Quiet Time with Horse and Rooster

Our family has a portion of our daily routine that, for the most part, has worked quite well for us ever since the kidlets collectively decided they never wanted to nap again. Our household calls this Quiet Time.

Ah, Quiet Time: that magical hour or two when kidlets must find quiet ways of entertaining themselves so that Mommy can have some down time. Every kidlet goes to their respective rooms and either reads, draws, builds with blocks, or does some other hushed activity. I do not care what the activity is as long as peace reigns supreme. If they cannot find something to do, I will find a nap they can take. Yes, there are days when scissors are smuggled into their rooms and dolls have new hairstyles by the time Quiet Time ends. I consider this a small price to pay for an hour or more of sanity in an otherwise crazy day. There were certainly plenty of days when Quiet Time was a necessity to ensure that no one, namely me, ran away to join the circus.

Every day after lunch, I do the dishes. Once those dishes are all neatly stacked in the drainer, Quiet Time begins. I learned a number of years back that I could do the dishes during naptime but not Quiet Time. My babies could sleep right through the clanking of plates and the splashing of the running water. Kidlets who were fighting having to take a nap, however, would use the rattling of the dishes to be their call to arms. Those noises meant that Mommy was distracted from the smaller sounds of their little bodies sneaking out of bed and decorating their bedroom walls with Sharpies. Needless to say, this did not work for me. Once they were old enough to determine how to intentionally sneak, I put off settling them into bed until after the dishes were done. It is much easier to keep an eye on a kidlet when they think you are watching them like a hawk from the kitchen. Now that naptime has gone the way of the dodo bird, Quiet Time follows the same start time and does not end until Mommy says it is over. I try not to abuse this power, although it is tempting to keep Quiet Time running through the end of the year.

Today, Horse and Rooster have spent the vast majority of their time together engaged in open warfare. There were arguments, attempts at physical altercations, and plenty of screaming. No matter what I did to keep them from trying to kill one another, they kept going back for more. As Quiet Time neared, I wondered what on earth I could do to get the two of them to finally shut their mouths or at least declare a temporary cease-fire. Since they share a room, I am unable to separate them sufficiently to stop the arguing. I had no desire to send one to her room and keep the other out near me. That would only convince Pig Jr. that he did not need to stay in his room either. So I did something else. I informed Horse and Rooster that after fighting all morning, they would have to either play together nicely for Quiet Time or they would have to nap.

Rooster decided she wanted to nap. Horse rejected that option. As tie-breaker, I had them both lie down for a nap. When the bickering continued across their room, I told them they were obviously not napping, and as such they had to find a way to play together nicely.

Truth be told, both of them need practice socializing a bit more. Horse wants to dominate all play and gets mad when others object. She will stomp off in a huff and find a book to read. It is wonderful that she enjoys reading so much, but she will not always have the option of leaving an altercation and she needs to learn how to handle herself appropriately when forced to deal with others. Rooster enjoys socializing with others, but she gets frustrated easily and screeches when she does not get her way. She needs to learn how to play nicely without shattering the ear drums of anyone within a two-mile radius. Who better to practice these skills on than each other?

Both girls looked on their Quiet Time assignment as a punishment. This lasted for all of ten seconds. Miraculously, they then decided their common enemy was me and they would play together courteously. They dragged out their Barbies and Littlest Pet Shop pets and had a grand ole time. They played so wonderfully, peacefully, and quietly that I actually had the chance to nap on the couch. I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed such a harmonious Quiet Time. Tranquility is truly amazing.

Today's Quiet Time taught me an important lesson. Sometimes, separating two warring factions does nothing to lesson the hostility. But force belligerent companies to spend time together complaining about a mutual enemy, and they can find ways to coexist peacefully. I just think I'll let Pig be the enemy next time.

