Sometimes ya just gotta laugh, even when you shouldn't

Oh she's good. She's very very good.  And if she's this good at the age of almost seven, I'm a little worried about how well she'll out maneuver her father and I when she's almost seventeen.

Hannah was making an unusual amount of racket in the back of the van last night: howling, hooting, growling, and roaring. Most of the time, I have no idea why she does the things she does. Last night, however, I suspected the noise was the fault of an over active imagination. Ruth and Josh added to the cacophony with five minutes of whining comments and unspoken promises of death, "Hannah, knock. it. off. Maaaaaaaamaaaaaaaa! Hannah's making noise!"
"Mom, can you tell her to SHUT UP!"
Of course, that enticed "the twerp within" to make Hannah roar louder, with more enthusiasm.

Jeremy had had enough. "Knock it OFF, Hannah Noel. You're not an animal, you know," he added.

"And I'm not really a dinosaur either," Hannah replied with calculated humor, and a very serious, straight, face.

I tried. I really did. I tried so hard to not laugh, to not even crack the tiniest of smiles.

I failed.

Miserably.

Home Alone

I have no more brain cells. Most of them are fried from years of having to think on my toes, and I'm only half way through parenting my children. Some would argue that my job will never end, but I keep on with the never ending hope that the hard parts will eventually pass with time.  The constant outmaneuvering the minds of my devious children is wearying.

As Joshua ages, we've allowed him to stay home alone for twenty to thirty minutes here and there. It's good practice for him, and it gives me a little freedom to run an errand with one less child. Believe me, it makes a difference.  Even though he's the oldest, he's still the most difficult to take into a store.

The other day, while the kids were in school, my father and I made a trip to the mega-monster-warehouse hardware store.  To my shock and horror, we lost track of time. By the time I reached the check-out counter, I realized I should have been home to greet my kids from school.  So I called the house phone with my cellular.  I have our home phone programmed with a song ring tone so that Joshua knows if I'm trying to call him. Otherwise, the rules are, he is never to answer the phone.

On the third ring he picked up. "Hi Mama. Where are you?"
"I'm sorry baby. I lost track of time. I'm at the mega-monster-warehouse hardware store. By the time Pop and I check out and load up the van, then drop it off at the studio, it will be almost four o'clock. Will you be ok?" I was worried because he was now in charge of his two little sisters, instead of just himself. Never mind I was babysitting at his age, sometimes till two in the morning.  I just wasn't sure he could manage them. They don't like taking orders from him.
"I'll be o.k."
"Do you want me to talk to the girls?"
"YES PLEASE!"
"Ok, give the phone to Ruthie."
"Hello, Mama?" The little voice on the other end came through tentatively.
"Ruthie?"
"Yeah."
"Are you paying attention?"
"Uh-huh."
"Really?"
"Um."
"I need you to listen to me."
"I'm here."
"Ok. Joshua is in charge. You must listen to him if something happens. No fighting with him. He knows the rules."
"Uh-huh."
"Who's in charge."
"Huh?"
"Are you listening?" I sighed. Sometimes it's like talking to a wall. Really, the wall pays better attention.
"Yes."
"What did I say?"
"Joshua is in charge. I shouldn't fight with him."
"Ok. Now give the phone to Hannah."
"Hi Mama." Hannah was decidedly cheerful.
"Hannah. Joshua is in charge. You have to listen to him. He knows the rules. No fighting with Joshua. You'll be in BIIIIIIG trouble with me if I find out you gave him a hard time."
"Ok. Hey Mama?"
"Yes?"
"The bunny wants to get out of his cage."
My mommy-radar went  into over-drive. I'm sure my eyes opened up to half the size of my face.
"The rabbit is NOT allowed to get out of his cage. Do you understand me? The rabbit is NOT allowed OUT."
"Ok." the phone muffled her voice for a minute, "Hey Ruthie, Oswald isn't allowed out of his cage."

