For My Children, On The First Day Of May

My Dear Lovelies,

Today is the first day of May. You have a scant four weeks of school left. You are in the final count down. (Sorry for the '80s ear worm, btw) There are about 20 days left in which you must pack up your things and tote them to school. This means, by my calculations, that you have already been packing and toting for about 8 months. Or approximately 32 weeks. Or somewhere around 160 days, give or take a snow day. That is many, many days, my sweets.

What I'm saying is, you've had lots of days to practice at being organized. You've had quite a bit of time to get your, um, "stuff" together. They say it takes 30 days to form a habit, so you've had the opportunity to make or break 8 different habits.

My question for you is, why isn't Remembering All The Things I Must Have With Me At School In Order To Properly Get Through My Day one of them?

Why, for the love of Pete, am I still receiving frantic ALL CAPS texts shortly after you have left the house for the day? Why, am I still asked to bring x to school at y time? I have never liked algebra and these different equations which I am being asked to solve before I have even had a cup of coffee make me want to weep.

Today, for instance, I was asked to please, pretty please (Gosh, you're pretty, mom!) bring a jar to school. Before first period. Shortly after that, another child asked if I was feeling nice. That sent my spidey senses to tingling, because I try really, really hard to always be nice. But I knew something else was going to follow that sentence. And really? It left me feeling not so nice.

Do I look like a Fed Ex driver? Nope. I drive a crappy, white minivan with a sliding door that refuses to budge and a piece of red electrical wire holding up my cracked front bumper and an odor of rancid french fries that permeates the interior. (This is not a rant complaining about my van. I will drive Blanca until she dies and I will love her for taking all the abuse we have heaped upon her, lo these past 10 years. This is merely to compare and contrast the differences between what I drive and what a Fed Ex driver drives.) Do I look like a UPS delivery person? Nope. Brown is so not my color. It makes me look washed out. My point here, in case for some reason you are unable to suss it out, is that I am not paid for or compensated in any way for making deliveries.

And no. Texting me that I'm so pretty or I'm the best mom ever do not count as compensation. At least not in the context in which they are being used.

I have driven to school in the pouring rain. I have driven to school on icy roads. I have driven to school in the snow. I have driven to school during the peak of the high school rush hour! You have no idea how I have endangered my life for you! I have run to the school in my pajamas. I have run to the school in exercise gear. I have run to the school with no makeup. The secretaries have seen me without makeup almost as much as your father--and we've been married over 20 years! Those poor women don't get paid enough to have to encounter the Crypt Keeper as often as they do. I'm begging you, don't worry about my pride; think of the secretaries.

I love you more than all the sand on all the beaches on the planet. But hear me now and know that I say this because I love you and want what's best for you: I am not afraid to let you fail. Many of life's greatest (and hardest) lessons come from failure. I speak from experience. I know you are all smart and resourceful and resilient and you will be okay. Even if you don't have x at y time. I have worked hard for you and with you all year. You are in the homestretch. You are nearly there. You can do it! I'm sure of it. I will continue to cheer you on from the sidelines until you reach the finish. But me? I'm out. Dunzo. Finished. I have responded to my last ALL CAPS EMERGENCY PLEASE DELIVER text. Unless your hair is on fire and I am the only person left on the planet who can help you, DO. NOT. PUSH. SEND.


Now, my preshus snowflakes, have a great day. Only 21 non-emergency-text, non-please-bring-me, non-are-you-feeling-nice-you're-so-pretty more days to go!

Love,
Mom

Ugh: A Post-Migraine Poem

It's a new morning,
my migraine has fled,
I look around the house
and am filled with dread.

The cat was down
 for just one day
and in that time
the mice did play.

The dishes are dirty
 and stacked in a heap,
the laundry is a mountain
stinky and steep.

There are millions of socks
strewn about the floor,
and smudgy dog nose prints
all over the door.

The island is stacked
with papers and stuff,
the dog hair blows about
like so much brown fluff.

The tables and couch
of the family room
are littered with crap
adding to the gloom.

The people that live here
are rabid feral goats
that haven't even a clue
about how to hang up a coat.

Toothpaste globs dot
every mirror and sink,
the garbage is overflowing
and starting to stink.

The fridge is empty
and the goats all whine
that there's nothing to eat,
on what will they dine?

I survey the sorry
state of this place,
and I scratch my head
and I grimace my face.

Where to start? What to do?
With which task to begin?
This is a losing battle.
There's no way to win.

But I know that the answer
lies in my brainy little head:
"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"
So I'm going back to bed.

The Haps

Hey y'all. As my kids say: 'What's the haps?'

Okay. I'm lying. My kids don't actually now say, nor have they ever said that. This is what happens when you are out of practice with writing. You just make stuff up just so you can get going. But now, having lied and having started, I'm pretty sure I can keep going without resorting to lying. I shall, forthwith, update you on "the haps" at Chez Sara and I shall tell it like it is. Or was, depending on when things happened. Time, it's a tricky business, dontchaknow.

First off, let me start by telling you that I was slain by that dastardly little drummer boy. It was an unholy pairing of an army of fake Kardashians and that evil song that pah-rum-pum-pummed me right out of the game. Thanks SNL for your Kimye skit. You really should have a warning. Anyway, it was only 24 hours before the game ended that I was done in. I was sitting in my room, watching a dvr'd episode of SNL with my daughter when it happened. I screamed. In agony. In such a way that my beloved, who had just finished showering, ran out of the bathroom to make sure that someone hadn't actually lost a body part. (Well, he couldn't see it, but I'm pretty sure The Boy took part of my soul.) Then, after hearing my explanation for the ruckus, he just shook his head in disgust and headed back into the bathroom to finish grooming himself and his manly, manly beard.

