A Birthday Story.

...on December ninth, in a hospital far far away, a small boy entered the world for the first time. Deciding he preferred his former warm, snug, cozy, womb, he protested loudly to the world letting everyone know he was unhappy about his eviction. So he cried...

 And he cried:

And he cried:

And he cried some more...

Until Mom and Dad learned to wear ear plugs, because no matter what they tried, he would cry.

Then he discovered food:

And that made him happier...and chubby.

And then he discovered his toes, and that made him even more happy.

But when he learned he could make noise by banging on things? Well, that made him happiest of all.

So Pop mailed him some drum sticks.

And a drum.  Though, when he played IN the drum instead of ON the drum...

(no Joshua, you will never live this one down...)

That didn't make him happy at ALL.

Yup, it's still funny to me, after all these years.

And Mom said, "Look Dad he's not crying!!!"
And Dad said, "WHAT?!?

And Mom shouted over the drums, "I said...HE'S NOT CRYING!"
 Dad said, "HUH? I can't hear you!" Dad pointed to his earplugs and pointed to the drums.

To this very day, Joshua is most happy when he's making LOTS of noise.

Happy Birthday, Joshua

Enjoy your cake!!!

There's a reason we call him The Boy

Ruth has been obsessing over a reality show called "Say Yes To The Dress." I am embarrassed to admit, I have been caught wanting to watch the next episode on Netflix, even though every episode is the same. Someone goes over-budget. Someone else has the mom from you-know-where. Someone brings too many people. Someone else brings her fiance and then can't figure out why he could care less about the dress. And yet another someone also brings her fiance and he's too picky.

It doesn't matter what episode we're on, amazingly, I get sucked in. If nothing else, it gives us good girl bonding time, and I get to set her future expectations waaaay low. Sure, I have a quite a while yet before Ruth will become a bridezilla, but it doesn't hurt to start brainwashing her now.

"Don't think we'll be buying you a $12,000 dress," Jeremy told her as he passed through the living room one night while she and I were watching an episode.
"Yeah, I already told her that," I said, my eyes glazed over as we watched the next catastrophe cross the screen.
"So what kind of dress can I buy?" Ruth asked, looking up at him.
"Not a $12,000 one," he said. And he walked up the stairs without looking backward once.

Tonight on the ride to Joshua's drum lesson, Ruth asked Hannah, "So, when I go to buy my wedding dress, someday in the future..."
"The far future," I said.
"Yes, Mama, The Faaaar Future," she said. I didn't even know you could capitalize the spoken word, but apparently Ruth knows how. "As I was saying before I was interrupted, will you come with me?"
Hannah chirped "Of course!" as if it was a no-brainer. "And I'll give you loooootttssss of feedback." An ornery expression crossed her face as she rubbed her hands together in evil glee.
"I dunno, Ruth," I said, catching Hannah's expression in my rear-view mirror. "You won't get a lot of good feedback from Hannah. It won't be negative, but I can assure you it might not be positive either. I'm pretty sure you'll get some silly feedback." Hannah giggled, partly because I used her 'word of the day,' and partly because I had read her ornery little mind. Ruthie held her breath while she considered her sister for a moment, so I continued, "But I will tell you this, don't even bother dragging your brother along dress shopping to get the 'male perspective.'" I implied in so many words that he wouldn't be of much help.

Joshua, who was zoned out in the front seat throughout this whole conversation, suddenly tuned in. "Hey! Why wouldn't you want to take me?"
"Dress shopping? Wedding dress shopping?" I asked, incredulous. "Twenty seconds in you'd be fidgeting and saying 'I'm bored. They're all white. What does it matter? Just pick one, Ruth.' And then your little sister will be so upset with you."
"Yeah, well. That's true. But wait, I do have some opinion. You know. I don't like it when those dresses have...what's that called...you know, that frill thing. You know. It's long and sleek and then the frill?" He started gesturing in vain, moving his hands in a rounded motion near his mid-section, as if that was going to help us know what he was talking about. "It flares out, or balloons, or bubbles or something."
"Ruffles?" Ruthie asked.
"Lace?" Hannah guessed.
"What is the frill?" I asked.
"That thing. That thing that goes here. It goes here." He gestured again at his middle. "It's on all dresses. Only sometimes it's lower. Only I like it when it's here." he pointed at his middle again.
"You mean the Trumpet style or the Mermaid?" Ruth said reading her brother's mind.
"The WHAT?!" he said, twisting in his seat to look at her, his expression filled with amazement. "How do you KNOW these things?" he asked. It's a magical mystical power to Josh. He frequently alternates between seeing us females as nonsensical creatures who care too much about "silly" "pointless" "female" details, and being in awe that we have knowledge beyond his ken.
"The Trumpet or the Mermaid style dress. When the dress is sleek all the way down and then the skirt flares out below the butt," Ruth explained.
"EXACTLY." Joshua pointed at Ruth. "Exactly." He said with even more passionate emphasis. "I don't like those kind of dresses when the frill is below the butt."
"Frill?" I started to laugh. Ruth and Hannah joined in.
"He calls it a frill," Ruth leaned over and whispered to Hannah. Hannah nodded and looked smug in all her female wisdom.
A very put-out Joshua said, "Well, I don't know what it's called!" We were obviously ganging up on him, and he was obviously unhappy about being left out of some secret knowledge that we all seemed to share.
After a good laugh, I turned to him and said, "It's OK, Josh. We just might worry about you if you knew all about dresses, especially wedding dresses."
"Whatever," He said, crossing his arms across his chest. He turned to stare out the window. He was obviously done with the likes of us giggling females.

"And that," I said to Ruth, "Is why you don't take some men dress shopping with you."

Dinner with the Mels, Pt 2.

"So what exactly are you learning in Biology, Josh," I asked, while we sat around noshing on our Chinese take-out.
"Oh, same stuff we have learned every year since I was in school: water cycle, stuff like that."
"Really? The Water Cycle? In Biology?" Jeremy asked.
"In my college bio course," I said, "We started with the cell, how it got its food, etc, then moved into single celled organisms, and eventually talked about plants: gymnosperms versus angiosperms, plants with uncovered seeds versus covered seeds, such as fruit, and plants that produced spores."
"Such as ferns," said Jeremy, "Did you know that gymno means naked and gymnasium begins with that root because the Greeks did all of their sports naked? Including the Olympics?" He paused for a second while we all digested that piece of information. It was clear across Josh and Ruth's face that they were picturing the inelegance of naked athletes. Sensing this, Jeremy held up his hand and shook it while making a jiggling sound with his mouth.
"I think only guys participated in the Olympics, right?" I asked.
"Yes, but guys also have jiggly wiggly parts too," Jeremy said.
"Daddy!" Ruth said.
"Can you imagine a foot race?" he asked.
I held up my hand and made a jiggling simulation of what said parts might look like during a race. Ruth nearly choked on her food. Joshua turned red laughing, and Jeremy honked like a goose from laughter.
"How on EARTH did we get on this subject, what do jiggly wiggly parts have to do with Biology..." Ruth began to taper off at the end of her question. "Oh, never mind."
"Yes, Biology is rather dependent on those jiggly wiggly parts," Joshua said.

We all sat for a second and pondered this deep thought, when Jeremy broke the silence with, "It's probably a good thing the Greeks didn't have sky diving."

Wrong number?

Joshua's cell number used to belong to some low life named Melissa.  I say low-life, because he is plagued by calls from loan and debt collectors who leave messages on his phone, disturb him during school hours, and in general, make pests of themselves. I've taken a few calls to ask them to remove his number from their database (bad idea, since I am a female, and they don't seem to believe I'm not Melissa).  On our side, I keep offering to change his number, but he keeps insisting that I don't. "No. It's o.k.  Everyone has my number, it'd be a hassle to change it."  Sure I'm Mom, and I could just do it for him, but I also respect his desires to not go through the hassle. If it were more than a large annoyance, I'd change it in a heartbeat. 

In reality, I really should have changed it when he got the phone two years ago, but at the time, I figured it would only last a month or two, and after that, they'd get the hint they have the wrong number.  It usually works that way. But we recently figured out, the scum woman is still giving out the number!  Just after the first round of calls had started dying down, Josh suddenly started getting new onslaught of collection calls from different companies.

Today, we were packing up for our last day to sit on the beach, when he answered his phone in a 'Scottish' accent.  The rest of the family became really quiet, nosy even, as we stood looking at him for awhile while he talked to the person on the other side. "No. I have no idea who this Melissa person is," He said, completely in character.  He listened for a few minutes while the person on the other side apologized, and told him she'd note the number was a bad one.

As he hung up, and I said, "What was that all about?"
"The Scottish Accent?" he asked, tucking his phone into his pocket. "I thought I'd mix it up a bit."

