

2011-08-24T20:39:00.000-07:00

We are in our second week of school, so for us, summer is as good as over. Except for swim lessons, and the heat. But, while the days are still a little longer than not, I thought I would share with you some of the smaller bits of our summer.

You must remember, that as a homeschool mom, it is my vacation, too. So don't judge me too harshly when I tell you, I watched seventy-two episodes of Doctor Who, and played a hundred seventy-two hours of Angry Birds. Both of which I had never done before this summer. (Well, okay, I had seen some of the old Doctor Who from back in the seventies, but I saw it in the eighties, late Saturday nights on PBS. This tells you loads about my social life in the eighties as well.)

Jonah took a cupcake decorating class, in which he was the youngest student and the only boy. Or, "a good place to find a wife," as he described it. Combine his cupcakes with my summer(waste of)time activities, and you have this...

An Ood cupcake. You can see the Ood inspiration here.

Other monsters. These are Sam's.

And, in other news...

We picked up souvenirs, or pictures thereof.

When passing through Weed, California, you do not need to buy one of these at the local gas station, but you can take a picture of one with your phone, while pretending to use their bathroom. (Which you know I would never do. See Part 2.)

We played in the water...

We helped Uncle Jim launch some homemade rockets.

Before...

It is never too early to teach a little girl about things that go boom.

Once the missile is launched (too fast to be photographed by me), someone must go get it. Have fun, Uncle Jim.

And, someone must bring it back. But Catie will make the walk seem shorter by chatting your ear off.

After

Catherine caused us some concern.

I am posting this, so that when I tell you she is trouble, you know just what kind of trouble I am talking about. Daddy's little girl trouble. Do-I-look-like-I-would-cause-trouble? trouble. Gunna-break-your-heart-and-steal-your-truck trouble.

It's all fun and games until someone becomes a stripper.

And, we rested.

His sister gave him her bubba, which was really sweet. Maybe she's worth the trouble.

The End

I hope to be back soon with some Fall adventures, but until then, if you missed any episode of What I Did This Summer you can catch up here...

Part 1: Medium-rare Waffles with Amish Strangers

Part 2: Toilet Tourism

Part 3: No One Slept Here

Part 4: Ghosts and Posers

What I Did This Summer -- Part 4: Ghosts and Posers

2011-08-17T21:41:00.000-07:00

Since our first child was born almost seven years ago, Hubband and I have driven from our home in northern California to his parents home in northern Washington many times. The drive has never been anything but a miserable slog, up to twenty hours over two days (if we were lucky enough to stop) with one, two, or three screaming children, depending on the year. This year was a little better. All of those years of experience paying off? Perhaps. Or, maybe it was because we packed cupcakes, borrowed Nintendo DSes from a friend to keep the boys busy, and stopped in Salem, Oregon at a place called The Enchanted Forest.

This place is great. It's like a story book village, with rides. It was the perfect way to break up a long drive. And inexpensive. For a family of five, we spent under $100, including lunch! (You can't even get mouse pancakes for that at some other places.)

One of the main attractions for Jonah, was the haunted house. He wanted to go in there so badly. And, so did I. So, we bought our tickets and went. Just Mommy and Jonah. Is this an excited boy, or what?

After we waited in no line what-so-ever, we gave the delightful girl our ticket. When she saw Jonah, she told us that if it we got too scared, we could just come back out the way we came. As soon as the door closed behind us, it was pitch black. I felt Jonah tense up beside me.

"It's okay, Jonah," I said. "We don't have to stay if it is too scary."

"Are you scared, Mom?"

"No," I said.

"I think maybe you are. You should hold my hand just in case."

We came around the first bend, and my eyes were still adjusting. A witch, at a table with a crystal ball, lit up and cackled at us from the left. Jonah jumped and pulled me away from her. I backed into a wall and tried to convince Jonah to just look at the lady for a minute, so that he could see she was not real.

"Are you sacred, Mom? I think you are."

"No, honey. I'm fine. But we can go if you want."

At this point, something in the wall behind me moaned and rattled. I am not a scared-y cat, but I am tightly wound. I jumped and shrieked.

Jonah yanked on my hand, and said, "That's it! You're scared. We need to leave!" And, so we did.

If anyone asks, I am afraid of the haunted house at Enchanted Forest in Salem, Oregon. My brave son rescued me.

I brought my camera on this trip, but never once took it out. This is all I managed to capture on my phone. (There is a disciplinary hearing in September. My mommy-blogger credentials may be yanked.)

Jonah and Abraham Lincoln

There were ghost and guns everywhere.

Forget Daddy-on-the-porch-with-a-shotgun. I got this covered.

And, I'll trow this one in, just because they are cute.

If you missed any episode of What I Did This Summer you can catch up here...

Part 1: Medium-rare Waffles with Amish Strangers

Part 2: Toilet Tourism

Part 3: No One Slept Here

School started for us this week, but there are a few more bits and pieces of summer to show you, before I start writing about that. I hope to be back soon.

What I Did This Summer -- Part 3: No One Slept Here

2011-08-11T06:07:00.000-07:00

One of the joys of traveling with your children is not sharing a hotel room. I am used to sleeping close to my children. We have a small house. None of them sleep more than thirty feet from me. I sleep with my door open. I can hear Sam breathing. I know what my children sleep like. But, if we are in a hotel room, each of them, in turn, will sit bolt upright in bed and scream. Scream, like their hair is on fire. Then, flop back on the pillow, and resume sleep. I, thanks to the rapid rise in blood pressure, will be awake for at least the next hour. This is not good sleep.

During our trip to Nevada this summer, to visit my father and grandmother, we were blessed with a two bedroom, two bathroom suite. (Thank you, Daddy!) It was bigger than our first apartment. There was one room with two beds for the kids, and one room with a huge bed for us. We were so excited. But sleep was not to be had.

For reasons that are boring and so shall be skipped, Hubband put the kids to bed that night, while I was out. (Again, the details aren't important. Don't be so nosy.)

When I returned to the room at 10:30, I was met at the door by a wonderful husband, but a frazzled father. "Cate won't stay in the bed," were the first words out of his mouth. "I just can't keep her in the bed." It was true. She was running around like a crazy person. Or, an over-tired two year old. Same thing, really.

"Okay, well. We'll have to put her in our bed until she's asleep. Then we can put her back in with Jonah." My plan sounded reasonable.

"Well, no," he said. "I have to sleep in with Jonah. He is having bad dreams."

"I told you not to let him watch When Gators Attack on the swap people channel." It is so easy to be the superior parent when you are out all night.

"Oh, he was fine with the alligators. It was the live-action Scooby Doo movie that scared him."

We paused to take in the absurdity of the situation. Ferrel two year-old. Six year-year old afraid of a crime-solving dog. Four year-old presumed sleeping. Got it. I quickly developed a new plan.

"Okay, so you sleep in the bed with Jonah until he falls asleep. I will get Cate to sleep in our bed. Then you and she can swap."

"Well, maybe." He sounded doubtful. There were other issues. "Sam fell asleep crying because you weren't here to sleep with him." When we travel, Sam and I usually share a bed, so that the kids are split up. This has become, second only to make-your-own-waffles, his favorite part of traveling. It added a wrinkle to my plan, but Sam was asleep, and if he stayed that way, it might just work.

Hubband and Jonah were quickly asleep in one of the beds in the kids room. Sam was asleep in the other. That left me in the master bedroom with my demon possessed daughter.

I finally got Cate to sleep, but could not do the same for myself. Perhaps it was the human pinwheel with whom I was sharing the bed. After about three hours of jostling, kicking, rolling, and two screaming sit-ups, I left. I went into the living room. Yes, there was a living room. I hung out there for awhile, reading. When I finally went back in, Cate, all three feet of her, was taking up the entire king size bed. I know, it sounds impossible, but I saw it with my own eyes. There must be some sort of pre-school physics that allows her to do this.

I was about to scoop Cate up and move her onto her reasonable share on the bed, trying not to wake her of course, when Sam came in. "Mommy," he whimpered. "I want you to sleep with me."

It was three in the morning. I had not slept. I had no fight left in me. I went into the double room and got in bed with Sam. I did not sleep well, but I slept. A little.

That is how a two year-old girl got an entire master suite all to herself, while the rest of us were billeted as usual -- four to a room, two to a bed. And, though the boys had us up by six, Princess Catherine slept until 9:30.

When we went to Washington, later in the summer, we had our usual accommodations -- the in-laws' attic. It is a nice attic. Large and nicely finished, two windows at each end, plenty of beds and room to play. The kids even have shelves of toys. A short adult can only stand up in the middle of the room, but other than that it is quite cozy.

On one of our last night's there, Cate was suffering from a fever. She sat up every fifteen minutes or so, moaning. A sort of rhythmic chant of discomfort, until one of us went over, laid her back down, and told her it was going to be okay. I don't think she was every really awake, but we certainly were. Every fifteen minutes. I know because I looked at the clock. Hubband and I took unofficial shifts. He would get up with her for an hour or so, then I would. But neither of us slept, even when "off duty." It went on like this until four in the morning.

Then it got worse.

Cate started screaming. Like I have never heard. I thought she must be hurt. I lept out of bed and went to her as quickly as I could with no head clearance. Then I saw it. Well, not it, but its shadow, cast by the glow of the night light. It was a bat. I'm sure it was a small bat, but its shadow looked like that of an albatross. Have I mentioned that I am deathly afraid of bats? Deathly. Afraid.

I let out my own primal scream. At which point Hubband ordered me to quit screaming. He was trying to find out what was going on, and I was not helping. So, I quit screaming. I fell to the floor at the foot of our bed, cowering under a bit of quilt.

"It's a bat. There's a bat in here," I whimpered. My heart still races at the memory.

Cate continued screaming, "Flies. Flies." She had not learned the word "bat" yet, but she would.

Finally, Hubband managed to pass her to me, staying as low as possible. She and I escaped to a lower floor. Hubband stayed behind to conquer the bat, enlisting the help of his father, a broom, and a fishing net. The flying rodent was returned to the wild, unharmed, but with an abiding fear of screaming women. As it should be.

No sleep was had, by anyone. Except my boys, who managed to sleep through the entire thing. I remember when I could sleep through anything. It was 2004 b.c. Before Children.

Stay tuned for Part 4, Ghosts and Posers. More pictures, fewer words. I promise.

What I Did This Summer -- Part 2: Toilet Tourism

2011-08-04T17:25:00.000-07:00

The Gaches Mansion, LaConner, Washington, 1891

Nothing says "Happy Birthday, America!" like the smell of gunpowder and grilled meat. I know this, because my Fourth of July contained neither. No fireworks. No barbecue. Just a three day weekend full of fast-food play areas and public toilets. Well, okay. There were some breathtaking giant redwoods, a visit with family, gorgeous beaches, an indoor pool, and waffles for breakfast every morning. But talking about the good stuff is easy. And, quite frankly, a little boring. It's been done to death, hasn't it. So, instead, I offer you this. Not just the Fourth of July weekend, but my entire summer vacation in potty stops. Toilet tourism, if you will.

Yelp, the website that allows real people to write real reviews about all kinds of services -- restaurants, shops, even radio stations -- does not have a category for public toilets. They really should. Travelers could use this information. Especially travelers with children, or other disabilities. Since I have no website designing-launching-marketing experience I am going to 1) give away (yet another) million dollar idea and 2) tell you about a few places you should avoid and/or go out of you way to visit, if you happen to be in the area.

I will start with the bad.

Any chemical port-a-loo should be avoided. Especially if you have a child with you. Open sewage. No running water. Unless you are at Burning Man or Glastonbury where they are part of the charm.

I hate gas station bathrooms. If you have to ask for a key (ew, gross) and go "round back," the room will not be sanitary. No exceptions. In the winter, it will be freezing. In the summer, it will be sweltering. And you will get more germs washing your hands than not. I know you are "already there for gas...why make two stops...the rest of the place looks clean...yada yada." Do not ask for that key, thinking that this place is an exception. It is not. It. is. not.

Some gas stations have bathrooms that are not "round back," but even then you are better off going to a fast-food restaurant. So, after you pay for your gas, get back in your car, and drive across the street to the McDonald's or Taco Bell or whatever. But not Arby's and Dairy Queens. For some reason, they are seldom what one would hope. And, don't feel guilty about using their facilities without buying anything. They don't mind. Really. While you are using their toilet, they are imprinting their logo and brand onto the minds of your children. Everyone is happy.

There is a town -- yes, an entire town -- called Willits, that should be avoided. It is named for the rare infectious disease you can get from using their facilities. Sorry, Willits, it's true and you know it. (And, no, I'm not just cranky because you have put three stop lights in the middle of an interstate highway, just so we can all sit in soul-sucking traffic and crawl through your dismal town.)

Now, for the good.

In Ferndale, California, if ~~your husband refuses stop and~~ you drive past the old churches and restored Victorian homes, past the sidewalk cafes and quaint tourist shops all the way through town, you come to a park. It is lovely. Wide open spaces, hemmed in by blackberry bramble and bocce ball courts. And the nicest park bathroom I have ever seen. Ever. It was clean. It was well lit and ventilated with windows. There was real toilet paper. Warm water. Soap. Paper towels. I talked about it all day. Seriously. Hubband thought I was crazy, but he can go in the woods. He has no idea the toilets I've seen. Uff da!

Burlington, Washington. Cascade Mall. Macy's. First floor behind housewares. The best bathroom in the (parts of the) WORLD (I have been to). Toilet, clean. Sink, clean. Floor, clean. You could eat off that floor. Warm water, scented soap, soft paper towels. There was a changing table, also clean, that did not creak, or bow, or threaten to rip from the wall while my child was on it. This was a five star bathroom.

There are also a few honorable mentions.

Most Adventurous The Woods, Arcata, California.

I won't say where exactly, for reasons that will soon be obvious. We were in Arcata visiting my cousin Jake and his family. On a "hike" in the woods, Samuel announced to the world, "I gotta poop!" Not happy news, as this meant a "hike" back to the parking lot and the aforementioned, to-be-avoided-with-children chemical toilet. Cousin Jake to the rescue. With his patience and expertise, Sam pooped in the woods, in a hole Jake dug with his shoe. Jake even cleaned him up. I don't know how, and I don't want to. Port-o-potty averted! Of course, Samuel thought that was the most exciting thing in all his four years on this earth. We weren't even out of the woods when he needed to "go again." So, we have set a few boundaries. Pooping outside is to be a "with Cousin Jake only" activity. This should work, since we only see Jake about twice a year. I have to warn my mom before we meet at her house for Christmas.

Most Inspirational 703 South 2nd Street, LaConner, Washington.

If you have a smart phone, you have used it in the bathroom. You know you have. You have read the paper or checked your e-mail or played Angry Birds while pretending to use the bathroom just to get a few moments of peace. (I won't tell your boss if you won't tell mine.) If you haven't, you should, and I am going to tell you why. On July 18, 2011 at 3:55 pm, I sent the following message to my sister, with whom I have swapped many texts while in the bathroom (don't judge me): "I am in the bathroom at the LaConner Quilt Museum, housed in the old Gaches Mansion, built in 1891. I am going to start toilet texting from exotic locales."

Again, don't judge me. Join me. 402-317-5229. That is my text number. It is not a cell phone, just a free text service. Go ahead. Save it in your phone. Right now. Don't wait. Save it in your phone and use it for all your toilet tourism. Are you at the Eiffel Tower toilet? I want to hear about it. Have you found a restaurant with heated seats? Let me know. Just want to gripe about the condition of the john at your local Wal-mart? I'm listening.

What I Did This Summer -- Part 1: Strange Amish Waffles

2011-08-01T14:44:00.000-07:00

This summer, we have been traveling. Like crazy. If you have ever traveled with children, you know what an exhausting, soul-sucking, memory-of-a-lifetime adventure this can be. If you haven't, I am here to tell you a few things. We have found a two day driving strategy that works, with or without cupcakes. But, one six hour trip took us ten, and we aren't even sure why. I am developing a website where people can rate public toilets and fast-food playlands. Jonah learned that vegetarians don't eat bacon or sausage. Jonah is developing a website to raise money to buy bacon and sausage for poor vegetarians. Samuel learned to poop in the woods, in a hole dug with a shoe, and he can't wait until Thanksgiving so that he can do it again. More bedrooms don't actually make for less crowded sleeping. How many ninety-year-old women are too many? A house so haunted we had to leave. So many stories. So little time to write them all down. Where to begin...