Me and the Wii

Back when it was still a novelty, my family became the proud owners of a Wii. Pig and I clowned around playing a number of games on it. Horse played some games and proved she was much better at fake bowling than the adults in our household. Rooster could play a few things with some help, but she was mostly interested in just swinging the little plastic remote around to cause as much destruction as possible. Pig Jr. was only interested in watching the games, not actually participating. After getting whacked with some of Rooster's wide arm movements and sudden lunges, I can admit to feeling a bit relieved that I wouldn't be beaten up on two sides. Eventually, the novelty wore off a bit and there were days when the Wii sat idle.

Somewhere along the line, I had the somewhat delusional thought that if I had the Wii Fit disk and balance board, I could attempt to get in shape. More accurately, I could attempt to get into a shape that was not round. After hinting broadly, demanding not-so-subtly, and scouting for store locations that sold the desired equipment, I received the Wii Fit goodies as a gift. I had the decency to pretend to be surprised, but I doubt I fooled anyone. I was on my way to becoming fit!

For a while, I used the Wii Fit on a daily basis. I created my goals, took repeated body tests, and made sure I worked out for at least thirty minutes every day, as charted by the program and not my clock. I slowly watched my body mass index drop. At one point, I was down to below my goal weight, and I was a very, very happy camper. I changed my goals to maintaining my new figure, as opposed to lessening it. Then I got hit with the flu.

I was completely out of commission for a week when that flu hit. For an additional two weeks, I could barely walk anywhere, let alone exercise up to my previous standards. It was a long, slow stretch of time for me. Somewhere in that time period, I gave up even attempting to use the Wii Fit program. Then I forgot about it.

When I next attempted to use the Wii Fit, it was almost a year later. My weight was not much higher than it had been, but given that fat weighs less than muscle, I felt a lot worse than I had before. I attempted to re-start my daily regimen, then gave it up when the kidlets entered a six-month stretch of trading germs back and forth.

Before I knew it, I was an expert at coming up with reasons why I should not go back to the Wii Fit. Someone was sick. My heartburn was acting up. I had not painted my toenails, and who wants to do stretches where you are staring at nasty-looking feet? My back was sore. I was too tired. The kidlets were home for the summer and there was no way I would put on my spandex workout outfit in front of them. I had to bake cookies instead. (The irony of that last one was not lost on me.) There were too many errands to run. The Wii remotes needed to be charged. I had not slept all night and needed a nap instead. I was not drinking enough water and was afraid of dehydration. The kidlets were fighting and could not be trusted to not kill each other during my workout. One of the kidlets had a doctor's appointment miraculously scheduled during my workout time. We ran out of batteries to start up the balance board. Batteries "accidentally" never made the shopping list. Pig Jr. stopped taking an afternoon nap and he would dismantle his entire room if left unattended for me to exercise. I needed to make a phone call. Bills were due and needed to be paid. The closets needed a good cleaning. Need I go on?

Truth be told, the longer I dilly-dallied in getting myself back into shape, the easier the excuses flew off my tongue. I did have random times when I would suit myself up and drag out the balance board for a day or two. The Wii Fit pretended to not know who I was and my rotund Mii seemed to glare balefully at me from the television screen. Seriously, how did that silly avatar ever get so round? It could not possibly have anything to do with my lack of exercise and new found love of cookies!

Now that the house is on the market and I am spending a lot of time painting, packing, and cleaning, I have noticed that my weight has gone down a little bit. It's not much, but it is enough to make me start thinking about dusting off the Wii Fit and attempting to get back into a routine. The kidlets are all old enough now that they can do each little exercise segment next to me. Maybe it will even get them to work off some of that extra energy that drives me batty by four o'clock every afternoon. I am thinking this is a done deal. The Wii and I have a date to get me back in shape.

Tomorrow. Our date will have to be tomorrow. I think I put away my exercise clothing and need time to hunt it down and wash it first. Oh, but I had better line dry those spandex clothes or they might shrink to the perfect size for Horse's American Girl doll. I guess I will have to wait a few more days before I can start exercising again, but I will start once more. Really.

Daddy gets the credit

Last night, Pig was playing around on the computer and I decided I was going to try to get some sleep. I have not been sleeping well lately and when you wake up at five o'clock in the morning on a regular basis, the lack of sleep catches up fairly quickly. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard the sound of Rooster coughing.