"If I made a movie..."

We were strolling leisurely back to our vacation rental, ice cream in hand (or Italian ice in my case, thank you milk allergy) satisfied after a good competitive game of miniature golf.

"So, this was nice, wasn't it?" I asked the family.
"YEAH." Joshua said, emphatically, "It sure beats sitting at the condo listening to music or watching bad girl teen dramas on television."
"Or Animal Planet."
"Thank you, Joshua, " I said, "for wrestling the remote from your sisters this afternoon."
"I KNOW!" He said, "I couldn't take 'Victorious' one more second. I mean, all those shows are the same!"
"HEY!" piped up Ruth. "I LIKE Victorious."
"But the plot is always the same: 'I'll hook you up with one of my friends and then it will all go wrong and in the end we should have just talked about it anyway," Joshua said in his 'girly voice' impression.
"Soooo," Ruth said.
"Oh, and 'GUY' shows and movies don't have the same plot?!?" I asked. "Oh, let me chase the bad guy in a car, and then shoot everyone, but I'm the good guy so I won't get even a graze when the bad guys shoot at me with automatic weapons, and in the end something HUGE has to be blown-up: a skyscraper, a helicopter, a 747..."
"Actually," Jeremy interrupted, "It's more like, the bad guy tries to kill the good guy with some elaborate and overly complicated scheme and then says 'Well, since you're going to die anyway, let me tell you my nefarious plans,' and then he leaves allowing five or more hours for the good guy to escape when in reality a bullet to the head would have allowed him to continue on in his evil merry ways."
"This is true," I replied.
"And in fact," Jeremy continued, "It's been documented there are only so many plots in the world, and everything is a variation within."
"Really?" The kids asked.
"So they say," Jeremy said.
"But what if I came up with my own plot?" Ruth asked.
"It would still be a variation of one of those documented," I replied, "According to this theory."
"Not if I made a movie," Hannah chimed in. "If I made a movie, it would be totally random. It'd start with a picture of lard, and then there'd be a duck, and it might come and eat the lard. I'm not quite sure about that part just yet."
"Yup, That'd be totally random, Hannah," I said.
"Did she said Lard?!?" Ruth asked.
"Lard?" Joshua said.
"And a duck," Hannah said. "Don't forget the duck."

A few moments of silence...

It was late, and we were driving home from the mega-monster-club-warehouse-store. The night was cool, the windows down, and the night sounds might have been floating into our car, for all we knew. The noise in the van was nearly over-powering. The children were wild and rambunctious, due to excitement over the up and coming vacation. We also knew the girls were over-tired. It was almost ten o'clock, and an hour past bed-time. But Jeremy and I let them burn off their energy, knowing the girls would crash the minute they got home. Josh, on the other hand, being the night-owl that he is, was just amping up.

"Dadddddddy! Mamaaaa! Joshua is poking me from behind and I DON'T like it!" Ruthie whined from the back of the van. "Tell him to STOP."
"Well, Ruth, did you ask him to stop?" Jeremy asked her.
"Yesssss." She drew out the word.
"Josh, did your sister ask you to stop?"
"Yeah," came the sheepish reply.
"Then Joshua, when we get home, I'm spanking you," Jeremy said sternly.

We heard crickets for about 30 seconds, the silence deafening.

"BWAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Jeremy and I started to laugh so hard we could hardly contain ourselves. The back of the van broke out in that nervous "hahaha we knew you were joking...hahaha" kind of laughter.

Jer wiped his eyes and said, "Oh man. I just couldn't hold it straight any longer than that. That was awesome. The silence. chirp chirp. chirp chirp. It was so quiet you really COULD hear the crickets outside. Hahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahaa"

A disgruntled Joshua called from the back, "I should have KNOWN you were joking. I was like "What the heck?!?' in my head. I can't believe I fell for that."

Found a peanut...found a peanut...found a peanut, just now...

We were sitting side by side in the office, me on my laptop, him on the desktop. He was playing Lord of the Rings Online, when suddenly he said, "Ooh, Peanuts!"

From the corner of my eye, I saw him pick something up and pop it into his mouth.

"Ew." He said, and continued on with his game.

"Did you REALLY just pick up an old peanut off the computer desk and pop it into your mouth?"

"Yeah," he said, as if this was no big deal.

"I can't believe you did that!"

He laughed.

At least it wasn't a rotting apple core. I did manage to break him of leaving those for me to find in the office. Ugh.

Ms. Witty Strikes Again

"Hannah go call your sister for dinner," I said.
"SUUUUEEEEYYYY!!!" She called.

Stalled.

We had just completed a successful and very pleasant dinner meeting conducting 'some things looming' business. I was feeling rather pumped up. We agreed on the name of next Spring's exhibit, mentioned some Saturday Sampler business, discussed some things about Handmade Holidays, and basically talked shop for about three hours. Good stuff. So when I got into my husband's eleven year old manual transmission car and I couldn't quite get the gear shift to go into reverse, I did what every normal human being does: I pumped the clutch a few times, and kept trying, ignoring the warning bells flashing in my head.

I got out of the Applebees parking lot, navigated past the mall, on to the highway, and was cruising along when suddenly, my car was in neutral and the stick shift had no resistance. At this point, I should perhaps explain that many Pennsylvania roads have little to no shoulder, even on the highways. I'm not sure why, other than perhaps terrain dictated the roads eons ago, and we just paved over top of the horse trails. Managing to roll my husband's car into the excuse that passed for a shoulder of the road, I was dismayed to see half my car still sticking out into the lane. I was even more dismayed to discover my cell phone battery was nearly dead; just enough life in it to make one phone call.

I tried home first, figuring the Mr. would be home by then, or at the least, The Boy would pick up. I knew he was home, and then he'd give the deets to his father. I figured wrong. On the sixth ring, I hung up, and prayed that my phone would hold out for one more call. I called my father. "Hey Papa, you think you can come rescue me?" Every time a car swooshed past, my car swayed side to side, "I'm not in a good spot," I said, and then proceeded to give garbled directions in my hyper-adrenalinized state. In the meantime, I dug through my purse, brilliantly remembering my Tom-tom was there, and the charger for that would work for my phone. I dialed the husband's cell phone, and miraculously, he had it on him, and it was charged.

"I'm stuck on the highway," I said.

"Oh no! What happened?" He asked.

I explained in detail the clutch, the stick shift, the rolling to a slow stop on the 'shoulder' and my precarious position. "Can you call Geico? We have roadside assistance. They'll send us a tow truck."

Shortly after I hung up with him, my father called looking for me. Apparently, my directions were lousy. Another five minutes, he pulled up behind me, assessed the situation and decided he was going to walk up and around the bridge I was facing to see if there was more shoulder on the other side. I was close to an off-ramp, and he figured that there might be more space as a result. "I think I'm going to use my truck to push you a little further so your butt isn't hanging out on the road anymore. It would make me feel better," he said.

"It would make me feel better too!" I said enthusiastically. I had just spent a good part of ten minutes imagining someone rear-ending me.

I watched as my father's truck slowly inched towards my rear bumper and felt a gentle nudge. After the third tap, he called out his window, "Do you still have your emergency brake on???" Oops. I took the brake off, and we began limping our way down the "shoulder" which was narrowing down to nothing the closer we got to the bridge. Calling out directions, Dad directed me around the bridge and on to a much wider shoulder. I was now at least a foot away from the lane where vehicles were still swooping past at incredible volume. "Where on earth is all this traffic coming from at 10:00 at night?" I asked. Meanwhile, my mother, who had just returned from our meeting to find no sign of my father began frantically calling his phone, my home phone... She came home to find signs of life, but no signs of his person. It was an understandable reaction.

I hadn't heard from Jeremy, my husband, in awhile, so I called the house phone. He was still on the line with Geico, who was still trying to find a tow truck. I wondered if it would have been faster to just find one ourselves and pay for the tow, rather than use road-side assistance. I hung up and told Dad what was going on. Leaning into my drivers side window, we talked about this and that for a good fifteen minutes before my phone rang. "Ray is coming to save you," Jeremy said.

At ten forty-five, my rescuer came with his big hook and flashing lights. He took my information, and my credit card number. Dad and I piled back into his truck and he drove me home. I walked into the door, greeted by my wild-haired husband. I could tell he'd been having a time of it at home.

"If the situation had been reversed," he said by way of greeting, "You'd have fallen apart."

"Gee thanks," I said. "As if what I went through wasn't traumatic?"

"No. It gets better. The lady on the phone was from Georgia."

"In other words, she has no idea where R****** is, or what it looks like, or where I actually was located on the highway. It was probably like playing whisper down the lane."