BEWARE BREAKFAST: Medium-Rare Waffles with Amish Strangers

Samuel's favorite part of any trip, is the Free Hot Breakfast offered by most mid-priced hotels. These are usually a make-your-own waffle set up, but all Samuel has to do js place an order with one of his parents, and keep repeating, "I want a waffle, I want a waffle, I want a waffle, I want a waffle," until one appears on the plate in front of him. As one of his parents, I can tell you it would be easier to pay for waffles at the Denny's across the road.

When people hear that make-your-own waffles come free with the room, they are going to make their own waffles, dammit, even it means pulling at the frayed edges of polite society. You'd think that we as a people would have evolved past the primal urge to pounce, cheetah like, on the nearest warm food. But no. It is still a jungle out there.

This particular jungle story happened over Fourth of July weekend when we went to see the California Redwoods.

The first thing I had to do was jockey for position with my fellow hotel guests, most of whom were just hovering around waiting for their waffles to finish. There is a timer on those things, people. It takes three minutes. You have two minutes and twenty-seven seconds left. Go stand somewhere else, would ya. No one is going to steal your waffle. I promise. Because if they tried, the whole crowd would turn on them. It is the Law of the Free Hot Breakfast.

Once a waffle iron opened up, I had to push forward, reach across the blazing hot contraption, and get the batter. This required I do five things simultaneously: 1) hold a sloppy plastic cup under a waffle-batter glopping machine with one hand, 2) pull a lever on said glopping machine with the other hand, 3) monitor the fill level of the sloppy cup, 4) hold off the encroaching horde of waffle-zombies with my backside, and 5) not sear my left breast.

With glop in hand, I lifted up the heavy top of the waffle iron, and began to pour batter onto the beeping, steaming, hissing mess. I had about half of the glop in there when the top of the waffle iron slammed down, barely missing my hand. No. That it is not true. It did not miss my hand. It tried to burn my hand clean off. And it would have too, but for my lightening-fast reflexes. I yanked my hand away, just in time. Disaster averted. Except that I flung half a cup of glop behind me. Amazingly, none of the waffle-zombies were hit. And, none of them saw what happened. Fifteen people, all focused on two waffle irons, and not a single one of them saw the thing try to bite me. They looked at me as if I were a mental patient having some kind of episode. But they all managed to look away as I cleaned up the mess. Even the man who stepped over me to steal my turn at the waffle iron.

When I finally shoved my way back to the front of the non-line, and successfully applied glop to iron, I returned to sit with Sam while I waited the three minutes. Like civilized people should. It was then that Sam looked slowly around the room and loudly announced, "Mom, these people are all strangers."

"Yes, Sam," I replied quietly. "They are."

"I'm not going to talk to them because they might take me," he said and glanced around suspiciously.

This did not endear me to the other diners, who, I could tell, were wondering why such an adorable child would be left in the care of an obviously deranged woman who had hallucinations involving kitchen appliances.

Ten minutes later, Sam tucked into his pink waffles without a care in the world. Did I mention that the waffles were pink? Well, the glop was pink. Strawberry they called it, but I recognize waffle batter made with artificially-flavored strawberry milk when I see it. The waffles were some kind of hybrid; brown on the outside, pink of the inside. Like a well cooked steak. I found it troubling.

Among the strangers was a large group of Amish. (They avoided the waffles.) This is a very rare sight in California. Sam had a million questions. (Luckily, he kept his voice down this time.) And, to be honest with you, it was just as hard explaining to him why the Amish dress the way they do, as it was explaining to him why a lady in our sub-urban supermarket was wearing a burqa. Sometimes, having kids makes my brain hurt.

In the end, and after breakfast, the trees were nice. Big. Really big. And, old. Thousands of years, I am told. Big, old, and not nearly as boring as I thought they might be. (Don't tell Hubband I said that.)

Now...which story should I tell next?

Samuel Explains A Lot

2011-07-08T17:25:00.000-07:00

This morning as I was dressing, Samuel bolted into my room. I could have sworn I locked the door.

"Mommy, I'm all dres..."

He stopped mid-sentence as soon as he saw me. I was mostly dressed, but from the waist up, I wore only my bra. Lovely bra. Pink it is. Hubband says it reminds him of a doughnut he once knew. But, enough of that.

Where was I? Oh, yes...When Sam stopped mid-sentence, I realized he was staring at my breasts.

"Samuel, don't stare at my breasts," I said, as I covered myself.

His eyes did not move.

"Samuel. Don't do that it is rude. Look at my eyes." I pointed at my eyes.

He looked at my eyes. Then back to my breasts. I couldn't believe it.

"Samuel. My eyes."

He looked at my eyes. Then back to my breasts.

"Samuel!"

"I can't look at your head when you have breasts."

I'm sure this means something. Something big. If only I could put my finger on it. Ah, yes. I need to get a better lock for the bedroom door. And maybe a pink doughnut.

And the winner is....

2011-06-26T21:11:00.000-07:00

Anonymous. Seriously.

I had an anonymous comment, so just as a joke, I included her in the drawing. Of course she won. But, as Ann Onymous was vague as to her exact location, (She didn't even give me a fake name!) I had to draw again. Actually Jonah did the drawing. He thought the whole thing was great. He even wore his Jelly Belly t-shirt for the occasion. So, why does his picture, taken with the winning entry look like a mug shot?

Rebecca S. from Letters to the World is our lucky winner! Congratulations, Rebecca! Just e-mail your address and your jelly beans will be posted forthwith. As for the rest of you, don't be haters. Go over and visit Rebecca. She's Canadian. Everyone likes Canadians, right?

As for this space here, I may be away for a short time. I have a little extra help with the kids the next few weeks, so I am catching up on all of the housework I neglected during school. I want everything to be spick and span and organized for when school starts up again in August. Only six weeks left of summer for us. I'm already excited. So, miss me, people, miss me. (I can't possibly stay away that long.)

International Sam of Mystery

2011-06-21T15:41:00.000-07:00

Samuel has taken to wearing disguises.

He calls them disguises.

I call them extra laundry.

I'm glad he is able to express himself.

Now, if only he would learn to fold.

Just a reminder that the Uno, Dos, Tracey Jelly Belly Give-Away is still going on. Make sure you check it out; follow the link and leave a comment. All that sugar-y goodness in a decorative tin can could be yours. You still have a 1 in 12 chance!

Jelly Belly Field Trip and a Give-Away. Yay, Give-Aways!

2011-06-18T21:20:00.000-07:00

It is officially summer vacation, for almost officially everyone. Since we homeschool, day to day life has not changed much, except that there is no school. In it's place: swim lessons, family visits, and field trips. Yay, field trips!

A few weeks ago, my brave and adventurous mother, known forevermore, and to all, as Nana (Okay, maybe not to all, but to all who matter. Me, my sister, our spouses, our kids.), offered to take us to the Jelly Belly Factory in Fairfield, California. Yay, Nana!

Samuel, Baby Lucas, Tante Tricia, Me, Catherine, Jonah, and Nana rocking the mandatory paper hat before our tour.

Have you ever heard of Jelly Bellies? They are gourmet jelly beans. They started with eight flavors and now have over fifty, like pomegranate, chili-mango, and buttered popcorn. If those flavors are too exotic for you (buttered popcorn is gross), they also have licorice, green apple, watermelon, and strawberry jam. My favorite is cinnamon. Yay, cinnamon!

President Ronald Reagan was a big fan when he was Governor of California, and took his passion national when he became President. A special jar was made for his desk in the oval office, and on Air Force One, just to hold his Jelly Bellies. When news of this spread, so many curious candy eaters ordered them, that the poor Jelly Belly people, caught unawares, were seventy weeks behind on orders. No fear of that now. They run a huge, state of the art processing plant. Tours are free and include a Jelly Belly Portrait Gallery, and samples. Yay, samples!

President Ronald Reagan made entirely our of Jelly Belly beans.

Again, entirely our of Jelly Bellies.

I brought my three kids, and my sister brought her one baby. That was a ratio of three adults to four kids. Baby Lucas was pushed around, strapped securely in his carriage. We knew we could trust Jonah and Sam to locomote and not wander too far (we had their sugar). But, Cate was a different story. We weren't taking any chances. We kept her on a very short leash. Yay, toddler leash!

They told me this leash was the latest in pre-school fashion. I was deceived.

Yes, look closely. I am tied to a chair.

I'm not going to let it stop me though.

Of the four kids we took, only three had teeth. Now, only two do. It was like Halloween, and the Easter Bunny, came all in one day. Yeah, they were a little ~~hyper~~ restless, ~~vomiting~~ nauseated and ~~crying~~ tired at the end. But, we had it under control. (See leash above.) And it was worth it! Yay, worth it!

So. much. sugar.

Now for the moment you have been waiting for. The BIG Jelly Belly Give Away. Jelly Belly Jelly Beans come in fifty flavors, forty-nine* of which are featured in this box, and I am giving it away to you. Yes, you! Well, one of you. Just leave a comment here, or on Facebook, and you will be entered to win. The drawing will be held seven days from today. (Any longer than that, and I am likely to eat the prize.) Good luck! (Nana and Tante Tricia not eligible.)

*Forty-nine flavors, not forty-nine beans. There are a whole bunch of beans.

To learn more about the family business that changed the jelly bean, you can go to the Official Jelly Belly Website. They also make the most amazing candy corn, so book mark it for October, when you will be in need of just such a confection.

The Week in Kids

2011-06-10T23:02:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I have posted The Week in Kids. But, it is summer and I have more time. And, it is summer and we are crazy busy.

This week...

Tante Tricia (my sister) came to visit.

She brought ice cream.

And, baby Lucas.

What? They won't let me have any ice cream. What else am I supposed to do?

Also this week...

...the boys had their first ever swim lessons. They are in the Seahorse class, which is only one step above the Starfish class. As Sam pointed out, "Starfish can't swim." Neither can you baby.

Also this week...

...we went to the Jelly Belly Factory (more on that to come) and ate jelly beans until our teeth rotted out of our heads.

Also this week...

There are movies on the ceiling at this dentist. They don't make his teeth any stronger.

...Sam had to go to the dentist (again), only to confirm that his teeth have, in fact, rotted out of his head. He has cavities in fourteen of his twenty teeth. We're talking root canals and caps and stuff, under general anesthesia. This is not happy news.

Also this week...

...I gave Cate a tub of water and some plastic dishes, so she could "do dishes" just like Mommy. She promptly took off all her clothes and jumped in. Uh...she never learned that from me.

Also the week...

...Cate got a new swim suit. Which she insisted on trying on. Immediately.

And, posing in.

Okay, what is this about? Supermodel pout, working the tutu swimsuit over pajamas look.

Also this week...

...we returned Tante Tricia's visit with one of our own. Uncle Jim gave lawn mower rides. (And, launched rockets, but more on that later, too.)

See you next week!!! (maybe)

Sam's Incredible and Pizza

2011-06-08T17:43:00.000-07:00

You may think that there is no such thing as a skee ball injury, but you'd be wrong.

Do you remember last week, when I said, and I quote, eh-hem "When you have three kids, it is very rare that any one of them gets to spend time alone with both parents...We can't afford to get a sitter for two, so that both Mommy and Daddy can take one out..."

All still true. But we don't have to pay Nana. Which means we can afford her. (Love you, Mom.) Last weekend, Nana took Jonah and Cate to stay overnight with her, while Sam got to spend a whole bunch of time alone with Mommy and Daddy.

Sam alone is like a fish out of water. As the middle child, he spends most of his time tagging along with Jonah, or trying to keep Cate from tagging along with him. But he adapted quickly. As a huge treat (and to make up for the fact that we did not have the good sense to have him first or last) we took him to a place called, John's Incredible Pizza. And it was...incredible.

The first thing we did was take ourselves on a little tour of all the different rooms to sit in. There is, among others, a cartoon room, with huge screens running cartoons, a sports room, with huge screens running sports, and a log cabin room, with no screens at all. There is a fireplace and big wooden beams, with a pheasant and hunting dog motif. As the modern, sub-urban, American family wouldn't know how to hunt anything that wasn't on a screen, this room was completely empty. So, we decided to sit there. But not until we hit the arcade.

I played skee ball. Sam played a car racing game, a motorcycle riding game, and a spaceship flying game. I played skee ball. Sam rode a horse, a rocket ship, and a giant frog. I played skee ball. Sam shot things, beat me (I let him win) at the water pistol game, and bowled five frames. I played skee ball. Sam talked me into sitting with him on hard, formed plastic reclining chairs pointed at a screen, while the chairs jerked along in time to the movie shown thereon. This, by the way, jiggles one around quite a bit, and, in hindsight, is not fit for any adult woman over, oh...ninety-five pounds. I played skee ball. I also rubbed some Crisco on my hips to get on the kiddie coaster, as he was not tall enough to ride alone. Minor public humiliations suffered to a soundtrack of pop hits from the eighties. When was the last time you listened to Howard Jones or Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam? I ask you.

So you see, I was there for my son. I participated, I watched, I clapped and cheered like a dutiful mother. Though, I confess, that during any lull in the activity, I sneaked away to play skee ball, like a pack-a-day smoker trying to get at a lit cigarette. I love, love, love skee ball. I always have. But, now I'm rusty. My scores were low. I hurt my back.* It was sad. But, I have become a world class whac-a-mole player. As the mother of three small children, I have had lots of practice.

After about an hour of building up our immune systems by touching everything in the arcade, we settled in for a buffet lunch. This place does not mess around. They had fifteen different kinds of pizza, and a well appointed salad bar. The buffalo chicken pizza was my favorite, and I am emphatically against poultry on pizza. They have a spicy peanut butter pizza too, but I declined. Sam's choice was macaroni-and-cheese pizza. That's right folks, macaroni-and-cheese pizza. You have to hand it to them, they know their crowd.

They also make something called "nacho pizza" which must be quite popular. The pan was empty when we went by. Then, as we were eating, they made an announcement, and you could tell it was a big deal, that the nacho pizza was ready, come and get it. This was followed quickly by the sounds of obese people in $90 "athletic" shoes power-waddling to the buffet. (Okay, I shouldn't be so harsh. If they had said "nacho cheesecake," for example, I might have thundered along with the herd.)

Arcade games and a buffet lunch. We, the adults, were sated. Sam however, had one more thing he wanted to do. Dance, on the hearth of the Cabin Room fireplace, for a rapt audience of two.

It was incredible.

*I may very well have hurt my back trying to dislodge my girth from the kiddie coaster, but do you see how I dropped one factual sentence next to another, thereby implying that they are connected? Is it my fault if people jump to the wrong conclusion I want them to jump to? This is a law school education at work people.

[The pictures that don't include Sam were taken from the John's Incredible Pizza Facebook page and HERE.]

Bend it like...

2011-06-05T20:48:00.000-07:00

Do you remember the moment your oldest child figured out you are mortal? My moment came last week.

I have always wanted to be a mom. I have never wanted to be a soccer mom. I am fine with mini-vans, juice boxes, and sun screen bought in bulk. I just don't want to spend every Saturday morning, for the next fifteen years, sitting on the sidelines of a soccer field. And, that's not even counting the practices.

Unfortunately, you can not be any kind of mom with out a kid. And, my kid seems to be better at kicking a ball than pretty much any activity he has tried. I don't want to be a bad mom, so we have enrolled Jonah in a soccer class. It only meets once a week, on Friday nights. This I can live with. If he loves it, I may need to take it like a big girl; pull up my mom jeans and a camp chair, because Saturday morning soccer it will be.

So far, he has had two classes. Afterwards, we go out for frozen yogurt, just the two of us. I miss that one-on-one time, now that school is out. We have the best conversations.