Pig, as usual, ignored the sounds emanating from the girls' room and kept on doing whatever the heck he does on the computer. I got up, checked on Rooster, got her some water, adjusted the air conditioner temperature in her room, and made sure she was tucked in properly so if the cold air was blowing on her she would be properly covered up. Her cough sounded pretty barky so I wanted to keep an ear out for her all night long to make sure she did not suddenly get worse. She has had croup before and I wanted to make sure her breathing was staying fine. Pig got into bed shortly after I lay back down, and he promptly fell asleep. I spent most of the night lightly dozing, jumping awake at the slightest sound and getting up to check on Rooster if I thought I heard her at all. She seemed to be doing okay, but the nice, deep sleep I had been so desperately craving was just not going to happen.

Fast-forward to morning. I dragged my bleary-eyed self from bed when the alarm screamed at me. I did my usual morning routine, which involves first getting myself ready to face the day and then getting the kidlets up. Normal things took me longer with how tired I was, but they still got accomplished. Horse probably noticed my knuckles dragging along the floor and asked me if I was still sleepy. I explained that I was up keeping an ear out for her coughing sister so I did not sleep well. Rooster piped up that it was Daddy who took exceptionally good care of her and her cough. Excuse me?

I do now know whether Rooster dreamed that I was Pig when I went in to check on her last night, but she was convinced that Pig was the hero of this story. He was the one up with her. He was the one to bring her water. He was the one who took such good care of her with her nasty cough. You remember Pig, right? The same guy who was dorking around online and then went straight to sleep?

I will admit I had a bit of a meltdown at that point. I told the kidlets I could not believe that at this stage of the game, they still thought that Daddy got up with them if they were not feeling well. Horse, thinking she was either defending her father or trying to prove me wrong, informed me that Dad did all the fun things with them and played with them all the time. Granted, I do all the cleaning, cooking, laundry, and most of the errands. I suppose that does mean that I spend a smaller percentage of my time playing with them than Pig does. What started out as a complaint about a kidlet not recognizing the correct parent who was up with her deteriorated into me feeling like I had to defend myself for doing all the crummy chores I do not want to do in the first place.

Somewhere in there I started sending angry text messages to Pig, who probably had no idea why he was getting hit with my sudden hostility. He pacified me somewhat by telling me he'd set the record straight with Rooster later. If she does not believe me that I was the one up with her, I am hoping she will at least believe the guy she thinks it was.

In the meantime, I am thinking I am going to have to start parcelling out the chores I am wasting most of my life doing. The kidlets can dust. Horse can handle the vacuum. Rooster can deal with sweeping. Pig Jr. can sort clean clothes by owner. Each kidlet can fold and put away their own clothing. I am still stuck doing the cooking since Pig does not get home early enough to do so and the kidlets are too young to be using the gas stovetop and oven and there is not enough room in our kitchen for them to be in the kitchen when either appliance is running anyway. Pig can go out to buy his own items when he neglects to put something on the various shopping lists. (That alone might cut in half the number of errands I need to run during any given month.) Due to our family's food allergies, I will still handle doing the dishes to make sure we do not run the risk of contamination by the very foods certain individuals need to avoid. Other chores can be divied up as they arise. From now on, I shall not be the only person in this household to be stuck with all the drudgery!

With any luck, the kidlets will start to recognize that it takes a lot of work to keep a house and family in order. Maybe, just maybe I will finally have more time to spend doing the fun things with them that they seem to think are their father's domain. Never mind that I already take them to the library or the park or spend time reading with them every day. Clearly that is not enough for their selective memories. And the next time I spend the night taking care of a child who is under the weather, perhaps that kidlet will remember who was actually by their side during the wee hours of the morning.

Chicken about soup

A couple of days ago, I made a chicken in the crock-pot. I love to do this because it makes a nice chicken stock that I can use later to make homemade chicken noodle soup, which everyone except Pig Jr. really enjoys. In a family of five, for four people to eat any given meal is a major accomplishment.