"Exactly." He said as he smoothed down his hair. "I had just gotten in the door, I hadn't had dinner, and I had a most pressing need to use the bathroom when you called. That alone would have made you a mess."

I had to concede that one.

"So while I was on the phone listening to the hold music, I noticed the toilet water was low and I flushed."

"It over-flowed."

"Exactly."

"And then I noticed Josh was still dressed and not anywhere near ready for bed. He hadn't taken his medicine, he wasn't in his pajamas..."

"He was still playing his video game,"

"Exactly. And since I had the girls with me at band practice, they were ALSO just now trying to get ready for bed..."

"And you were still on hold with the nice lady from Georgia."

"Yes. So after a bit she came back on the line and I asked her how many places she had called, and she said '38'" He imitated her accent perfectly, I'm sure. "And then I asked, 'how many more on your list?' She said, '42,' I said, '38?!? 42?!? Seriously?' " He flipped back into his Southern Belle Accent as he continued his story, "And she said, 'Well, a lot of them told me they refuse to drive in R****** at night' I said, 'seriously.'"

"The irony is, I wasn't any where NEAR R******. I was on THE HIGHWAY. My best guess is that she was calling towing places and saying 'Can you tow someone in R******?' and they tuned out," I said.

"You're probably right." Jeremy said, "So after a bit, I asked how far away she was calling for a truck. She told me as much as fifty miles away. I said 'fifty miles?!? That's practically Philadelphia! That's like an hour away!' So she told me there was this one for-pay place, and I said 'take it. I don't care if we have to pay up front and then submit the claim. Just take it.' And so she called Ray."

"I'm so glad you said that. I kind of wish we had realized sooner what was probably happening. I might not have sat so long. I'm pretty sure anyone would come to the rescue on the highway."

"I know! If she had called someone from out near Philadelphia, you'd have waited another hour."

I shuddered at the thought.

It's that time of year...

...when I run around like I'm only wearing one half of the chicken suit, trying to get kids to this event, or that, finding out we don't have the right outfit, or the right shoes for the concert.  

 Last night was the girls' spring concert.  Ruth did amazingly well for her last concert, despite the pre-concert hiccup.  I wasn't sure how it would go, because she was distressed beforehand. Jeremy had to work, and there wasn't any way he could get out of it. One set of  grandparents, my parents, weren't coming. An hour before showtime, Ruth's big brown eyes grew wide, and watered up. 
"What's wrong baby?" I asked
"Nothing," she said, as a small tear tracked down her cheek
"No one is coming." she said quietly.
"Nana and P-pop might. I think they are. But you'll have Joshua, Hannah and I there, at least"
Another tear tracked down her cheek.  Then a few more after that.  Not more than five or six tears, but still, she cried and broke my heart.   I bribed her back to good cheer with hot rollers and the ability to wear lip gloss and some light blush.  Thankfully,  Nana and P-pop did show up, and she smiled between songs throughout the whole concert.  I recorded everything:  band, chorus, and the third-grade recorder Karate.

What is Recorder Karate? It's a way to allow the students to progress through the recorder music at their own pace. Each song they pass, they get a new "belt" (a piece of embroidery floss in a different color tied to the bottom of their recorder).  After a student gets through all their "belts' they can work on earning beads, which are tied onto the bottom of the 'belts."  When Joshua was in third grade, he viewed the whole "Recorder Karate" as a competition.  I saw and heard the recorder every single solitary night as he attempted to take down his fellow third graders by being the first and only one to complete all belts and beads and go on beyond. He even figured out how to play "The Bear Went Over the Mountain" without the music.  In fact, for awhile there, the recorder took precedence over the drums.  Scary thought.

Ruth approached the whole "Recorder Karate" program with more sensibility.  She didn't obsess or compete, but she didn't slack either.  I can't recall how far along she got, but it was pretty close to the end of the 'belts."  Unfortunately, only a few years ago, did the music teacher invite the third graders to play their recorder karate selections at the spring concert.  So I never did get to hear Ruthie play with her classmates.

Hannah on the other hand, well, lets just say, I never saw the recorder in her hot little hand until last night.  If last night could even count.  Oh sure, she had it in her hand, but playing it?  That is the question at hand.





This morning, because Ruth's french horn was home, she took it out of the case and began playing it.  Joshua, always in competition with the world, attempted to make a noise and couldn't.  I heard Ruth's voice as she sang, taunting him, "You can't play it. You can't make a sound and I caa-aan. Ha ha ha ha ha ha."  So she took the horn back, played some more notes, and sang "ha ha ha ha ha ha" again.

A few minutes later, as Joshua and I were bundled into the van, he pursed his lips and began buzzing them. 
"What are you doing?" I asked, "Trying to figure out how to make the embouchure for the french horn?"
"What's that?" He asked
"The way you hold your mouth when you play an instrument. Each instrument has a different embouchure," I answered.
"Oh.  Well you see. Ruth taunted me, she sang 'ha ha ha ha ha you can't make a sound and I caaaaannn'  and now it's a competition. I MUST make a sound.  so I MUST practice."

I confess, sometimes it's a little frightening to get glimpses into the minds of my children.

Thank you Mr. Sarcasm, I feel so much better now.

It's been such a busy week, preparing for our last Opening Reception of the season at some things looming. I had to drop the children off at home one evening while I returned back to the gallery to lay out the current show. They were only going to be alone for a short time before Jeremy would get home from work, but still, I'm a mom. I worry.

As they were climbing out of the van, I issued my standard "you're home alone" rules and instructions, finishing with the admonition, "Be smart. Be safe."
"Ok, Hannah," Joshua said with great enthusiasm, as he walked up the front steps, "Lets go turn on the hot stove and touch it with our bare hands!"
She joyfully replied, "OK!"
Ruth trailed behind shaking her head.

Some things never change.

When he was small, he knew how to wear me down to get what he wanted.
"Cookie?"
"No. No cookie."
"Cookie?"
"No. You're not getting a cookie."
"Cookie?"
"Nope. No cookie."
"Cookie? Cookie coookie coookie? Coooooooooooooooookie!!?? Cooookie?!?? Cookie cookie cookie?"
Three hours later, I'd hand him a cookie just to shut him up.

Recently, I realized he hasn't stopped employing the tactic that works so well for him. He's only become more subtle at it, even if his level of desperation determines his level of patience. A few weeks ago we drove past a Subway, a sandwich shop chain restaurant. "I haven't had a chicken bacon ranch in a long time."
"That's nice," I said.
The next day he said, "You know what I could go for? A chicken bacon ranch."
"And I could go for a million dollars." I said.
A few days later, "I am SO craving a chicken bacon ranch."
"And I am SO craving chocolate," I said.
After a bit he started chanting rhythmically, of course, "Chicken bacon ranch, chicken bacon ranch, chicken bacon ranch, ranch, chicken bacon ranch, bacon bacon, chicken. Chicken chicken bacon. Bacon chicken ranch. Chicken bacon ranch..."

On the way to musical practice, I bought him a chicken bacon ranch sandwich. Hey, the kid needed to eat dinner, right?

Having learned his lesson so well (mom is a huge softy), Joshua pushed his advantage yet again tonight. Because Joshua and my father have a drum lesson on Monday nights, the two of them usually go together. They also usually get a milkshake after their lesson at one of the many places near the music store. This week, however, I had to take The Boy to his lesson because my father is soaking in the sun in Florida. As expected the begging commenced the minute we stepped out onto the porch of the music store.
"You know," he said. "Pop and I always get a milkshake."
"That's nice," I said. I was fully anticipating I would stop somewhere for a milkshake. I knew there was no way I could really win against his charm, but I was not about to give the kid the satisfaction of knowing right away. I decided to play with him a little more. He decided the game was on.
"Yeah. We could stop for a milkshake."
"In case you haven't noticed? I'm not your grandfather."
"But you could still get me a milkshake."
"Notice how I do not have gray hair, yet. Nor do I sport a beard."
"So what you're trying to say is, you're not Pop."
"Exactly."
"What does that have to do with getting me a milkshake?"
"Everything. It has everything to do with getting a milkshake," I said as we happened to pass a Sheetz, a gas station/mini-mart/sandwich shop.
"I'd even settle for a milkshake from Sheetz," he said looking out the window.
"How about Carpet Mart. Would you settle for Carpet Mart?" I said as we passed the store.
"Sure. I'd settle for that..." he paused, "If they had milkshakes. Hey, where are we going anyway?"
"The Mega-Monster-Super-Duper-Craft-Store," I said. "Your sister has oil based paint all over her. I have to go pick up some non-toxic paint remover."