We had a joyful Christmas with most of my family. My folks and Uncle Grumpy and his kids headed down and we celebrated. And they left this for me:

Yep. I was given the dreaded owls, dressed as a drummer boy, ox, and lamb. The HORROR!

After they left, we had a day to recover and then we had a houseful of friends over on Christmas eve. And then Christmas morning dawned bright and early and this happened:

Select. Fill. Relax. Lying liars!!

Guess who's still finding random styrofoam beans?

It'll be easy, they said! Just select a cover, they said! Just pour in the foam beans, they said! Then relax, they said! Lies! ALL LIES!

Mary was trying to help me and when my father finally came upstairs to see what all the laughing/cursing/crying/screaming/shrieking was about, he shook his head in disbelief. It wasn't long before he, too, was covered in the liesbeans.

After Christmas, Mother Nature decided it was time to bring me to my knees by sending us 12" of snow and a polar vortex that kept my children out of school for the whole first week that they were supposed to be back. Instead of having a two week winter break, they had three. And I almost and a nervous breakdown. The laundry! The food! The different waking/sleeping/eating schedules!

3/4 of my children working on a tunnel. The 4th was off being cool with his friends.

Taken about two seconds before having snow thrown at me.

Then they were back in school for 4 and a half days when they had an early dismissal and a day off for MLK day. As I told my daughter, I'm fairly certain that the Reverend King wouldn't have minded them celebrating his day IN SCHOOL. You know, where they could LEARN and EXPAND their tiny, little MINDS. The bonus this weekend, was seeing my folks again. They came over because my other brother--my TX brother--Uncle SupahJeenius and my niece were here visiting a University and having an audition. It was a fun visit because snow! While my brother grew up here in the midwest, it's been many years since he's been here on purpose in January. He said it was a matter of pride not to wear his hat, but when it got down to about 14 degrees F, he decided he'd rather be warm than proud. He also had a hard time remembering to button his coat and THEN put his gloves on. Winter FAIL. My niece, who has experienced snow a handful of times and wasn't quite mesmerized, was fascinated with the fact that the snow squeaks when you walk on it. Yep. Winter--it's entertaining on so many levels.

I'm hearing now that next week may rival the first appearance of the polar vortex. Yippee. Even my children, who were delighted at having an extended break, are starting to grow bored. They are not hoping for anymore snow days, since their school year has now been extended into June. Now they are just looking for 2 hour delays. I, however, am no longer on speaking terms with the school district's Director of Transportation. Um, not that I ever spoke to the man before. But boy! If he tried to speak to me now, I would give him one heck of a cold shoulder!

Let's see…

Oh!

There was also this:

I got a disco ball for Christmas! So. Much. WIN!

It's just part of my decor--I'm not actually hanging it and doing the hustle or anything. And the best part is--well, besides the faces of people who come over and then exclaim "You have a disco ball? WHY do you have a disco ball? Now I kinda want a disco ball!"--if the sun decides to show up in the morning and do its job instead of hiding behind the gray, gray clouds that are trying to make me curl up in a ball and die, it looks like this in my family room!

And do you know what happens next?

The Dumb Dog loses her mind.

Winning on two levels. Feels good!

Last Week

I was busy last week. That explains my lack of posting. I was busy. BOOM! Best excuse ever! It explains everything without getting overly involved.

"We missed you at the PTO meeting."
"Sorry. I was busy."

"Why are you late for this appointment?"
"I was busy."

"Mom! You were supposed to pick me up 15 minutes ago!"
"I was busy."

"Why are we just now eating dinner at 7:15?"
"I was busy."

Then, when people try to ask you what you were busy with, you change the subject back to them, in either a positive or negative way.

"I am so impressed with the way you are running the PTO this year! Never in a million years would I be able to take on such a responsibility!" (HAHAHA!! Why??? Because I'M BUSY!!)

"You know, the staff here in this office is always so kind and efficient. I really hope these doctors know how lucky they are to have such a great staff!"

"Hey, I was looking on Skyward and I noticed that your English grade isn't looking so good, what's going on?"

"Wow, honey, you are looking especially good in your unshowered, unshaven, state! And the bicycle shorts only add to the glamour. Sexy! Here, have some potatoes!"

Or, if that takes too much effort, you could just type a few things on your blog and add pictures. Because the pictures will surely explain what you have been busy with.

I was busy trying to escape enormous spiders with 6 foot webs that MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEAR within 10 minutes of viewing it.

I was busy trying to figure out just what is in her mouth and why she felt the need to photograph it on my phone. #photobomb

I was busy trying to figure out if this is the new duckface selfie.  #photobombedagain

I was busy...um...still scratching my head over this one.... #seriouslytherewereabout15oftheseonmyphone

I was busy sending snarky texts to my daughter when she informed me that she would be late coming home from school. #motheroftheyearproof1

I was busy helping my son get ready for the big rivalry football game. #motheroftheyearproof2

I was busy sending pictures of duct tape to my other son in order to find out his preference on which one he would prefer I use to put on his cleats. #motheroftheyearproof3

I was busy taking very hip and chic selfies with my youngest. 

I was busy rescuing a leopard frog from our window well.

I was busy eating frozen custard with my family.

I was busy marveling at the light.

I was busy watching my daughter spin circles in her "twirly skirt."

I was busy taking pictures of my daughter's pillow perm. This picture doesn't even do it justice--you should've seen the back! #motheroftheyearproof4

I was busy helping my Beloved pick out new glasses. And by that I mean absently nodding in his direction and grunting "uh huh" at every pair of specs while really prowling the store for the frames I want when I go in to get new glasses soon. 

I was busy trying not to melt at my son's first game of the season. 

I'm busy trying to distract you from the ridiculousness of this post with a picture of an adorable Great Dane who was at my son's game. The game didn't end so well, but she was fabulous entertainment.