Tonight, I figured I would make up the chicken soup. It was either that or freeze the stock, and I am generally too lazy to do that. I set up my huge pot, threw in the stock and some extra water, and went to get the chicken to add while it simmered. I realized I did not have enough leftovers to make a really meaty soup, so I added some canned chicken breast chunks that I keep around for this purpose. It was not until after I added the canned chicken that I realized the can had been dented on one side.

Instantly, my "possible food poisoning" internal alarms went off. Had I realized the can was dented before using it, I would have thrown it out and used an unblemished one instead. As it was, I stood there, empty can in hand, wondering whether I could even bring myself to eat something that had the potential for some nasty bacteria to be growing in it. If Pig ate it over my objections and got sick from it, would I be legally liable because I had prepared it? And even if Pig and I could eat it, did I dare feed it to our kidlets? Granted, they would probably eat dirt and dead spiders if given the chance, but that does not mean they should eat something contaminated at the dinner table.

Intellectually, I knew the can was probably okay. The lid had been flat and made the suctioning sound of air entering when the lid had been punctured by the can opener. The color of the chicken was as expected. There was no funny smell. I also remembered reading somewhere that most of the cases of botulism in the US are actually from people attempting to can their own food. Granted, I have no idea where I read that tidbit of information. I could have read it on the side of a cereal box or on some graffiti downtown and it would still register only as having been read somewhere.

I pictured starving people in other countries scolding me for throwing out perfectly good food. I could hear Pig's voice in my head telling me I was being paranoid and I should just continue making soup. I could imagine countless individuals telling me I should just conquer my fears and eat the dang chicken soup. I wondered whether the curative properties of chicken noodle soup extended to food poisoning from eating the same. Intellectually, I knew what I needed to do. I needed to grow a spine and make the darn soup for dinner.

Instead, I wussed out. I called Pig on his cell phone to explain my concern. He sighed in the manner of one who has dealt with his wife's runaway imagination for far too long and conceded that if I was that concerned about it, I should throw it out and make something else. I was grateful for his support and neglected to mention to him that I had already turned off the stovetop and popped chicken nuggets into the oven.

I might be a wuss, but if this paranoia saves my family's lives someday, it will all be worth it.

A Shorts Story

I love long jeans. They are such a wonderful invention. Denim is an amazing fabric with the capability of protecting one's legs while being durable enough to withstand a decent number of bumps and scrapes. If you're as clumsy as I am, this is a very big deal. Denim can be dyed in a number of colors, although random blue shades remain my favorites. I would have gladly worn jeans to my own wedding, had Pig agreed to such a thing. Sadly, he did not. I am still somewhat hostile about being made to wear a dress to that event.

For most of my life,  I wore shorts all summer long. I honestly cannot remember the point at which I stopped doing so in favor of wearing jeans. It was probably around the same time that I discovered the joys of pregnancy-triggered varicose veins. Once the kidlets were born, I continued covering up my legs so that they would not play with all those nasty bumpy veins. ("Look, Mommy! I can make these blue lines jump up and down!") It was not until the year before last, when the kidlets were 7, 4, and 2 when I finally succumbed to the heat and traded my favorite long jeans for shorts. By that point, my kidlets were surprised to discover that I had skin from the knees down. I think they assumed my legs were actually made out of denim.

After so many years of wearing long jeans during the summer months, it felt exceedingly weird to be wearing shorts. I was incredibly self-conscious about it, especially since I was constantly shooing my kidlets away from my legs. ("Stop poking at my veins!" "But Mommy, they make cool road maps!") I was happy to feel a bit cooler, but hated the sensation of mosquitoes and other flying pests bumping into me. When I gained a few pounds and outgrew the shorts, I gratefully returned to my long jeans.