"Mom, I'm pretty good at soccer," he said, after his second class.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Except sometimes I trip over the ball." This is true. I have seen it. He is getting better, though. He gets up a lot faster now.

"Well, honey, sometimes that happens," I said, knowing how easily he can get frustrated. "You can't be good at everything right away. You will get better with practice."

"Why can't I be good at something right away?"

"You just can't." You can't, can you? I mean, it's never worked for me. "Even the best soccer player in the world had to learn how to play first. And then he had to practice."

"Who's the best soccer player in the world?"

"Honestly, I have no idea." I am going to be a really bad soccer mom. "I know who the most famous soccer player in the world is."

"Who?"

"David Beckham. He's from England." All I know about soccer I learned from People Magazine.

"Is he good?"

"Oh, I'm sure. I think being good is what made him famous."

"Maybe I'll be like him someday."

"Maybe," I said. Minus the tats and the plastique wife, I thought. Posh, my foot.

"Can we go see him?" See him? See him how? See him play? On the street? For tea? Doesn't matter. The answer is the same.

"I don't think so," I said.

"Why not? Won't the Queen let you in?" How did this get to be my fault?

"No. I don't think the Queen much cares. I can get in to England." Okay, so I was a bit defensive.

"Well, we should go to England and meet him." Sure. It's that easy.

"Honey, it's not that easy. He's famous. All kinds of people want to meet him. I wouldn't even know where to find him."

"Call him up and ask him."

"I can't just call him up. It's doesn't work like that."

"Why not?" he asks. Why not, indeed. The child's line a reasonable, yet ridiculous questions had me off balance. I was now engaging in this debate.

"Well, for starters, I don't have his number."

"You should get it," he says, all matter of fact like.

"I can't get it."

"Forget it," he said, resigned and disgusted. "I'll have Daddy call him."

{I borrowed the art above from an article at babble.com}

She Is Not Practicing to be a Drunk Sorority Girl

2011-06-03T08:46:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is a picture of my daughter, wearing hand-me-down boy-pajamas, hugging a toilet. How, you ask, did I come to have a picture of my daughter, wearing hand-me-down boy-pajamas, hugging a toilet?

I blame the size of the house.

Our house is the smallest one in our neighborhood. Twelve hundred square feet, three bedrooms, two bathrooms. Don't misunderstand, I am not complaining. I love this house. Its is a sufficient blessing, and we are happy to have it. I also know, that by world-wide standards, I live in a mansion. With clean running water and electricity. Refrigerator, gas stove, central heat and air, flushing toilets (like the one my daughter is hugging). In several countries, I am a queen. I appreciate this bounty.

My guests, however, may not share my world view. And, they must use the children's bathroom. I do my best to keep it visitor-friendly. No urine on the toilet, no toothpaste in the sink. It may be a low standard, but it is higher than it could be.

To this end, I have worked with the children, to use a paper towel to wipe their face, and then the sink, after they brush their teeth. "Make sure all the blue is gone," I tell them. Then go throw the paper towel in the garbage.

Cate has become very good at this. But, when she started, she was inclined to toss the paper towel in the toilet. "No, no," I told her. "We don't throw paper towels in the toilet. They make the toilet sick." She was upset at this. She did not want to make the toilet sick. She's very sweet that way.

So now, after she throws the paper towel in the trash can, she leans over and hugs the toilet. "I yuv my potty," she says. Everyday.

That is how I came to have a picture of my daughter, wearing hand-me-down boy-pajamas, hugging a toilet.

Why I Shouldn't Have an iPhone...or drink

2011-05-28T20:43:00.000-07:00

Now that I am on Twitter, if I had an iPhone, I could tweet about anything that came to my mind. Immediately. I thought that would be fun. Then, I read this stream of texts I sent out last Saturday night.

[ME to my sister] Hubband and I are at Chili's recreating our first date, except we have Cate with us.

[SISTER] Oooooo. But he knows how that turns out, right? Silly man.

[ME] Except this time I am having a margarita, so he might get llucky.

[SISTER] Thanks for sharing. Is "lucky" with two Ls pronounced "YUCKY"?

[ME] LOL Though that's not saying muuch since I'm durnk. (*editor's note: I'd had about two sips at this point, though I did feel intoxicated.*)

[ME] And, Cate is flirting with the cute, but obviously gay, waiter. DOG I need and iPhone so that I could tweet from here.

[ME] Just called Hubband a "jungle lover." Prolly good think I can't tweet from here. Did I say tweet in my last text, cuz I meant tweet.

[ME] Hubband's taken Catie to the bathroom with him because he does not trust me alone with her.

[ME] Can you believe that? Just as well. That brat was cramping my style with the cute, gay waiter.

[ME] You don't seem to be responding. Is now a bad time?

[ME] Hello. Are you there? HELLO! I'm yelling in Chili's.

[ME] Okay, he is taking me to Borders (*book store*), but he is parking at OSH (*hardware store*). What can this mean?

I'm sure glad I didn't have an iPhone that night, or I would have tweeted all of this stuff, and made it public. For the whole world to see. How embarrassing.

The Second Most Humiliating Thing That Happened to Maria Shriver Last Week...

2011-05-27T14:55:00.000-07:00

...was that People Magazine published this picture of her (taken in 1977).

Family Hug

2011-05-25T12:53:00.000-07:00

When you have three kids, it is very rare that any one of them gets to spend time alone with both parents. So we work at it. Nothing big, mind you. We can't afford to get a sitter for two, so that both Mommy and Daddy can take one out for ice cream. Besides, we are a family. Like it or not, siblings are part of the deal. But, most days, each kids gets what we call a "family hug." Which, ironically, does not include the whole family.

The other day, Cate walked up to Hubband and me, raised one arm to each of us, and said, "Hugs, mommy, daddy, hugs." Family hug! Hubband scooped her up, and we all hugged, and kissed on her, and told her we loved her. "I yuv you, too, Mommy. I yuv you, too, Daddy."

"Who do you love more, Cate. Mommy, or Daddy?"

It was a joke, inappropriate for a two year old, I know. It was more for her father that her, but she did not miss a beat. She sat up a little straighter on her Daddy's arm, and smiled. Big. She looked at me, at Hubband, and back at me. Grinning the whole time. She knew it was a trick questions! Finally she said, "I yuv my boys [her brothers]." She thought that was hysterical.

I guess the joke was on me. Bad mother! Bad. Bad. Bad.

For the last five days, her boys have been out of town, and Cate has been home alone with us. At first, she was a little off balance. "Where my boys go? I miss my boys. When my boys come home?" But by the second day, she only missed her brothers when we asked her if she did. The rest of the time, she was basking in all the attention.

They'll be home this afternoon. She may close the door on them. Or, she may welcome them with a giddy squeal, and a great big family hug. I'm betting on the latter.

[The picture above is Cate, with her Nana,

and another of her "boys", her cousin Lucas.]

Pajama Drama

2011-05-23T11:55:00.000-07:00

Everyday life has its everyday dramas. This one is about pajamas.

When my first son, Jonah, was born, he wore those cute footy pajamas. As he got older, his pajamas came in sets. I was very good at keeping these all together. Folded, neat and tidy. And, my son was always in matching pajamas.

When my second son, Samuel, was born, I realized this was insane. To simplify things, I kept two drawers (cloth bins really, as a cubicle unit with bins is what we use for a dresser). One for Jonah's pajamas. One for Sam's. No folding. Just stuffing. At bed time, I pulled a set of pajamas out of each drawer, and voila! Two boys, dressed for bed.

By the time my third child, Catherine, was born, her brothers had grown to wear the same sized pajamas. There was no longer a need to separate them by boy. So, I took my two pajama bins, filled one with all the tops, and one with all the bottoms. No folding. Just stuffing. At bed time, I pulled two pieces from each drawer, and voila! Two boys, dressed for bed.

Yes. I know. I'm brilliant.

Where I failed, and where my brilliance was immediately extinguished, was with the boys themselves. Early on, I was dressing malleable (though squirming) little people with no interest in the matter. As my boys grew, they developed personalities. And, opinions.

"They don't match," Jonah said, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Suck it up, little man," was my loving reply.

To his credit, he did attempt, thereafter, to dig out his own matching pajamas. But, as no one else bothered, it got to be impossible. I felt for the kid. He just liked it better when he matched. And, truth be told, I like it better, too. Not enough to actually fold pajamas, but I was open to suggestions.

A friend of mine gave me her secret. She matches up the tops and bottoms and rolls them together. I thought, What a great idea? So I tried it. It turns out "rolling" pajamas, is just another way of folding pajamas, into the shape of a roll. I gave up after three pair.

Then...What is that glow? It is getting brighter, and brighter. Yes! I got my brilliance back!

Clothes pins! I sorted the pajamas into matching sets and clothes pinned them together. A little more trouble than just stuffing them in the drawer, but not much. Yay, yay, yay!!!! At bed time, the boys themselves pulled out a matching set of pajamas, and voila! Two boys, dressed for bed.

All was right with the world.

That was until several moths later when my middle child decided to assert his independence by having a different opinion.

"Nooooo!" squealed Sam. "No matching!"

I was speechless. I looked him straight in the eye. I gave him my cross face. And, I just blinked at him. Speechless.

Fine. Fine, fine, fine! FINE!

Two drawers. One for tops. One for bottoms. I will make sure they are clean. Beyond that, you are on your own little people. First come, first (self) served. Any whining, you will sleep naked. I have spoken!

[As I write this, my two boys are on a trip with their Nana and Grandpa. In their suitcase, are two Ziploc bags, one containing three sets of matching pajamas, and one containing three random bottoms and three random tops, labeled accordingly. That's motherly love, right there.]

Aw, Shucks

2011-05-18T21:32:00.000-07:00

[slinks in, unnoticed]

Well, hello there? Remember me? School is over, and I am back!

[waves arms in air]

[shakes everything about a bit]

Woot, woot!

[lowers arms]

[adjust everything back into its proper place]

[looks around, a bit embarrassed]

Well, yes. So, I am back. And, I must say, I have been welcomed back in style. Today in my mail box, I found this.

[trumpet fan fair]

My very first (and quite probably and quite rightly my very last) fan letter.

[trumpet fan fair]

That's right (giddy squeak). Mail. I love mail. From a fan. I love fans. I have fans!

[blushes]

[steps away to answer knock at door from disgruntled neighbor asking to silence the trumpets as her cockatoo is sleeping]

[apologizes, blushes again, sends regards to cockatoo]

This wasn't just a "keep up the good work, we love you" fan letter either. It had a gift card in it. A Starbucks gift card.

[holds card, Vanna White style, caresses the air around it]

Isn't that the sweetest thing ever?

This fan was anonymous, but not in a peering through my front hedge sort of way. They wrote, "It's given anonymously so you'll realize what a big fan base you have!"

[sniffles a little, wipes eyes]

[regains senses]

Yes, I know this is ridiculous. An anonymous card could mean that I have exactly one fan and she's my mother. A card signed by Michelle Obama or the newly princessed Kate Middleton would mean I have a big fan base.

[thinks a bit more on this]

Then again, Mrs. Obama and the Princess do not have my home address, so even if they were fans of mine, which, let's face it, they very well could be, they have no way of actually getting the card in my caffeinated hands.

[realizes mid-level greatness]

[sits up a little straighter at keyboard]

Michelle, Kate, don't worry. Just e-mail me. And, if you are ever in town, the coffee is on me.

[notes foul odor wafting from kitchen]

[reminded must do dishes]

[swells with thankfulness for what she has]

To YOU, who sent my very first fan letter, thank you. It meant even more than the Starbucks card. (But you can't have it back or anything.)

I've missed everybody, and I will be back soon. Promise.

[secretly worries that such a promise won't be kept due to tragic death in fiery crash]

[makes note to e-mail blogger password to friend so fans can be notified, mourn, get closure]

[relieved to remember that local Starbucks has double doors, plenty of room for swelling head]

The Down Side

2011-05-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

One of the down sides of homeschooling? No one helped my children make cute Mother's Day gifts out of their hand prints. Well, not this year, anyway.

Another down side? Very little time to go blog crawling, and leave comments for all of my favorite people. And, absolutely no time to write. I did manage to post every day for two weeks, about two weeks ago. I guess I wore myself out. That, and school ends in exactly 7.25 school days. I need to make sure that all my T-crossing, I-dotting ducks are in a row. I wouldn't want to repeat Kindergarten on a technicality.

And, I went out of town the weekend before Mother's Day, and am only now catching up with the housework that was un-done while I was gone.

Oh, and did I mention that I am reading a book. An adult book. Ooh, wait. That connotes something I don't mean. A book for adults? Well, I'm sure you get the idea. A book with lots of words and no pictures -- NOT for kindergarteners. I've sorta been using my spare time for that. So, maybe it is not all because of school.

But, whatever. I'll be back when school gets out. Or when I finish my book. Or when I have something to say and the time to say it. Whichever comes first. Has anyone even missed me?

The nature of this post brought to you by my allergy medication.

And, Again With The Princesses

2011-04-29T12:24:00.000-07:00

This is the last thing I will say about princesses for awhile, I promise.

Yesterday, I posted about princesses. It was a mere coincidence that it came the day before the big royal wedding. No disrespect was intended toward the new Princess Catherine. She is not of the Disney variety after all.

She strikes me as a quietly confident girl who passively chased her Prince Charming (for years) until she caught him. Good on her. I hope it works out well. I really do.

I did not stay-up/get-up to watch the wedding. Though, I admit I wanted to. Unlike the royal wedding of thirty years ago, I have real responsibilities now. Which (who am I fooling) I would have gladly shirked to watch live wedding coverage, except that I don't like to be sleepy.

The children and I caught a glimpse of the highlights this morning. I told my Catherine, "Look honey, that is a real princess. Her name is Catherine, too."

"Cate like me," she announced happily. "I want a tutu." (Tutu is her word for dress.) I thought the dress was lovely. Could have done with a little less lace, but lovely. So there we sat, my daughter and I, gazing at all the pomp and loveliness. It was sweet.

The boys were fascinated by the commercials.

And that was that. Though, thanks to the invention of the DVR, my mother, sister, and I may have a viewing of our own on Mother's Day.

I hope you have a royal weekend.

Princess Revisted: A New Line in the Sand

2011-04-28T14:01:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, the best choice is surrender.

Last week, the kids emptied their piggy banks to buy scooters at Target. The toddler scooter, the kind that won't tip over when your two-year-old daughter rides it, came in exactly one color. Princess.

Cate didn't want a princess scooter. She just wanted a scooter. Like her brothers', but without the falling over. I had no meaningful choice. I bought a princess scooter.

But, I think I'm at peace with it.

A few weeks ago, I wrote of my distaste for all things princess, and her marketing half-sister, the fairy. I used terms of disdain, and questioned their moral character. I stand by that. But, I have new information.

Cinderella Ate My Daughter, a new book by Peggy Orenstein, is an actual, intellectual discussion of this very topic. It turns out, the whole princess thing might not be so evil. It might, in fact, be normal.

I haven't actually read the book. (Hardback, expensive, too time consuming.) But, I read the review in People Magazine. (Glossy, quick read, includes celebrity baby news.) According to the review, Orenstein puts it like this: Little girls don't know that gender is immutable. They could turn into boys at any moment. Clinging to princess culture is their way of telling the world, "I'm a girl, and I want to keep it that way, thank you very much." They don't care about subtext. They just want to wear a pretty dress.

This makes sense to me; or it may be a load of bunk. Who knows for sure? The blurb in People Magazine did not reference any research or sources. (Shoddy reporting! Not what one would expect from a publication with Snookie on the cover.) But, I'm comforted by the idea that one Ariel costume and a tiara does not mean my little girl is doomed to a life of unhappy relationships and an eating disorder.

I still don't want to buy Cinderella home-decor. (Or, have it given to my daughter as a gift. Do you hear that grandparents, aunts, and cookie ladies from church?) But, it is getting harder and harder to avoid all things princess. We even bought a copy of Beauty and the Beast, because the dancing tea pot is classic, and, as Hubband pointed out, "Belle is not a princess until the end." A distinction without a difference, I know. Cate spent the first half of the movie asking, "Why frincess sad, Mommy. Why frincess sad?" Yes, she says, "F-rincess."

