I love my fuzzy robe

For Christmas, my children insisted I needed a fuzzy robe from Bath and Body Works. They picked out the purple one and used up their entire "Grandma" budget to get it for me. Apparently, when I was in B &B works before the holidays picking out a gift for my secret santa, they noticed the robes and decided on their own that I just HAD to have it. Grandma and Pop take them out to buy gifts for Jeremy and I every year. I just love seeing what they think we "need." Grandma told me that both Joshua and Ruthie independently of one another insisted on getting this robe for me. I'm so glad they did.

For the last day and a half, I've lived in the robe. Seems Hannah's tummy bug passed on to me. I was up till about 3 this morning before I finally felt it was safe to go to bed. Why me and not Jeremy who stayed up with her and cleaned her up? Because he has a super immune system apparently. I never see him ill, ever. And I dont believe he's ever taken a sick day, at least not this year. I doubt he'll experience the joy that is this virus, and quite frankly, I hope neither do Joshua nor Ruthie. I, on the other hand, get every little bug, virus, and bacterial infection that my children pass along. In the meantime, I'm going to go re-plant myself back on the couch with my blanket, coca-cola and pretzels, all curled up in my nice fuzzy robe. I love my robe.

EZ bake this!

I dont know who is having more fun with the EZ bake real meal oven we gave Ruthie for Christmas. Joshua just enjoys the hot "treats" coming out of the oven. I say "treats" because they're not exactly the most tasty things. With the exception of the blueberry "muffins" we ate last night. Jeremy bought some just add water muffin mixes at the grocery store, and lo and behold, they work just fine in the oven. Just gotta cook it for a loooooooong time. Anything that can make Joshua eat a blueberry muffin and declare,"WOW! This is SOOOOOOOOOOOOO GOOD! MMM! AWESOME!" must be magic. Yes, E.Z. Bake Oven. You ARE indeed special.

So, I thought to myself after seeing that one package of E.Z. Bake mix is almost $6, that there MUST be a way to make the mixes yourself. I am a staunch believer in the "Why buy it if I can make it?" school of thought. In fact, I have a reputation for going through stores and saying "I can make that. I could make that." It does save me money, because I dont buy impulsively. However, I usually dont get around to "making that" either.

Long story short, I poked around on the internet and found a handful of e.z. bake recipe sites, and began doctoring recipes and pre-made cake mixes to work in her oven. So, ok...it kind of defeats the purpose of quick and easy...but If made up ahead of time...or even made for gifts of friends and family whose daughters (or sons) have e.z. bakes...it might not be so bad.

Happy Baking. I'm off to supervise some chocolate chip muffins.

I have such a weird family...

This morning Hannah woke up with unruly hair.

"You look like a mad scientist," Joshua informed her.

"Let me go see," she responded.

Hannah ran over to the mirror on the living room closet door and laughed maniacally. "Muhahahahahahahahaaaaa!" Then as she began to walk away from the mirror, said, "I gotta see that again!" Running back over to the mirror, laughed maniacally again and then returned to the table to finish her breakfast.

Meanwhile, Jeremy was upstairs shaving, humming to his electric razor.

My Mouse

Here's a video compilation from Dress Rehearsal night. Sorry the quality is lousy. The camera didnt like the dark, but you can kind of get the idea.

Paybacks are...

There's this thing known as "The Mother's Curse." Basically, when a child is small, mother, in her frustration states aloud at her child "I hope you have one JUST LIKE YOU!" Well, good job, Mother. I have THREE just like me.

When I was small, I used to have this fool-proof method for cleaning and taking care of my laundry. It was known as the "shove-everything-on-my-floor-into-my-laundry-hamper" method. At least, I thought it was fool proof until my father, the laundry king, decided that I was old enough to wash my own clothes. I think I was seven, maybe eight tops. All I know, Mom told me years later she felt I was probably too young. Dad just figured it would cure me of my fabu room-cleaning techniques.

I honestly didn’t know things like this could be genetic. I knew my children would be handed down some personality traits, some physical features, but I didn’t know that they would inherit the "let-me-shove-the-entire-contents-of-my-room-into-my-laundry-hamper" gene. I've noticed lately, Ruthie's room has been cleaner than usual. Normally, you cannot walk through her room, which she, sadly, inherited that from her father and myself. Neither of us is all that tidy and have stories of messy rooms. At least mine never smelled. I've only heard the horror stories of his room.

Today, I decided to catch up on some much needed laundry. Everyone has been wearing their "play" clothes because that's all we have left. I asked Jeremy to carry Ruthie and Hannah's hampers downstairs to the basement. As I began to empty Ruthie's laundry basket into the washer, I noticed the top layer definitely contained smelly clothes. Digging deeper, I discovered the middle layer revealed the items being concealed by the dirty laundry. Hm, there's Elmo. And look, Goat (Hannah's purple bunny...but that's another story), and um, another stuffed animal? And a pillow? HEY WAIT A MINUTE!

Instead of putting the stuffed animals away, she shoved them into her basket, along with summer clothes that she was SUPPOSED to put in her under the bed box for next year. And of course, I had to wash the animals and the summer clothes because they reeked from the dirty stuff set on top of it.

I'll be doing laundry for the next three months. Smell ya later.  I've got another load to run.

Red tip indicates, do not put in eye.

I need sleep. This much is apparent by the fact that I nearly made myself BLIND by stupidity. But I think I'll blame it on lack of sleep. Yeah, that's what it was.

I wear rigid gas permeable lenses because my astigmatism is too bad for soft contacts. With RGP lenses, the smallest particle of dirt can cause great distress to the eye. Usually the only solution is to take the contact out, rinse it off, and put it back in. Usually, before I put the lens back into my eye, I put a drop of my conditioning solution into the lens so that it doesn't HURT. Why? Why would I subject myself to something that could be so uncomfortable? No, it's not vanity. I honestly see better with contacts than I do with glasses. And as an artist, I need to see as best as I can. So I put up with the inconveniences for better sight.

Yesterday, my right lens was bothering me. I went up to the bathroom to do the "take out and rinse off" routine so familiar to me from years of wearing these type of lenses. I rinsed off the lens, and then proceeded to put the drop of solution into it. Did I notice that the solution was cloudy instead of clear? Did I notice that the bottle was smaller than usual? Did I notice the RED TIP INDICATOR? Did I notice all the fail-safes the manufacturer puts on their bottle of lens cleaner to help the idiot consumer from sticking the stuff in his/her eyes? Apparently not.

It took all of a nanosecond to realize what moronic thing I had done. "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I dont know if I've ever screamed like that in my life.

"AH help! HELP! HHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLPPPPPPP!!!!!! My eye! My eye! My eye!"

After fighting with my eye that wanted to stay closed, I managed to get the contact out. I started to flush it out as fast as I could, but wasn't quite sure how best to do it. I called desperately for Jeremy. I wanted him to call poison control. I couldn't read the bottle at all to find out how bad of a mistake I had just made. Finally, he made it upstairs, grabbed the bottle, instructed me how to flush my eye out, returned downstairs and called poison control.

Running back into the bathroom he gave me the bad news. "Well, flush your eye out for 20-30 minutes, and if it hasn't cleared up, we have to get it looked at. Because it can be fixed today, but if we let it go, it can't be fixed tomorrow."

That's when I started to panic. My eye was cloudy and I couldn't see a darn thing out of it. I've accidentally put stuff in my eyes before, but I've never had the sensation of blindness like this was, and hearing that it 'might' end up permanent if we didn't do something 'today' frightened me even more. I started to pray. And then I began to think clearly. I asked the Jeremy to call the eye doctor and tell her the idiot thing I just did. Then I asked him to call my mother because we needed some help with the kids.

The eye doctor gave him the same information, but added, "If it doesn't clear up after flushing, I want to see her."

Did I mention this all happened an hour before we were supposed to drop Ruth off to get her costume on for the matinee performance of the Nutcracker where her entire extended family of aunts and grandparents were going to watch her? I didn't? Oh, well, of course this happened before a very momentous occasion in my daughter's life. When else would something like this happen? I continued to flush my eye out. Jer gathered the kids up. My mother came to pick them up and take everyone to the Performing Arts center for the Nutcracker. We made a break for the eye doctor.

The good news was, I flushed my eye out well enough that the cornea was only damaged on the first layer. I was told by Sunday (today) my vision should be 80% improved, and completely healed by Monday. Apparently, the cleanser has an abrasive to it. The eye doctor looked at my cornea under the microscope and saw lots of dings and dents, bumps and scratches, but nothing serious. Even so, my eye was mighty uncomfortable.

She put a drop of numbing stuff in my eye, something to dilate the pupil to help the eye rest, and a drop of antibiotic to prevent germs from brewing before the eye could rejuvenate.

I'm happy to announce, that indeed, I can see better today. It still seems a bit blurrier than usual, but I expect by tomorrow I'll be back to 100% after a good nights rest.

Just another day in the life of a "should-have-been-blond."

Wheatina Part II

While Jeremy was reading my blog, laughing at the original Wheatina post from five minutes ago, Ruth walked past and makes a horrified face. She said "Daddy! What's in the POT?!"