We pulled into the parking lot, jumped out of the car, while Joshua said, "Milkshake. I bet this store has something like a milkshake. Or candy. I'd settle for candy."
"You're not getting candy."
"Oh look," He said reading a sign on the front of the craft store, "Framing. That's one letter switch away from 'farming' and farms have cows. Cows make milk. You use milk to make a milkshake. Can I have a milkshake?"
"Interesting logic," I said chasing him into the store while attempting to give him a noogie. "I'll have to ponder that one for a moment.

We wandered to the art department to find the paint remover/thinner and thus commenced the milkshake chanting. "Milkshake. Milkshake. Milkshake...Hey, you could get a milkshake. I could get a milk shake. Look frames. Remember? frames are just a few letters away from farms...farms...milk? Milk...Milkshake? Remember?" I ignored the chatter all the way to the checkout counter.

Thirty seconds into standing in line to pay for my purchase, he realized he was holding the trump card all along. He whipped out his wallet and said, "Oh hey. I have my own money. I can get candy!"
"No. No. No. I'll buy you your milkshake. Put it back." Dang. I wanted the element of surprised as I pulled into the ice cream shop. However, he had forced my hand, rather cleverly, I might add, so I was forced to give it up.
"Yay!" he cheered.
"Brat," I said.
He beamed so bright, I'm pretty sure he blinded the clerk.

So call me a softy, a wimp, or a pushover. I can't deny that it's just so hard to resist those big brown eyes. I melt every. single. time. Just like that triple scoop of chocolate chip cookie dough he opted for, instead of his milkshake...

Who spilled the beans?

Because I find it difficult to find things I like to pack for lunch, I always come home half-starved after work. So, the minute I walk in the door, I set my things down and look for the nearest snack at hand. Yesterday, it was the can of cashews still sitting out from breakfast. I figured Hannah probably had had a handful along with whatever else she had scrounged up to eat before school. Since she is the master of unique breakfast cuisine, it didn't strike me as unusual. If anything, I was annoyed that the cashews had been sitting out all day.

So I opened the can of generic cashews, and noticed these small red beans mixed in with the "nuts."
"What on earth are those?" I said to myself as I shook the can around to see if it was just on the top. "They look like dried kidney beans."
"I don't know," Hannah said. I noticed her expression shone bright with curiosity. "Let me see!" I was still holding the can when she pulled the can downward to get a better view.
"Yeah, Me too," said Ruth, coming over to us to have a peek at the mysterious cashews and beans.
We all looked into the can and dug around a bit. "Maybe the manufacturing lines got crossed? But what an odd thing to get mixed in. I would think they'd accidentally mix in peanuts or something. Not dried beans."
"Yeah, that's weird," Hannah said. I looked at her again, suspicious, but her face was still a picture of innocence.
"You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?" I asked
"I don't know how that could have happened," Hannah said. We played the staring game for a few seconds, while I looked for any signs of deception. Seeing none, not even her cute but ornery expression, I tucked my misgivings into the back of my mind, and picked around the beans to eat a few cashews.

Jeremy arrived home a few hours later and I showed him the can of cashews. "Weird," he said. "Maybe we should take a picture, and send it to the manufacturer."
"Nah. It's generic. It wasn't as if this was an expensive can of nuts." I said.
"True." He picked around the beans, digging around to see how thoroughly mixed they were, stopping every so often to pick up a nut and pop it into his mouth.
"I dunno. I ate a few, but wondering if I should have just tossed the can," I said, mildly worried.
"Eh, it's probably alright." Jeremy ate a few more nuts.
"I'm sure it's fine," Hannah added.

Putting the can aside both physically and mentally, we began our hectic evening routine, and didn't contemplate the kidney beans at all until later last night. We're in the last week of the school musical which means more hustle and bustle than usual. Joshua came home from dress rehearsal, walked in the door, and noticed his father holding the cashews. Inspecting the contents once more, Jeremy said, "Yanno, I really think someone tampered with this." He subtly gestured with his head at the jar of dried kidney beans sitting on the piano, completely out of place.

I glanced surreptitiously over at the piano. "You think?" I said, feigning stupidity. "I don't know. Where on earth would they have gotten the beans? I don't think we have any dried beans laying around here..."
Losing his composure, Joshua began howling with laughter.
"You just gave yourself away," Jeremy pointed out matter of fact.
"I know!" Josh said between spurts of laughter. "I'm the worst liar in the world. I cannot lie at all! Bwaaahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaa!!!!"
"What on earth possessed you to do that?" I asked.
"It wasn't just me!" Josh said, indignantly. "Hannah was there too!"
"Well, your little sister is a little bit scary how easily she can lie to us. She didn't give anything away at all this afternoon when you weren't here."
He laughed even harder.

This morning as we sat around the breakfast table, I made eye contact with Hannah. Picking up the cashews, I shook them a few times, looking at her expectantly. She countered with a confused expression. I shook them again, and she said, "What?"
"The gig is up," I said. "Your brother gave you away last night."
Joshua started laughing again, as Hannah glared at him. If looks could kill, he'd be dead. "I'm sorry!" he told her, "I couldn't help myself!"
"It wasn't really me," she protested. "Joshua is the one who put the beans into the can and shook it up."
"But you were his accomplice," I said. "Guilt by association. Oh, and here's a tip: I would highly recommend not getting into mischief with your brother. He'll always give you away."

Baking 101

Once upon a time, I baked everyday of the week. It seemed I always had a recipe I was tweaking, baking without recipes, just tossing stuff together, and whipping out things that were pretty well received. I heard enough complements to be able to say with all modesty, I was, back in the day, a half-decent baker. No doubt, I inherited the genes from the grandmother and great-grandmother whose baked goods were to die for, and whose recipes were sketchy at best, because neither had measured when they baked. 

A few years ago, I developed a sensitivity to wheat. At first it was thought I had Celiac Disease, a not-so rare disorder where gluten sensitivity causes damage to small intestine, making absorption of nutrients next to impossible. There's a bit more to it than this, but that's the basic premise of the disease, as it was told to me at the time. I lost thirty pounds in about a six week span. Oddly enough, tests remained inconclusive until the genetic test was done. I don't carry the gene. I can't have the disease. However, during that time, I switched to gluten free baking, and boy, was that a challenge. I made my own flour mixes, tweaked recipes to suit my tastes, and in the end, discovered I could create foods better than I could buy. But it was twice as much work, the flours three times as expensive, and I needed four times the space to store some of my flours.

Many might argue with me on that last point, but I found that I preferred to use a large variety of gluten free flours to make my baked goods taste as close to the real thing as possible. And since I bought bulk to save money and to make my own baking mixes, I needed space to store the flours. Over time, I became really burned out with baking, and didn't even touch a mixer until my daughters began expressing interest. There was one problem. I didn't even own a bag of all-purpose flour anymore.

So I began teaching Ruth how to bake using pre-made, store-bought mixes: cookie mixes, muffin mixes, cake mixes...if there was a mix, we bought it, and she made it. It was easier for me, at the time, to buy her a mix when I grocery shopped, than to start building up my much depleted baking supplies. And out of necessity, I discovered a really good stepping stool for teaching a child how to bake for real. Mixes taught Ruth how to follow step by step directions. And they ensured that the final product came out edible, so there was a measure of success Ruth always achieved from her labors. The positive reinforcement for a her, in my mind, out-weighed the negatives of a baking mix a purist might have.

Over time, I began purchasing the necessary ingredients needed so I could teach my child "How to bake from scratch." And over time, Ruth has become rather adept at following a recipe, for the most part. I have spent hours standing over her, teaching her how to crack and egg, cream butter, knead dough for bread... She's grown to love the process as much as the end results. As she's matured, she has developed the patience to see the project through to the end, rather than leaving me to finish what she started. For a child with inattentive type ADHD, whose brain has developed differently and has been maturing more slowly (in some ways), using a mix as an intermediate step has been a wonderful way to build up to more serious baking.

At this point in her childhood, Ruth most certainly has the baking mixes down to a science. She even baked her father's birthday cake from a mix last month when I wasn't even there to supervise. Jeremy was home, but didn't even have a clue that Ruth had started his cake. To say the least, I was impressed that she was able to manage all the steps on her own, and pay attention to the cake in the oven.

Joshua turned the plate, while Ruth decorated her cake for Daddy.

On Thursday, Hannah decided it was her turn to learn how to bake. There was one small problem. I was still not up to speed on Thursday. I was still channel surfing from my prone position on the couch. No longer wishing for death, I was still not real enthusiastic about being upright and productive.

"I want to make my oatmeal chocolate chip cookies," Hannah said.

"I'd like to have a million dollars," I said.

"Aww." She looked at me with the biggest saddest eyes should could muster, and said, "I just really want to make cookies."