This year, the weather has been somewhat wacky. We get it really hot, then it cools down, then it rains for a week, then it boils again, and then it cools down. My state does humidity quite well, so when it gets hot, it feels even hotter than it is. After one of the heat waves, I decided I would keep my eye out for shorts in my newer size. As much as I love my jeans, they just are not practical when it's ninety-five degrees, humid, and I am trying to do physical labor around the house. I had also sacrificed a pair of jeans for use as painting clothes, so I was down to just a couple of pairs that could be worn out in public. I was going to have to buy something to wear anyway.

Today, I found the perfect pair of shorts for me. They go down to the knees, which is good since I never had the body to justify short shorts. They have a nice, elastic waist so I can still move around easily for all the tasks around the house that have to be done. The best part is that they have these silly little ties so they can be adjusted. The ties are at knee-level and around my waist. I am hoping the knee-level ties will serve as a distraction so the kidlets will go after them instead of aggravating my poor varicose veins. I am keeping my uber-baggy tee shirts, so the waist-level ties should, in theory, remain hidden from view.

I know it probably seems odd that I would put so much thought into not only purchasing shorts, but also in writing about them afterwards. But given how fickle the weather has been lately, I figure I need to say something to prove I own shorts. Knowing my luck, it probably will be freezing from here on out.

An Afternoon Pool Party

One of Horse's friends had a pool party today in honor of his ninth birthday. Horse was one of three girls invited along with approximately three zillion boys. One of the girls was on vacation and could not make it, but the other girl's father said she would be there. (I had been leery of having my daughter be the only girl in a sea of boys, so I had asked.) Apparently, he was misinformed. Horse was the only nine-year-old girl there, although there were two much younger girls who came with their brothers.

One of the first things my daughter managed to do was venture out into deeper water than she could comfortably handle. She was sort of okay, and I was watching her like a hawk, until one of the boys squirted her in the face with a water pistol. She went under, and although she bobbed back up and was slowly bouncing her way towards the shallow end once more, Birthday Boy's father jumped in to the pool to get her there faster. He also sacrificed his cell phone to do this. I offered to pay to replace his phone, since he was assisting my daughter at the time of its submersion, but he told me he was using this as his excuse to upgrade to a smart phone. Apparently, his wife even told him to take his phone out of his pocket before jumping in the water and he rejected that idea. He wanted a new cell phone that badly, I guess. Alrighty then.

A few minutes after my daughter was rescued, another kidlet went under, except he did not bop back up the same way Horse did. He flailed wildly while keeping his head under water. The two adults nearest him grabbed him and managed to pull him out of the water. A few minutes later, another boy ran up to me and said, "Mrs. Dragon, this was a pool party, but now it's a puke party!" The poor boy who had gone under had swallowed quite a bit of the chlorinated water and emptied his stomach on Birthday Boy's back steps. He went home feeling quite miserable not too long afterwards.

By this point in time, I decided to never, ever own a pool, let alone invite kidlets over for a pool party. I also decided that swimming lessons are in my kidlets' near future, whether they want to learn how to swim or not.

Not too long after the poor, miserable boy left for home, all of the other kidlets had settled into a rhythm. The boys all splashed, shot at each other with water pistols or pool squirt toys, beat each other with giant foam noodles, jumped both into the pool and onto each other, and generally raised Cain. My daughter had absolutely no idea how to deal with all the lively shenanigans. When one of the boys started paying almost exclusive attention to her, which mostly involved splashing at her and trying to hold onto the inflatable tube she was in, she had no idea how to handle it. For a while, she splashed back at him, and both of them had good-natured grins on their faces. Then, he crossed the line. He teased her by saying that one of the other boys was her boyfriend, and she dissolved into tears. If the boy/girl drama is this big of a deal the summer before these kidlets enter fourth grade, then I am dreading middle school when the hormones kick in and convert otherwise normal individuals into weeping, paranoid crankypants.

Horse was somewhat consoled when I told her that boys show attention to people they like in a different manner than girls do. Heck, I told her Pig still acts like a little goofball around me and I married him anyway. She giggled and said "Mom" using three syllables, which generally implies she is feeling better. At least she wasn't in tears anymore.