Jeremy. laughed, "Wheatina."

Ruth said, "Blech, ugh. It looks DISGUSTING!"

So, he took his young apprentice and instructed, "Wait till you see how deliciously I prepare this." Ruth, not looking convinced tried to escape. "No, wait, come back. I want to show you."

"I think I'm going to gag."

"First I put butter and sugar in it."

"Blech"

"You like raisin bran don't you? And toast? They're all wheat. Take a bite."

"I guess it's not so bad. Can I have a little bit?"

Sigh. I knew if he could bring someone over to the dark side, it would be Ruth.

Ugh Wheatina

I think this is the stinkiest, smelliest, awfullest food in the world. I dont know how anyone could smell it cooking and then think, mmmmmmm...let me eat some more of that! However, the mr. loves it. And he's cooking it right now. It's been a few years since he cooked it in front of me. Usually he's kind enough to save this breakfast for when I've already left for work, so that I might return to a house filled with wheatina aroma. All I can say is, at least THIS time I'm not pregnant. He always seemed to cook the stuff when I was in my first trimester. I don't think I'll ever get over the trauma.

The Boy pt. 6

This past weekend was The Boy's tenth birthday. Where did ten years go, I wonder. How fast time flies when you're having kids.

Where did my baby go?

-------------------
I love to do this tradition with my kids that my mom and dad did with us. Every year, we woke up to a balloon in our bedroom. I imagine it started innocently. One of my folks taped a blown-up latex balloon and taped it to the door. But over time, it became the helium mylar balloon. It was a simple gesture, but I loved it. It became one of my favorite surprises. I never knew what my balloon would look like, but I knew I would get one, and that was enough to make me look forward to waking up on my birthday.

I decided to carry the tradition on to my kids. I don't put the balloon in their room, and sometimes I even let them pick it out because they asked one year to do that, and they loved choosing whatever balloon they wanted. But sometimes, I just want to surprise them. I usually tie it to their chair so that when they come down the stairs to eat breakfast, there's a balloon waiting for them. So, on Saturday morning, The Boy wandered down to the kitchen and found a Spongebob Squarepants balloon. He oohed and ahhed clearly pleased with his balloon. I had no idea he what he was envisioning to do with the balloon.

Now the girls, they walk around the house for days with their balloon, tugging on the string, making up imagination games, until it gets to the point I just must through the balloon away, resulting in little sulky faces as they mourn the demise of their birthday balloon. Joshua, however, is the only person I know that can turn anything, even a balloon into a weapon of mass destruction.

I would think by age ten, he wouldn't be quite the destruct-o kid anymore. I don't know why I keep thinking this, because he hasn't changed much in ten years. First, the balloon started out as an instrument. He made wonderful rhythms with the crinkle-y mylar until I hollered "AGH! Please stop doing that!" Then five minutes later, I heard "AHHHhhh! Stoooooooooooooooooooop iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" along with some less rhythmical crinkle-y noises. Ruthie emerged and Joshua was chasing her with the balloon, a cutting a swath of destruction in his wake as he wildly swung the WMD back and forth trying to maul his little sister while issuing a battle cry not heard since Braveheart.

Needless to say, I stopped that activity pronto. I also began saving up for Ruth's future therapy bills when she has to deal with her issues of killer mylar balloons.

I'm still trying to decide if this is a "boy" thing that all boys would do, or if he just takes all "boy" things to a whole other level. I'm going to guess it's the latter. He is alpha male, after all.

Food Crack...

Any addicting food that causes cravings or inability to stop eating and requires drastic measures (ie keeping food out of home) to avoid eating. For me, this semester, it has been Goods Potato chips.

I've never liked potato chips. I grew up in pretzel land where you can buy one of about 20 different varieties of pretzels in the snack food aisle as opposed to just the stinky Rold Gold I could only find in Texas while living there...well I did find Tom Sturgis Pretzels at the commissary, but they're not my favorite.

Potato chips were never something I wanted to eat... UNTIL I encountered Goods Potato chips in the BLUE bag. Goods has two recipes, the BLUE bag and the RED bag. Both are cooked in lard, but the blue bag chips are curly and a little thicker and crispier than the red bag. Ugh. I can't stop. Add an extra stressful semester, I think I'm up three pounds.

(PS just FYI: imho, some good pretzels are Unique Splits regular, dark, oat bran, wheat, cheese, or Utz specials regular or extra dark, or Utz's honey wheat twists, mmmmmmmmmm)

An evening with the Piano Man

This week I received a flier in the mail from my Grandfather's assisted living home. The Piano Man was coming to do a Christmas carol sing-a-long and the local cable T.V. channel would be there to tape it. Gramps has been trying for awhile to get someone to come to one of these events to see the P.M. so I looked at my calendar, and thought, well, Saturday evening is open, the kids would love the entertainment, and it would be great to see Gramps.

I called the home and RSVPed that we would be there. I also called Gramps to tell him, and warned him I'd be late, most likely, since I was in charge of birthday parties at work. They never get out of the building when they are supposed to. Tonight I left at six, and the event started at six thirty. We ended up being ten minutes late.

I never expected such a packed house. Because we were ten minutes late, we ended up sitting in another room watching through large glass windows that divided the two areas. Since it was a sing-a-long, I sang, as did everyone else.

Now, I think I have a fair voice. I can carry a tune, most times, and I have always done well in choruses. But I have never had a lesson in my life. I tend to go flat, especially if I've had little to no practice on a song. But for some reason, some people think I have an amazing voice. I love the compliment, but I really don't think it is as good as they say. Either way, my voice got me into trouble tonight. The director of Gramps' home came over and begged me to sit in the room where the piano was, near the P.M. "Your voice will ring through the room, the residents will love it."

Embarrassed, but wanting to make my Grandfather proud, I decided to be a good sport, and I allowed her to shuffle me away from my family and Gramps to sit near P.M. Every so often there would be a time out because it was being recorded for T.V. and during one of those breaks, P.M. turned around and said "Is that you? You have a fabulous voice." The self-conscious feeling I was feeling before grew bigger. I was sure my face was a deep rouge.

During the next round of singing, a woman with a flashing lights Santa hat came over and put the microphone near me. I noticed the camera man motion to her to put it back and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived, however, because during the next time-out, I was asked to do a little solo. "Uh, sure," I replied uncomfortably knowing this would make Gramps' night. He had been trying for months to get me to perform for his friends. I haven't sang since high school. I just keep putting him off. Between family, work and school, I have no time to put together an hour of music. And really, that's not my thing anyway.

So, P.M. asked me,"Is there something you'd like to sing?"

I would rather sing nothing I thought to myself but instead answered, "I'm an alto, as long as it doesn't go too high, I can hit the notes."

"How about White Christmas."

"Ok."

"The cameraman says you have to stand up."

You've gotta be kidding me. "Ok." I replied as I stood up at the mic.

P.M. opened with a few bars of music and then nodded to me to start. I just prayed Please God, let me not get off key from the start. I always have trouble finding my starting pitch. Then I prayed, Please God let me hit the high notes. Actually, please let there be no high note surprises. And I started to sing. My nerves were so high, my stomach was physically shaking.

I made it through two verses he had written on the sing-a-long song sheet, and then P.M. did a musical interlude. He nodded at me to come back in, and by that time, my nerves were feeling a little better. The ending was in sight. I made it. I don't know if I hit any bad notes. I certainly hope not. Everyone complimented me at the end of the night, and my grandfather beamed ear to ear. I felt I probably would have been complimented out of courtesy if nothing else. The piano man told me I was a good sport. Not everyone is willing to do that. Now that was a compliment I could accept for face value.

I still felt embarrassed, and still do, but it was worth it to see how happy Gramps looked. Then the Mr. informed me he was going to tape the T.V. airing of tonight's show. Ugh. I didn't think about the possibility of being on T.V.! I'm now praying they edit me out, but if not, tune in and share with me my anxiety of my impromptu solo. All I know is, I doubt I'll be watching.

My new addiction

I have been playing with windows movie maker. It's fun. I wish I had a little more control over my options, but that's ok. Here's my latest creation.



Photo Sharing - Upload Video - Video Sharing - Share Photos

Mr. Literal and some other stuff

Joshua is very literal. It's easy to mess with his mind. Family members often do. So last night, I was working on my table loom, warping it. I had five yards of yarn stretched from one side of the living room to the other. Joshua wanted to get across the living room. I said, "Go under the yarn." Joshua crawled under the yarn I was holding up, and just sat down.

Jeremy thinking Joshua had become distracted by the television began to fuss at him. "What are you doing, Son? You need to get out from under there!"

Joshua said with a very honest, innocent expression on his face, "But Mama said to get under the yarn."

He'll be ten next month. Sigh.

_______________________________

Jeremy decided to mess with Ruth's head the other day. He called home from work and pretended to be a campaign caller. She hung up on him before he got ten words out of his mouth.

"Who was on the phone?" I asked.

"Some political call," she replied in disgust. I didn't blame her, we had a call every five minutes it seemed.