"Look," I said. "I'm not up to making cookies today. But your sister is really good at it, and if you promise not to fight with her, I'll let you make cookies IF and ONLY IF you listen to her as she teaches you how to use a baking mix."

"Ok," Hannah promised quickly. "I won't fight."

"I'll be sitting right here listening to you. I'm holding you to your word." I knew her word wasn't worth a hill of beans, and braced myself for the inevitable fight.

"Ok," Ruth said. "Now you have to read all the directions through at least once. I like to read them twice."

Good girl, I thought.
"I did read them," Hannah said.

"Really?" Ruth asked.

"Yeessss," Hannah said, exasperated.

"Ok. Now you're going to pre-heat the oven, did you do that?"

"I can't even reach the buttons."

"Fine. I'll pre-heat the oven," Ruth said. "Now, when you crack the egg, make sure you don't get the shells in there. Hannah WAIT. The mix says the butter and egg have to be blended FIRST!"

"BUT I WANT TO PUT THE MIX IN NOW!"

"BUT YOU'RE NOT FOLLOWING THE DIRECTIONS!"

"I DON'T NEED TO FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS!!!"

I stopped the fight before it went too far, and called Hannah into the living room. "Hannah," I said, "What did I say about fighting?"

"But she's being bossy."

"I know what bossy sounds like. I've heard Ruth be bossy. She is NOT being bossy. Ruth is being instructive, and you are not listening."

"But I want to do it MY way."

"Listen, Hannah," I said, soothingly, "I love and appreciate your strong sense of individuality and your need to go against the flow. But not all things in life work that way, and baking is one of them. You must must must follow the directions, whether it be a box mix, or a real recipe. If you cannot find it in your little unique and original soul to be conventional for this one short moment in time, I'm afraid Ruth will have to finish baking your cookies."

She looked at me, blinked a few times, and said, "O.K."

"Ok?" I asked to make sure.

"Yeah, O.K."

"Trust me, baby. You'll like your cookies much better if you follow the directions. I know how hard it is to do what the package tells you, but you have to, at least when you're learning. One day when you're good at this? You can mess up the recipe any way you like. But I have to tell you a secret...even when you change up recipe, you still have to follow a basic set of rules, or it won't turn out."

She nodded, and turned back into the kitchen looking a little bit defeated.

Until we ate the cookies. Hopefully, Hannah learned something from all of this: sometimes going with the flow is o.k. too. Especially when there's oatmeal chocolate chip cookies on the line.

Dinner with the Mels

They say family dinners are important time to bond with your kids and spouse. I wouldn't argue the point, because when family dinner is summarily taken away, one begins to realize what one has missed. Last Wednesday I had minor surgery that became a much more major ordeal. Because of various factors, I've not been healing as fast as the doctor expected, or I would have liked, and pain management has been a real problem. In other words, I hurt. I hurt bad. And to combat that pain, I've been on gooood stuff. The kind of stuff that melts my brain, makes peach fuzz of my memory, and mince meat of my hand-eye coordination. Maybe someone else wouldn't blink to be put on a pain pill, but I'm a lightweight. It doesn't take much to turn me into a marshmallow.

I've not left my perch on the couch for much more than transitioning from the bedroom in the morning to the living room, back to the bedroom at night. As a result, the house has been in a state of continuous chaos as Jeremy worked sixty hours or more over the last few weeks and at the same time attempted to take over all the chores I normally do. Meanwhile I laid on the couch in a drug induced state, covered in ice bags, or heating pads, and basically whined my little heart out. The children are resentful that they now have more chores (gasp) to help pick up the slack. And they have realized (smart children that they are) I'm in too bad of shape to really be of any threat. It's not as if I'm suddenly going to get up and chase them around the house with a wooden spoon, right? One easy dodge, the child goes right, I swerve left, and there I am, sprawled indecorously on the floor. I know this, and they know this, so I've been dealing with 'tude, and emotional meltdowns, and well, pretty much everything children do when Mom is out of commission. (And this is a joke to illustrate a point in an outrageous manner. One can never be too sure these days...always better to have a disclaimer).

Today was the first day in a week and a half, I was up,  sort-of about, and off the  heavy-duty pain pills. So I decided to go one step further and have a much needed family dinner to help instill a much needed sense of normalcy. Jeremy had prepared baked chicken the night before, so it was a simple matter of reheating, and cooking up some side dishes. Thank you birds-eye for your steam-in-bag veggies and potatoes. We might all die from cancer some day from microwaving our food in plastic bags, but it sure saved us some much needed time tonight.

We barely sat down to our food on our plates when the conversation started up.

"I'm eating chicken. You know what? I need my chicken suit to eat chicken," Hannah said.

"You'd be a cannibal," Jeremy replied.

"OH! Then, I really really need my suit!" She started to get out of her chair when her spoilsport father told her to sit back down.

In his usual non-sequitur manner, Joshua decided to add to the budding conversation, "Man my lips are chapped, and I have this crack in the corner of my..."

"Then you shouldn't be kissing your girlfriend," I interrupted without skipping a beat.

"WHAT?!? I...Not...I'M NOT...WHAT?!" He stuttered, indignantly.

"AW aw aw aw!! He's guiiiilty. He's been kissing his girlfriend," Ruth and Hannah sung.

"I have NOT," Joshua said, while crossing his arms over his chest and slumping down in his chair.

"Don't worry, Josh," Jeremy said. "When they get bigger you can embarrass them in front of their boyfriends."

"Yeah, I can tell him how Hannah..."

"I'd stop right there, Sir," I said. "Because you were worse than she was..." I left the sentence dangling and looked over at the girls whose expressions could only be described as containing gleeful sibling malice.

"Yeah Josh..." Ruth added, rubbing her hands together. "Go ahead and tell stories. See what we come up with for you. Muhahahahahaha."

Joshua turned his lips in towards his teeth as he always does when thwarted but considering other strategies. "Hmm," He said as he poked a green bean with his fork, "You're right. I don't think that would be so smart."

"You know," Jeremy said changing the subject. "We need to pop a huge batch of popcorn, and take videos of us while we see who can stick the most pieces of popcorn on our tongues." He laughed when he saw my expression.

"YEAH!" Joshua said enthusiastically. "Then we can run it on repeat on the dvd player and Mom will have to watch it over and over and over because SHE'S STUCK ON THE COUCH!!!"

If that isn't motivation to get better...I'm not sure what is.

I have to wonder...

...what the elementary school thinks about us, as parents.

If you're a long-time follower of my family's antics, you'll recall a few years ago, I believe it was September 25, 2008, Joshua accidentally took a pot roast to school.

Today, I received another phone call from the assistant principal relating another food incident with yet another one of my children. I will preface this story by saying, I am sick. And when I'm sick, I just maybe, quite possibly, might not be paying as close attention to what my kids are doing as I probably should. So while I was laying on the couch, wishing for death, or at least, wishing I hadn't eaten anything that day, Hannah was happily packing her lunch for school the next day.

I stayed home again today, subsisting on a diet of toast and ginger ale, or else I might have missed the phone call. The phone rang, and I reached from the couch to grab it off the cedar chest that doubles as a mini-coffee table. Hmm, I thought as I read the school's number on the caller-ID. Could this be the nurse? How am I going to go get one of my kids? I'm still in my PJ's and I haven't even done but the most basic of grooming today. Tentatively, I answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Hi Mrs -----?"
"Speaking," I said.
"Well, this is going to be a strange phone call. Oh, how do I say this, where to start," the assistant principal said. "Hannah brought a whole head of lettuce into school for lunch and a cup of apple sauce. She was eating it like an apple. I told her this was NOT how we eat lettuce. She said, 'But it's fun!' So I took the lettuce back to the kitchen, cored it, wash it and portioned it out for her. I asked her if she wanted some salad dressing, but she just wanted it plain." She paused and chuckled.
"I am sooo sorry," I said. "I haven't been feeling well, and not as attentive as I should be," I added lamely in attempt to excuse my poor mothering skills.
"It's alright," she said. "I gave her some saltines too, because we all know lettuce and applesauce don't really hold the belly. And she'll probably be really hungry when she gets home from school. Oh and I put the rest of it in a to-go container to bring home. You'll want to stick it into the fridge right away. Not sure how long it will keep since it's been in her lunch bag all day."
"Well, I really appreciate it, thanks so much. I'm really embarrassed. First my oldest child brings a pot roast to school, and now this."
"Oh, that's right! You're the pot roast mom." She laughed.
Great, I thought. I'm the pot roast mom.
"Well, you should see what some of these kids bring for lunch," she said. "This wasn't too bad. Hope you feel better soon."
I thanked her again, hung up and awaited my munchkin to return from school so I could confront her.