So. There you have it. I've have been busy, wouldn't you agree?

Um...look! Cute doggy!!

The Longest Shortest Summer Ever

Well howdy there, stranger! How have you been? Me? I've been busy crazy holed up in my room with the door closed for the last two weeks trying to avoid my offspring fine, thanks for asking!

Our summer was a combination of long days laced with cries of "I'm hungry!" and whines of "I'm bored" intertwined with frenzied days of travel and go-here-do-this-have-fun-dammit! (Hence the title of this post.) It seems we just finished the manic final days of school and now here we are starting them all up again. But in between, we crammed stuff in there, man. We crammed like a BOSS. To wit:

*My children were out of school for two days before heading over to my folks' house for a week of VBS, visiting, eating ice cream, swimming, fishing, and, according to my ever-hungry-never-full offspring, absolutely starved by my mother who would not let them raid the pantry willy-nilly as they are wont to do here. (My mom fears she is a mean grandma. I tell her no, I'm just a lazy mother too tired to fight with my children. They have me way outnumbered. Never mind that they have her outnumbered, too. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

*At the same time 3 of my children were at my folks' home, my eldest son and my beloved were in Canada, fishing, hiking, avoiding stumps that look like bears (no lie--three different times they mistook the same stump for a bear such was their wish/fear of seeing a bear. That stump/bear came to be known as Stumpy the "bear.") and checking out the ER of a Canadian hospital just for grins. Oh, and maybe to get stitches in a thumb because, as my son learned, knives are sharp.

*While my children and my beloved were gone, I painted my kitchen. Why yes, it seems I did just paint the kitchen a couple of years ago. But, now that the family room is painted (the color has grown on me. It's grown on me so much that I painted the kitchen the same color. Who knew that "Tattered Sail/Not Tattered Sail/Lavender Swine/Who Knows What Color This Is" would look so good? Now, I must share that the kitchen is not actually completely painted. My beloved told me he would paint the wee crevices above the upper cabinets with his special painting device he used last time we painted. I also left the area behind the fridge for him for two reasons: 1) I am a delicate flower and moving the fridge by myself seemed too overwhelming, and 2) I was afraid I would scratch the hardwood floors and then be given the stinkeye by my beloved. So now, my kitchen is totally painted. Um, if you don't you know, actually look above the cabinets or behind the fridge. Chances are very good that it will get painted. Sometime in 2017 when my husband gets to it on his very long To Do List and he actually has a day or two strung together that doesn't require his attention somewhere else. Until then, I'm pretending. Yellow? I don't see any yellow! Have you been to the eye doctor lately? I'm concerned for your vision.

*My eldest daughter spent 8 days in Guatemala with other students from her school's Spanish department. If we are Facebook friends, perhaps you will remember my request for prayers and good thoughts as she spent the first 3 days sick with the stomach flu and I spent the first 3 days alternately praying for her, answering her frantic texts, and being wracked with guilt for not letting her come home. It ultimately turned out just fine--just like I kept calmly telling her in my texts and just like my Sane Brain kept telling me over the very loud, very scary protests of my Insane Brain. She had a marvelous trip--ziplining at a coffee plantation, hiking up an active volcano, going to a black sand beach, working with kids at an after school program, visiting a local market, climbing pyramids, and trying not to die from being much to close to a poisonous snake. And, oh yes! Speaking and improving her Spanish.

*My family came in from my hometown and Chicago and Texas for the 4th of July. There was no burn ban in place this year, so we spent a great amount of time blowing things up to celebrate our country's independence. We also ate. A lot. And laughed. A lot. And just all around crammed as much enjoyment and togetherness as we could into a couple of days. Oh! And the Dreaded Owls never made an appearance. Will wonders never cease?

*My sweet mother-in-law left the bonds of this Earth to meet her Lord in Heaven and we spent a few days with my beloved's family celebrating her life--talking, laughing, looking through photos, crying, hugging, and remembering the countless ways she loved us all.

*We spent waaaay too many hours in a car together driving to, around, and from Florida. But, along the way, we got to see my sweet Aunt Bonnie, my beloved connected with a buddy, we had a weird little yodeling contest with the people in a truck next to us in a traffic jam, we saw a shark, we saw dolphins, we met up with my folks at a rented house and spent a wonderful week with them, swimming, eating, laughing, walking the beach, and playing approximately 827 games of SCAT.

*We celebrated three birthdays. Mary turned 9, Sean turned 12, and Maggie turned 17. I'm not sure how this is possible, given that I'm only 18 myself. Mary went to her first concert--with her big sister--and had a blast. Sean received a cell phone as his right of passage. And Maggie got a job. So you know, all is good in the 'hood.

*We returned from vacation to the windup to back-to-school. There was school shopping and more school shopping and meet the teacher and registration and orientation and so much paperwork that I'm sure several trees were harmed in the making of this school year.

*The kids started school on the 14th. On the 16th, I had one sick kid--two days in and his immune system went Holy Schnikes! Look at all these people! Look at all these germy surfaces! I know, I really feel the need to battle these. Oh! And I know what else sounds fun: Let me battle this virus while I'm already battling the allergens already in your body. Ready, Set, BOOM! Aaaaaaand he was down for the count. The same day, my eldest son, you know the one with the smart phone attached to his body permanent-like? He missed the bus. Let me say it again: Third day. Phone that not only does fancy things, it also shows the time to the minute, attached to body. Bus missed.

It was at that point in the program friends, that I knew. I might have had the Longest Shortest summer ever, but that was just a lead up to what may become the Longest Longest School Year ever.

Perseverance

In one of my last posts, On Baseball and Grace, I recounted for you my son's frustration and how ultimately we all learned a little lesson on grace. Today, I just want to show you the result of his (and our) perseverance:

His team--you know, the one that was STUPID, and in turn, because of our refusal to let him quit it, made us, his parents, STUPID--won the league championship.