Jeremy immediately called back laughing. This time I answered because I wanted to be the one to hang up. He asked, "Did I make Ruth hang up on me?"

"OH! Was that you?"

"Yes, I was pretending to be a campaign caller," he laughed.

Later that night at dinner, Jeremy repeated his telephone performance to the kids.

"OOOOOOH!!" said Ruth as the lights went on in her mind, "THAT WAS YOU!" she said accusingly.

Hannah,  who didn’t want to be left out of the conversation stated, "Jim Gerlach is EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVIIIIIIIIIIIIIL!"

I think I'm glad the election season is over.

Caution!

I need a big sign for my car. Caution: Nervous Driver with poor depth perception. DO NOT HONK HORN UNLESS YOU WANT BOTH OF US TO DIE!!!!!!!!

Java Mel

Wanna know how bad the semester is? I've resorted to drinking coffee.

I'd say I'm still far from an avid coffee drinker. I still prefer tea. The purists out there would die if you saw what I do to my coffee to make it palatable to me. I understand completely. I feel that way about chocolate.

I can't handle my caffeine. It drives me insane, and most times I drink decaff everything. I will drink one caffeinated beverage in the morning, usually tea, sometimes diet soda. It has to be bad if I've resorted to coffee. Whether it has more caffeine or less than tea, I don't know, but at least it appears to affect me more, even if it is just psychologically.

The new habit began on my drive to school. I'd stop for gas. I'd pay. I saw in the Redners quickie mart that there was a hot cocoa dispenser, french vanilla coffee, and  flavored creamers, amaretto to be exact. So, I took a 12 oz cup, filled it half way with french vanilla, then filled the rest with cocoa, two flavored creamers, a handful of ice (I'm a wimp) and stir until thoroughly mixed. In essence, a mocha, since that's about the only way I will drink coffee.

After a while, I decided my costly habit was adding up, penny wise. So, I did it. I broke down and bought some french vanilla coffee and some hot chocolate in order to make the combination I've come to know and love. The mr. received a one cup coffee brewer for Christmas one year, and that's what I've been using, that and my travel mug. Before I know it, I'll be drinking this stuff without the cocoa.

Nah.

See it wiggle, See it jiggle...

Conversations I'd never dream I'd overhear when I was a parent.

Joshua(supposedly fixing his lunch for school tomorrow): Your butt really wobbles. Wobbabobba wobbabobba

Ruth (also supposedly fixing her lunch for school tomorrow): hahahahahaha

Joshua: Mine wobbles too, but I have to relax it first. Go ahead, wobble it. Wobbabobba wobbabobba

Ruth: hehehehehehehehe You're right!

Joshua: wobbabobba wobbabobba wobbabobba

Ruth: BWAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

How to make mom fall up the stairs

(a handy twelve step guide for kids with parents)

I'm in so much pain! I just fell UP the basement stairs. How does one fall UP stairs? Well, let me tell you, it's very easy. Ruth has it down to a science. It is a regular occurrence in this house that I stumble over her things at least once a week. Usually while going up a set of stairs. That's not quite difficult here considering we have three flights of steps from the basement to the attic and all the rooms are utlitized on all floors.

With out further ado, let me share with you her twelve easy steps.

1. Get mom to put kids toys in the somewhat finished basement. (Ok, it IS finished, but with seventies paneling and gross brown carpeting).

2. Ask your grandmother to buy you something useless for Christmas. For example: bella dancerella ballet kit

3. Take present out of box.

4. Have Dad assemble gift.

5. Discover the toy is not at all as much fun as the commercial said it would be

6. Listen as parental units tell you to put toy away.

7. Let toy sit around neglected for almost a year.

8. Pull neglected toy out from basement, because it was forgotten how un-fun it is

9. Observe parental unit number two inform you that toy MUST be put away because he is tired of tripping on it in the kitchen.

10. Wait for parental unit to discover that you did NOT put toy back in the basement, but dumped it on the floor right under the stair landing.

11. Know that once at school the parental unit will go down to the basement, notice toy, step over it while think to herself "I'm gonna make that kid put this away when she gets home from school or else I'm gonna throw it away!"

12. Know that parental unit will attempt to go back up stairs, stepping over toy again, getting foot caught in the toy, and doing a face plant on the steps, while banging knee, elbow, and getting a nice nasty brush burn up the leg.

(note, these tips can work on a level floor too. Make sure anything is in the normal walking path of the parent before leaving for school every morning. Like a mouse in a trap, eventually a parental unit will fall prey. Also note, parental units will make you regularly clean up trap every day upon arrival home from school. By varying location of trap daily, parental unit will be caught off guard and thereby allowing frequent capture. Otherwise, parental unit will grow weary of the routine, and begin picking up said items for you, which is what you wanted in the first place, right?)

Cinders?

Last night I was working in my weaving room. Hannah sat on the floor quietly playing. She often keeps me company. Suddenly she stopped her little game, looked up towards me and asked, "What are cinders?"

Hmm, what a strange question, I thought to myself, I wonder where this is going? So I decided to dig a little deeper into the four year old mind to see what she was thinking before I answered her question. "What do you mean?"

"What are cinders?" she repeated herself a little more insistently. Com'mon mom, it's not THAT hard to understand what I'm saying.

"Where did you hear that word?"

"At cubbies. While we were yet cinders..."Her voice trailed off.

"AHHH," I exclaimed. Cubbies was the key to unlock her mind. She was thinking about Awana at my sister's church. "You mean Sinners. While we were yet sinners." I then proceeded to explain the word to her.

After a brief pause as she digested this, she asked, "Well then, what ARE cinders?"

I replied, "They're the rocks they put on the road when it snows and ices so that the cars don't slip."

A visual picture must have been forming in her mind because she started to crack up. "That'd be silly. People can't be rocks." she said to herself as she began to shake her head and continued the private conversation, "ahh," Hannah sighed. "While we were yet cinders. How silly."

My Mishka мышка

I might have to change Ruthie's moniker. I might have to start calling her Mishka мышка. Why? Because Mishka мышка is the Russian word for Mouse. Today Ruth, um, I mean Mishka мышка auditioned to be a mouse in the Berks Ballet Theater production of the Nutcracker.

Pretty much anyone who showed up for the audition made it. I didn't realize this, but the BBT's production is pretty much put on by its students. There will only be a few 'professional' adult dancers in the company that will play some of the principals, such as the sugar plum fairy. Everyone else is under twenty, it seems. It was fascinating to watch the teens auditioning for parts in the other room while Mishka мышка was busy scurrying around like a mouse. They will perform at the Sovereign Performing Arts Center, which is a rather large stage and theater. That will be exciting.

I'm uncertain how this will all pan out for her. She was a little out of sorts over the audition. She despises large crowds of people. Today it was suffocatingly claustrophobic. About fifty little Mishki мышки showed up to audition. At the end of the half hour, my little Mishka мышка looked very distressed and tired. I asked her if she really wanted to do this. She was very insistent. I informed her that there would be lots of sitting and waiting and lots of people and sometimes chaos. "Are you sure?" I repeated my question. Mishka мышка nodded her head in the affirmative. She wants to be on stage.

Many parents were veterans, either having their little mouse perform in years past, or having had an older former mouse who had now graduated to "angel." Either way, I was getting the low down. The rehearsal schedule seems to fit in our lives, Saturdays 10-10:45 until after Thanksgiving, then it will be 3-5 pm on Sundays...not too bad. I will have to sew a mouse "hat" for the costume. I can totally understand why the BBT doesn't provide 50 little mouse hoods for costumes. That would get overwhelming. Next week I will get the pattern. We will have a fund raiser of poinsettias or Wilbur buds. (Anyone want to buy a poinsettia?) So, why not add some more insanity to our already busy life.

Really it came down to this. There is one thing that Mishka мышка has been rather persistent about: dancing. She has bugged and pestered and begged for classes for as long as I can remember. And when presented with the opportunity to be part of a major dance production, she was the driving factor for us getting her to this audition today. She didn't forget the date or the time ONCE. Being the middle child, sometimes she gets lost. She ends up following in her older brother's footsteps and does the same activities he's been excelling at for years: soccer, swimming, etc. Or she gets side stepped because of her "cute, sometimes funny, and sometimes very annoying" little sister, Hannah. This is her moment, not the Joshua's, not Hannah's. Even though she'll be surrounded by fifty other little mice, she will be the "star" for the night. That alone, will make it worth it. I hope.

[ed. to anon... to transliterate the Russian ы into english is difficult since there is no exact sound. The reason I (mr. mel) chose the english letter "i" is because the short "i" as in the word "is" is closer to the ы sound than any other.]

The Devil made her do it...

Hannah seems to be on a roll this week.

Today is Thursday. Thursday is the oh-so-treasured-swimming-lesson day. Every morning, Hannah wakes up and says "Is today my swimming lesson?"

"No today is Monday. You have school."

"Is it show and tell?"

"no, that's Friday."

We have the same conversation on Wednesday.

On Tuesdays she gets frustrated because there isn't any school, but there isn't any swimming lesson either. The Tuesday question is always, "So what exactly ARE we going to do today?" Imagine her disappointment when I say "Nothing."