As she walked in the door a few hours later, I said, "Yo, Child. Where's my lettuce?"
"What?"
"Where's my lettuce?"
"Oh, I have it in here."
"Don't ever take a whole head of lettuce to school again," I said as I took the to-go container out of her little hands. She smiled impishly and told me how her principal fixed the lettuce.
I decided to let it go with a warning. She is awful cute after all.

He missed the opportunity of the century.

The phone rang and jarred me out of a very deep sleep. I looked over at the clock, saw it registered 7:15, and noticed that the bedside lamp was on. "@#%^!" I said, "I'M LATE!!!!!!!!!!" "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod" I began to chant as I flew down the steps from my bedroom in the attic. "I cannot believe I'm LATE!" I passed children wandering around in pajamas in the hall. "Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod." I flew down the next flight of steps and through the living room where Jeremy was passed out on the couch. I was frantically running through the house, making way to the basement where I had work clothes, freshly washed, hanging on our indoor line. Dodging kitchen chairs, and small persons who were now following me wearing confused expressions, I babbled, "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod, this is it. I'm done. I'm fired. Ohmygod. I can't be late! I knew about this yesterday. The school. I gotta call the school. Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod!"

On my way back through the living room, Jeremy said, "What are you late for?"

"The School! For Work! For School Work. No, wait. I'm working today at the SCHOOL!" I said frantically, as I whipped back through the living room holding a shirt I had just pulled off from the clothesline in the basement. My mind was working double-time. I had pretty much figured out how to get dressed and to work in under ten minutes...if I forwent a lot of my beauty regimen. Make-up, ok, I can apply that in the school bathroom. Granted, it'll be weird, but I could do it. Pony-tail. Pony tails are fast and easy. Clothes, in my hand, check. Lunch? I guess I'll be hungry...good thing there's an emergency granola bar in my bag...

But thankfully, he stopped me before I made it up too many steps.
"MEL! What are you talking about? You're working?"
I couldn't figure out why he wasn't understanding me. Frustrated with his confusion and lack of movement off the couch, I stopped, came back down three steps and turned towards his prostrate personage on the couch. Enunciating clearly, I said, "Work. I work today. I told you last night, I was filling in another day at the school."
"what?" he said trying to make sense of my conversation.

I blew out a huge breath and tried to keep my cool. "You know. The. School. Where I substitute now. They asked me to work again today." Then I added, "IheardthephonebutitslateImustvefallenbacktosleepandnowIhavetogetdressed." I paused and took another breath,"And why isn't my father here yet? Did you decide to wait and take the girls to school? OhmygodI'msolate!"

"OOOhhhh," Jeremy said, "You think it's morning. Relax. Mel! Relax. It's still today, the evening, after dinner. Remember, you wanted to take a nap?"
My bleary brain tried to register the words as I took in his prone position. He probably wouldn't be laying down if he had to go to work, my poor beleaguered brain tried to tell me. The girls wandered downstairs to see their half-sane mother and shook their heads in pity.

"Mama, we were really wondering about you. I thought you had to work tonight," Hannah said. "Why were you running around in your underwear?"
oh God. I tried to cover myself with my clean shirt, still in my hand as I took in my surroundings and forced my brain to register the present. Thankfully, Joshua was at play practice, or this would have been way more embarrassing.
"Yeah," Ruth added. "I couldn't figure out what in the heck you were doing?"
"I swear," I said, "I heard the phone, and it just made me freak out. I would have sworn to you it was morning. I saw children running around in pj's. It made sense. It felt like I was asleep forever. I told you I haven't been sleeping well for fear of missing the morning phone call."
Jeremy said something, muffled by his face buried in the couch pillow. He pulled the blanket further up over his eyes.
"You missed the perfect opportunity," I continued. "You should have let me get all the way dressed, and out the door. Yup. That would have been funny." I turned to walk back up the stairs.
He flipped the blanket back out, turned his head and looked out of me with one eye. "You wouldn't have laughed," he pointed out.
"Nope. But I also couldn't have blamed you either."

"Kids are expensive..."

I told Jeremy as I wrote out a check for fifty-two dollars. "He needs both Tap and Jazz shoes this year for the musical. You think, when you become a parent, that it's going to be clothes and diapers, and maybe toys. I didn't realize it would be uniforms, bass guitar lessons, and tap shoes."
"Tap shoes?" Jeremy asked as he looked up at me, alarmed and I knew it wasn't the money he was concerned about.
We exchanged a knowing look as Joshua rubbed his hands together in evil-glee, "I can't wait to get my tap shoes."

I had a momentary vision of any hopes of peace and quiet flying out the door of my home for the next few weeks. No. Who am I kidding? I will be hearing ratta tatta tap tap tap for life. It's the next best thing to carrying a drum around: the ability to wear a percussion instrument on one's feet! So, I always knew The Boy would enjoy tap dancing. He can't walk anywhere from her to there without making rhythm with his hands and feet. But for years it was "Dancing is for giiiiiirrrrrllllsss" if I tried to bring up the subject.

The musical this year is "Thoroughly Modern Millie." I had never heard of it, but apparently, there is a huge amount of dancing, and a lot of these numbers require the entire cast, or a good portion of it. Joshua, being one of the few male members of the troupe, was cast as the butler and as a 'featured dancer.' Back in September, the dance clinics started to help the kids prepare for the auditions. I knew I was in trouble when Josh came home and declared, "MOM! I HAVE to HAVE tap lessons!" Since then I've been living in dread of the day the shoes came home. I'm still not sure when the day I forever lose my sanity will occur. But rest assured, when the padded truck pulls up the curb, you'll know why.

When I picked The Boy up from play practice on Thursday night, I discovered they had been fitted for their dance shoes (oh joy) with the promise that the shoes would come in next week (hooray). Before we left, the director wanted to know what color t-shirt Joshua wanted. (Oh good, more money out of the pocket). He chose royal blue, and we made way to leave.

"Wait," said the director, "Do you want anything written on the back of the shirt? "
"Uhm, put 'featured' on the back," Josh said.
"Featured?" the director and I said at the same time.
"Yeah, cuz I'm a 'featured' dancer," he replied.
"Don't you want your character's name?" The director asked. "Most of the cast are getting their character names written on the back, if they have a part."
Joshua looked at the director as if he suddenly grew horns on his head. "Kenneth?" Joshua asked incredulous. "Kenneth the Butler?"
It was the expression on the boy's face that made us laugh. I suppose "Kenneth" wasn't very cool and I could imagine it would confuse the general public. He'd forever be wondering why people were calling him 'Kenneth" every time he wore the shirt, so I suggested "How about 'The Butler Did It.' "
"I don't get it."
"Never mind," I said.
"Just put 'featured' on the back," Josh said as we turned to walk out the door. I imagined my wallet opening up and the bills sprouting wings and flying away.

Where to begin?

It's been a rough month, broken up with moments of levity. We lost power in the "ice storm of the decade," the last of my grandparents passed away (he was a step-grandparent, but the only one I knew as a grandparent). I'm having health issues (too personal for a blog post). And The Boy was having school issues due to his "disabilities" for lack of a better word ... (will these ever go away...probably not, but at least I can say, after a flurry of emails to his teachers and a meeting with the principal, I have hope). I have to thank God that in the midst of trial there are these moments of laughter. Here the are the tid-bits:

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"Mama, do these pretzels taste weird?" Joshua asked me, holding one out to me. I noticed the words "Gluten Free" on the package.
"Nope. They taste just fine to me." I pointed to the label.
He made a face and said with sincere sympathy, "Mama. I'm so sorry for you."

(Actually, those pretzels were pretty darn close to the real thing!)


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Hannah stumbled out of her room, hair in her face, half-delirious from being JUST awake. "HOW DO YOU STOP THE BEEPING SOUND!?" she demanded angrily. "Wake up your brother and tell him to turn off his alarm clock," I replied. She marched into his room, climbed up the ladder to his loft bed and yelled in his face, "JOSH! STOP THE BEEPING SOUND!"

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Hannah, my little time-nazi was thrilled when I pulled up to her school at exactly 8:30 when the bell rang. "See," she said to me, "This is why I always want to leave the house at 8:25."

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She came downstairs in a pink and blue stripped short-sleeved dress, and pink capris underneath the skirt. "I totally understand how you feel, Hannah," I said. "I wish it were spring too. However, you're not going to school dressed in that today."

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Grandpop's death and consequentially, funeral was difficult to get through, and so I found myself trying to find distractions wherever they might lie. The Sunday after his burial was a day our business was open, and so I found ways to keep myself occupied there, rather than think about the loss. I came home to container of expensive chocolates on the kitchen table.