And this kid, the one who was brave every time he was in the batter's box and was not rocking such a great batting average, stepped up to the plate and got an RBI, starting a two out rally that ultimately led to the team's win.

I try very hard to not hit my kids over the head when the lessons they are (or should be) learning are obvious. But I have to say, I might have whispered "Aren't you glad we didn't let you quit?" in my boy's ear.

Proving once again, that I may not be Mother of the Year material, but who cares?! I have a shiny trophy sitting on my mantle.

A Fractured Five Senses Poem

My kids have all written what is called a five senses poem while in elementary school. It's not a poem that rhymes, rather one that focuses on using your five senses to describe your surroundings. I shall attempt to replicate such a poem with a Que Sara Sara spin.

Home:

I see: dirty socks lying like dessicated worms in crumpled heaps on the floor; pale tumbleweeds of dog fur that roll across the floor with the breeze; piles of notebooks, keys, and sunglasses that make an end-of-school-year mountain on the kitchen island.

I hear: the wet, slurping sound of the dumb dog's tongue repeatedly licking a spot on her dog bed; the thunderous kawunking thump of the washing machine on spin cycle, sounding like a Blackhawk helicopter in my laundry room, signaling the end of its useful days; the squawks and screeches of yet another battle between siblings over the blaring television.

I smell: the bitter, but lovely smell of mama's little helper coffee brewing; the stale, heavy, still somewhat appetizing aroma of bacon that was cooked days ago; a slightly musty, warm Frito odor coming off the dog as dozes in the sunbeam by the door.

I taste: the bittersweet hotness of the cappuccino as I guzzle it down while signing school papers; the bright, minty flavor of the sweet peppermint gum I chew to keep coffee-breath at bay; the bland, plastic taste of the tip of a pen as I compose yet another grocery list.

I touch: the gummy surface of a countertop left mottled and blemished by dirty cups, bowls, dishes, and wrappers; a slightly damp, highly stinky baseball jersey as I throw it into the dying washer; a wet shower mat with my bare feet, causing me to leap onto cold tiles. (Ick.)

Home.


And there you have it. It's probably not the A+ work my children received on their poems describing places like Disneyworld or the zoo, but it's my poem and I'm sticking to it.

On Baseball And Grace

Yesterday there was an enormous row at our house. My brave, baseball playing son decided he no longer wants to play baseball. He was dressed in his uniform and ready to go, yet digging in his cleats and refusing to go. There was yelling. There were tears. There were slamming doors. It was ugly.

Because we are the meanest parents in the world and believe that once you commit to a team you must follow through and finish the season, we made him go. He glared at us and told us that he wasn't playing next year. We told him fine. He huffed at us and told us we could make him go but we couldn't make him care about playing. He told us he just wouldn't try. We told him that was his choice. He could certainly go and not try and let his teammates and himself down. He told us he didn't care about his teammates. We told him that was his choice, but playing the rest of the season was not.

It was a very quiet 20 minute ride to the ball park.

When we got to the field, the coach was already on the field with some players having batting practice. Sean took his equipment and hustled onto the field. Batting practice hasn't been a problem. Despite the hitting slump in actual games, my boy has made some great hits during practice. Somehow it just hasn't translated to game time. So when it was Sean's turn to take some pitches, I was waiting to see if he would actually swing or if he would do as he threatened and not try but just stand and watch the ball breeze by.

He swung. He swung for the fences.

Unfortunately, it wasn't the fences he hit.

This is his coach's van. Ouch.

Sean swung hard and hit a pop up foul that went over the back stop. Waaaaay over. (This, incidentally, is not the first car to get hit. This is also the reason we never park in the front row.) It was like that ball was in slow motion. I could see it flying up, up, up, and then coming down, down, down. It looked for a second like it would hit between vehicles. Except it didn't. There was a loud *THUNK* and then a crackling crash as the window shattered.

Coach looked at my red-faced son and said, 'Nice hit.'

What happened next was a lesson in grace.

Sean apologized. Profusely. Coach told him not to worry about it because that's what insurance is for. (My beloved and I have already spoken to him about taking care of his deductible.) He told Sean that he knew he took a risk parking in the front row and that's why he parked with his back end in first. Then he told Sean that he knew he was a hitter. He told him that was a big hit, but next time swing faster.

Coach and my beloved swept out his van as best as they could and cleaned up the glass. Then coach called my brave, embarrassed, battling son over to his van. He said: 'I have three autographed balls in my office. I'd like yours to be the fourth. Would you autograph this ball for me?"

Sean grinned and took the pen. Then coach asked him if it was his first autograph. While I have always been faithful to my husband, I may have fallen a little bit in love at that moment.

As Sean and his coach walked back to the field to continue practice, his coach told him he wanted him to be three for three in the batter's box. He told Sean he owed him.

And my boy? He was two for two in the batter's box. (Never got a chance to bat a third time because our game was called due to the Mercy Rule in the 5th inning. We were throttling the other team.) He also caught a pop fly for an out and in the next play, bare handed a grounder and threw the runner out at first. His teammates were very happy for him. They also enjoyed ribbing him about the window. At the end of the game, Sean was given the game ball.

When my boy, my beloved, and myself climbed into the car for the silent, tense drive to the ball park last night, we didn't imagine the evening would end as it did. And it all could have ended differently if the coach's response had been different. I knew that in the course of the season my son would learn many things on the baseball field: sportsmanship, being a team player, commitment, athletic skills. I just never dreamed he would learn about grace.

What a lesson.

Feel Free To Paint Your Toenails During This Post

I'm back! Not that I was really gone, I've been here. I mean, around. You know, physically. But after the events in Boston and Texas, I just felt like I needed a vacation from media for awhile. Because I'm such a delicate bunny.