I cannot win this one. Not really. So, I give up. Do you hear that Disney? I surrender. I am waving my white flag. Until Barbie tries to snatch it out of my hands to wear as a slutty halter top. Then it's on, baby!

The first picture is from the blog Disney Princess Recovery.

I went to ~~steal~~ ~~borrow~~ steal the picture,

(Which she stole from Disney, so I feel no shame.

Though the moral relativism is making me dizzy.)

and decided to follow.

I have only poked around a little, but it is an interesting read so far,

if you want to go and check it out.

The Momarazzi

2011-04-26T07:49:00.000-07:00

We are moms.

We are moms who blog.

We will stop at nothing to get the picture.

We may be bad parents.

We are the momarazzi.

What a Twit!

2011-04-25T10:36:00.000-07:00

Have you ever thought to yourself, "I wonder what Tracey is thinking right now?" Well, wonder no longer. I have joined Twitter. That's right, friends. Twitter. I tweet.

It is like talking to myself in 140 characters or less.

I send out little snippets of my day, and people can read them in real time. I don't know what people, as I only one follower, my sister, whom I begged to join Twitter, just so she could follow me. Sad? Probably. Am I too needy to care? Yes.

You can also follow people who know what they're talking about, on whatever subject interests you. Many writers are on Twitter. And literary agents. Just saying. You can also stalk celebrities. Which is voyeuristic and fun.

C'mon. You know you are curious. Check out the widget on my side bar. Read, join, follow. Or, don't. I'll keep tweeting anyway.

Easter Sunday Best

2011-04-24T21:33:00.000-07:00

You may not be impressed with this picture...

...but look what I had to work with.

From right to left: Grumpy, Bashful, and Ninja.

None of them will look at me, and Jonah has completely turned his back on the whole thing.

Now Cate and Jonah have both turned their backs. Sam is still making martial arts poses.

Now, Cate has turned her back, and walked away.

Jonah's still grumpy. Sam's still posing.

But this makes it all sort of worth it, doesn't it.

Mercy Dessert: Teaching My Son About Grace

2011-04-22T12:05:00.000-07:00

I have been teaching Jonah about justice, mercy, and grace. Last week, I baked cookies. Then, after a particularly disobedient day during school, we had this conversation in the car.

Jonah: Mom, what do you call it again when you get what you deserve?
Me: Justice.
Jonah: Yeah. What's the other one? Where you don't get what you deserve?
Me: That's mercy.
Jonah: Yeah, that one. I know I was bad today, but I think you should give me some mercy dessert.
Me: So, you think I should give you cookies, even though you don't deserve them?
Jonah: Yeah.
Me: That's not mercy. That's grace.
Jonah: What's grace again?
Me: Grace is when you get something you don't deserve.

He didn't have a response to this, and I was pretty sure he was calculating his chances of getting a cookie. Then, after a few minutes...

Jonah: Mom.
Me: Yeah.
Jonah: Jesus didn't deserve to die on the cross. Is that grace?

The easy answer is, "no." But the answer is more complicated than it seemed at first. I am pondering it still.

By His Wounds

2011-04-22T09:04:00.000-07:00

By His Wounds

He was pierced for our transgressions,
Crushed for our sins.
The punishment that brought us peace,

Was upon Him
By His wounds, by His wounds

We are healed

We are healed

By Your sacrifice
And the life that You gave
We are healed

For You paid the price
By Your grace

We are saved
We are saved

--Mac Powell

Pyrex Love

2011-04-21T11:59:00.000-07:00

Happiness is a glass Pyrex measuring cup in every size.

I know this is mockable. My own mother has mocked me. "Good grief!" she said. "Do you really need all of these?" Ouch. How can someone who loves me so much, know me so little?

Yes, I really need all of them. This isn't even all of them. There is another four-cupper, which did not make it to the photo shoot. It was in the dishwasher, because I needed it to make breakfast.

I think I might get my love of Pyrex from my Grandma Bunny. She had elaborate towers built of the stuff. In the kitchen, in the garage, in the second oven. (*sigh* a second oven.) She had a piece for everything, and lost lids were mourned.

Quite a few of my pieces used to be hers. That beautiful eight-cupper among them. I didn't even know they made them that big. Now, it is my most prized. Mix the pancakes, pour the pancakes, all in one. Genius! When Grandma died, I asked if I could have it. I had to flip my aunt for it, but I think she only wanted it for canning, not out of any true affection for the Pyrex. I lost the toss for the casserole dish with lid and insulated bag. I still remember. Surely, this is true love.

Also not in the picture is the bastard step-child of my measuring cups. An Anchor Hocking two-cupper, which is sort of like Cinderella before the ball. I don't really love it, but I keep it around for it's utility. I would feel bad about this, if measuring cups had feelings, which they don't.

If they did, mine would love me back.

Sometimes, When I Open My Mouth

2011-04-20T06:03:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when I open my mouth, words fly out.

Last summer, I was sitting in my beige station wagon, outside the beige preschool, in the middle of my beige town, when, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but another mother, come to fetch her child, dressed in a white peasant blouse, burnt orange cut-offs, and black biker boots. Nothing beige about her.

Wow. She's not from around here, I thought. It wasn't just the way she was dressed, it was that she managed to pull it off. Go ahead. Go back a few lines and re-read the description. Then believe me when I say, she looked good.

As the summer wore on, we had the opportunity to meet. We were parked next to each other, dropping our kids off. I smiled at her and her cute daughter. She smiled at me and my cute daughter. Then, as a conversation starter, I said the first thing that popped into my head. "You aren't from around here, are you?"

I meant it in a good way. And, as she has seen so much more of the world than my sweat pants and pony tail ever will, I think she took it in a good way. At least I hope so. I didn't try to "make it better" by explaining myself. With my mouth, that only seem to make things worse.

My verbal ineptitude aside, a casual acquaintance was born. She and her family just moved to California. She is a lawyer in several states, but not California (yet). She has two kids the same age as mine. Good, right?

Last week she told me that her (hip) daughter had out-grown some of her (hip) clothes, and asked if I would want them for Cate. "Yes, that would be great," I said, politely, and tried very hard not to jump up and down, like a giddy stay-at-home lawyer on a tight budget.

Well, we went to her house the other day and picked up a gi-hoo-gah bag of clothes. It was like Christmas! And, the clothes are adorable! Hip adorable. Some are brands I have never even heard of and have European sizes in them. Three dozen tops and dresses. I know this because I had to buy new hangers. That's not counting jeans, leggings, skirts, shoes. Cate could wear a different outfit everyday for a month, and I still would not have to do laundry!

My daughter is small for her age. Do you think it is too much to ask that she keep wearing a 2T until she is in kindergarten?

Thank you, thank you Hip-mom and Hip-daughter, whom I shall not name here, because they could be in the witness protection program for all I know. We have been buh-lesst!

Sometimes, when I open my mouth, words fly out and it isn't all bad.

The Baby Can Count!

2011-04-19T12:25:00.000-07:00

And, she almost does it right.

One, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight, nine, ten,
eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, five, fourteen, FIVE!

She still can't eat spaghetti with her clothes on.

And, she'll drink her bath water, if you don't stop her.

But, she can count!!! We'll work on that other stuff later.

Attention All Moms...and Dads, too

2011-04-17T20:29:00.000-07:00

If you have not tried this, you must.

Two parts corn starch to one part water. Mix. And let the weird ooey-gooeyness begin!

It is a crumbly-like substance.

But, wait! Now it is a drippy liquid.

And, even though it looks like a huge mess (which some how makes it seem more fun) when it dries, it just sweep right up.

Easy-peasy and hours of fun!

satruday, melancholy.

2011-04-16T20:05:00.000-07:00

A good spring day. The little girl's bath water turned to mud. Her arms are brown. I think, she'll sleep well tonight. Now, I have a song from four lifetimes ago running on a loop through my head.

Lonesome for a Place I Know

So here we are in Italy
With our sun hats and our dictionary.
The air is warm, the sky is bright,
Your arms are brown you're sleeping well at night.

So why does England call?
The hedgerows and the townhalls.
After all, there'll soon be nothing left at all.

If we were born outside of place and time,
To make our choice, well this would be mine.
To live and die under a sun that shines.
But something pulls, something I can't define

Tells me England calls, whatever she's done wrong.
Always calls, "This is where you belong."
And I'm lonesome for a place I know.

Oh but Florence you tempt me (here) to stay,
Amidst your hills to while my years away.
But your roots in soil lie, mine in paving stone.
And I hate what it's become, but in my bones
I'm lonesome for a place I know.

-by Everything But The Girl

Work Clothes

2011-04-08T16:01:00.000-07:00

When you are a big boy, you get to make your own fashion decisions.

This is Sam in his Easter clothes. Work clothes, he calls them. And, why wouldn't he? His daddy wears clothes like this to work.

"Look at me. I am so handsome," he said, when trying them on for the first time. Then he insisted on wearing them to school. And, the park. And, everywhere we went, all day.

Did I mention that he wore them with cowboy boots?

His sister was not impressed. (But she insists on buttoning her cardigan all the way down, so she may not be a good judge.) Everyone else couldn't help but be charmed. He is charming.

Have a fashionable weekend!

Come back next week to find out what is going on here.

Three Alarm Dinner

2011-04-06T06:01:00.000-07:00

It's 4:30. Do you know what your family is having for dinner? Roast chicken? No, still frozen solid in the back of the freezer. Carnitas? No, that should have gone in the crock pot six hours ago. Frozen lasagna? That takes two hours to cook and you only have one. Tortilla soup? Don't have all the ingredients.

This happens to me all the time. I have served peanut butter and jelly, cereal, and frozen waffles for dinner. (Not all at once. I'm not that crazy.) This is unacceptable, really. I have three growing kids, and a husband who works hard all day to put food on the table. Well, he works for the food, and the table. Putting one on top of the other is supposed to be my job.

So, I invented the three alarm dinner. I set an alarm to keep me on track. Three of them actually. I use my iPod Touch, but any phone or alarm clock will do.

10:00am     Lovely church bells ring, usually from my back pocket. When I pull out my iPod, it gently asks me, "What's for Dinner?" This may be a little late in the day for some of you, but any earlier and I would be too busy to hear it ring. I stop, and make myself answer. I look in a few cupboards. I take something out of the freezer. If I can fit in a quick trip to the market, I do. Even if I have all the meals for the week scheduled (which I do about every fifth week) I need to be reminded, in case some early prep work needs to be done. Like loading up the crock pot.

2:00pm     More lovely church bells, just checking in. "Do you need to prep dinner?" This comes in handy if I am baking, or roasting, something that is going to take awhile. I chose two o'clock, because it takes three hours to make bread in my bread machine and dinner is between 5:30 and 6.

4:30pm     Chimes again. "Make dinner." Okay, it may say, "Make dinner, Stupid!" but the love hate, perhaps abusive, relationship I have with my iPod is a topic for another post. This alarm has a snooze button. Sometimes I don't need to start cooking that early, but I need to be kept aware of the time.

This might sound nuts. But it works! Only once since implementation of the Three Alarm Dinner plan have my children eaten frozen burritos for dinner. And that was just because I was making steak and there wasn't enough to go around.

There is a fourth alarm. This is more of a WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH alarm, like you hear if there is a nuclear meltdown or you don't push the button every 108 minutes. It rings at 5:30, and gives me the number to the nearest pizza place.

So, what is for dinner?

Big Boy

2011-04-04T06:00:00.000-07:00

And, Samuel-palooza continues...

Sam is a big boy. He is poop-in-the-potty big. He is stay-dry-through-the-night big. He is get-himself-dressed big. (See above.)

We played the "big boy" card so often while trying to get him to do those things, that he now thinks he is make-his-own-bedtime big, drive-the-car big, run-for-President big.

Me: No, Samuel. You may not have that [permanent marker]. That's not for little boys.

Sam: I am a big boy.

Me: Not big enough.

Sam: But, I pooped in the restaurant potty.

How can I even start to explain this to him?

Our Father...

2011-04-01T05:58:00.000-07:00

It has been Samuel-palooza around here lately. Yes, I have two other children, but he is ~~giving me the best material~~ the most colorful right now. Read on to see.

I have been teaching the boys the Lord's prayer. We recite it together every night before bed. Well, parts of it are more "call and response" at this point, but they are coming along.

Jonah loves this. He has asked me about every phrase. He is full of questions about God's power and the nature of heaven. What is God's kingdom? What is God's will? He is like a little computer: input, process, classify, sort, seek new input. You can see it happening.

For Samuel, theology is more vague. Since we have started praying, "Our father..." he has started referring to Jesus as "Baby God." At least, we think that is what he is doing. He might just think there is a special god for babies, but I doubt it. The God of the Babies would not concern him much, as he is now a big boy. Just ask him. He will tell you. And if you don't believe him, he'll scream and throw a fit until you change your mind.

The other night, as we were gathered in their room, getting ready to pray, Samuel interrupted me. "Wait, Mommy, wait. I have a good one." Okay. I invited him to pray about what was on his heart.

"God, please don't let Jesus run into the street or get in the washing machine on accident and get dizzy. Amen."

To Samuel, this is what a good father does.

Amen.

Gone Bananas!

2011-03-30T06:00:00.000-07:00

Those of you who visit regularly, know I have a thing about stupid. And, a thing about labels. This story has them both, dipped in chocolate. So, keep reading.

My son, Jonah, likes frozen bananas. He gets a box as an occasional treat. You can buy a box of four at Trader Joe's. Or at least you could, until recently. Maybe you still can. I don't know. The last time I was there, they were clean out. In their place, were these:

Trader Joe's Frozen Banana Slices.

Jonah was more than willing to take frozen banana slices in place of a whole banana on a stick. The boy ain't dumb. One look at the box and he knew the chocolate to banana ration had gone up considerably. Or, had the ratio gone down? This has something to do with fractions, right? If I could do math, I'd be a doctor, not a lawyer. The point is, there was gunna be more chocolate.

It wasn't until I got home that I read the label. Not the back label, with all that boring nutrition information, but the front. Do you see that line of tiny print across the top of the banana? It says "serving suggestion." Really? You suggest I serve them like dominoes tumbling out of a fresh banana?

I was about to go off on a screed about stupid marketing people, when I realized it is not their fault. If you package food, and your packaging shows food that is not in the package, you are required by law to tell the buyer that. This is because of lawyers. Or, legislators. But, they are all lawyers, too. So, yeah, lawyers. Stupid lawyers. Or it is stupid buyers, because they can't tell that a box of frozen bananas won't contain half a fresh banana?

This depressed me. This, the small box, the disproportionately high price (the ratio of the price to the number of slices in the box). I was totally off Trader Joe's Frozen Banana Slices. Then, I ate one. Then two. Then three. Then I had to leave the room until Hubband and the children had finished the box. (It is a very small box.)

These are so good, I wouldn't care if the "serving suggestion" showed chocolate covered banana slices shooting out the monkey's butt. They are worth every penny!

So, run, don't walk. Heck, DRIVE to a Trader Joe's near you and get a box. GO!

Sam, the Adventurous (part 2)

2011-03-28T06:00:00.001-07:00

Sam likes to go places. Right now, our schedule is set up so that he is in school all morning, and stuck at home all afternoon. The kid would do anything for a nice adventure to the grocery store, where they hand out free cookies, and give him pages to color while I shop.

I took him to Wal-mart the other day. He got thirsty and I bought him a bottle of water. He loved that water bottle. It made him feel like such a big boy. He was so happy, he carried it around, refilling it, for two days, until I told him it was disgusting and I had to throw it away. He was so heart broken, that I have promised to take him to Wal-mart next weekend and buy him another bottle. He is happy again, and will hold me to that promise.

Jonah also likes to go places, but his expectations are a little higher. He wants to go to LEGOLAND. He has been working on my mom for six months now, trying to get her to take him, and she probably will. She is a sucker for Jonah.

The other day, over breakfast, Sam announced that he, too, wanted to go to LEGOLAND, and started lobbying his father.