And they wonder how it's possible that I'm psychic.

Attack of the killer...

I've had a frustrating couple of days.  Yesterday I dropped, broke, spilled, dumped, anything and everything...including the rabbit pee that was lying in wait in the bottom of Oswald's cage tray.  Isn't the kitty litter supposed to absorb that stuff?  After about the umpteenth millionth mishap (and no I'm not exaggerating) I gave up hopes of getting over to the studio to do yet more manual labor.  I set out to get there by eleven. It was one thirty in the afternoon, shortly after cleaning up rabbit pee, getting into the van, and having to turn around because now I could add "forgot to bring paint" to my list of: dropped, broke, spilled, and dumped.  I figured Fate was out to get me yesterday. I don't tempt Fate. I figured the forgotten, needed paint was a sign. Heeding the warning flag Fate was waving my way, I curled up on the couch with a fluffy book. (It was terrible. I don't remember the title, but it was bad, so it doesn't matter).

This morning I thought, surely, whatever curse hovered over me yesterday would be lifted today. I was feeling more rested. I hadn't had a mishap. Surely, I was in the clear.

I began tearing out the carpet in the kitchenette. Why anyone would think carpet in a public kitchen is a good idea, I don't know. Like a gluey fly-strip collecting it's prey, It was a nasty combination of stains, dirt, and old food particles.  I wrestled it into a roll, and began hauling it down the three and a half flights of steps to the first floor.  Half way down the first flight, the carpet began to unwind, slowly.  I got it to the landing and tried to remedy the situation. I wasn't going to fit it down the stairs if I didn't somehow make the carpet more compact.  Even now, I have no clue how I managed it.  But before I knew what had happened, my petite frame was swallowed whole by a carpet. Like a low budget horror flick, I, the heroine of this dastardly tale, discovered I was in the bowels of the monster with little hope of escape, my predicament revealed too little too late.  I slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees: carpet, carpet, carpet and more carpet.

I imagine I must have looked pretty silly standing there, or if anyone could have known I was standing there, in the middle of the nasty jelly roll of floor covering. My father was working on the basement floors, happily singing off-key with his earphones in his ears, hooked to his blackberry. There would be no rescue from that front, unless he just happened to check on me. Pondering the situation for a minute more, I decided standing there in the middle of a seven foot high roll, contemplating the riddle of how I got there in the first place, wasn't going to get me out. So, I fought my way out of the carpet maze, then kicked the menace down the remaining two flights of stairs. Ha! Take that you killer carpet! Setting it near the front door, I re-rolled it nice and tight.

I only wished I had something to tie it up with. You never know who its next victim might be.

Dear Diary...

I've never been the best at keeping a journal, even though I love to write.  Through the years I've had one or two. I would do my best writing in them for a week or so, and then abandon the practice for months, maybe even years.  Last night, we were at my parent's home for Easter dinner. Ruthie came downstairs with a book in her hand and said, "Mama, was this your diary?"  Ruthie is very interested in diaries. I suspect she journals all the time.

Quickly, I grabbed it, because I didn't know what phase of my life this particular journal came from, elementary years? middle school? Dreaded high school?  I didn't want her reading something that wasn't appropriate or asking questions for which I wouldn't have answers.  I didn't need to worry.  The majority of my diary contained the mumblings of an elementary school kid.   It's fascinating to see what was important in my world in those days, most of which centered around my little sister.

I can honestly say, I was not nearly as verbose as I am now.

Tuesday, November 8, 1983

Today Sara got the chicken pox and she doesn't like them. They itch!

Monday, November 14, 1983

Today I had gym. Oh, and Sara is scabbing over and may even go to school on Wednesday.

Wednesday, January 11, 1984

Today was the first snow of the year. And Sara is learning cursive.

October 13, 1984

Yesterday at 3:30 am, Dad left for the mountains. I hope he shoots a deer. Also Sara has a sore leg and Mom's going to take her to the doctor today.