Horse seemed to deal reasonably well with the rest of the pool party. She gleefully snarfed down two huge slices of pizza and two pieces of ice cream cake when it was time to eat. She pleaded with me to let her return to the pool after eating, and I acquiesced, although I was relieved when Birthday Boy's parents told everyone to get out of the pool so Birthday Boy could open his presents. Horse was thrilled that Birthday Boy loved the present she had picked out for him (Pokemon cards) and became even more elated when she found out that the goody bags had Pokemon cards in them as well. We left shortly thereafter.

All in all, Horse seemed to enjoy herself. She did turn into a sobbing mess upon arriving at home, claiming that she had been overwhelmed and upset by all of the exuberant behavior in the pool. The fact that she kept asking to go back into the pool did not register in her mind at all, nor did she remember jubilantly splashing back at anyone who got her first. I guess this is one of the "fun" things about selective memory. I think I will wait until she's had a full night's sleep before reminding her that she did actually seem quite chipper and happy to be there throughout most of the entire pool party. Otherwise, I'm afraid that confused pre-teen might come back out to snarl at me.Wish me luck.

When kidlets go boneless...

Just about anyone who has ever had the privilege of watching a kidlet in action knows that kidlets have this innate ability to go completely boneless at certain times. I am not sure what they do with their bones at those times. Perhaps they turn them to rubber. Maybe they melt long enough for the kidlet to escape. Perhaps they make their bones temporarily disappear. The end result is still the same. Each child has different areas of specialty when going boneless, too, so you almost always have the ability to be taken by surprise.

Horse was a boneless sleeper. She would get herself into positions that had to be physically impossible to attain. Then, when a well-meaning parent or babysitter would attempt to untangle her from herself, her lack of bones would be even more evident. Picking her up while she was a sleeping infant and toddler was quite the feat, as I would have to find a way of supporting her without her skeleton helping to keep her in a comfortably slumbering position. As my first child, she certainly taught me more than I ever wanted to know about supporting a child's neck to keep their head properly attached to their body.

When the next two kidlets came along, I figured I had mastered the art of handling a sleeping boneless child. Little did I know that sleeping was not the only time a kidlet could go boneless. Rooster had the ability to go boneless intentionally in order to escape. She was a quick toddler, and I wanted to keep her safe. I attempted to have her wear one of those harnesses that make concerned non-parents look at you funny in stores while berating you for putting your child on a leash. She escaped. I put it on her tighter. She went boneless and tore that sucker off in less than a minute. I tried a different version. No dice. Rooster could get out of anything that I threw at her to keep her from wandering away from me. Safety belts in shopping carts were worthless. Wrist straps did nothing to keep her next to me. She was pretty close to being the master at boneless escapes.

Then, the master was born. Pig Jr. could easily escape the same harnesses and safety straps that made Rooster laugh as she slipped from them with ease. He could do it one better though, since he was born with special traits that helped in boneless escapes. He has low-muscle tone, which somehow makes it seem as if he is not putting up any muscular resistance at all. In addition, Pig Jr. is double-jointed in his shoulders, hips, and possibly wrists. It is very difficult to pick him up if he decides to go boneless. We run the risk of seriously injuring him should he decide to just let his shoulders go lax. I had to learn how to pick him up around his rib cage so I would not risk popping his shoulders out of joint. I am glad that he is finally able to make the connection between falling boneless to the floor and the "ouch" sensation it produces. He no longer attempts to scare us by intentionally falling over, but he still goes boneless when he is laughing, being tickled, or throwing a tantrum.

The scariest type of boneless-kidlet, in my opinion, is the unconscious type. I am not talking about sleeping. I am talking about not being able to rouse them at all. There were two times in my parenting career that I experienced such a thing. The first time was when Pig Jr. was three days old and being admitted into the emergency room for vomiting blood. The nurses were unable to start an IV, and after being stabbed repeatedly by their attempts, he just shuddered and lay unresponsive. I thought they killed him. I am still not sure if he went unconscious or whether it was just the infant reflex of shutting down when things get too much to handle, but the nurse hastily reassured us that Pig Jr. was still alive. The second time Pig Jr. went unconscious-boneless was when he was being knocked out for surgery at just shy of his first birthday. I was holding him at the time that the hospital staff put the mask over his face, and he went instantly limp. Had they not told me his reaction would be that fast, I might not have been emotionally prepared. It was still unnerving to lie him down on the gurney when he felt like that.