Sam: I want to go to LEGOLAND. I like LEGOs.

Daddy: Well, Sam, we might go. It is far away, in San Diego. And that will be expensive. We will have to spend money on tickets and food and gas and a hotel room. So, I don't know, Sam. We'll see.

Sam: Oh, okay. Maybe we could go to McDonald's instead.

I love this boy. I know some parents might see this as an elaborate plot on Sam's part to go to McDonald's, but that is not how Sam works. He is not that complicated. He's never been to LEGOLAND. In his world, Micky-D's play land is the most fun he can have while eating french fries. It is a worthy substitute.

Sam, the Adventurous (part 1)

2011-03-25T21:12:00.000-07:00

Friday night, as I ~~scooped Chinese food out of card board boxes on to paper plates~~ made dinner, I overheard Sam and Hubband make plans for their weekend.

Sam: I want to go someplace.

Daddy: Where do you want to go, Sam?

Sam: A place.

Daddy: Tomorrow is Saturday. I'll be home all day. Do you want to go somewhere with Daddy?

Sam: Yeah!!

Daddy: Okay. We can go for a walk if it doesn't rain too hard. Do you want to go to the lake? Or, we could go to the wild life preserve?

Sam: No.

Daddy: Well, where do you want to go, Sam?

Sam: Some place with a door.

Saturday Morning Sociology Lesson

2011-03-21T22:28:00.000-07:00

Spend a Saturday morning in my house, and you may learn all you need to know about human nature and the history of man.

Around here, most weekday mornings are a whirlwind of shoes and socks, toothbrushes and hairbrushes, breakfasts half eaten and cups of coffee gone cold. While Jonah, our eldest, is homeschooled, the other two are not. Samuel is in school every morning, and Cate is in three mornings a week. So, pointed in the same direction, we must all be, toward the garage, and the magical grr-woosh of the mini-van door, by 8:30-ish, sharp.

Sundays are the same, except breakfast is bigger, and our destination is church.

It is on Saturdays that things relax, or fall apart, depending on the day and the moods of the children (or their parents, but I admit nothing). On Saturdays, one of us (whoever lost the Friday night negotiations) gets out of bed, pours cereal and turns on cartoons. Then goes back to bed, for another thirty minutes of sleep, if we are really, really lucky. This leaves the children alone. With each other. And no supervision. We are not the kind of parents who hover, but on Saturday mornings, we just let chaos reign. We think it is good for them. They learn to stand up for themselves and resolve their own disputes. At least that is our story. And if we get to sleep until seven o'clock -- yes, I said seven, like that is late in the day or something -- then what could be the harm, really?

For the last few Saturdays their battle of choice has been over what I call the "four sided piano." This is a small table like contraption, with a different noise making device on each side. Only one side is a fake piano. The other sides are a fake computer, a fake phone, and a fake book. A book that plays music. They all play music, I only mention the book because it seems odd to me. A book that plays a different song with every turn of the page. Strange, right?

The four sided piano is only the battle ground. The actual fight is over whose song is going to get played. You see, every key, button, page turn overrides that one right before it. So, Jonah might only get to hear four notes of "Froggy Went A-Courtin'" before Cate pushes a button and "Turkey in the Straw" comes on, for a split second, before Sam pushes a button and "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," (Or is it "The ABC Song"? I always get those two mixed up.) comes on.

Last Saturday, I happened to witness this. So, I decided to parent. I went over, sat on the floor next to the four sided piano, and calmly explained to my children that they were going to take turns. Cate first, since technically, it is her toy. She pushed a button. She heard her song. Then Jonah pushed a button. He danced a jig to his song. Then Sam pushed a button, and shook his booty to his song. And, repeat. It worked really well. For about one and half times around. Once they had to take turns, it stopped being fun. I kept offering them their turn, but they didn't care anymore.

And then I realized: They did not want the toy. They wanted the fight.

This mom thing is pretty awesome. By simply watching my own children, I was able to sum up human nature and de-mystify centuries of history. All before I'd had my coffee.

Here is Samuel, dancing at the four legged piano,

encouraged by his brother Jonah.

If you are wondering why he is not facing the camera,

it is because he is looking at this reflection in the fireplace.

Oh, and excuse the mess.

Until you have walked a mile with my kids,

you can not judge.

The View From My Kitchen Sink

2011-03-20T16:30:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning: Three apples and a little (educational, I swear!) television. Shoes and socks, or any variation thereof, optional.

An Open Letter to My Sister's First Born

2011-03-16T16:20:00.000-07:00

Dear Baby Lucas,

I am your Aunt Tracey. You may call me Tante. We have met, once or twice before, but you probably don't remember me. Who could blame you, really? You were in the intensive care unit, all plugged into stuff. It would have been really scary to see, if you had not been the biggest, pinkest, beautiful-est baby in that place. One look at you, and I knew you would be fine. But, a word of advice: Here on the outside, inhaling your own poo is considered tacky. Just thought you should now.

You probably have questions about the day you were born. If you want answers, you should ask someone, but not me. All I can do is tell you the Tante Version.

It started on my birthday. (Do you see how I took a story about you, and made it about me? When you have a younger sibling, I will show you how to do this.) I was on my way to meet your mother at the mall when I got a text message that said, "I am on the second floor of Macy's and I think something is happening." Not even born yet, and you knew how to interrupt a shopping trip. You will do this many, many more times before you are even out of diapers.

We gave up on the mall, and spent the rest of the day at the hospital. Well, not me exactly. I had to get home to your cousins. But Mommy, and Daddy, and Nana were there. And about thirty six hours later, so were you.

Now, a few words about your parents. They seem like strangers, I know. But, don't worry. The feeling is mutual. You will get used to them, and they you. That's called a family, and it is awesome. You'll see.

Since your parents, like most people, are either too humble or too proud to tell the truth about themselves, I will fill you in. Your father is steadfast and true. Your mother is patient and capable. He is calm and kind. She is, er, colorful and tolerant. He loves old things, like antiques and rocks. (In fact, you are probably the newest thing he has ever cared about, though, he'll never admit it.) She is of her own time; gadgets and food that comes cooked. They are both smart. You could do worse than to be like either, or both, of them.

You and your father already have on important thing in common. I have never seen either one of you without your shirt tucked in. Your shirts are onsies, which makes it a little easier. Your father's shirts, I suspect, are not. Though, I am not really in a position to know. Much has been made of the fact (mostly by your mother) that all of his shirts are green. Don't believe it. Green is too flamboyant a description. I would call it "orchard drab." Not that there is anything wrong with that. There will be plenty of time for you to be just like him in that regard later. Right now, you stick with blue, and little applique jungle animals.

You and your mother already have one important difference. She can sleep through the night. She can sleep through the day. She can sleep through one full hour of the clock radio playing at top volume, followed by one full hour of the alarm playing that obnoxious baa-baa-baa noise, then get up, throw said alarm clock across the room, and sleep thought that too. So, little man, it is obvious; your mission is three fold. One, be more obnoxious than two consecutive hours of alarm clock blasts. Two, wear a helmet, just in case you are successful. And, three, develop your mother's sleeping habits, as soon as possible. In the long run, it will be better for everyone.

As to your upbringing; be gentle with them. Right now, they think you are a blank slate upon which to write their hopes and dreams for you, molding your personality into a wonderful blend of theirs, only better. They are completely clueless.

I have tried to tell them that you already have a personality, hard wired by God himself, but they don't believe me. They just see you as a formless blob of squalling need. You and I know better. And so will they, once they have another child to compare you to, or get some sleep, whichever comes first. If they love you, and feed you (and they will) you will turn out to be just the man God intends you to be. I look forward to meeting him.

Until then, little man, eat, sleep, poop, eat, sleep, poop.

Love, Tante

(Refused to be) Sleeping Beauty

2011-03-14T15:40:00.000-07:00

Don't be charmed by the wistful looking little girl in a tutu. It is a trap.

She was supposed to be asleep. So, why is there urine on the floor?

We got Cate a pink frog "potty" for her second birthday. We are not early potty training people. But, Cate seemed interested. And, as I have never trained a girl before, I thought maybe it was time. Well, maybe it was, but I was/am not ready. She is so little, she will need assistance at every step of the process, and I am just too busy right now to be held prisoner by the whims of a manipulative two year old. Our plan is to wait until summer: fewer clothes for her and fewer classes for her homeschooled brother.

But, we still have the potty. It lives in the garage, or it is supposed to. Periodically, she charms us into bringing it back into the house. She likes to play at going potty. Okay, I am understating it on purpose. We will, on a Saturday afternoon, put her in her Dora the Explorer underpants, and let her use her potty. And she does. There are accidents. And, there is still the manipulation issue. So, the potty goes back out to the garage. Or, it is supposed to.

Today, at nap time, it was in her room. Today, at nap time, she would not sleep. I credited this to the change to daylight savings time. The clock said 1:30, but her little body said "not tired." I gave her a while to play and move around in there, then I went in to put her back down, for good this time.

When I entered the room, she was pantless, her lavender fleece pants and diaper in a heap on the floor.

"Catie, why are you naked?" I asked. Who wouldn't?

"Mess, Mommy," she said, and pointed at the potty.

There was no mess in the potty, though it was a little damp. A good effort, I supposed, for a rookie who had already wet her diaper.

"Mess, Mommy. Mess."

"Catie, I don't see a mess."

"Here, Mommy." She pointed to what would turn out to be a damp spot on the carpet. The long, 1970's disco style, Yorkie-fur shag carpet that made an ill-advised, do-it-yourself cable decorating show, resurgence in 2002, and was put in by a previous owner.

"Catie, why did you pee on the floor?"

"No, Mommy. Pee potty. Dump it."

"You peed in the potty, and then dumped it on the floor."

"Uh-huh."

She sounded so proud of herself, and I was left to ask... Was she proud because she had peed in the potty and then finished the job, by emptying the potty? Or, was she proud because she had punished me for putting her down for a nap she did not want to take?

The question is still pending.

Good Bye Bad Hair Days

2011-03-14T11:35:00.000-07:00

This is what I have been doing instead of blogging.

Tracey was in want of a snood. So, Tracey put her imagination and her limited crochet skills to work, to create one.

It only cost $3 (including the crochet hook) and took about three hours (including creating the pattern). I think I'll try a more practical brown one next.

Look out Etsy, here I come. Well, okay, translating this one little snood into profit may be a bit much to ask, but at least I have a new way to hide a bad hair day.

Now, onto experimenting with tichels.

The Ballad of Yes and No

2011-03-09T16:14:00.000-08:00

Don't let the pink smile and dewy eyes fool you. She's a menace.

This is how it starts.

Sam, 4, will be playing quietly. Just minding his own business.

Cate, 2, will sidle up beside him. She doesn't start in right away. She picks her moment.

Then, with no fanfare and for no particular reason, she says, "No, Sam."

Then Sam, for no particular reason, loses his mind, and screams. "Yes! Not no. Yes."

No. Yes! No. Yes! No. YES. No! YES. NO. YES. NO. YES. NO. YES. NO. YES. NO. YES.

Then, the crescendo. Simultaneously, pitch perfect, and at top volume.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES

My children are loud--warning siren loud--with amazing lung capacity. They may even have the crazy circular breathing of brass players and opera singers. But, I hope to never find out. About three seconds in, their father or I, and sometimes both, simultaneously, holler...

STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!

I don't know which is worse. The noise, or that fact that I have a two-year-old daughter who knows how to push her brother's buttons, and does it for fun.

Theological Questions from Jonah

2011-03-01T16:31:00.000-08:00

Jonah: Mom, do we need to sleep in heaven.

Me: I don't think so.

Jonah: Then why does God's house have so many rooms?

Me: Ummmmm....?

In my Father's house are many rooms;

if it were not so, I would have told you.

I am going there to prepare a place for you.

John 14:2

Shrove Tuesday

2011-03-01T16:11:00.000-08:00

Mardi Gras is but a week away. Let this be a cautionary tale.

I suspect these are conservative home-school moms who forgot to make time for themselves during the rest of the year.

Darn You Barbara's!

2011-02-28T16:07:00.000-08:00

It is hard enough to get three kids fed, dressed, groomed, and shod in the middle-darkness that is most mornings around here. It does not help when the breakfast cereal conspires against me.

We like the cereals put out by Barbara's Bakery. They are a northern California company founded in the nineteen-seventies to make tasty and good-for-you baked goods. Well, they were so good at it, they have been distributed nationally for several years now.

Samuel loves Barbara's Shredded Spoonfuls so much that he just calls it cereal. If he asks for cereal, he is asking for Shredded Spoonfuls. The kids are also big fans of Puffins, and my favorite, Shredded Oats (called Big Puffins if you are Sam.)

These cereals are so tasty, and the kids liked them so much, Hubband had to tell me to quit buying the kids such sugary cereals. But, the truth is, Puffins and Shredded Spoonfuls only have 5 grams of sugar per serving. Yeah, that doesn't mean a darn thing to me either. Let me put it a better way. Wheat Thins have 4 grams of sugar per serving and they're salty!

My only problem with Barbara's is their recent package change. They have gone with a more natural looking box. I suppose to reflect their identity as all natural and socially conscious, their brand if you will. That is their right.

But all the boxes look the same.

You see how a tired and distracted woman (who probably hasn't had her coffee yet) could get confused. And that is looking at them from the front, where there is a nice big picture.

From the side, and with my bifocals, I have to tilt myself almost into a back bend to read the name when they are up on the shelf. More often then not, they end up in the cupboard like this.

I would need x-ray vision to tell what cereal is in which box.

Barbara, I love you. My kids love you. But you need to fire your marketing people. And then they need to fire the childless, young genius with perfect vision who designed all of the boxes to look exactly the same!!!

All I Wanted Was a Cup of Coffee

2011-02-25T16:10:00.000-08:00

I have not been blogging as much lately. Partly because I have been really busy. And, partly because I have nothing interesting to say. I will let you decide into which category this post falls.

Don't let the cute smiles fool you.

It was early this morning. All I wanted was a cup of coffee. So, I lumbered out to the kitchen. There it was; the promised land that is the coffee pot. Only ten feet away. But not for me. No. First, I had to spend (what seemed like) forty years wandering the desert of motherhood.

I wandered over to the light switch to turn off the glaring kitchen lights (turned on by the children). I opened a few curtains. Much better.

The kids were wide awake. Already bickering about something. I wandered to the television. Sometimes, this calms them, or at least distracts them long enough for me to get a cup. Long live Word Girl.

What was I doing? Coffee. That's right.

"Mom, Samuel hit me with a cane?" So, I broke up a cane fight. (Don't ask why we have a cane about.) I put the cane in my bedroom, and wandered back to the kitchen.

Now, what was I...yes, coffee.

But between me and the coffee was Catherine, sitting on the kitchen floor, eating tortilla chips. I took away the chips. I ignored the crying. I returned the chair she used to reach the chips to the dining room. I wandered to the hall closet to get the broom to sweep up the mess.

Headed toward the coffee again, but...

I had to take time to praise Samuel vigorously for "dressing himself," even though his underpants were really a pair of pajama shorts and his pants were really an orange, plaid pair of his brother's pajama bottoms, two sizes too big. And, his shoes did not match. But he was so proud.

Then, like a woman on a mission, I went to the cupboard to get out my favorite mug, and got Jonah a cup for water instead. How does this happen?

I was steps away, but I had to stop and tell Cate she could not be in the dishwasher. I dried her (crocodile?) tears of disappointment, and took all of the "sharps" out of the dishwasher.

Back on track then. Coffee close. But, I had to stop and tell Cate she could not be in the garbage. I tied up the garbage bag, while silently cursing Hubband for not taking the garbage out.

Cate began chanting, "Eat, eat, raisin brown." That's how she says Raisin Bran. "No, Honey. Mommy is going to make oatmeal today." "Eat, eat. Eat, eat. Eat, EAT!!"

Wait, I wanted to get a cup of...do anything to stop that whining!

New plan. I got out a pot for oatmeal, filled it with water, and put it on the stove.

"My bucket, my bucket," Cate cried. Different words, same whine. This is a throw back to the weeks of vomiting, earlier in the winter, when everyone was given a "bucket." The oatmeal pot had been Cate's.