"I thought you might need these," Jeremy said.
He doesn't outwardly express romance and love often, but when it matters and it counts, he always knows how to make me feel better.

The next day was Valentines day. I received a phone call at 5:03 in the evening, as he was commuting home from work.

"Uhhhhh," He said, "You, uhhh, weren't, ummmm. expecting anything today were you?" he asked. "It is Valentine's day."

"No, babe," I said, "You bought me chocolates on a day I needed it, rather than a manufactured holiday. I think we're good."

"Ok. Cuz, I would have stopped and picked up something if you wanted me to."

Well, that might not have meant as much. I didn't tell him. He got major points, not only for the consolation chocolate, but attempting to make valentine's day 'more better' to borrow a phrase from my father-in-law. I guess after nearly sixteen years of marriage, eighteen of being together as a couple, twenty-two of knowing each other as friends, I suppose I might keep him.

He still has a LOT to learn about girls

The Boy has a new crush. Since he was spending every spare moment of his time texting her, it was obvious a new romantic attachment was forming. After I watched them hug at the end of play practice, it became imperative to grill the kid.

"So, do you like I----?" I asked him
"Maybe," He blushed.
"You seem to text her a lot."
"Maybe."
"Is she the girl you hugged the other day?"
"Maybe."
"Are you guys 'going out' ?"
"No."
"Are you going to the Valentine's Dance with her?"
"Uhh...Yes."
"Are you going to bring her a flower?"
"WHAT!?!?! NO WAY! That'd be embarrassing!"
"Girls love flowers. We LOVE flowers."
"No. I'm not bringing her a flower. I'd feel so stupid, standing there, holding a flower, saying 'Here I----, this is for you."
"I'm telling you, bonus points if you bring her something..."

I was beginning to have fun at his expense. The poor kid was so uncomfortable with this line of conversation, I had to prod him more and more. Ruthie, picking up on an opportunity harass her brother suggested, "Maybe one of those chocolate lolly pops."
"Remember when Cole gave Ruthie that hemp bracelet with the peace sign on it? It wasn't a big deal, but Ruthie really loved it," I added. "So maybe not even a flower, maybe there's something else she likes better."
Ruth blushed and nodded.
"No. Way." He said emphatically, turning more red by the moment.

I could tell he felt like this conversation was getting away from him. So I pushed at him some more. A mom's got to find her amusement somewhere. "It doesn't have to be a rose or anything. A carnation. Carnations aren't threatening." I said.
"No. I'm not doing it." He said.
"Ooh, I like carnations," Ruthie said.
"How about you get six flowers. One for each of your little girlfriends. Then you'd be REALLY popular. Oh my goodness, you'd have a harem for LIFE!"
Joshua just glared at me. "Six?!"

A few minutes later, Jeremy wandered downstairs into the conversation. He listened while Joshua tried to win a few points on his side of the debate. "I just texted I----, and she said she wasn't a flower kind of gal. So. There." Joshua said.
"No girl," Jeremy said, "Is going to tell you what they want. You're supposed to guess. Or they'll always say the opposite, son. Because it doesn't mean anything when they tell you. Not only that, but you just ruined the 'romance' factor by telling her what you guys were talking about. It's the surprise and the gift giving elements that makes it 'romantic.' That is what girls like."
Joshua made a face. "I'm still not bringing her a flower."
"I'm wouldn't call myself much of a 'flower' girl either, Josh, but when Daddy brings them home and I'm not expecting it, I go all gooey. All girls, deep inside, like flowers when it's a surprise. Especially when its a surprise. Don't you like flowers, Ruth?"
Ruthie nodded.
"How about you, Hannah? Do you like flowers?"
"I'm more of a gorilla kind of gal, myself," Hannah said nodding.
"Well, then. Your future boyfriend is going to have an interesting time of it, finding you a gorilla."
"It better be stuffed," Jeremy added, dead pan, "I'm not housing any large furry apes in the back yard."

A Double Wide Sleeping Bag

It's entirely possible I've told this story before. It's a classic in our home, and we have friends who request it from time to time. It's up there with "The Canoe Story" which, in truth, "The Canoe Story" needs to be told on video, by Jeremy, to truly appreciate it in its entirety. I searched my blog for this story, and having not found it, I must make the assumption, I've posted it before in threads, but never actually wrote it down for posterity. After awhile, it becomes difficult to remember who heard this story, and who heard that one, when it comes to the classics.

I know there are some who long for their early days of marriage when love was an explosion. When everything felt fresh and exciting and new. Not me. Jeremy and I are complete opposites in so many ways, it took a long time before we began to mesh. His polar opposite personality is what attracted me to him in the first place. I craved that calm, solid, disposition he has always had, because I'm a bit, er, emotional. And then we had some fairly large cultural differences to overcome as well. Blending a little bit of his family with a little bit of mine, and then adding our own twist to the mix was a challenge, and it's taken years for us to become our own unique family outside of the ones we both grew up in. He wanted what he knew. And so did I.

Looking back, it should not have been a surprise to me that we would disagree over something as simple as a bed, with a mattress, sheets, pillows, and a comforter. After all, I believed, incorrectly, that most normal people in the whole of the United States slept in beds. An ignorant assumption to be sure, but I was young, fairly sheltered and thereby naive to much beyond what I knew in my sleepy little world.

I won't go into our wedding story, but just know it was a rather unusual arrangement, thanks to Uncle Sam and the US Army, causing us to be separated for the first month and a half of marriage. It would have been longer, but we were granted a reprieve, thanks to the Russian Government who didn't wish any U.S. Government passports to cross their borders. As a result, we were left without a place to live. We had made arrangements to be housed upon his return from Russia, and so our future place was still occupied. We lived in "Guest Housing" for longer than I care to admit (yet another story) and so I had not really had the opportunity to see Jeremy in his natural habitat. He had always been at home in his parent's guest room, in the barracks where ever he was stationed, in a hotel, or guest housing.

We finally moved into our little mobile home that we were renting. I stood inside the empty space and declared we needed furniture, but first, and foremost we needed a bed.
"A bed? Why do we need a bed?" Jeremy asked.
I just looked at him for a moment before I said, "To sleep on?"
"I thought we'd get a piece of foam. I always slept on a piece of foam growing up. It's great!"
"I'm not sleeping on a piece of foam. What's wrong with you?"
"You just have to try it. I know you'll like it."
"I know I won't."

Being that he was newly wed, and male, and he wanted to ensure good things would continue coming his way, he caved into the whole bed v. piece of foam argument and we went mattress/box spring shopping. It was delivered and set up the same day. Standing over the bed I then declared we needed to go buy some sheets and a blanket.

"Why?" Jeremy asked.
"Why???" I said. "Because i"m not just sleeping on an uncovered mattress."
"I just thought we'd get a sleeping bag. I always slept in a sleeping bag. It's great."
"A sleeping bag?"
"YEAH! I know...we could get a double wide sleeping bag!"
I just looked at him, incredulously. "A double wide sleeping bag," I said flatly. "Really. You want me to sleep in a double wide sleeping bag? That's kind of gross. You can't wash a sleeping bag that often."
"But they are sooooooo comfortable," he argued. As if this was really going to sell me on the virtues of a DWSB.
"No they aren't, " I pointed out. "They're hot. And stuffy. And the liner gets picky, and gives me the chills. No way."

And because he was young, and male, and newly wed, and wanted to ensure good things would keep coming his way, we went shopping for sheets and a blanket that very same day.

Jeremy still hasn't given up hopes for the Double Wide Sleeping Bag. When I'm cold and complain the response is, "You know if we had a DWSB..." So, I avoid the "Camping" section of the department store as if it were the quarantined quarters of a hospital, knowing all it would take is one sight of a DWSB, and I'd be owning it, though I very much doubt I'd get talked into sleeping in it. Because he's while he's not newly married anymore, nor as young, he's still very male and always wanting to ensure good things keep coming his way.

The chick's first flight from the nest

When one raises a child who nearly sets the hedges on fire (age four), cuts the curtains, couch, and phone cord (age five), melts wax on the furnace (age 7 or 8), climbs out onto the roof and hangs by the satellite dish (age 10), one is hesitant to allow one's offspring to leave ones sight for very long.  In fact, when one's child is the only child required to have a parent come along to most outtings, it does little to encourage the parent's confidence in said child's ability to cope  outside of the family home.

 And so, with mild trepidation, I threw my chick out of the nest for the weekend.  Yes, he's a little old to have his first truly away (no mom and dad, no grandparents, aunts, or uncles)  trip, but there have been reasons for that.  I have always known the leaving us would be alright. Never having been a clingy child, he has always wanted to leave us behind.  I was more, and always am more, concerned that he can manage himself without a keeper watching out for him.  And I worry that he'll make too much work for whoever is chaperoning. After all, I needed to know he'd be wise enough to not climb a 30 foot tree and get stuck.  I didn't want the camp director to have to call in the fire company for a emergency rescue.