But the best type of boneless kidlet is when they are giggling like mad. Scoop up a kidlet, spin them around, and tickle them, and they go instantly boneless in a fit of giggles. Chase them around in whatever variant of "I'm gonna get ya!" they like the best, then try catching them as they drop boneless to the floor while laughing hysterically. Hold a spinning contest outside, and watch everyone stumble around dizzily before going boneless in the soft grass. I still do not know how they accomplish that feat, and my poor old, bruised legs wish I could figure it out, but I still find it one of the most amazing tricks that kidlets can do.

Umbrella Wars

The weather was overcast this morning while we were getting ready to take Pig Jr. to school. The kidlets immediately decided that this meant it was the appropriate weather for rain boots and umbrellas. I figured I would humor them and let them get out whatever attire they deemed necessary, as it is almost never worth a battle at eight o'clock in the morning when caffeine has not already been ingested in its proper form: chocolate.

The first moment I realized this was a poor decision was when I herded Pig Jr. into the bathroom to brush his teeth. The second that door closed, I heard the unmistakeable sounds of umbrella fencing. Horse and Rooster held their makeshift epees while lunging and thrusting at one another. They continued sparring over my quite vocal objections until I actually exited the bathroom and repeated my "no stinkin' way" to their faces. Umbrellas were banished into our kitchen until time came to walk out the door, and peace reigned supreme while the threat of being grounded for the rest of their natural lives hung over the girls' heads.

Shortly thereafter, we attempted to walk out the door to head to the school. I say "attempted" because Pig Jr., who was in the front, stopped at the top porch step and refused to go any further. His obviously excellent eyesight spotted that which mine didn't: mist. All three kidlets gleefully jostled for position while opening their umbrellas lest they accidentally get damp while outside.

Finally, we were on our way. About a block away from home, I decided I needed an umbrella up, too, since the mist was beginning the slow transition to a drizzle and I had just managed to dry out my bag from the last time it had rained. After I opened up my umbrella, we shifted positions to continue our journey. We wound up walking single-file so our umbrellas would not, in theory, attack one another in close proximity. Horse led the way. Then came Rooster. Pig Jr. and I brought up the rear, with me slightly behind him, clutching the top of his backpack in order to steer him.

Horse was nervous being in front of everybody else. She kept tipping her umbrella forward so she could look back at us. What she really managed to accomplish here was to stop looking where she was going, thus tripping herself up far more than was truly necessary, and slow down, which led to Rooster bumping into her. Rooster never manages to hold her umbrella in the same position for more than a second or two at a time, so she consistently manages to trip over things in her rotating blind spot. We had to stop more times than I could count in order to separate Horse and Rooster from their bumbling into one another and whapping each other with their umbrellas.

Pig Jr. marched steadily along, completely and blissfully unaware of wherever he was going. He was holding his umbrella all by himself like a big boy, and could not care less whether he contributed to his sisters' umbrella wars or not. He could not see where he was going due to his constantly covering his face with his umbrella, which suited him just fine. I managed to steer him reasonably well through his backpack, and grabbed onto his arm when we crossed the various streets on our way. Unfortunately, since I was absorbed with steering my son, I often misplaced a step or two and bonked into one of my daughters. This would start a chain reaction of umbrella bonking that would not stop until it went all the way from me to Horse and then back again. It was almost like doing the wave at a sporting event.

By the time we made it to school, my arms were soaked from the umbrellas that kept bumping into me. My daughters were cranky with one another for a similar reason. Pig Jr. was already plotting how to put down his umbrella and steal his sisters'. He did actually succeed at his first attempt, oddly enough, which implies to me that we were all distracted by that point in time. Thankfully, there is a dry area under an overhang right near the door Pig Jr. enters. We could all put down our umbrellas, declare a temporary cease-fire, and wait for his teacher to emerge and start the day.