I was standing around, trying to remember what I was doing, (I was trying to get a cup of coffee, in case you forgot, too.) when I heard, "Mommy, Mommy. Shoe mess." Cate showed me the up-ended shoe basket. A tell-tale sign of a four year old looking for two different shoes to wear.

When I confronted Sam about "shoe mess," I got an enthusiastic play by play of how big he is now, fully dressed, shod, and pooped all the way. You go Sam.

And, then it happened. I poured coffee into a cup. Woohoo!!!!!

Don't let the exclamation points fool you. The land of milk and honey, this was not. I few quick steps to the refrigerator revealed that there was no cream. I silently cursed Hubband, this time for leaving the container of cream on the counter for the whole of yesterday. That was the second container I have had to dump this week, and for the same reason. If he is not careful the OFB (Office of Family Budgeting) is going to fine him.

I had not even taken a sip, when I noticed the water boiling. So, I went to get the oatmeal. I couldn't reach it, because it was pushed too far back on the top shelf. I silently cursed Hubband again, though I was not even sure if this one was his fault. I pulled out the kitchen ladder, climbed up, and retrieved the oatmeal.
I was measuring oatmeal into the pot of boiling water, when Hubband, who was merely passing through on the way to the front door and ~~freedom~~ work, exclaimed, "Why is there water all over the floor!" "What? What water?" I tossed him a towel, which he gave to the two year old, and told her wipe up the water. She is closer to the ground.

Stirred oatmeal. Stared blankly. Blinked periodically. You see, without the coffee it is hard to focus on getting the coffee. But I knew there was something that I was supposed to do.

Ah, yes! I thought I had it. I checked my e-mail for lab results. Simultaneously: "Mom, can you help me button my pants?" I was trying to type my log-in and password on a mobile device with my stumpy fingers while explaining to six-year-old that he is six years old and he should be able to button his own...."Jonah, those aren't your pants. Those are Sam's. Yours have a 6 on the tag. Go get your own pants." Only one kid was positive for strep this time! He's a carrier and feels fine. Note: deal with this later.

Things were really picking up then.

Broke up a fight over who gets to climb on the kitchen ladder. Answer: no one.

Stirred oatmeal. Thought to self, "I really need to go potty (Yes, I think potty to myself!). I wonder if I can leave these kids alone while I..."

As if in answer, Sam spilled a bag of zip ties on the floor. "Ninety-seven zip ties!" I exclaimed, Rainman-like. (It was a bag of 100 and I know I had only used three.)

"Mom, I am all out of pants. None of them have a 6!" Jonah yelled from somewhere not the kitchen. "Check the dryer!" I yelled back.

Then I broke up a fight over who was going to clean up the zip ties. I am not kidding. Cate wanted to do it. But Sam did not want her to help. There was an actual pre-schooler brawl over this. I had to take Cate to her room for not not picking up her brother's mess. (I could not make this up.)

Meanwhile the oatmeal boiled over.

I never did drink that cup of cream-less coffee. It was still sitting on the counter when I left to take the two youngest to pre-school. I remembered it, only after I was driving home again. I began to feel that familiar pain in the back of my neck, that would become full blown torment in an hour. Caffeine withdrawal.

Hang it all! I went to Starbucks.* They fire people who leave the cream out all day.

*(Thank you, to my sister-in-law Heather for the gift card!)

Die Princess, Die!

2011-02-16T21:26:00.000-08:00

The Disney princesses will, if you let them, swallow your life, and regurgitate Chinese-sewn polyester costumes, Cinderella home decor, and low self-esteem. That is why, when I was pregnant with Catherine, my first and only daughter, I issued an edict from on high. There would be no princess crap.

Two and a half year later, that edict has not been broken. Mostly. There was one pair of pajamas bearing a frog princess which sneaked in. And her Grandma gave her a tiara with a flowing veil for Christmas. I considered this more of a dress up item, (and it was just adorable), so it slid in too. Until Catie woke up with a yard of tulle wrapped around her neck. Twice. It has, sadly, been put up, and only gets to make guest appearances for now.

But, my edict, and the resolve with which it was issued, are quivering under the weight of the Disney marketing machine and my daughter's unrelenting cuteness.

My mother gave, also for Christmas, bed tents with Disney characters on them. In a valiant and much appreciated (though ultimately futile) attempt to keep princesses out of my house, she gave Catie one with Tinkerbell and friends. No harm in that, right?

Wrong.

Catie calls them "princess" anyway! "My princess bed. My princess pillow." Where did she even learn the word princess?

My ban was meant to avoid unintentionally sending the message that beauty is a girl's only value and catching a man her only needed skill. It was meant to keep advertisers from turning my own daughter against me, because I did not want to spend money, or my aesthetic integrity, on Beauty and the Beast sheets. My ban should have been extended to fairies too.

Fairies, it seems, are the new princesses. But with wings. More makeup and fewer clothes. And, instead of waiting around for a strong, lantern-jawed man to save then (which is nice), they have done away with men all together (not nice). Tiny waisted, man-hating tarts! Not, not nice.

And marketing, is marketing.

A few weeks ago we were in an unfamiliar market. One where I did not know, instinctively, which aisles to avoid for fear of arousing my children's lust for sugar and artificial food coloring. As we zipped down the "fruit snack" aisle, we passed a box of artificially flavored gummy pieces in a box bearing the faces of the Disney fairies. Catie saw that box blur by, and started to squeal. "Mine. Mine. Have it! Have it!" She did not even know what "it" was, but boy was she mad at me for not stopping to buy it.

I think it is time to introduce her to "Dora, the Explorer." Hola!

The Holy Trinity According to Jonah

2011-02-08T20:54:00.000-08:00

Jonah and Sam have a castle (complete with dragon), and a pirate island (complete with sea serpent), both well populated by little knights and sailors. Hard, oddly shaped, painful-when-stepped-on, little knights and sailors. The other night, after I almost trod upon Sir Angus at the foot of Samuel's bed, I reminded them, "Boys, you need to make sure all of your castle pieces get picked up or you are going to lose them."

To which Jonah replied, "Mom, we don't care about those. We only care about video games, Legos, and God."

God was not an after thought, which is good, but He only got third billing. And, Jonah was totally lying when he said he didn't care about his castle pieces, he was just too lazy to pick them up. (Mother hangs head in shame, on both counts.)

The Plagues

2011-02-02T22:23:00.000-08:00

Frogs, locusts, and rivers of blood don't sound so bad after what we've been through.

It started, just after Thanksgiving, with the vomiting. Three rounds. At least three people per round. Not the same three. And, thank you Jesus, never me.

Then came the asthma. Only one felled this time. But, there was talk of ambulances and hospital stays, and on his birthday too.

Then the strep throat. All five. I went down first, a rarity. I slept for forty-eight hours, and awoke to watch Hubband topple. The children were tested, infected, and dosed with the finest anti-biotics my HMO could provide. But they never suffered. The little carriers. Though, I would rather suffer through it twice, even four times, than have to care for three children who awoke in tears every time they swallowed. Can I get another, Thank you, Jesus?

Then a root canal on a six year old. Yeah, it is as bad as it sounds.

Now, it is the pox. Poor Cate. Head to toe. Red dots. The doctor can't tell me what it is, but he is certain that she is not contagious. I guess we will know soon enough.

There has only been one week, in the last ten, that I did not have to call, e-mail, or see our pediatrician. When I mentioned this to him he said of that one week, "Oh, I figured you were on vacation or something." A pediatrician with a sense of humor.

Spring, and the fresh air, can not come quickly enough.

(The picture above does not have anything to do with anything, but it is awfully cute. And Hubband would not let me post the one of her diaper clad and covered in pox.)

Math, Homeschool Style

2011-01-31T21:41:00.000-08:00

Were you one of those kids who dreaded word problems in elementary school? Well, you will be happy to know, that they have changed things. No longer do children freeze up, freak out, or go into a cold sweat at the sight of a word problem. They're called story problems now. The name has been changed to protect the weary. The problem is, the weary graduated like thirty years ago. Now there are generations of young people quaking in fear of the story problem. Education can be funny like that.

I was not one of those students, and neither is my son Jonah. He rather likes story problems. In his current math class, he gets to write him own. The book gives him two numbers and asks him to write an addition problem. For example (an actual example): "Jonah has three cars. Sam has two cars. How many cars do they have all together?" I suspect the Jonah/Sam/car dynamic will get a lot more play when we get to subtraction.

Last week, his numbers were 3 and 17. And I quote, "Jonah has three video games to play. And, Mommy has seventeen dishes to wash. How many do they have all together?"

Now, if you will excuse me, I have some dishes to wash. Oh, if it were only seventeen.

The Meaning of Life, Stuck to Your Bumper

2011-01-28T15:12:00.000-08:00

If your car has something stupid to say, I will repeat it, and mock you in the process.

Seen: One Prius, bearing the bumper sticker Renewable Energy IS National Security. Appropriate enough on a Prius, but not when it is being towed by two bedroom recreational vehicle.

Seen: Made in America, with Filipino Parts. Um. Oooh. Ones bumper is not an appropriate place to discuss the details of one's conception.

Seen: SHE WHO DIES WITH THE MOST SHOES WINS. Wins what exactly? You can only take one pair with you, baby. Maybe I'm just a hater, as I have always been hard to fit, and now (that I am middle aged) wear only clogs. God bless the Danish for their clogs!

Seen: 26.2 Do you know what that is? It is the length of a marathon, in miles. When one runs a marathon, one likes to tell everybody. Fair enough. That's a pretty impressive achievement. But let me ask you, driver of the Ford Excursion bearing this sticker, why, if you can run so far, must you park your land yacht in a compact space to be closer to the door, rather than the full-sized space RIGHT NEXT TO IT? Is that extra five feet really going to kill you.

I, for one, have no stickers on my car. I can't stand the pressure. People can be so judgmental.

The Delicate Art of Discipline, and Baby's First Sentence

2011-01-27T21:24:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in every girl's life, when she needs to be popped in the mouth. My daughter is only two, but her time has come. Does this make her some kind of prodigy?

"This works as a tiara, right?

Princess Defiant has taken to making "raspberry" sounds at me when she does not like what I have to say. She presses her two little lips together and, well, spits at me basically. Queen Who-shall-not-be-defied (that would be me) can not tolerate this. Obviously.

Immediate action was required.

She spit at me. I got ~~in her face~~ down at her level and told her, calmly, but emphatically, "No!"

She did it again. Harder. I took too fingers, and swatted her lips. Still calm. "No!"

She did it again. Not as hard. I swatted her lips. "No!"

She did it again. But, not really. Only about half way. Barely a sputter really. Mostly just a gesture to show me she was not going to obey. But she was fading. I swatted her lips. "No!"

Then she slapped at me and sort of grunted. I slapped her hand and said, "No!"

She did it again. I slapped her hand. "No!"

She did it again. Barely a twitch of the hand this time. But defiance, nonetheless. I slapped her hand. "No!"

Then she stuck her tongue out. Oh. Okay. So she wants to be popped in the mouth some more. I swatted her tongue. Still very calm. "No!"

She did that three times too, losing steam each time.

Then she said it. Her first sentence. In defeat, arms submissively at her side, she said, as politely as one could, "Go away, Mommy."

Fair enough. She used her words instead of spitting, hitting, or sticking her tongue out. And, I had been in her face quite a while. So, I kissed her on the head, and went away.

Yes, my two year old daughter told me to go away and I went. But, I won this one, and she and I both know it.

Miss Marple, Here I Come!

2011-01-26T15:30:00.000-08:00

All that is left to be decided about my death is its manner. I have chosen the time, and do not care about the place.

It started with a pair of jeans. I went to the store to buy a pair of jeans. Just a store. Not a hipster store. Not a store at the mall. Just a store, where I have bought jeans before. But, this time, the music was too loud, the lights too dim, the print too small.

I was uncomfortable, but I soldiered on. I was a housewife without jeans. What were my options really?

As I stood in line for the dressing room, with 47 pairs on jeans slung over my arm, I saw a woman trying on a pair of jeans, just like a pair I was holding. She looked ridiculous. Way too old to be in pants like that! If she had any real friends, they would tell her.

"Tracey?" said the woman with unfortunate taste and no friends. "Tracey, is that you? O.M.G! (She actually said the letters, oh, em, gee.) I don't think I have seen you since graduation."

She was an old classmate. We were the same age. Exactly. Except that she was in better shape. And looking ridiculous in a pair of over-priced jeans. (Well, I assume that were over-priced. Honestly, I couldn't read the tiny print on the tag.)

It was then and there that I decided. I will die sometime in 2053. In February 2053, I will be 84 years old. In February 2011, I will be 42, and this is definitely my middle ages.

What? you say. Forty-two is too young to be middle aged, you say? Middle age does not hit until at least fifty, you say?

Maybet. If you're Jennifer Aniston, or Salma Hayek, or Julia Roberts. But, I am not. I live in the real world, without the help of plastic surgeons, or personal trainers, or botox. (Though, in all fairness, there is not enough help in the world to make me as hot as Salma Hayek.)

In the real world, gravity can not be defied.

In the real world, forty-two is not young, if you are in the same talent pool as twenty-five. But, if you lump yourself in with the sixty year olds, as I choose to do, you just might be the hottest thing going. (Again, I am not. But my ranking goes up quite a bit.)

And lets face it. I have no desire, and less than no chance, of living to be a hundred. I would consider eighty-four to be a pretty good run. Most of the people I know and love now, will already be dead. My "baby" will be forty-five, so I will most likely have met all of my grandchildren. And, Hubband will only be seventy-five, still young enough to find another wife among the widows at the "senior community." Yup, a pretty good run.

So, you will excuse me while I embrace this new stage in my life. Comfortable jeans, sensible shoes, and the inalienable right to say, "You call that music?"

A Drive to the Doctor (You Think This Won't Happen to You, But it Will)

2011-01-24T20:12:00.000-08:00

I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. Sam, please stop screaming. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. It's okay. It's not going to hurt. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. They are just going to look in your throat. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. Sam, stop screaming. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. You have to stop screaming. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go There won't be any shots I promise. to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. Sam, if you keep screaming, I will have to give Daddy a bad report, and you won't get to play with the iPod later. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I will pull this car over. I don't want to go to the doctor. Do you want me to pull this car over? I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. Sam, please. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. What do I have to do to make you stop screaming? I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. I don't want to go to the doctor. If you stop screaming, I'll give you a cookie. I don't want to

What kind of cookie?

Let Me Introduce You

2011-01-18T15:58:00.000-08:00

Let me introduce you. This is the well dressed, well loved, and soon to be well traveled, Ginger Breadmann.

Mr. Breadmann in his passport photo. If you follow the link below, you will find out what the rubber band is for, and be able to see, from the wear, how much this little toy is actually loved.

As part of his history class, Jonah will be taking a world tour, and his traveling companion will be Mr. Breadmann. They each have passports, made by Jonah, and soon to be laminated by Kinkos.

Jonah can not wait. He loves "Gingy," (as you may remember) and by extension this project. So, tomorrow, around two o'clock, they will be jetting off to Australia.

I say they, as if I am not going. It is true, I don't have a fancy, hand-lettered passport from no government in particular, but I am the only one of the bunch who can read. So, like it or not, passport or no, I too shall be departing for the land down under, explaining on the way, what, exactly, it is down under. (Psst. The equator, in case you missed kindergarten history.) And, what the Outback is out back of. Can you say marsupial?

Okay, maybe I am a little excited too.

[If you, or anyone you know, would like to help us out, we are looking for people who live in Asia, Europe, Africa, and South America who might be willing to take an e-mailed photo of Mr. Breadmann out for a bit of local sight seeing (nothing fancy required, as it is all new to us), and e-mail us back some pictures. Just e-mail me at unodostracey@gmail.com]

The Week in Kids

2011-01-14T15:57:00.000-08:00

This week...

Started out freezing cold, then it rained, and today it was sunny and warm. So sunny and warm that we have mosquitoes. Like albatrosses.