So we've waited until we knew he had the skills to cope and a self-reserve of resourcefulness before sending him out on his first away-trip without one of us playing 'chaperon.'  Despite this, it was suggested to us, perhaps, just maybe, Jeremy might want to consider going along for this trip.  I put my foot down. One, Jeremy would have had to give up a Friday-night gig with his band, Seventh Corvus,  Two, I knew the kid needed to go on this trip without us.  It's the first step in many towards his independence.

Located up North in Pennsylvania, several groups of teenagers from all over were congregating in this one spot for the weekend, filling the campus with about 200+ rowdy kids aging from 13-18.  The girls from our youth group rode in one vehicle, the boys in another.  Apparently, after two and half hours of riding, a van of teenage boys will become rather resourceful. Among their more mild entertainments, they started making up and talking in foreign accents, or their impressions of them.  The older guys decided Joshua had the best Scottish accent, and that he needed to pretend he was an exchange student from Scotland. They'd all have his back and make the story more believable.  One them, even went so far as to "coach" him on some Scottish history. "Now if someone asks you about William Wallace..."

They let the girls from our group in on the joke, so they could lend credence to the story.  Well into Friday night, and part of Saturday our teens had the ruse going pretty strong. Because some of our teens have been to this camp several times over the years, theirs were familiar faces. But this was Joshua's first time, and being that he was an 'unknown' element,  their joke was made even better. The Boy  was able to keep the accent going, never slipping out of character, and according to the seventeen and the eighteen year old who came up with the idea to pass Josh the Scot off to all the other campers, the girls flocked to my son's side. "It was the accent," Josh the Scot said, when telling the story to me later. "They thought I really was from another country, and so I was quite popular."   The other boys told me Josh could and probably would have made most of the camp believe he truly was an exchange student if he hadn't forgotten his impromptu history lessons..."William Wallace? Never heard of him..." 

Later last night, while he was leaning on his bedroom door, Joshua said to Jeremy and I, "I have a confession to make. I didn't think about you guys ONE bit the whole weekend. It was that great."  He stretched, and sighed, then shut his door.  Jeremy turned to me and smiled and said, "He did reaaally well this weekend. Really well." 

Whew.

In search of a brain...umm, I mean yarn.

I'm sitting here with my mouth on fire, lips tingling from the spicy buffalo wings I just ingested. I figured while I was between wings, I'd quickly jot down a blog post. Allowing sufficient time for the burn to abate might be considered an added incentive, but in truth, I figured it's been awhile since I updated the blog. (Let's blame the weather and the holidays for that, shall we?) Why am I eating spicy buffalo wings at 8:25 pm on a Wednesday evening? Because I just got home from 'some things looming' where I was working in the loom room sampling yarn.

I've been looking for soft, inexpensive but nice, chunky, 2 ply yarn to weave with. Why soft, inexpensive but nice, chunky, 2 ply yarn? Because I want a yarn has a low epi (ends per inch or the amount of lengthwise threads that fit into an inch, for the non-weavers out there). I could go into the reasons why, but for now, that's secondary to the task at hand. It's an uninteresting pursuit, I know, and yet, I sit here and write all about it, anyway. I'd even bet that there's plenty of folks out there who could recommend exactly the yarn I need. (Feel free!)

I usually work with cottons, rayons, linens, silks, copper wire, and blends thereof, that are rather thin, as in fingering weight or thinner, for you knitters out there. Most of my pictoral weavings are made up with various mill ends, and of varying textures. My warp is always perle cotton, sometimes mixed with other things, but mostly, it's just the vehicle for the imagery, so it doesn't have to be luxurious or glamorous, since it hides in the background, merely providing the structure to the cloth. Utilizing tapestry and lace techniques, I alternate transparent areas with opaque. So, apparently, I've gotten rather out of practice when it comes to threading my loom in anything but a straight 1-2-3-4 draw with fuzzy, fluffy yarn. You see, I only need four shafts threaded in the most basic of ways to accomplish my work. (That's my excuse and I'm sticking with it).

Want to know where to get good mill ends? I could possibly recommend a few places. Want to buy perle cotton in bulk? I have a few sources, some I don't use anymore, yet I could probably tell someone where to look. Soft, inexpensive but nice, chunky, 2 ply yarn? Apparently, I have no clue. Hence my quest.

Detail, Kaliedscopic Daydreams, (c) 2009

melanie ritter mitchell

No stone is going unturned. Along the many paths I've searched, I've found wool yarn that's definitely nice, and uh, well, somewhat thicker, with a recommended epi of 10, so that fits, sort-of. But I'm not yet convinced it's all that soft. I'll work it up tomorrow, wash it and brush it, and see what I've got, but until then, I'm just hoping I'll end up surprised. I've found soft, 2-ply wool yarn, but it's kind of thin, and I'm looking for bulk. The other day while on my hunt, I had a lovely phone conversation with the Master Weaver at Halcyon yarn and learned a few things that 15 years of weaving never taught me, but still no real satisfactory answer. I've even checked out the yarn section of the mega-monster-craft store. Which is what I was working with tonight. Surprisingly it wasn't all that bad, but I completely forgot the rule of sampling before I sample. In other words, I should have made a small swatch, before working it up into full length test-scarf. Good thing it only took me three and a half hours to set up, weave, and cut off the project. I might be more depressed than I already am. I would have needed to add an entire bag of Hershey's chocolate nuggets to my buffalo wing dinner. (Chicken Molé anyone?)


Apparently I'm brain dead, because I know better. And it pains me to admit to such a mistake, out loud, all over the world wide web. But hey, I made a very nice balanced plain weave. Not too much of the weft showing. Not too much of the warp. If I were weaving a saddle blanket, I'd be extremely proud of myself right about now instead of writing a confession to the world. I know what I did wrong. Even understanding my mistake doesn't take the sting from this perfectionist's heart. So tomorrow, I will make sure the brain is fueled up, neurons firing, before I face my loom again. And I will continue my quest for soft, inexpensive but nice, chunky 2 ply yarn, because at this point, it's no longer about the project at hand. It's all about the conquering the quest. Oh and hey, I can feel my lips again. Guess I can go finish my dinner now.

~Melanie

It's been an interesting day in the Mel house.

"Multiplication flash cards?...Where'd these come from?" I asked Jeremy.
"Oh, Hannah got them from her teacher." He replied.
"Is she having that much trouble with Multiplication? Poor baby!"
"Oh no. She just wanted them. She had to buy them for a dollar."
"A dollar? Where'd she get the money?"
"I dunno. She said don't worry about it. She 'had it covered.' "
"She actually used those words?"
"Yup. She 'has it covered.' "
"Well. Ok. Then. What is she...8 going on 38? She 'had it covered.' a dollar." I laughed and shook my head.
"I know!" He said.

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I worked late at the studio tonight. I knew Jeremy would get home and feed the kids, so I didn't worry about them. After all, they're old enough to spend two hours home alone, or so I thought. Apparently, my cell phone ringer was silenced, so I missed two calls from my children. Seeing that I had voicemail from home, I quickly dialed it up to make sure there were no emergencies I had missed. It's rare, when they are home alone, for them to call me. No doubt, the allure of being able to do whatever they want keeps them from reporting in.

Voicemail #1 from Ruth. "Mom, Josh and Hannah are being really mean. They're trying to shred my math homework."

Two minutes later, if that, I had voicemail #2 from Joshua. "Mom, Ruth greatly exaggerates. She wouldn't know a joke if slapped her in the face 50 times."

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There are moments in life where a child is downright hilarious, but so inappropriate, we as parents have to hold it in. This morning, Hannah brought out her craft kit she's been playing with. It included a page where she can dress the girl on one side, and give the people on the other side hair and make-up, and so forth. She showed Jeremy the dress-up side and said, "Isn't she wonderful? Isn't she beeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuutiful??? Don't you just LOOOOVE her outfit I gave her?"
Jeremy, indulgent Daddy that he is said, "Yes. She IS beautiful."
"And look at these poor children," Hannah said in a sad serious voice while making her eyes big and wide and sorrowful as possible. She flipped the page over to show the bald heads. "These poor children have cancer."
"Hannah," Jeremy said, obviously fighting a smile. "That's really NOT funny. That's tragic when children have cancer."
"Oh," She said. And wandered off.
Jeremy looked at me, "Where does she come UP with this stuff?!?" He imitated her voice, "These poor children have cancer." I mean, I had a hard time not laughing!"

What a day. What. a. day.