And my all-time favorite:

(no date, 1984)

Today Sara tried to bite my hand, and then she pinched it.

Those were the days.

Should I die this week, I bequeath my...

I'm finished painting the studio, minus the kitchenette and the bathroom. Which means, I can now pack up my little bedroom, and move it over to my new place.   I'm shocked and amazed how much I managed to stuff into one small bedroom. It's like the never ending pit of yarn, fabric, paint, weaving tools, various and sundry supplies!  So far, I've filled about 30 boxes with no signs of letting up. Looking into my former 'studio,' no one would know it was in the process of being moved.  And it will probably be a few weeks before I get everything unpacked and settled over there. I still have shelving to put up, closets to finish, doors to put on.  In other words, I'm a long way off from being able to work there.

Last night, Joshua and I loaded the van, twice, with my stuff and took it over to the building.  My new place is on the third floor of a very tall building. It takes three and half flights of steps to get to my new digs.  My old studio is on the second floor of my house. That's another flight of steps. And my house is on a slight hill, which requires someone to walk up about ten steps to get to my porch.  Hauling boxes, heavy and light, we went up and down and up and down and up and down more stairs than I care to count.

Halfway up the second flight of steps with the umpteenth box, Joshua said, "Man. (huff) This is (puff) like using a (gasp) stairmaster. Uhhhh."

"Yup. (wheeze)"

"Why (huff) on earth (puff) do you have (heave) your studio (gasp) on the third floor? (PFfffffff)"

"I don't (phooosh) know. (gasp) Some (pant) crazy lady (wheeze) thought (ahhhhh) it was (huff) a good idea (wooooooof) to (gaaaaaaaaaah) have (ehhhhhhhhh) a studio (whaaaaaaaaaaaa) on the (pant) third (heave) floor. (wheeze)"

Sigh. I haven't even begun to move all the equipment that doesn't fit into boxes. Not to mention, the actual furniture, looms, a dresser, benches, a couple of shelving units, my sewing machine table, and the television.

Could someone notify my next of kin, please?

And so closes another chapter...

Time marches on, with or without me.  Two of my three kids outgrew the swing set. Hannah could have still used it, but it was starting to need repairs, so I gave Josh permission to disassemble the swing set. Need to destroy or demolish something? Render it unusable? Josh is your man.

I watched as a part of their childhood, piece by piece, got taken apart. As usual, when Joshua starts any project, half the neighborhood showed up and wanted to help. I'm not sure what magic he weaves enticing kids to work, but I probably could earn a small fortune renting him out to parents with reluctant children. They looked cute out there, all those kids, struggling with tools, using their minds to figure out how best to break it down.

Meanwhile, I silently mourned, the same way I did when I packed or gave away another box of their baby clothes.  It was the space ship, a club house, and an obstacle course. Often, the monkey bars became Joshua's thoughtful spot. He'd sit on top of the bars to get away from his pesky sisters. Sometimes I'd just see him laying on top of there, all stretched out, eyes closed, while the chaos of neighborhood kids ran all around him. I always wondered what was going on in his mind.

I have a yard now. What am I going to do with it?

Joshua already has plans. A goal cage here. Or maybe over there, so he can practice his defensive moves. I'm sure Jake from next door would be happy to take shots.  I'm not so sure my OCD senior citizen neighbor will be quite so happy about it. It doesn't matter much if he gets to set up a place to play soccer, Joshua's thrilled he doesn't have to mow or weed-whack around the slide anymore. No longer fighting with the swings, he can make broad sweeps with the mower.  He's pumped to plant grass where little feet dug deep groves into the dirt under the swings.  I suppose it's the rare and strange child who can get excited over grass seed.

In truth, I don't expect much use of the yard from The Boy at all. With the nice weather, comes his wings. There are places to go, people to see, when you're twelve years old and in possession of a bike.  Growing up.  Those other moms were right. It happens too quickly.