On Thursdays, before she can even ask, I will say "Guess what day it is?"

"MY SWIMMING LESSON!!" Hannah will holler as she leaps out of bed and runs to find her coveted bathing suit, even though her lesson isn't until 2:00pm. It makes for a long day.

"Is it my lesson now?"

"No. After lunch."

"Now?"

"No, not for two more hours."

"Now?"

"Now."

Four year olds seem to have a little more concept of time than three year olds, but not much. At least she doesn't beg every ten minutes like she did last year.

So today, during her much anticipated lesson, she did something rather unusual for the Hannah. She pushed her fellow classmate causing the classmate to cry. Her classmate was bending over to wash off her goggles. Thankfully, the other little girl didn't fall into the water, as Hannah had hoped.

Her teacher asked, "Why did you push her?"

Hannah, all serious, replied, "Well, her hiney was sticking up at me and I couldn't stop myself."

That answer made it just a little difficult for her instructor to go through the water safety rules while maintaining composure.

So easy a four year old can do it!

My mother and sister went to a bead show the other day. They brought home a toy for me: The Diva Custom Cord maker. It's a neato-vambeeto gadget that allows you to braid cords with very little thought required. Can you count to three? Can you rotate a disk in the same direction every time? Well, then you TOO can use the Diva Custom Cord Maker. In fact, it's so easy a FOUR year old can do it!

I believe the technique is really called Kumihimo. I've seen these wooden contraptions around on ebay before, and they really intrigued me. The Diva is mere plastic, but it accomplishes the same effect. I think it's more portable too.

So on Sunday, I received this contraption, and knowing what it was, immediately abandoned my homework and began to make my very OWN CUSTOM CORD! Fascinated, Ruth begged to try it. Sure, I thought, why not, it's easy enough. I knew she could handle it. And handle it, she did. She made a huge long cord that she's been tying everything together with. Brilliant.

This morning, I was trying (emphasis on the word trying) to get some weaving done when Hannah asked, "Can I try that thing?"

"What thing?" I implored, trying to figure out what she wanted.

"You know, that thing. You were using it the other day and it made that LONG long thing."

hmm, two things. That thing that made that long long thing. "OH!" I exclaimed as I figured out she meant the Diva Custom Cord Maker. (I just love saying that). "You want to make your own cord?"

I was skeptical that she could manage it, but what did it hurt to try. I told her that she'd have to do it on her own. I had to weave.

"Ok. I can do it." She responded optimistically. I remained the forever pessimist, figuring Hannah would cry, get frustrated, and constantly make me stop what I was doing to help her. But being the indulgent mother that I am, I set up the cord maker, and got her started. After about two times she said, "Aren't you going to go over and weave?"

"I will. I just want to make sure you've got it first."

"I've got it. You can go and weave." In otherwords, get lost mom.


And surprisingly, she DID have it down. I was so impressed, I ran and got my camera and snagged a video. The radio is playing in the background. I only get one stinkin' station on the dang thing, but I figure some noise is better than no noise. I have to have noise to work.



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Well, her attention span did eventually get the best of the Hannah. She managed to make all of a half of an inch. Still, I'm impressed. She had no tangles. No mix ups. Nothing.

An Afternoon at the Salon

Only once in my life did I attempt to cut my daughters' hair. It only took once to realize that I am no stylist. I ended up taking them to a salon and having their hair "fixed." Don't get me wrong, I cut the Mr's and Josh's hair every two to three weeks when the two of them suddenly feel overwhelmed by the bush growing on the tops of their heads. I am using hyperbole here. Jer would keep his army "do" if I'd let him, and Josh is just obsessively neat with his locks. I asked him once if he'd like to grow his hair long and be a rock 'n' roll drummer, but his alpha male testosterone took over his mouth as he blurted "Heck no! I'd look like a GIRL!!!!" Josh is a little OCD about his hair anyway. I have to talk him through the months of September and October to help him overcome his fear of a shaggy head.

"We need to grow your hair out a little longer for the winter so you wont be so cold."

"I know. I just hate how shaggy it is."

"It isn't even touching your ears."

"I know. I just don't want bangs."

"You wont have bangs. But you'll be cold if you keep your buzz cut."

I kid you not, Josh looks forward to spring when I shear his head. I discovered the real reason behind his angst. He doesn't want to have to spend that extra ten minutes a day combing out his hair. I can't wait to remind him of this fact in a couple of years when he's poised in front of the mirror for an hour trying to get that "just right" moppy look. Or whatever is in style by then.

Due to this crazy semester I'm having, I allowed Ruth to look like a sheep dog. Her bangs were well into her eyes and the layers that had been cut into the back of her hair a month or so ago were practically non-existent. There just hasn't been a moment in time where I could take her to get it trimmed up. I wasn't about to even touch her bangs. I was clipping them back with a bobby pin. Being that today was that oh-so-important holiday of Columbus Day, the kids were off from school, so I dragged them to the mall for a cut. I don't usually go to the mall, I was just desperate and my regular salon is closed on Mondays. Go figure.

We were very fortunate. One of the stylists took us right away, and Ruth hopped up into the chair. Meanwhile, Hannah, began to entertain herself with singing. Before long, she realized she had acquired a captive audience of fellow customers sitting in salon chairs and became more purposeful in her performance. After a bit, Ruth was finished, and it was Hannah's turn in the big chair.

As she hopped up the stylist said, "You like to sing, don't you?"

"Yup!" she replied cheerfully. She was thrilled to get her hair cut.

"How old are you?" asked the stylist.

"I'm four. I'm a Hannah monkey. I'm cute and sometimes funny and sometimes Veeeeeery annoying."

With that, the entire salon burst out in laughter. Hannah, playing to her crowd, ever the comedian, beamed from ear to ear knowing she had reeled them in, and had delivered her punch line with finesse.

The Boy's crazy dream

A few weeks ago, I was upstairs getting dressed when I heard Joshua telling Ruth and Hannah a story. It was rather elaborate, more elaborate than he usually is. Joshua is good at many things, but he doesnt usually make up stories, unlike his cousin whose stories are absolutely incredible. So I asked him "What are you saying? Are you making up a story?"

"No, I'm just telling them my crazy dream I had last night," Joshua replied.

"Can you tell it to me?"

So he began his story, and it was so crazy, I made him stop, and I sat down at the computer and typed it into MS Word so I wouldnt lose it. It seemed incredibly metaphorical and was completely unlike anything Joshua would normaly dream. He tends to be more like the mr.

"I had this crazy dream last night"

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it had an elephant in it"

"An elephant? What else?"

"That's it."

That's usually how those conversations go with either of the men in my house.

Without further ado, the Dream:

Daddy was a gold miner, and the more you went upstream, the better the gold was. And if you went up the rainbow stream far enough there was the finest gold, but nobody ever touched it because nobody wanted it to get rotten. So one day Daddy took us down the rainbow stream, which was small and thin but it was right next to a stream that was big and wide. The rainbow stream was colorful. The gold was hidden in clay. We had to get a thin layer of clay. And if the gold didn’t stay in the clay then it would rot. That’s why nobody ever touched it.

So one piece was under a thin layer of clay. You could see because it sparkled through. The clay was grey, dull and grey. And Daddy dug open the clay, but not for long. “You can only peek for a few minutes. Don’t touch it. For we don’t want this gold to rot” But everybody wanted the gold because it would be worth a bazillion dollars. BUT, if they had it for too long, it would rot. It would rot in a half an hour. And it would take them three hours to actually purify the gold so it would be a zillion dollars.

So Daddy closed up the clay, and we went along our way back down the stream. On the other side of the plain stream there were two trees, not ordinary trees. They were alive. The good one got stronger by day. The bad one got stronger by night. Yet they minded their own business even though one was good and one was evil. Daddy said the good tree is old and wise, and the evil tree is bad and unwise. The bad tree wanted the gold, that pure gold. And there was the vulnerable spot in the back of the bad one, yet there was no vulnerable spot in the back of the good one.

Daddy said “we have to destroy the bad tree. There was a flap to control both tree, but it wasn’t a remote controller. Somebody went to sneak behind the evil tree, but there were pricker bushes behind the evil tree. SO he had to go around the good tree and be slim between the two trees because there were old dry leaves that fell to the ground. In the back of the evil tree there was a BIG hole that had something squishy inside. The guy was back there all night, waiting for day because at night he got more powerful and the hole closes up. By day the hole opened up, and he threw a spear into the squishy thing. And the evil tree died, and the good tree could grow during day. At night nothing happened to him.

Reading and Writing is FUN!

When Joshua was two, being the precocious first child, he tackled reading and writing early. By age three, he could write most of his letters in capital letters, most of which were backwards. He could write his name, but the letters weren't necessarily in order, and often took up the entire page. I have the proof scratched into my antique bed headboard. Still, at the time, I didnt know how impressive that was. Because he was the driving force behind his learning anything, I didnt realize that most kids don't have that drive.

When he was four, he obessessed over counting. He had decided he was going to learn how to count to 100. Every car ride, every time we got into the car, before I could buckle him into his car seat, like a good little rainman, he'd begin "one...two...three...four...five..." until he'd get quite far "seventy-one...seventy-two...seventy-three...seventy-five...OH!! Argh! one...two...three...four..."