It's not like I accomplished much while I wasn't here writing. Although there was this:

She went to prom with her beau. She went with a group of about 10 other couples. And the whole thing made me think some stuff to myself. Stuff like: Self, you cannot possibly have a daughter old enough to attend prom, because you are only a few years past that yourself! And: Self, this is just a preview. Someday you'll be watching her in a white dress. And then: Self, you must knock off that kind of thinking! And finally: Self, you are getting old. That stuff you said about just being past prom yourself? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Also, I may have found a new energy source. I think if you could find a way to harness the light that was coming off these kids, BAM! You could light the world! I mean, they were all just so beautiful and fresh and full of light. And they had absolutely no idea!

Youth is wasted on the young.

Let's see....what else?

Um, there was laundry. And dog walking. And trying to keep the dog from walking off with the laundry. Seriously. This has become a thing now. I walk down the hall past the laundry room and I find a random piece of underwear or dirty sock or damp dishrag laying in the middle of the floor. At first, I was blaming the children, thinking they were knocking stuff off of the ever-present-piles of dirties in their haste to grab a clean garment and get out of the laundry room before I could catch them in there and make them take their WHOLE pile of clean clothes back to their room instead of just retrieving one. piece. at. a. time. But then, it dawned on me that the culprit was more than likely the Dumb Dog, what with her excellent nose and the fabulous smelling capabilities that go with it. Oh yeah, and her propensity to find absolute joy in the grossest smelling stuff. Yep. Would that I could find the same joy! It would make doing laundry and spending any amount of time in either of my sons' rooms so much nicer.

Hmmm....there was also taking my younger son to the dermatologist to have something removed from his back and standing by his head to comfort him whilst the doc cut an inch long, nearly inch deep incision into his back. Guess what we talked about while this little procedure was going on? Pizza. It was highly disturbing. And I'm not usually grossed out by stuff like that. In fact, for the first part of it, I was pretty fascinated. And then the discussion of pizza came up and I had to stop watching for a bit. You're welcome.

Also, my house is the poster child for entropy. I have been trying to systematically go through the house and clean things up and throw things out. My children have been systematically going through the house and messing things up and bringing things in. This has been causing me to systematically eyeball my wine bottles more times a day than I should probably mention.

And now that it's almost May (and thank the heavens above, because April? You have bitten it HARD. It's been wet and cold around here. Hey April! Don't let the door hitcha on your way out!) I am equal parts excitement and dread. Excitement because YAY! Warmer weather (Sweet cracker sandwiches! It BETTER get warmer)! And warmer weather means more time outside playing and watching baseball and grilling and walking the Dumb Dog. And also, May means school is almost out. Dread because school is almost out and that means projects and Special Days which require my time and attention when I am in no mood or shape to give any more time or attention to anything but painting my toenails. Seriously. That's my attention span right there. If it takes longer or requires more effort than painting my toenails, I'm out.

Whew! I feel much better! Thanks for reading. Or alternatively, thanks for pretending to read while you painted your toenails.

Photo Dump

Pictures from the last week or so from my dslr and my phone.

3 generation selfie.

Yes, we drive through a town named Boody on our way to my hometown. We also drive through a town called Willeys. The 10 year old boy that inhabits my brain finds that hilarious. Alas, I didn't get a picture of Willeys. This time.

This is how all my hands in SCAT looked. Ugh.

His favorite thing from his Easter basket.

Sean's beautiful blue slushie.

Our kicks. On Rt. 66.

She grabbed my camera to take some selfies. 

Then her brothers got involved.

So much for that idea.

Yep. We hid some eggs at Tastee Treat. 

Also at the Lincoln and pig statue on the courthouse lawn.

These people look normal. But if you wait in line with them a while, you learn otherwise.

Random Thoughts: Spring Break, Gnats, and Dog Walking

Do you hear that? That sweet sound of silence? My children are back in school after Spring Break. Now the fact that I'm enjoying the silence is not to say that I didn't enjoy the little darlings while they were home, because I did. But I didn't particularly enjoy the trail of kid garbage left wherever they went. If my kids were Hansel and Gretel, they wouldn't drop only bread crumbs, they would drop shoes, dirty socks, bath towels, candy wrappers, soda cans, water bottles, juice pouches, dirty dishes, jackets, blankets, and sporting equipment. They would have absolutely NO PROBLEM finding their way home, methinks.

We spent Easter weekend in my hometown with my parents and took a day to visit my beloved's mom and sisters just down the road. It was a strange Easter as my brother (Uncle Grumpy) and his family were in Florida instead of with us (where they should have been). That's the first time we've spent an Easter without their family. It was strange. And my kids were very disappointed as they very much wanted to pal around with their cousins. To assuage this disappointment I planned a different Easter egg hunt this year.

Usually the eggs are hidden by the kids over 13 for the kids under 13. Since the cousins were gone, the only ones under 13 were Sean and Mary. I decided that we'd have an egg scavenger hunt around town instead. It was a hit. Maggie, James and I hid eggs with clues (and candy) around town, then my mom drove Mary and my dad drove Sean to find the eggs. We had a good time going to different places that the kids knew and loved. It would have been even better if I was good at math and didn't have more clues than eggs. Ooops! Things worked out anyway and it ate some of the daylight that the kids normally would've spent moping about their cousins being gone. (Hey Uncle Grumpy's family?! Have I made you feel guilty enough now?)