We also have three small children who, at the first sight of sunshine, burst out the back door into the yard.

Sword fight any one?

The real veterans of the backyard crusades know to carry ones weapon in the back of the shirt for easy access.

The littlest crusader learns quickly.

She learns that swords can make searching for artifacts in the (nasty, been-sitting-out-in-the-rain-getting-used-as-a-cat-toilet-all-winter) sandbox a little awkward..

She learns that swords make some routes impassible.

And, she learns that if she is not nice to her fellow crusaders, or her momma, her weapon will be taken away and put on top of the refrigerator.

Also this week...

We finished our second week of homeschooling. So far, there have been no tears, no drama, no tantrums. And, Jonah has behaved pretty well, too.

Also, in the last two weeks, we have eaten take-out Chinese, McDonald's, Taco Bell, Chick-fil-a, and pizza. Twice. (Some of that was lunch. I have cooked.) But, we will work the kinks out of that too. It just takes planning.

Also this week...

Not much else has happened. At least not that I can remember. Kindergarten is about all my brain can handle at this point.

See you next week!!!

Fickle Girl

2011-01-09T21:34:00.000-08:00

Cate, helping with the laundry.

As I was pouring the milk on the oatmeal and putting the bowls on the table, Sam tried to help his sister, by moving her bowl closer to her. A move of mere inches. Catherine, at the sight of this, burst into a screaming fit like I have never heard from her. The crescendo of her shrieking was followed by, "Hate boys! Hate, hate, hate, hay-T."

Oh, my.

I have never heard Samuel use the word hate, and I am not sure he even knows what it means. Jonah, I am sure knows what it means, but I have no memory of him using it. Where did Cate pick up this vocabulary? Even if she has heard her father or I use it, it was not like this.

Hate boys!!!! Hate, hate, hate.

This from the same girl, who a few weeks ago, was dancing naked with glee at the sight of boys in the backyard.

I think she may be conflicted on the issue.

What My Little Boy Lost

2011-01-08T22:14:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was Jonah's birthday. He turned six. It was not a great day.

He hardly slept the night before. Not out of excitement, but because of constant coughing and wheezing. He had a cold. We all have a cold, or a touch of one. It is rather mild really. To everyone but Jonah.

I called the advice nurse at two in the morning. The advice nurses are very helpful. Usually. Michael, the registered nurse (he made a point of telling me), was not helpful.

"Does he have retracted breathing?"

"Uh, look, Michael, R.N., I realize that all of the questions you are suppose to ask, pop up on your computer screen, when you are supposed to ask them, but I have no bleeping idea what retracted breathing is. It is two in the morning and I have not slept and my five year old, no wait. He six. Happy birthday, Honey. My six year old has not slept and he is practically convulsing in my arms from coughing, which he has done for the last twelve hours without ceasing, so if you could tell me what you are talking about, that would be great."

Okay, I didn't say that. "I don't know what that is," is what I said.

"Can you see his skin go between his ribs when he breathes?"

"I don't know. He's wearing pajamas. I don't think so."

Meanwhile, Jonah is having loud coughing fits right into the phone.

"I am going to consult with the doctor. I'll be right back."

I wait. Jonah does not die. Micheal, R.N. returns.

"I don't suppose you have any honey?"

Honey? Now, I am all for non-pharmaceutical treatment, but honey was not going to help this.

Honey, and follow up with his pediatrician in the morning, was the best Michael could do. Better than the emergency room in the cold, dark night, I suppose.

Morning came. The appointment center gave me an appointment at 4:30. The flip side of the whole nurse-in-the-middle-of-the-night thing, is that I have no way to call my doctor, or even his office, directly and plead my case. The girl at the call center just gives me the next available appointment.

Well, four thirty was too far away. He was not going to make it. So, after I dropped Sam at pre-school, I just kept driving, right on over to the doctor, to see if I could wiggle my way in.

I know the doctor's office reserves mornings for healthy kids. Babies mostly. Little itty bitty ones, who need to get check-ups, every third day it seems. So, I walked to the edge of the waiting room and looked in to see wall to wall bucket-babies. You know the ones. Carried everywhere in their detachable car seats. This was no place for my boy. So, I sat him on a bench in the hall, got him a swine-flu mask, told him to look pathetic, and went to talk to someone, face to face. Two lines of my story, and one glance at my poor boy, was enough to get us a golden ticket through the back door.

Three breathing treatments, one chest x-ray, and three prescriptions later, I was told that Jonah has viral asthma. It turns out, asthma is not a disease, but a reaction to irritation. Most kids get it in the spring with allergies. Jonah-boy gets it in the winter, with a cold, however mild. This is the third year. The cold, damp air this week seems to be a contributing factor. This is not good news, especially as we are planning on moving to Washington, where the state motto is, "Come for the cold, Stay for the damp."

I know what you are thinking. This was the worst sixth birthday ever. But wait. It gets worse.

We had planned to take Jonah and his friend Asa (no siblings) to the Japanese place that slices and dices and lights your food right in front of you. But, that was not going to work out. I called and canceled the sitter. I called and canceled Asa. I called and canceled my sister and brother-in-law. I didn't have to call and cancel Nana, because she was on her way to Tahiti. Apparently, all of this escaped Jonah's notice. Around five o'clock, he asked, "Is Asa going to be here soon?"

I forgot to cancel Jonah.

He was so sad. Heartbroken really.

"I've lost my whole birthday!"

And, he's right. He really did. The whole thing. Just gone. But, we promised to make it up to him. We will. We promised. No one will lose a birthday in this family!

Fly me to the Moon

2011-01-06T14:47:00.000-08:00

A child's capacity from imaginative play is boundless.

Jonah and Samuel have devised games called things like Sneak and Throw, Star Stealer, and Astro Boy. As far as I can tell, they are just creative names (and excuses) for wrestling,

jumping on the beds,

and throwing pillows at each other.

All of which are allowed in our house (well, in the boys' bedroom), because I am the mother of two active boys and one daredevil of a daughter. What else are they going to do?

The Week in Kids

2010-12-30T15:31:00.000-08:00

This week...
(Or sometime in the not too distant past.)

Upon seeing this picture, Sam said, "He has to take off his beard and put on a mouth for dinner." Perceptive kid.

Also this week...

...was Christmas.

Really, it is mostly a blur.

Also this week...

Cate wore pajamas under her party dress.

Who among us has not wanted to do that?

Also this week...

No Bible sits on the shelf collecting dust in this house.

Also this week...

We made our homeschooling decision final, when these arrived.

Seventy-six pound of kindergarten curriculum in eight boxes. (The small white one was already ours.) How can we back out now?

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone!!!

See you next week, and year!

A Few Notes On Christmas and Et Cetera

2010-12-28T22:33:00.000-08:00

Jonah and Cate, on Cate's First Christmas (2008)

We had a merry Christmas. I don't know if there will be any photos posted. Kids a blur. Legos and Imaginex pirates everywhere. Inflatable "cars" for playing Mario Kart. Toy cowboys. Cool wooden cars. A girl sized kitchen which even the boys love. Family. Oh, so much family. Food, oh the food, ugh!

A big thank you to the young man at the auto parts store on Christmas eve who politely pointed of the Honda I was buying wiper blades for (and driving at the time) was an Accord, not a Civic. Ho. ho. ho.

To the sender of the family-photo Christmas card showing their thirteen-year-old, lolling on the beach in a bikini, with her two little brothers, and sand stuck to her pubescent behind, I say, No. no. no.

To the middle aged man, in the Toys-R-Us parking lot, driving a red Hyundai with a Hello Kitty license plate holder, I say, Thank you for slowing down, if even slightly.

To the Muslim woman buying snow man wrapping paper, I say, This Happy Holidays thing has gotten WAY out of hand.

For those of you who have ever wonder if God is a man (as opposed to a woman), I offer this as conclusive proof, "Mom, God is a boy name." Thus sayeth Jonah.

Seventy six pounds of kindergarten curriculum is awfully heavy for "online school." The student doesn't even weigh that much. Just sayin'.

Now, if you will excuse me...school starts Monday.

And, yes, the "and Et Cetera" in the title is an intentional grammatical error. You don't have to believe me. I'm smarter than a kingergartener irregardless.

There's No Such Thing as Santa?

2010-12-20T06:24:00.000-08:00

I still remember the moment. I was six. In the first grade. The whole class was sitting on the floor, Indian style. It is not called that anymore. Indian style is politically incorrect. Which is ironic, since it was chosen to replace the previous politically-incorrect name, "akimbo." Now it is called "cris-cross-apple-sauce," which sounds completely ridiculous coming out of the mouth of a grown woman, unless she is a kindergarten teacher, in a festive and seasonally appropriate vest.

My first grade teacher never wore a vest, festive or otherwise, that I can remember. And, I think I would remember if she had been wearing a vest that day, as it was Christmastime, and almost every other detail is burned into my memory. As I mentioned, we were all sitting on the floor, listening to Ms. Moring (Yes, Ms. It was the seventies.) read "The Night Before Christmas," (which is also, now, politically incorrect, but I am going to have to let that go, or I shall never finish my story), when a girl--a mean, busy-body, know-it-all, sort of girl--named Michelle announced, "Santa is just your mom and dad."

Just like that.

Quickly, and in slow motion, a shock-wave of enlightenment rippled through the room, as every child turned toward her, their mouths agape. But, my mouth was the quickest. I sat tall, and announced with certainty, "That's not true."

Ms. Moring cleared her throat nervously and quicker than you can say, "On Dasher, on Dancer," Michelle was scuttled away to the office on an errand. Santa-sedition would not be tolerated. Disaster averted.

Sort of.

There is an old saying, that you can't un-ring a bell. And, it's true. I finally had to ask my mother the truth about Santa. But, not until after Christmas. I may have been a fanciful and unrealistic child, but I wasn't stupid. Who wants to find out the truth about Santa right before Christmas?

Did you notice, in the last paragraph, where I called myself "fanciful and unrealistic." Well, that explains what happened next.

Even though I knew the (alleged) truth about Santa, I refused to accept it. On Christmas morning of the following year, I got up at half past four, like I always did, giddy with excitement. My parents had a deal. We could get up, and open our stockings, but not our presents. And we were not to wake them. Well, we (my sister and I) were pretty good about that first part. There was enough in our stockings to keep us busy, and Santa never wrapped his presents. But that part about not waking them? Well, let's just say, if you don't want to get up at 5 o'clock on Christmas morning, you should not have kids.

That Christmas morning in 1976, eleven and a half months after my mother looked me in the face and told me that there was no such thing as Santa, I burst into her bedroom to show her my brand new dictionary and a watch with a yellow band; both gifts from Santa. I told her all about the record player he brought me. It was under the tree in the living room. Did she want to come see it?

I'm sure she thought I was nuts. And, she may have seriously considered bopping me on the top of my head, hoping to engage the "snooze" function. I know that's what the grown-up-I would want to do. But she couldn't. My little sister was there, you see, and she was still pure. Mom could not risk spoiling Christmas for her.

This (alleged) denial of mine went on for years, until finally, when I was, oh, maybe twenty-five (though still single and childless and hanging my stocking over her fireplace), my Mother announced that this was the year Santa stopped coming. I assured her, she was wrong. He was coming. She assured me he was not. I told her I had faith. She told me I was crazy.

Christmas morning we all awoke to stockings, filled with goodies, suited to each of us. Santa had come, once again. I knew he would not let me down.

And, he never has. Every year I hang my stocking, and every year there has been something in it. Do you know why? Because I believe.

I wonder what that little anarchist, Michelle is getting in her stocking this Christmas.

[The art is by Haddon Sundblom, an advertisement for Coca-cola from 1951. His illustrations for Coke, starting in 1931, have done much to influence the icon of the American Santa. If you find this even remotely interesting (as I do, obviously) check out the history of the Coca-cola Santa HERE.

I picked this particular illustration, because he has a face like my father's.]

Let Your Freak Flag Fly, Little Man!

2010-12-18T21:50:00.000-08:00

Jonah, aged 14 months, ready to hit the beach in Hawaii.

We're all freaks on the inside, aren't we? Or, we were. Or, we felt like we were. Growing up, finding yourself, coming into your own, is hard.

In my experience, freaks, those young people who don't feel comfortable in their own skin, either get angry and become bullies, or get knocked down once too often and give up on being themselves. So much human potential is suffocated under the social pressure exerted by peers similarly situated.

It is for this reason that we have decided to homeschool Jonah for the rest of the school year.

Our decision was not because of religion, or academics, or to have a more flexible schedule; though all of those factored in. We want to homeschool, so that we can take the sensitive little boy God gave us, and raise him up into the most confident man he can be. He needs a loving environment in which to discover who he is. We don't care if he is a barefoot artist, an uptight tax attorney, or a stand-up comedian. We just want him to walk secure in the knowledge that he is exactly as God made him.

Then, he will be ready to go out into the world, unfurl his flag, and let it fly, however freaky or boring it may be.

That is our goal. If homeschooling does not move us toward that goal, we will stop. If it is detrimental to the rest of the family, we will stop. If I lose my marbles, we will stop. And, if I completely screw it up, it is only half a year of kindergarten, right? Either way, wish us luck. This going to be an amazing feat of patience and organization.

The Week in Kids and Christmas

2010-12-17T14:37:00.000-08:00

This week...

We had company. My friend brought her four boys by, while she went to take a micro-biology exam. No problem. Six boys between the ages of three and nine, and one two-year-old little girl was still my biggest challenge.

I put Cate down for a nap at one, but she refused to sleep. When the boys arrived around two, she was still awake. I decided not to fight it. The boys went straight outside to play, and I went in to get Cate up. When I got there, she was stark naked. No clothes, no diaper, no nothing. That "no diaper" thing can be a problem, so I rushed into her room to survey any, er, damage and, luckily, found none. Meanwhile, Cate bolted. I found her pressed against the sliding glass door in all her glory.

"Cate," I called to her. "What are you doing?"

She looked back over her should at me, gestured at the back yard through the door, and said, breathless, "Boys!!"

Then she squealed and did a little dance.

Here she is with (not my) Samuel, one of the boys who came for a visit. He's three. I warned his parents.

"I think wearing clothes is over rated. My mother insisted I wear this dumb hoodie, but I showed her. I'm only wearing half of it. What do you think?"

"Mother, do you mind? That flash is killing the mood."

Also this week...

The boys playing that day. I think this is what they call Leaf Tag.

My Samuel, who, when finding out that there was another one present, started referring to himself as "The Real Sam."

Also this week...

Our church hosted a Ladies Christmas Tea. I was so excited that I even did my hair. This is quite a procedure, which requires that Hubband supervise the children. So, while I was drying, then straightening, and then re-curling my hair. Hubband "watched" the kids, by reading the news on his iPod, back in the bedroom with me.

Meanwhile, Samuel had climbed over the gate into the kitchen (We know he can do this. The gates aren't up for him.), liberated a pumpkin pie from the refrigerator, and passed it over the gate to his sister. When I found them, they had removed it from it's tin, and it was sitting directly on the living room floor. All but the large chucks they had torn from it, and were then eating, with both hands.

"Okay, I can breach the kitchen gates, here. Once I am in possession of the target, I will pass it to you, over the gate, here. We will rendezvous, here. Wait for me. Then we will make the split, 60/40 like we agreed. Do you want me to go over it again?"

If this had been on my watch, so to speak, I would have taken pictures. But, being the shrew that I am, I was too eager to point the finger of blame at my dear husband. Guilty as accused, he broke the whole thing up before I could get a single shot. Poorly played by all parties. Except maybe the children, who got a few good bites of pumpkin pie.

Also this week...

Jonah found some old pictures of himself. When Cate saw them, she insisted on keeping one. She's been sleeping with it. Everybody now...Awww. (There are not pictures of this either, because only a woman who did not want to sleep for one whole night would take a flash photo of a sleeping baby.)

Also this week...

Sam (singing): On top of Spaghetti, all covered with cheese. I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed.

Me: Ahhhhh Choooo! (I play to the role of the sneeze.)

Jonah: Don't sing that song. It makes me sad that someone would lose their meatball like that. And we never even know what happened to it.