"Son, you can just start back at seventy if you mess up in the "seventies" rather than go all the way back to one."

It didnt matter, he would insist upon starting at one. Simultaneously, he decided he was going to learn how to read these large digits. Grocery shoping became an activity I looked forward to even more than I had before. Not.

"This is four dollars and seventy nine cents. This is one dollar and thiry-nine cents. This is eighty-nine cents" he would chant walking behind me while I'd push the cart containing Ruth whose eyes were glazing over.

Ruth eventually became three and had interest in learning to read and write like her older brother who was in kindergarten at the time. She would ask to learn, but, it became clear quickly she did NOT want to be taught. Jeremy and I are not the type of parents to force feed our kids anything, but if they say "Show me how to..." we'll drop what we're doing, more or less, and show them.

So, from three to four, we were locked into a passive aggressive battle. She'd ask us to show her letters, and then sit there determined not to try. We just figured she was curious because of her brother's school work, but not quite old enough. She was different from him, and it was OK if it didn't "happen" at the same age. I knew at some point in her life, she'd have to learn how to write. If she was seven and still unable to write her name, well, then I'd worry. I was not about to continue in that vein, so I decided to send her to preschool when she was four.

I had discovered through Joshua's previous educational experience that kindergarten these days is very grueling. By then end of the year, they can read and write well. I didn't do that stuff till I was in first grade! His teacher told us at orientation in may that it would be helpful if they came in after the summer at least exposed minimally to the alphabet and knowing how to write their names with "A capital letter and all lowercase afterward. Not all capitals." She sent us home with nursery rhymes and the games to promote their "Phonemic Awareness" (insert echo here).

So, I figured that at least in preschool, they would teach Ruth to write her name, since I couldn't. And on her own, by five, she learned how to read at a much earlier age than her brother. By the second week of kindergarten her teacher was showing us the stories she was writing. Walking home after "meet the teacher" night, Jeremy and I looked at each other and said "I didn't even know she could do that!" Ruth tends to hide her "abilities" from us. Sometimes I think she doesn't want us to know what she is capable of figuring we would expect less of her.

Fast foward a few years. Hannah, now age four, has finally decided to be interested in letters. She learned how to write an H, an A, and an O. We get pages and pages filled with these letters. She finally learned how to write her name, sort-of. Her father and siblings has taken to calling her "Hammah" since she struggles with making N's. Thankfully she has a better sense of humor than her siblings who would have been in tears by now.

Hammah and Jeremy have this game. She writes her "letters" on a page, and asks him to "read" her "story." Being the funny, silly, daddy that he is, Jeremy will put on his best narrative voice, stand upright, take a deep breath and begin changing the pitch of his voice for each "word."

"H-h-h-h-h-haaaaaaaa-h... H-h-h-h-h... h-o-o-o-o-oh... HA! H-h-ho-h..." he said, making each "word" sound like it was from a foreign language, making the "H-h-h's" sound gutteral.

So this morning, after "reading" her "stories" for the umpteenth time, Jeremy decided to reverse rolls.

"Now," he instructed as he leaned over her, his seemingly massive body creating a shadow over her petite preschool self, "I'm going to write a letter and YOU tell me what it is."

The older sibs saw him making a D, then an A and Ruth blurts "you're writing Daddy!"

"Nope," he replied as he finished off with another D, then motioned to Ruth to not give it away. What is this letter?"

Hannah replied with a shrug.

"This is a D. Duh-duh- Dee" He instructed.

Remember what sound an "A" makes?

Hannah, with an ornery glint in her eye looked up at her father who was leaning over her, made eye contact, batted her eyes at her daddy, reached up and gently touched his cheek and giggled, "It's nice and shady!"

Still making eye-contact, and without missing a beat, Jeremy said, "Aaaaaa" Then he looked at her older brother and sister who were giggling through the events of the morning, and said flatly "I don't think Hannah wants to learn her letters because it's 'nice and shady' " He returned his gaze back at Hannah, who had continued looking at him and rubbing his cheek.

Continuing to look at her father straight in the eye, "Dee, Daddy. This is a Dee. Duh-duh-dee," Hannah chimed in without missing a beat.

I was sitting across the table from her as my husband looked back at me with his best poker face trying to contain his chuckle. About that point, I lost it, and that made the kids lose it with me. I don't know if it was the way my husband said it or the expression on his face afterward, or if it was the way she deflected his attempts that made me lose it, but I fell off my chair laughing at this distinct little personality that had decided to show itself.

Unlike her brother who would have "argh-ed and Oh-ed!" and fussed and fumed, but still attempted it, because he was driven and wouldn't let you leave until he mastered it, unlike her older sister who would have just sat their all mopey-eyed and would begin to cry and whine, "I can't do it," Hannah decided to go for the "Let me see if my cuteness and humor will distract him" method.

Heaven help her kindergarten teacher.

Men will be boys...

The one thing my mother always told me when I was young, was this "Boys never grow up, they just get more expensive toys." Isn't that the truth!

A few Sundays ago, the Mr. plugged his cello into a fellow guitarist's distortion pedal and played around with it.

"I have GOT to HAVE one of these!" he said excitedly.

I don't know about most men, but my men tend to obsess over things. Once they get an idea in their heads, they can't let go of it. This was one of those times.

So last week, Jeremy took Joshua to his drum lesson which happens to take place at a music store, and while he was there, he casually mentioned to the clerk his experience with the pedal. The clerk said something to the extent of "I'd love to see that. You should bring your cello with you sometime." I'm paraphrasing here, because I wasn't at the music store last week, and I received this story second hand.  Besides, my men also have a tendency to use as few words as possible. It's entirely conceivable that this is exactly how the conversation went.

Jeremy apparently plotted and planned all week, because Saturday rolled around again, and he decided to take his cello into the store. The clerk hooked him all up to the pedal, and within minutes a distorted cello sound filled the air. "That's awesome," the clerk chuckled. For the next half hour, Jeremy and the clerk tried out about five different pedals finding the one that made the most noise, er, music. Meanwhile, other customers milling about the store were watching with keen interest. A few, came through the door, obviously expecting to see an electric guitar on the other side of that cable, were surprised it was a cello. Honestly, I'm not sure who was having more fun, the clerk, or Jeremy.

Of course, a pedal had to come home with us. It just begged to be bought. Jer, delighted with his new gadget, plugged it in shortly after dinner. His amp is not as nice as the one at the music store, but that didn't matter.  What mattered was my man's happiness, and I can honestly say, he was ecstatic.

Hannah V. Daddy. The Mango Mandarin debaucle.

(as told by the mr.)

I go into the girls room to put the girls to bed and I smell something fruity.
It smells like lotion.
Hannah has been warned about playing with lotion.
The prosecutor-in-chief decides to get to the bottom of this.
(Put on stern face)
"Were you playing with cream?"
"No", replies Hannah.
(She's lying, I think. I definitely smell something.)
(Put on sterner face)
"Did you play with cream?", I insist.
"No"
(Hmmm, change of tactic.)
"Well then what is it that I smell?" (Even sterner face)
(Aha, got her now, I think)
"Mango Mandarin" she replies quietly, quickly.
(OK, supress smile.)
Not quite believing what I hear, I reply "What?"
"Mango Mandarin."
(trying to put on as stern a face as I can)
"Mango Mandarin what?"
She proceeds to show me the bottle of Bath and Body Works Mango Mandarin Body Spray.
(Well, she wasn't lying)
And thats how Hannah survived the interogation.

Eeyore Swims!

Ruthie, sad to say, is a bit like her dad and me...couch potatoes. I don't have to allow her to watch t.v. for her to be a potato. She has a world stuffed inside of her head. And when she's not allowed to veg in front of some electronic device, she sits on the couch and dazes off...for hours. So, when I found a physical activity that she moderately likes...well, I threw her into it, literally kicking and screaming. Oh alright, it has been more like whining and moping and passive aggressively resisting.

Last summer I signed both the older kids onto the local pool's swim team and was shocked to find out Ruth was a bit of a natural. She was only six, a rather young age to be swimming on a team, at least I believe so, and holding her own. Her times were as good as her brother's times and she was two and a half years younger than him. In fairness to Joshua, he has a ton of muscle mass to haul around. He sinks like a rock.

Either way, Ruthie's talent came as a bit of a surprise. So, of course, like any mother, I want to put her into the thing that gets her the most recognition and accolades. It would be good for her self-esteem, I figured. So, when fall came around, and she had had enough of a break from swimming, I signed her up for lessons to help her improve and keep her exercising. Well, I would have thought that I signed her up for boot camp. This half-hour, once a week, torture was almost more than she could bear from the sound of her carrying on. I pitied her teacher. Sure, I teach swimming, but there is a truth about parents and kids. Kids, often, will not learn from their parents, and this is more than true for Ruth. I dragged her out of more than one lesson this past winter, threatening. She'd shape up, only to do it again the next week. Sigh.