Then there was the traditional beating of the pinata. As I've said before, nothing says 'He is risen' like taking a whack at a papier mache duck with a long stick. ;)

The day after Easter, we headed about 90 miles south to Saint Louis. (For the purposes of trying to sound like we vacationed somewhere exotic over Spring Break, we have been pronouncing that city's name with a French pronunciation. Think: Sahn Leweee. You are more than welcome to join us in this. I think if enough of us do it, it could be A Thing.) Even though we grew up a short hour and a half away, my beloved and I had never taken our children there. We decided to take a day and rectify that situation. We first headed to the Arch where we waited in line for security while embarrassing ourselves in front of our fellow line-waiters. One son was attempting parcourt on the sloped sides of the entrance, another was desperately trying (and mostly failing) to take panoramic shots of the Arch from underneath it with my phone, one was taking photos on her phone while being accosted by a strange man dressed like a '90s rap artist, and one was doing everything she could to aggravate everyone else by either mocking them or not being satisfied with things. We are delightful to be in line with.

Once we got in and purchased our tickets, we had just enough time to buy some salt water taffy and root beer barrel candy at the mercantile before waiting in another line to board the 5 seat tram/pods to the top. Then we split up (boys/girls) and took the 4 minute ride to the top with strangers (who we discovered, were from nearby places--hello boys from Sacred Heart-Griffin! Hello couple from South Dakota with family in Chatham where we have family!) who were probably quite happy to be shed of us once the trams came to a stop.

When we got to the top, we elbowed our way through the crowds to the windows and took pictures and oohed and ahhed. Except Sean, who is afraid of heights and decided that just making the trip up was enough for one day and who stood in the exact center of the milling crowd so he wouldn't have to see out the windows.

After the Arch, we stopped for some lunch and headed to the zoo. There we saw lots of animals--including Sean's favorite, the Somali wild ass. You know why it was his favorite? Because it gave him a legitimate reason to say the word ass. And like any 11 year old boy, he was very creative in finding ways to work it into conversation throughout the day. We also ran into friends from our neighborhood--causing everyone to muse about what a small world it really is. And then I had that stupid, insipid song in my head all day and willingly shared it with my family by singing it loudly and poorly as often as possible because I love them and I am a giver.

After the zoo, we dropped Patrick at his hotel (he was staying behind on business) and I drove the kids home to my folks' house to spend the night before heading back to Indy. And I only almost wrecked the car once because of a McConnaughay fit, brought on by my eldest son's Cartman voice and the town of Raymond. Now if we want to give something or someone particularly high praise, we call it/them Raymond.

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Maggie, James, Mary, and I went to drum circle last week. Sean opted not to go as he didn't "see the point of having some dirty hippie* tell me about hitting a drum" when he could be outside playing with his dudes. We had a great time. It relieved our stress (but did make our hands a little sore) and had us laughing. The folks at the drum place said as the weather warmed, they'd move the circle outside. We have all agreed we are going back. Maggie even said she's going to go with a group of friends. It was an hour well spent.

*The instructors might lean toward hippie just a skosh, but were not in the least bit dirty.

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I have been trying to teach the Dumb Dog manners. And part of this requires me taking her for leashed walks and teaching her how to be sociable without appearing ridiculous. This means that when people approach, I shorten that leash to nothing and often make her sit until the people have walked by. This is so hard for her, since what she really wants to do is bound up to them and wag them into submission, that while she's sitting her hindquarters quiver. Then when I give her the command to continue walking she does a full body shake. If you happen by when we are walking, you'll be able to easily identify us: I'll be the weary human with several loaded poop bags walking the yellow hound that looks as if she's suffering from fits.

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I have floaters in my eyes. Nothing to be alarmed about, just the occasional black spots floating by. However, sometimes I think the floaters are gnats out in front of me and I wildly wave my arms about my face trying to clear the air. Then I realize what I'm seeing are floaters, NOT gnats, and I look around to see if anyone saw me.

This morning while walking the dog, I was walking and noticed the floaters again. Rather than embarrass myself in front of the neighborhood by flinging my arms about at nothing, I took a deep breath and kept walking, thinking that the floaters would settle in a minute. This would have been a great plan, if the floaters were really floaters. Instead they really were gnats and as I took a deep breath, one flew up my nose. So instead of waving my arms about my face, I stood there hacking and honking and snorting and doing a little dance because I was totally squicked out about inhaling a gnat.

That was so completely NOT RAYMOND!

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Snow? NO! Drums? Absolutely!

If you are reading this from somewhere in the Midwest, you are probably like me: looking out your window at an obscene amount of snow and dying a little inside because it's March 25th and SNOW isn't supposed to be on the radar. Sad panda!

If you are reading this from somewhere else and you are not like me and you are all "what is this thing called snow?" let me just say that you should keep your questions to yourself. The only dumb question is the one you just asked about snow. Or something.

Today, whether it's 75 and sunny where you live (boo! hiss!) or 25 and still snowing (really, I feel your pain), I hope that this video will make you smile the way it does me.

My daughter's 2nd grade field trip to Bongo Boy Music last week. The kids had an hour long drum circle and it was fabulous--full of pounding, unfettered joy. They offer a free family drum circle on Thursday evenings and let me tell you, we are going. I need some pounding, unfettered joy in my life.

Especially after all this snow.

We Already Have A Dog. We Don't Need A (Big) Cat.

Break is coming soon. It's hard to be very excited. Unlike last year, when we had super mild--even hot--temperatures, this year temps are below normal. When the sun is out, you think that it's lovely outside. And then you step outside and it's 34 degrees. This causes an immense amount of suckitude. It feels more like November than March. And since we aren't traveling to someplace warm, like every other family in our town,* it's a little difficult to get enthusiastic about having a week off from school only to stay holed up in the house because the weather is stupid.

My kids are excited to be going to their grandparents' for the annual Easter egg hunt and The Bashing of the Pinata, but their excitement is subdued, because their cousins won't be there for the first time in well, ever. They are always happy to visit their grandparents, but they are a little less happy for only having their siblings to hang around with.