And in other Jonah/music news...he has been learning new songs at Sunday school. Like this one, which he sings loud and proud.

I'm in the Lord's Army

(to the tune of The Old Grey Mare)

[The REAL words]

I may never march in the infantry
Ride in the cavalry
Shoot the artillery
I may never fly o'er the enemy
But I'm in the Lord's army!
Yes Sir!

[As sung by Jonah]
I may never march in the even tree
Ride in the calorie
Shoot the ability
I may never fly our anemone
But I'm in the Lord's army!

Also this week...

Sam made a wreath.

Our Advent Chain got shorter.

The Nativity Scene went up.

And my heart swelled a little, as it has every year since I became a mother, at the sight of the baby Jesus, held tight in Mary's arms.

See you next week...

The Christmas Card Photo Shoot

2010-12-13T14:28:00.000-08:00

It is so hard to get a photograph of three small children, sitting still, smiling, all looking the same direction. But, this year we did it. Well, my mother did it. I made sure they were dressed in clothes that would match my blog.

Unfortunately, there are some things we are not going to get done this year. We are not going to have the time to pick out a Christmas card format. We are not going to have time to up-load this photo to a maker of such cards. We are not going to have the time to go to pick up such cards. Or address envelopes to mail such card. Or the money to buy and apply postage to such cards.

We are sorry. Consider this your None-Such Christmas Card.

And since we had to pick the best photo out of dozens of bad ones, and two or three that were mediocre...

I offer you this photo of Jonah, where he does not look like he is braying like a donkey.

Merry Christmas!

The Stockings Were Hung...

2010-12-12T21:12:00.000-08:00

Many of you asked about our stockings. Here they are, by the chimney with care.

Joy, joy, joy, joy, joy.

Would you believe I knit them myself? No. No one would believe that. The truth is, I got them at Target. They were probably knit by a Chinese machine, run by an Indonesian toddler who got paid 25 cents this year for the trouble. You know, I think Hubband might be right. I can suck the joy out of anything. Even these lovely Christmas stockings.

Nope. He's wrong. Indonesians toddlers aside, they still make me happy. Joy, joy, joy. Times five.

The Week in...

2010-12-11T22:21:00.000-08:00

This is usually where The Week in Kids post goes. But, there has been other stuff this week too. And the kids have kept me so busy, I forgot to pay attention and take notes for you all. So, we are going to lump all of this week's news in together. Consider it a bloggy austerity measure.

I will start with the kids though.

This week in kids...

Jonah and Cate made up a new game. It is called "ride." Cate says, "Ride, ride." Jonah sits on the couch. Cate climbs on his back. Jonah stands up. And away they go.

If you think this can only end badly, you would be wrong more often than not. As a mother, I was apprehensive at first, but they seemed to be having such a good time together (together is big), that I decided to stand back, and watch closely. The picture is actually one of their very first attempts. Jonah is much better at it now, with practice. He reaches around and holds her up well, and she hangs on without strangling him. The biggest problem is when Sam wants to play his new game called "push."

Also this week in kids...

Cate met her inner mommy. If you don't recognize this set up, it is a changing pad, a diaper, and wipes. Oh, and a "baby."

First, the wipes.

Then, the diaper.

Then, the little mommy shows off her dry and happy baby.

"Who you callin' happy?"

Also, this week in Christmas...

The kids really, really wanted to decorate for Christmas. I could have gotten out all of the decorations and put them up. But, then they would have been bored. Instead. We have done one thing every day.

First, we made a paper chain, for counting off the days until Christmas. A fancier name is an Advent Calendar, but we aren't fancy. You can sort of see it along the top of the stockings in one of the following pictures.

Next, I put up the tree with lights. The next day, came the ornaments. And, threats of severe harm, up to, and including death, to any child who dare touch said ornaments.

Then the stockings. Aren't they lovely? That is a happy mantel.

One day, I cut out stars and had the boys each decorate one with glitter. I then glued them together so that they would fit nicely on top of the tree. This is Jonah's side.

At some point, the talking Homer-Santa was put out. I'm sorry the picture is so bad, but honestly, the best part about the talking Homer-Santa, is the talking.

He moves up and down, grunts a little, as he is stuck in the chimney, and says things like, "Oh, great! The one night I don't have a pocket full of bacon grease."

We also made ginger bread cookies, of which no evidence remains. Funny that.

Next week, I will put out my beautiful nativity scene. My mother in law gave me the first pieces, and my mother gave me a few more pieces later. I love it. But I need to prepare a place for it, as it break, threats of harm and death aside.

Also, this week in Betsy...

Betsy, my bloggy friend, from My Five Men, was kind (of awesome) enough to send me some of her famous(ly delicious) cookies. They were chocolate with chocolate and did I mention the chocolate. A half dozen of the most scrumptious cookies, arrived in a tidy box, with packing poopies and everything. The cookies themselves were separated by hand cut doilies and wrapped in cellophane, with a hand tied bow. The whole thing sounds lovely, doesn't it? All I have left is the note. (Don't judge me.)

Well, that is all for now. I will try to take better notes next week. Darn my kids, they are growing up so fast, they haven't done anything clever all week. They just don't care that I have a blog to write.

See you next week!

Life in Rear View

2010-12-08T11:53:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, the kids and I had to wait in our car for awhile. I was listening to the radio and they were doing...I did not know what they were doing, because I was not paying attention.

It was a few minutes before I realized that the noise from the back seat (which is constant) was not the usual pushing, whining and bickering. They were laughing.

I adjusted my mirror so I could watch. They were making silly faces at each other. One would "create" the face, the others would copy it. When they caught me looking, I had to play too. This was so much better than whatever was on the radio. Why don't I pay more attention?

It was getting warm in the car, and the windows fogged up so that we were in our own insulated world. Happy for no reason, except that we were together and acting silly.

At some point, all that happiness made me weepy. I sat in the front seat of my car, looking at my children in the rear view mirror, and I willed life to go in slow motion. Because, I knew. I knew that soon, the moment would be gone. Soon, we would have to get out of the car. Soon, they would grow up. Soon, sibling time may be limited to Christmas and funerals. Soon, my children won't be.

And sure enough, soon, they were back to their normal contentious backseat behavior. But, I hold on to that moment. I savor it. For me, of course, but also for them. Because they don't know what they're missing.

[The photo above was taken last summer]

Oregon: No Town to Call Its Own?

2010-12-06T13:48:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago, my family and I embarked on a road trip, north from California, to Washington. But first, we had to cross Oregon. During the six, or so, hours we spent driving through beautiful Oregon, I got a chance to read a lot of road signs. It was then that I began to wonder if Oregon had a single town to call it's own. Portland? There is a better-known one in Maine. Salem? Most people think of Massachusetts. But it does not stop with just the big Oregon cities. The state has several towns and cities with better known counterparts. I submit the following::

Fairbanks (Alaska)
Pheonix (Arizona)
Charleston (South Carolina)
Durham (North Carolina)
Vale and Aurora (Colorado)
Jacksonville (Florida)
Lafayette (Georgia)
Peoria and Elgin (Illinois)
Wichita and Kansas City (Kansas)--Kansas City? Seriously, Oregon, you aren't even trying, here.
Lexington (Kentucky)
Bunker Hill (Massachusetts)
Detroit and Saginaw (Michigan)
Independence (Missouri)
Albany (New York)
Toledo and Dayton(Ohio)
Pittsburg (Pennsylvania)
Newport (Rhode Island)
Nashville (Tennessee)
Dallas, Austin and Brownsville (Texas)
Arlington and Mount Vernon (Virginia)
Milwaukee (Wisconsin)
Wheeler (West Virginia)
Ontario (Canada)
Rome and Florence (Italy)
London (England)
Berlin (Germany)
Kingston (Jamaica)
Damascus (Syria)
Holland, Norway, and Denmark
Sparta and Troy

There is also a Springfield, Oregon, but as there are equally well-known Springfields in Massachusetts, Illinois, Missouri, and that place where the Simpsons live, I'll give Oregon the benefit of the doubt. They might have been the original.

I was wrong though. It turns out that Oregon has many original towns within its borders. Like:

Bend and Zigzag.
Aloha and Paradise.
Brothers and Sisters.
Lime and Peel.
Boring and Remote.
Nonpareil and Sublimity.
Amity and Friend.
Bridal Veil and Diamond.
Talent and Tangent, Trail and Drain.
Promise and Prospect.
Wagontire, Echo, Fossil.
Sixes, but no Fives of Sevens.
The Dalles (When one Dalle is not enough. And, what is a Dalle?).
The unfortunately named Wankers Corner, and no I did not get this from the internet. I have an actual atlas.

And, my favorite, Half.com. This has to be a publicity stunt, doesn't it? Give us money, we will let you name our town. And since www.half.com is a division of Amazon, I think I am right.

So, you see, Oregon does have some towns to call its own. And others are for sale.

Chaos, Complete and Utter

2010-12-02T11:13:00.000-08:00

As most of you know, we spent the week of Thanksgiving in Washington with Hubband's parents. I have so many stories to tell about the journey: three kids, two adults, one Prius, a thousand miles, sixteen hours in the car over two days. Visit for six days and repeat. This sound like it would make an interesting story, doesn't it? Not to mention my detailed reviews of every McDonald's with an indoor Playland between Sacramento and the Canadian border. Ah, good times.

Unfortunately, I do not have time to tell these tales now. We got home Tuesday night, opened the back on the Prius, and my life exploded all over my living room. While we were away, we were invaded by ants. The the floor around the toilet in the master bathroom (laminate over concrete) developed a squishing noise. I hope this is not related to the tinkling noise the toilet has been making for over a year. Jimmy the plumber can not see me for a month. So he suggested I call Pedro the plumber. Note to self: Call Pedro the plumber.

By Wednesday morning, I had not even begun to dig my way out, but we had no food in the house, of course, so I had to run to the market (with all three kids). Then there was a previously scheduled trip to the pediatrician (with all three kids). And, shots. For all three kids. They acted like wild animals just let out of their cages. Cate is suffering from Grandma withdrawal, which means she wants to be held all the time. And, Jonah is off school, and bored. Our little yard does not hold as much adventure as Grandpa's farm.

We should be back to normal by the weekend. But, that is not going to happen either. Hubband and I are leaving Friday afternoon for our church's couples retreat. A friend of mine (Love you, Marissa) is going to stay here and watch the kids for us.

You never know how dirty your house is until you imagine a friend living in it for three days. So, on top of the laundry (twelve loads, by my estimation), and the unpacking, and the packing, I have to get out the sand blaster to get the crud off the underside of the dining room table and the backs of the chairs, detail the botanical experiment that is the shower, change the sheets (Make that thirteen loads of laundry.), and mop the floors. Do you suppose the kids will want to eat between Friday and Sunday afternoons? Ugh. Add meal planning to my list.

So you see, I really do have tales to tell. But I don't have time to do them justice. I don't know when, exactly, I will be back, but knowing me, it won't be too long. Please promise to miss me while I am gone.

Chicken Coop in Snow

I am including this picture, taken at Grandma and Grandpa's farm, because I find it soothing. And, breathe.

The Week in Kids

2010-11-26T15:15:00.000-08:00

This week...

We went to Grandma and Grandpa's for the week of Thanksgiving.

Samuel and Cate had their first experience with snow.

It wasn't all good.

"Ow! It's in my eyes!"

"Look, Mommy. I found my mittens."

"Now, what do I do with them?"

We weren't out there long, but we left tracks.

The snow has since melted, the rain has returned, and all of this beautiful land scape now looks like dirt soup.

Also this week...

Jonah found an old castle in the attic. It used to be Daddy's. It has not been under siege in awhile, but it proved worthy of conquests.

Also this week...

Samuel and both of his grandmothers (we brought one with us from California) built a gingerbread train. It was a pre-packaged kit. Sam is only four. He doesn't have a whole lot of patience for making a Notre Dame of gingerbread, like Jonah is planning.

Also this week...

Getting Cate to bed in a strange place was a bit of a challenge. She shared a room in the attic with Daddy, Sam and me. The first night, I had to hide out in the stairwell, watching to see if she tried to get out of bed. Which she did, every time she stopped crying. From there, I heard Sam whispering his form of comfort and encouragement. "Go to sleep, Catie. Go to sleep, Catie." He is such a sweet big brother.

Also this week...

Jonah was a real live grown up boy. He was helpful, and polite. He played quietly alone. He was nice to his little brother and sister. He even joined the men, when they drove into Seattle to help my his aunt and uncle move. Oh, and he lost another tooth. I feel like we will be visiting colleges soon.

Also this week...

We gave thanks. We ate turkey. And stuffing. And potatoes. And pie. Sam had four pieces. And, I gave thanks some more. I am blessed, and so are you. I hope you had the opportunity this week to be thankful.

See you next week!

For These Things, I Am Thankful

2010-11-24T22:15:00.000-08:00

Freedom from Want, by Norman Rockwell

This list is by no means exhaustive, or even thorough, but it is what I have to offer on this Thanksgiving Eve. In no particular order...

I am thankful that we made it 1000 miles to visit Grandma and Grandpa, yet managed to just miss all the ice and snow.

I am thankful for the DVD player that straps to the back of my headrest, giving my children something to do for the fifteen hour, two day drive, besides ask, "Are we there yet?"

I am thankful that Jonah spent all day today on the farm "adventuring" and not once asked to play a video game.

I am thankful for Cate's laugh and playful personality.

I am thankful for Samuel's cuddles, saved just for me, and sometimes Daddy.

A cold attic room (shared with my smallest children, sleeping soundly) a warm, pre-heated bed (thank you, electric mattress pad), and my net-book. Hubband has not flown in yet, so I am cuddled up with you folks, for whom I am thankful.

I am thankful for Nana and Grandma, and all of the other people who have my back and pick up my slack.

And Hubband and Jonah and Samuel and Cate, healthy and happy, all.

I am thankful for my salvation. Thank you, Jesus.

I am thankful that, compared to many people in the world, I live this a queen. Thank you, God.

Hot running water, flushing toilet, a big cold box called a refrigerator. Let's not take these things for granted people.

And, to quote the lyrics of the song Sam sang at his Friendship Feast...

I'm glad I'm not a turkey, a turkey, a turkey

I'm glad I'm not a turkey on Thanksgiving day.

They stuff you, and baste you, and then they want to taste you.

I'm glad I'm not a turkey on Thanksgiving day.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!!!!

The Week in Kids

2010-11-19T22:37:00.000-08:00

This week...

Jonah and Samuel were both in shows.

On Thursday, Jonah sang in his class' Visual and Performing Arts Show.

This deer caught in headlight look was the best still photo I could get.

It was here that I realized, my camera stinks.

See what I mean? And, yes, I read the manual. Which is how I knew that it takes video.

I must let you know that this was not exactly Jonah's finest hour. He rehearsed his little heart out for this show, and he was good...at home. Then, when the big day came, and I was sitting there in the audience, it wasn't so good. I began to wonder if he had stage fright. When he came up to hug me after, I realized he had a raging fever. Poor kid. Keep that in mind, as you watch. It's only 29 seconds, and he finishes strong.

On Friday, Sam's pre-school class had their annual Thanksgiving pageant, called the Friendship Feast. Once again, my best pictures were moving.

Okay, this is one whole minute. Only grandparents might be able to sit through sixty seconds of Sam's star quality.

Uh, never mind. Stupid Blogger keeps telling me that there is an error with my video and encourages me to read the terms and conditions. I am not going to read the terms and freaking conditions. They don't apply to me anyway; I'm a lawyer. Sorry, grandparents and people who might care. I will have to load Sam's adorableness some other time.

Also this week...

Cate said her first complete sentence. "Mommy, I have poopies." It was accompanied by the cutest point at her bottom. But I have no pictures, sorry.

How about these?

Cate has been following Sam around since she was old enough to move, but lately he has been letting her. Even taking her hand and running/dragging her from room to room. She loves this. It is fun to watch their relationship develop.

See you next week...Maybe. We are going to be in Washington over the whole week of Thanksgiving, but I will have my computer, and I may be able to fit this in.