So, when she agreed to swim on the team again this year, I was a bit taken aback. But mean mom that I am, I was going to make her do it anyway. I figure of all the ways to get a little exercise in your life, this was the one activity she did enjoy more than the others. (We're trying soccer this fall. Wheeeeeew boy...I hope she will like running!) We made an agreement, a no-whining, crying, moping agreement.

Tonight was their first meet. I was proud of my lil Ruthie. At one point her goggles filled with water and she couldn't see, ran into the lane line, but she didn't stop. Not once. She pushed on through to the end of her race. And the best part was, she was really really happy through the whole meet and very pleased with herself. She had fun, and that was all that mattered.

I hate junk mail

I don't understand how they work the mailing lists. I really don't. When I had my first born, I ended up on a gazillion lists for new baby stuff. But, after he reached a year of age, I stopped receiving all of those coupons and free diaper samples, until I had my second child. Same scenario. However, when I had child number three, the diaper coupons resumed their attack on my mail slot when she turned two years old. I should have been getting coupons for pull-ups, but no. I was receiving newborn diaper samples. My girls were thrilled, diapers for their baby dolls and just the right size!

So, I figured I would just wait it out, and eventually the freebies that I no longer needed would stop. I was wrong. They just keep recycling themselves, and with different names! No longer need I be called "Mel" for I am now Le B. Ooh, how about the MYSTERIOUS Le B. Jeremy enjoyed putting on his best french accent as he handed me my junk mail. "Here you go, Luh Beh."

Everyone has had this happen to them at one point. I remember when my mother ended up with mail addressed to Berbie. Berbie is no-where near the spelling of her real name. Not even remotely close. Oh, ok, her name does start with a B, but that's about it. So, it isn't the Le B. so much that bothers me. Or the fact that I can't get off of the new mommy list of doom.

See, I started receiving mail for retired persons: AARP, Medicare, free screenings, etc. Jeremy exclaimed one day,"What kind of lists are you on!? It's like they think you're some senior citizen that has just given birth!?" Tonight he added, "They must figure anyone who takes as much medication as you do must be old." Gee thanks.

Hey! I only LOOK like I'm in my thirties! I'm really seventy-three. That plastic surgery did me some good. But I'm not sure about these diapers. They're a bit too small for me to fit into. What ever happened to depends?

Hannah's "issue"

My youngest is really coming into her own. Every day she adds more and more words to her vocabulary. Sometimes, however I'm not always sure she knows exactly what they mean.

For example, the other day she "designed" a drawing of a boat that was sinking and a boat that was not sinking. Next she said with as much mystery as she could muster that she "designed" a picture "Of the Man NOBODY expected." Expected is a big word for a little girl who just turned four last Sunday. I liked her title so much, though, I might have to steal it for an upcoming piece.

So, today, Hannah asked for an apple. A simple request really, except no one had been eating the apples in the fruit bowl, so no one had noticed that it was full of rotting apples and their, gag, vinegary smelling juices. Halfway through cleaning the fruit bowl, she sighed.

Positioning her hands to the side of her head, palms opened upward, eyes reaaaaaal wide, Hannah lamented, “I have an issue.”

I replied, “Oh really? What kind of 'issue'?”

She answered all sad and forlorn, “A rotting apple issue. There are no apples to eat.”

I said “You think YOU have an issue? You’re not cleaning out the bowl.”

“Yeah,” She said, “That’s true.”

Suddenly she spotted an O.K. apple on the counter left over from yesterday's picnic lunch. I washed it and gave it to her. “Ahhhhhhhh,” she sighed, “All nice and shiny and clean apple.”

I'm so glad she got her ‘issue’ resolved.

Getting in shape

I have a new plan to collect Jeremy's life insurance. It's called exercise.

Since Jeremy left the army, he has put on a few pounds. But poundage aside, which really isnt that much, he's lost most of his muscle tone. One could say, he's a bit out of shape. I really can't talk. I'm out of shape too, and still trying to remove the rest of my freshman twenty. I managed to lose the baby weight from three pregnancies. But I'm still about seven pounds away from my pre-college days. Oh sure, it sounds like I'm dreaming big trying to get back to a weight that I was fifteen years ago, but I'm a short person and I can't afford to carry a lot of weight around. Not to mention, the heart disease in my family. Plus, it just doesn't hurt to be in shape.

Now that I'm done talking to myself about the virtues of being excruciatingly stiff and sore, I'll continue. So, Jeremy has this co-worker who says "Hey, we play tennis at six am on Wednesdays...come join us!" Wednesday arrived and much to my surprise, he popped out of bed ready to play. He also forgot to re-set the alarm, which is another story in and of itself. Invigorated, he came home, showered, and talked about how he thought he could manage doing this every week.

Last night I mentioned I'd like to get up early and start exercising again. I had been doing that, but then school kind of took over and well, I havent exercised since. If my dance class counts (which I think it does)...it had been since the fall semester, at the very least. I asked Jeremy if he'd like to join me. "Sure," he said.

Five A.M. rolled around and the alarm went off. BEEEEP!!! BEEEEP!! BEEEEP!! We have the worlds loudest alarm clock. It is possible to hear the clock outside on the sidewalk, and yet it is not loud enough to wake Jeremy It wakes the entire neighborhood, just not him. In his sleep he hit the snooze button.

Being a morning person, I cheerfully asked, "So, um, how long do we keep hitting the button until we get up? I mean, what time are you really aiming to wake up and get moving?"

"Grmmm ummmm hmmmmm," he mumbled.

I tapped him, called his name and repeated my question. I know he sets the alarm so far in advance so he can snooze it a gazillion times. The habit almost ended our marriage several times. In the past, I got up on the first beep and then I would be WIDE awake trying to regain my sleep since I didn't have to get up as early. Each BEEEEP!!! would roll around in my head clanging and banging until I would want to shove the clock down his throat. Eleven years later, I've gotten used to it, sort-of. It doesn't make me hostile anymore...well, not too hostile. So, I wanted to know how long I was going to have to hear the alarm clock. I certainly wasn't going to leave the bed. I have also learned from eleven years of marriage, that if I get out of bed and don't bring him along, he'll hit the snooze button for two hours and still be late.

"I asked when are we getting up?" I repeated myself for the umpteenth time.

"yeah, ok." He said with his eyes open. He was clearly still asleep.

So, I decided to wait until the next snooze and ask again. I actually repeated my question until about five forty-five when I said "Ok, if we don't get up soon, we wont exercise." (I think that was the idea he had in mind). I finally received a coherent response.

"Ok, Ok...I'll be down in a few minutes."

"Uh-huh, sure."

I knew I had to don my exercise garb and shoes, put up my hair, take my drugs, and anything else I could think of. So I left the room, turning on every light I could find. I finished my "routine" wandered back up to the attic where we sleep and saw him still in bed, with the covers completely over his head.

"Com'mon." I poked him. "Get up. Time to get up. You said you'd exercise with me."

"Ok, Ok...I'll be down in a few minutes."

"You said that already."

"I did?" He feigned innocence.

"Yes you did. I already got dressed, pulled back my hair, took my drugs, and you're not out of bed."

"Ok, ok..I'll be down in a few minutes."

"I'm not leaving until you get out of bed."

"See, I'm moving." He moved his arms back and forth and his legs to show he was indeed getting out of bed. After eleven years, I know all the tricks.

"I'm not leaving."

When I finally saw him begin to roll, and I do mean roll, out of bed with a groan, I knew he was truly on his way to being awake. So I went back downstairs and got out the free weights.Two minutes later I heard his thump thump thump down the stairs.

"So, what are we going to do?" he asked.

"Lets start with weights," I said.

We started to exercise, and he grumbled groaned and "oh my goodness"-ed through every exercise. I began to worry I was killing him. Then we did crunches. The man who would do, I don't know how many but it was a lot of, sit-ups in two minutes? Now he struggled with twenty.

"Augh! Ugh! Unnnnnngggh! Oh my goodness!" he said. The poor guy was miserable and I was worrying that he wasn't going to make it, or worse yet, he'd never work-out with me again. It's always better to have a buddy when self-inducing torture.

He survived, as did I, though I'm not too sure he went to work too happy about it. We'll see how it goes tomorrow.

The Sidewalk Chalk Vandal

I like to spoil my nieces and nephews by doing something one on one with them to celebrate their birthday. I was belated in my birthday outing with my youngest niece. It was a nice afternoon. She got to pick out ANYTHING she wanted from Wal-Mart. Well, ok, not anything. I didn’t want my sister to kill me. And then we went to Mc Donalds to eat lunch and play on the playland. Hannah and my niece, who I'll refer to as Miss E, love each other to pieces. After lunch Miss E came over to our house and she and Hannah played happily all afternoon. Joshua and Ruth came home from school, and it was, sadly, time to take Miss E home.

After we got home from dropping Miss E off at her house the kids ran outside to play. Looking at the back patio and Joshua ran back inside and yelled, “MAMA! SOMEONE HAS BEEN WRITING ON OUR PATIO!!” in his loudest indignant voice.

“Yes,” I said, “I let Miss E and Hannah play with sidewalk chalk.”