We've decided that because Easter falls at the beginning of Spring Break this year we would hang around another day for a day trip from my hometown. We are going to head to St. Louis for a day and play around. Aside from Maggie going to a rally at the convention center once, my kids have never been to St. Louis. This is weird, because it's only about 90 minutes from my hometown. We've just never thought to spend some time there with them. But now we are remedying the situation and taking a day to play in the Gateway to the West.

You know that after last year's Spring Break Planning Fiasco that this means I was on the computer checking things out and making sure that the places we want to go will be open while we are there. I mentioned to Mary, my animal lover, that we may head to the St. Louis Zoo. She was, of course, very excited by the prospect and asked to look at the website. I gladly handed over the seat at the computer and headed over to the stove to start dinner. Maggie and I were chatting while I was clattering around with pots and pans and shortly we heard Mary talking to herself.

"Ooh! Lions! They have lions! I love lions. Lions are my favorite! They're so majestic and their cubs are soooo cute! Wait. What? That doesn't make any sense!"

Maggie and I turned to look at the computer and Mary, still looking at the screen said to me, "Mom?Why would anybody want to adopt a lion? That doesn't make any sense at all. I don't think that's a very good idea! Adopting a lion? I don't get how you would make that work."

Maggie and I looked at each other with barely suppressed grins. "Darlin' that doesn't mean what you think it means," I responded. I then went on to explain how zoos used the word "adopt" when they were just talking about sharing in the care of the animal through financial donations. Mary nodded and said she now understood. Her eyes got very big and she said with great relief, "Whew! That's a much better idea than letting random people adopt lions from the zoo." Then she paused a beat and said somewhat wistfully, "But it would be pretty cool..."

Yeah, kid. I kinda feel the same way about otters.




*This is how my kids state it. Every other family in our town is going someplace warm while we are staying here. My answer is to state gleefully, "Think of how uncrowded the grocery store will be with everyone in our town out of town!" This is met with eye rolling and sullen stares. Mission accomplished! I win.

Last Week: Or Seven Days Of Excuses About Why I Couldn't Blog

I know it seems like I've been completely lame about posting and I'd like to say that my last post sucked all of my creativity and you know, making with the words out of me, but really it's just that my life has been extraordinarily ordinary lately. My life has been like watching paint dry. Except that watching paint dry is much more exciting and interesting than my life. Also, the last week has been fraught with roadblocks to blogging. To wit:

Sunday: I spent 7 hours in various waiting and exam rooms in doctors' offices and hospitals with my eldest. She has a pain in her ribs. She had x-rays and blood work (because of which my poor sweetums became white as a sheet, nearly keeled over, and immediately barfed up the juice the nurses gave her. Girl doesn't do blood work.) and probably a total of 40 minutes with various medical personnel. We spent the rest of the time either waiting in rooms or lobbies, moving from one building to another, or moving from one room to another, or doing paperwork. The results? Um, inconclusive. They know what it isn't, but can't tell us what is causing her the pain. The moral of this medical adventure? The weekend urgent care clinic is probably not the best place to seek out care for this type of problem. We should have waited a little and gone to her regular doc. I'm guessing we could've skipped a few steps. Oh well, at least I wasn't stuck in the laundry room for 7 hours.

Monday: Because of the activities of the weekend--namely Maggie's Medical Adventure in Hospital Land-- I spent 7 hours in the laundry room. But at least we were all in relative good health.

Tuesday: I spent the day in bed trying not to expire from The Worst Cold Ever. Seriously. It was the worst. I'm sure it was worse than any cold suffered by any human in the history of the world. Do you know why? Because it was happening to me. Duh! Anyway. It was nasty. And gross. And horrible. But at least it wasn't a migraine.

Wednesday: I spent the day in bed trying not to expire from The Migraine From Hell. This sucker came roaring in about the time I took Mary to the bus stop. She looked at me and said, "I can tell you don't feel good. Does your head hurt?" When I barely nodded my aching noggin, she said, "Oh I'm sorry! But at least you didn't throw up!" So naturally when I got back to the house, the vomiting started. Migraines are horrible. Vomiting is bad. But combining the two is a rather specific sort of hell. You can't keep your migraine meds down because you're vomiting. And because of this the pain continues, which leads to more nausea and vomiting. It's delightful. And by delightful I mean I spent a very long time wishing that God would just kill me already before my eyeballs exploded from the pressure leaving a nasty mess for someone--probably my mother, because goodness knows the people I live with wouldn't know what cleaning up was like--to clean up. I was finally able to time the medication just right with the waves of nausea and passed out in my bed with the heating pad covering my head. I couldn't think straight, but at least I had the power of speech.

Thursday: I woke up Thursday morning after 36 hours of fighting The Migraine From Hell and felt much better. But I sounded like Barry White. After he smoked two packs of cigarettes a day for 30 years. Except for when I had no voice at all. It was extremely sexy. I alternated between a squeaky whisper and a very bass rasp. It's no wonder that my husband, upon returning from a business trip gave me an air kiss in the area of my forehead. While holding his breath. Lucky guy. I had been stuck in the house all week, but at least I'd be getting out tomorrow for lunch with a group of friends.

Friday: Lunch with friends was lovely. Unfortunately it was a very small group, as a couple of the girls discovered at the last minute that they couldn't come. Still, lunch with friends is always a good thing. And this lunch was great after the week I'd had. I was out of bed, I was out of the house, my head felt normal, I could breathe, (well, sort of. Every breath made my sinus cavities feel like they do after you snort water.) and I had my voice back.

Saturday: Who blogs on Saturday?