“NOOO!!!!!!!” he argued “SOMEONE WROTE LETTERS! LETTERS!”

I said “Well, do they spell anything?”

“No, BUT SOMEONE WROTE LETTERS!” Joshua repeated.

“Miss E wrote those, I’m sure. If they don’t spell anything, I’m sure it was her.” I tried to reassure him.

“YEAH, BUT BUT BUT…There’s Peeee’s and Rrrr’s and Beeeee’s” he continued to verbally spar with me, drawing out the sound of each letter.

“Yes,” I repeated. “I’m sure Miss E wrote those. Do you think someone would sneak into our yard and just randomly write B’s and P’s and R’s?” I tried to reason with The Boy.

“No. You’re not listening.” He complained.

I’m not listening? I thought.

Joshua, prosecutor for the district attorney, continued to present his evidence, growing more insistent and indignant, “They look too good, like a big person wrote them. I’m sure Miss E can’t write that nicely.”

“Ok, let’s look at this logically. It’s a string of random letters in chalk. If someone was going to jump our fence and write something with our side-walk chalk,” I began to repeat myself speaking very slowly, “Do…you…think…they…would…write…B’s… and P’s… and… R’s??? What… do… you… think… they… would… write?” I was being a bit of a smart-alec myself, but I couldn’t help it. He was driving me crazy.



“Bad words? Silly things? Gross stuff?” Josh  was finally starting to connect some dots. “But how can Miss E have such nice handwriting?”

“I don’t know. She just does.”

“Hannah can’t write like that.”

“Yes, well, Hannah is a little behind. You could write like that at their age. Ruthie could write like that.”

“OOOOOoooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

(Ding ding ding! By jove, I think he’s got it!)

Whew.

I think if Mr. Detective had just looked a little more closely, he would have noticed the artist’s signature:

Happy Mother's Day to me

There are certain things no one tells you when you sign up for motherhood, and it's for a good reason, or else there wouldn’t be mothers. No one tells you that your child will puke on you, or puke on their swimming instructor. No one tell you that your child will have an explosion in their pants, long after they've outgrown diapers. No one tells you that you'll be sneezed on, coughed on, used as a tissue. No one tells you that you'll get pink-eye during finals week from your child. No one tells you that your children will inherit your less desirable genes along with the ones you've always hoped to pass on to future generations.

Oh there were so many things Jeremy and I would dream our children would inherit from us: his brown skin, his musical ability, my artistic ability. We would look at our kids for the physical features they possess that have been handed down from generation to generation. "Look, he inherited the eyebrows!" "Wow, she is JUST like you in personality." Those are the things that made us want to have offspring, to keep a little piece of us alive into the future, long after we've left this earth. We didn’t think once about the negative crap we'd hand down to them as well, like nosebleeds.

Oh Ruth is her father's child, right down to the nosebleeds. Jeremy suffers horrible and disgusting nosebleeds. It was one of those fun things I learned about AFTER I married him. I'm not sure how long after, I just remember waking up in the middle of the night to him sitting next to me, a puddle of blood on his pillow, streams of blood dripping down his hands, his face covered in blood, holding a tissue trying to contain it enough to make a run for the bathroom. I freaked out. I had never seen so much blood just randomly decide to make a public appearance through the nasal cavity. Over the years, he learned how to prevent them with a q-tip and some Vaseline before bedtime. I've begged him to see a doctor to get those troublesome capillaries cauterized, but I supposed the idea of sticking a burning stick up the nose to seal them off outweighed the inconvenience of the bloody nose. I can't tell you how many pillows I've thrown out.

So this morning, I got up early before church to get a nice soak in the tub. It was Jeremy's turn to play his cello, so he and Josh were leaving early for practice, and we were going to catch up with them when the service started. Ahhhh. A nice Mother's Day soak in the tub. I deserved it, I felt. I was not five minutes into the soak when Ruth bounded into the bathroom, covered in blood, moaned and threw her head over the sink. "I have a terrible terrible nose bleed" she whined.

I hopped out of the tub, dripped across the hallway, grabbed a wad of tissues from Josh's bedroom, dripped back over threw them over her nose, and grabbed a washcloth. I proceeded to wipe off all the blood which was on her hands, neck, chest, legs, feet, arms, and even her butt. How did the blood get on her butt, I will never know. I then cleaned up the floor, the sink, the wall behind the sink, the mirror, the toilet, the stool she was standing on, and any other surface that had been dripped upon. I began to follow the trail of blood back to her bedroom. I wiped down the floor, the rug, the bunk bed ladder, the walls, the top bunk, the bunk bed railing. I was still wet and dripping. "It looks like we killed someone in here," I commented to Ruth. Then I took stock of the crap in her bed.

Ruth is also like her father in that she must sleep with a ton of crap, er, I mean, soft squishy stuff padded around her. I managed to break Jeremy of this when we got married, though, when I'm not around, he will pile blankets around himself in the bed and make a "womb" for himself. She goes a little further with the "womb" and adds extra pillows and stuffed animals. Once I thought I had lost her, only to realize she was so buried under her fluff, I couldn’t see her. She had been tired after school, and crawled up into her "womb" and fell asleep without my knowing. But I digress. After realizing that at least one drop of blood had ended up on the vast majority of her blankets and pillows, I decided I should throw on a towel. My soak was over.

I wrapped my hair up, and threw another towel around my body, grabbed her crap and walked it down to the basement to put some stain remover stuff on it. There was too much to put into one load. While I was busy fighting stains, my towel kept falling off. Much like a Laurel and Hardy skit, I stood at the washing machine trying to hold my towel on with one hand and applying stain remover with another, fighting with huge comforters and fluffy pillows and stuffed animals. Finally, I gave up. Gravity won, and I just said "Heck with it." Dropped the towel, finished stain fighting, walked up stairs, on my way to find some clothes, though at that point, it almost didn't matter anymore.

That's another thing no one tells you when you sign up for motherhood. If you've ever had one shred of modesty at any point in your life, kiss it goodbye.

Happy Mother's Day!

How to freak out a four year old

Jeremy told this story the other day:

So this morning the kids said “only 5 more weeks until summer break!”

I (Jeremy) responded with “Only 35 more years until I can retire!”

Then Ruth says “I can’t wait for you to retire so you can spend more time at home with me.”

Then I said that they would be long out of the house by the time I retire. Then I said “Hannah, you will be 38 when I retire.”

She said “Ah!!! You just freaked me out!”

(Hannah will be four in June).

Because Life's just like that.

I think my kids have it right. They tell me all the time they don't want to grow up.

"Why?" I asked my son one day after he announced this fact.

"Because then you have to be responsible for everything...pay bills, go grocery shopping, work...you don't get a summer vacation. I don't want to be a grown-up," he replied.

"Me either!" echoed Ruth.

"Or me!" said Hannah, not wanting to be left out of the conversation. It was otherwise clear she had no clue what we were talking about.

Yesterday and today are those days where I wish I wasn't a grown-up anymore. Oh sure, being told what to do sucked. And so did being harassed by other kids. Zits. I hated zits as a teenager. Wait a minute...I still get those. Oh never mind.

So I was minding my own business yesterday afternoon, getting ready to go to my evening class, waiting for Jeremy to come home when I get a phone call. Looking at the caller ID I saw it was his cell phone. This can't be good, I think to myself.

"Hi, um. I'm stuck. I have a flat tire," Jeremy said.

"Oh man. This will make me late," I said.

"Weeeeeelll, it's kind of worse than that, " He rained further on my parade. "I'm in a very precarious position on the side of the busy highway and it's total rush hour traffic. There's no way I can change it at this spot. I'd get killed. In fact, I'm kind of worried that I might get hit in the tail the way the van is situated. There's no shoulder here, hardly at all."

"Do you need me to come get you?"

"Um, well, I don’t know. I could call this guy who's still at work..."

"I think we have roadside assistance through the car insurance," I offer. "And I'm coming to get you..."

"I'll just call this guy and he'll pick me up..."

I cut Jeremy. off. "I know we have roadside assistance. We pay for it. And I don't want the van sitting there. I'm coming to get you. Let me call my prof."

I had every intention of going to class late. I really did. However, my good intentions were foiled. Jeremy called our insurance and they sent out a tow truck. I drove thirty minutes to where he was stranded and pulled up into the half sized shoulder just in front. It was extremely scary. I had to climb over the passenger side to get out. And as I walked towards Jeremy calmly sitting in the van, I thought for sure my guts were going to be splattered all over the road by some idiot going eighty miles an hour and not paying attention.

As I walked over to the van I saw that the tire was beyond flat. It was totally shredded. Jeremy climbed out of the van on the passenger side and we looked at it together.

"Oh man," I said. "You're lucky you didn’t get hurt or have a serious accident."

"I know," He replied. "The insurance company said that the towing guy will give me a call."

We chatted a little bit about work and what we were going to do. It was bad enough that this had to happen, but of all nights, we were going to take the van to our regular mechanic to have it inspected the next day. Already we had canceled the inspection due to a funeral, we were not happy at the thought of having to do it again. The car was stranded a good forty-five minutes to an hour away from our regular mechanic. We weren't going to get it towed that far. As we were chatting we saw the tow truck fly by going the opposite direction on the highway. He honked his horn to let us know he saw us. And within five minutes he came to our rescue.

Jeremy talked with the tow truck driver for about five minutes. The road was so noisy I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I gathered from the pointing and gesturing the driver was telling him where the van would be dropped off. Jeremy made his way back to our car, jumped in, fussed at the kids for making too much noise, and then told me the news.

"The insurance will only pay for the guy to tow it to the nearest dealership."

"Why?" I asked incredulously.

"Because it's the car insurance. At least it's a good base of operations to change the tire."

"Ok. I suppose."

"The tow truck driver called for a police car to block off the right lane so he can get the car on the truck, so we can just meet him at the dealership."

"Let's go then," I resigned.

In the meantime the kids began their "I'm hungry" chant. It was pushing 6:30 and along with being tired of being squished in the back seat of a Dodge Neon, they were beginning to fall apart from the need for dinner. We decided we'd have to find a fast food restaurant somewhere. The problem was, we didn’t know where we were, exactly.

We pulled into the dealership and waited for the tow truck, who seemed to sneak by while Jeremy was busy trying to find out if someone could sell us a tire once the van got there. Sadly, the entire parts and repair department was gone for the day. And why shouldn’t they? After all, this day was just getting better and better. Jeremy returned to the car, and I announced that he missed the tow truck and I didn’t know where the van was dropped off. A brief walk around the dealership building, and he found it parked on the side. By this point, the kids were having fits. Their tummies hurt and so did ours. The crabbing commenced.

"We'd better find dinner first and then deal with this. We're also battling sunlight. We've gotta get this fixed and try and limp it to the Mechanic so it can get inspected. But I guess if we have to leave it here to be fixed till tomorrow, canceling the inspection won’t be the end of the world." I was thinking out loud.

I knew, though, from bad experiences with Dealership machine shops, we didn't really want to leave the car, regardless of our appointment. So, we went and found a Wendy’s, and scarfed down dinner. Fortunately, there was a firestone across from the Wendy’s, and we inquired if they'd be open to put a tire on a rim. They informed us of their closing hour and replied "If you can get it here before then. But if not, there's a sears at the local mall...they're open till 9pm."

We returned to the dealership where Jeremy and Josh commenced in attempting to get the spare tire off the bottom of the car to put on the wheel. After a futile ten minutes, Jeremy announced it was rusted on. I inquired if we could get the tire off, leave it on the jack, take the rim, and get a new tire. This sounded like a good plan to Jeremy so he went to work on Plan B. Meanwhile, the sun was setting and time was slipping away. The kids were working up to frenzy, tired of being cooped up in the car, and now doing the pee-pee dance. I helped Ruth pee in a Wendy’s cup, and at least alleviated that irritation for her. It was cold and windy and awful outside, so it wouldn’t have been a good idea to try and squat behind the bushes. The situation was becoming more miserable by the minute. Finally, the tire and rim came off the car, and we put it in the trunk of our working car.

"Boy, that looks terribly precarious," Jeremy commented looking at the jacked up van. "I hope that doesn’t fall off that jack. That will cause some serious damage."

"Oh please don't tell me that!" I cried. And we left the dealership to find this "Sears" hoping and praying the van would be ok.

At sears, I rushed all the kids to the bathrooms, because now Ruth needed to do a number two. Oh Joy! Can this day get any better? I asked myself. But I was relieved to be in a warm building with a flushing toilet, even it was a disgusting one. Another crisis averted, I met up with Jeremy in the automotive department were we were informed that it would be about an hour. What were we going to do with three tired kids, two tired parents, for an hour? Somehow, the time passed, and we got our tire. Unfortunately, the sun had set. This was going to make putting the tire back on more difficult.

We made our way back to the dealership and pulled up to the van.

"OH NO!" I cried out. Jeremy looked where I was looking. It was clear the van fell off the jack. "Now what do we do?" I asked him. I was feeling very weary at this point. It was almost 8:30 in the evening, and I felt like crying.

"I don’t know," He lamented.

About that time, two teenaged guys came around to inspect what had happened. I quickly got out of the car and explained the situation in full detail. Taking pity on us, one of them said "Let me get one of the mechanics out here and take a look at it." Apparently, two of the dealership's mechanics were there working on their own personal cars. Thank God for that, otherwise we would have been stranded.

One mechanic came out with his flashlight and Jeremy recounted our tale to him. He looked around to see if there was any serious damage, and thankfully couldn’t see any. "But then again, it's dark out here. Let me go get a jack." He brought out a jack and the other mechanic and they attempted to lift the van. It was not an easy task because the van was now lower to the ground, and the mechanic was having trouble fitting the jack under the frame. The second mechanic went back in for another jack. After what seemed like an eternity, they managed to get the van lifted enough to take a better look.

"Looks like nothing serious is damaged. This is bent here, but I'll get something to bend it back," the one guy announced. He came back with a crow-bar looking thing, and bent whatever part was misaligned. They put the tire back on for us and gave us their disclaimer to really have our regular mechanic look at it. It was dark and they couldn’t guarantee there wasn’t something out of place that they couldn’t see. We decided to chance it, drive it to our regular mechanic to sit in the lot overnight, and then it could get inspected, and repaired from the nasty fall it took.

This afternoon we got the word about the van. $1000 to repair it to pass inspection. Some days, I really hate being a grown-up.

In which Joshua confesses, and we get to go on vacation anyway

So, I painted the whole week between Christmas and new years. I had hoped to have it done before new years' arrival, but it didn’t happen. It was just more work than I had calculated. So, on the night we were supposed to leave for my parent's second home in the mountains; I was painting my little fingers off. I wanted the weekend to let the paint cure before moving the girls into their new room. Jeremy ran upstairs when he came home, poked his head in the door and said, "I'll get the kids packing, and then whenever you're done, we'll go. How does that sound?"

"That's great. Thanks babe." I answered.

Not more than five seconds later he ran back upstairs to the room and said "The basement is filled with SMOKE! It's coming from the furnace. I don’t know what we should do. I turned the heat down for starters."

"Call Petro, see if they can help."

So Jeremy called Petro. I dropped my paintbrush and came down stairs. Jeremy was on hold forever. "You can be here from seven to nine? No, we don’t have the service plan. There's a ninety-eight dollar diagnostic fee? Ok, yes I'll hold."

"Ninety-eight dollars? Just to come out and look? Ugh. Well, there's nothing else we can do. I'm so sorry I let the service agreement lapse" I said woefully to Jeremy

"I know. It sucks." He started singing to the "on hold" music.

"Hon, I don’t know if I feel comfortable going away with our furnace on the fritz. I'm gonna fret the whole time that it's going to spontaneously combust. We might have to skip out on this trip. I think my folks will understand."

"Yeah." he agreed.

Suddenly this small voice from around the corner was heard, "Daddy? I have a confession to make. Can we go to my room?"

"You'd better tell us here and now!" I said sternly.

He started sobbing. "I-I-I-I-I I put-I put-I-I""YOU HAD BETTER SPIT IT OUT SON!" Jer said in his very scary parental voice. Jeremy is very scary when he gets parental.

"IputwaxonthefurnacecuzIwantedtoseehowfastitwouldmeeeeelllllllllllllllllttttttttttttttttt!!!!!!!! WAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

"Ok, say that again slower, please, because I didn’t catch any of that" I asked.

I looked at Jeremy who obviously understood and was trying to contain his laughter, apparently reliving some childhood science experiments of his own that had gone awry.

"I said, I said, I said...I put wax on the furnace because I wanted to see how fast it would melt" he repeated rather sheepishly between sobs.
"Boy, look at me in the eyes. What do you do with candles?" Jeremy asked.
"You burn them. You light them on fire," he answered, his eyes big as saucers.
"And what are candles made of?"
"Wax." he answered
"So what do you think would happen to wax when it got hot enough?" Jer asked.
"It would catch on fire?" he asked his eyes wider still.
Jer tried not to laugh, covered his mouth with his hands. Tried his hardest to put his stern parent face on, and said, "That's right. Now, tell me where did you get the wax?"
"I found it down stairs...there's this huge block of it in Mama's art stuff."
I'm proud to say, Joshua is still alive. We did manage to go away, and when the guy finally came back on the phone, Jer was able to cancel our service request.
We figured Joshua did some quick calculations in his head. "No mountains...$98? I'd better confess and get this over with now!" After the commotion had died down, he very innocently asked in a small voice, "Daddy, did you ever do something that was so terrible and you knew you had to tell the truth but it was just SOOOOOOOOOOOO hard?!???"
"Yes," he laughed. "But I'm still alive, so it's always better to tell the truth."
Later that night while we were in bed, I turned to Jer and said, "I don’t know WHY I didn’t see that coming. All week he's been obsessing over things that can melt. He asked me questions like what substance could melt the fastest, the slowest, can this melt, can that melt. He looked up things online, and researched it in some of his science books. I should have just KNOWN he was going to attempt his own science experiment!"
 Jeremy chuckled. "That's my boy," he said.