Sunday: I finally found my kitchen island! It only took two hours of picking up, wiping down, disinfecting, vacuuming, and mopping, but there it was! Smack in the middle of my kitchen, right where I'd left it. Then there was shopping for shoes for prom with my daughter. And then shopping for a cape for my eldest son. Yes, a cape. I'm not sure why exactly, his explanation had something to do with his English class,  Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, and Batman. I'm shaking my head even as I type that. Then it was time for dinner, followed by the daily round of a little game I like to call "Who Has Homework?" wherein the various contestants tell me if they have homework, why it sucks, and why they shouldn't have to do it. This is followed by several rounds of a game I call "Do It Now Or I'll Continue To Make Threats I Won't Follow Through On." Then the movie "The Breakfast Club" was on and I had to stop and watch it, because, hey, it's "The Breakfast Club." Then, after editing my daughter's paper that she had to write for Geometry (yes, they make them write papers in math class. Ah, for the days when math class was spent doing, um, math!) I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Today: I get to do laundry and you get this mess of a post. We're ALL winners!!

Looking For An Eight-Legged Lifesaver: Why I'm Ready To Become An Arachnomaniac

I'm thinking of buying a tarantula. It's not so much that I'm a fan of arachnids, I just think that having one could help me out right now. My 8 year old has slept on my bedroom floor for the last month. This isn't a non-sequiturial paragraph. Those two ideas really are related.

My 8 year old daughter has, one way or another, found her way into my bedroom and onto my floor for at least the last month. There were a few nights in there that she wasn't on my floor. Twice, she slept in her big sister's room (that would be December 23rd and Christmas Eve) and once she had taken a dose of Benadryl (for itching--a whole 'nother post) and passed out in an antihistamine-induced haze. And once in there we were at my folks' house, so she was camped out in a room with her siblings.

Her explanations about why she winds up in my room are varied. She told me she was 'uncomfortable' in her room. She told me her room didn't have enough room in it. She told me she walked through the kitchen when her older brother was watching "The Walking Dead" and caught a glimpse of something that 'freaked her out'. She told me she was afraid of ghosts. She told me her stomach hurt. She was itchy. She was just scared. She didn't know why, she just was.

At first I was understanding. We've always had a policy that if you have a bad dream and "flipping your pillow over to the good dream side" doesn't work (something that worked for all of her siblings when they were her age), you are welcome to quietly come into our room and sleeping bag it on the floor. So when she first showed up at my bedside waking me up telling me that she was scared, I whispered for her to get her things and find a place on the floor. When she showed up again in the wee hours, I explained that she need not wake me (mama likes needs her sleep) but she could just get her things and quietly come in if it happened again.

It happened again. A lot. I would wake in the night to go to the bathroom and find Mary curled up in her blankets next to the Dumb Dog. Some nights I would wake to the glare of the bathroom light and as I walked by her, a little voice would startle me by saying "I turned the light in your bathroom on because your room in the dark freaks me out." In my head, I said, "then why don't you go sleep in your room where the lights are ALWAYS ON," but at 2:47 in the morning, I lack the verbal capability and fine motor coordination to string together a sentence, so what usually comes out is "bleerrrggh".

The last few nights, I've reached my limit. Girl child has kept herself awake (not a hard task, she has always been my worst sleeper) until I come to bed and then just as I'm ready to go to sleep, she has come in and asked to sleep in my room. I've said no. She has wheedled. I've said no. She has whined. I've said no. She has cried. I've said no. She has blustered. I've said no. She has refused to sleep. I've said no. She has stood in the hallway just outside my door silently staring at me. (I admit to freaking out a little at this. She totally looks like one of those "bad seed" children from a horror movie, plotting the grisly ways she will torture me and make me die.) I've ignored her. And you know what happened? She waited until she heard me sleeping (I'm NOT admitting that I snore. I am a delicate flower, you know.) and then she has come into my room with her many blankets and pillows and camped out next to the dog. I find her sleeping there in the morning.

And then, after all of these late night shenanigans, guess who's a bit of a grouch pouch in the morning? (Well of course I am, you big silly, I already explained that mama needs her sleep. But guess who ELSE.) If you guessed Princess Mary, then you guessed correctly. In the mornings I am met with a whole litany of reasons why she can't get up. And my response is always the same: If you would go to sleep at your bedtime and stay in your room all night, you would be well rested in the morning and ready to face the day, much like your bright and happy morning person mother. Well, yeah, I say that but leave out the whole part about me.

I am at the end of my rope, thus embracing arachnids. You see, my sweet 8 year old is a dyed-in-the-wool arachnophobe. Not kidding. If there's a spider anywhere near, she will holler and give that area wide berth for days, even after um, "removal", of the offending spider. I'm thinking that if I get a couple of tarantulas and keep them in my room, the problem of a certain 8 year old crashing on my floor like a party girl after a frat bash will resolve itself.

Anyone have a spider they are looking to get rid of?

It's Time

It's time.

Time for decorating a gingerbread girl for the second grade hallway. (Each second grader received a gingerbread cutout to personalize. Mary called hers "Holiday Glam".)

Time for Electric Bethlehem. (As ever, our house is the least decorated on the block. But I'm okay with that.)

Time for family rooms to be finished. (I think the paint color may work out okay after all, now that the new curtains are up.)

Time for Gingerbread House Wars. (It started out with the store bought kit, but Maggie's beau wanted to be able to eat it, which, no, those kits are NOT for eating. So I pulled out stuff for him to make his own.  And the smack talk began.)

Maggie's beau used scissors to cut the gable ends of his house.  There were several failures before he was successful. He made a beeeellion crumbs.

Maggie and her friend "Notorious." They were serious about their house.

They were slamming each other and trying to steal each other's decorations. 

Notorious and The Beau tried to look like they were about to brawl. This photo took several tries, as every time they looked at each other, they busted out laughing. 

Time for hellacious messes left after Gingerbread House Wars are over. (To be fair, they did clean it up pretty well. I had to wipe down the counters again, but it could have been so much worse!)

And you? What's it time for at your house?