The girls and I waited for Pig Jr. to be safely delivered to his teacher before we took up our weapons, I mean umbrellas, and started the long trek home. Bashed and soaked from one another's umbrella bonkings, we finally arrived at home. I am currently thinking of investing in ponchos and never allowing the kidlets to hold an umbrella again. We might look like a bit odd, but at least we won't have to worry about a sneak-umbrella attack when we are getting ready to cross a fairly busy intersection. Until I make that decision a reality, I am just going to hope it only rains at night while my three attack-umbrella kidlets are sound asleep.

Us vs. technology

Everybody has their own personal talents. Some excel at creating beautiful artwork. Others are capable of producing the most exquisite music from their instruments of choice. There are people whose flair for the dramatic arts can move others to tears. Some authors manage to evoke memories and dreams we have long since forgotten as they weave their magic tales. My talent happens to be in breaking all things technological. I am quite good at it. Go with your strengths, right?

Over the years, I have managed to convince computers that they have no desire to live anymore. I have messed up instructing Earl, our GPS, that we need to avoid taking certain roads, and have wound up hours away from my intended destination. I have dropped and broken countless phones, from the corded variety to cell phones. Back in my teaching days, I am sure I clogged the school's photocopier more than the rest of my coworkers combined. I have spilled liquids on various types of gadgets that I shudder to even mention here lest Pig find out what truly caused the death of those items. My washing machine's motherboard has already been replaced once and is still changing settings on me when I try to wash a load of laundry. My most recent accomplishment was in breaking the letter M key off my laptop. After working on it for a number of panicky minutes, and ruling out the possibility of never using that particular letter again, I managed to get it back on in a somewhat usable fashion, although it flops around in an unhealthy manner. I am fairly certain it will take the first chance it gets to run away from the lunatic who is desperately trying to pound it back into position.

My kidlets have not escaped this gene. Horse has the ability to figure out a lot of things on the computer, but she inherited my ability to drop anything expensive. Repeatedly. And generally right after being warned that gravity is about to claim another electronic victim. Rooster rarely drops things like Horse and I do, but she is aggressive in her button-pushing capabilities. There is no button, lighted or otherwise, that is safe from her frantic fingers. One of our window air conditioners died as a result of being pushed on, off, to fan, to cool, from 65 degrees to 78 degrees, and from low to high speeds back and forth in a matter of just a few seconds. It just up and refused to turn back on to its regular setting. Truth be told, I can't say I blame it. Rooster is not allowed to enter the same room as my untended laptop lest it succumb to the same fate. Both of my daughters are obviously following in their mother's technology-breaking footsteps.

My girls are good, but of all three kidlets, it is my youngest that takes the cake in his destructive capabilities. He shares both Rooster's talents in the button department and Horse's dropping skills. In addition, Pig Jr. excels in attempting to make objects fly. It is of particular interest to him when the flying objects explode upon impact. Even if they survive their flight across the room, he will find a way to dismantle his victims in such a manner as to make it impossible to reassemble them. It is fairly common for us to find a random part lying around somewhere and not be able to figure out which object is missing a tiny screw or broken plastic piece. I thought I was good at breaking technology, but my son leaves me in the dust at the tender age of four.

The smaller that technology gets, the harder it is to fix when it breaks, especially without the proper tools. There will come a point in time when we will have to admit defeat and be unable to purchase anything new until we learn more skills with which to repair our technology ourselves. On the plus side, I am fairly certain that my son has a bright future ahead of him in demolition, and I just might have to join him in that field.

I may already be a winner...

The kidlets were playing nicely together this afternoon, so I snuck away for a quick chance to clown around on the computer. I follow a few different blogs and had not checked one of them for a couple of weeks, so I thought I would do so. The next thing I knew, I had been directed to another site and was informed that I had managed to win an iPad. Specifically, if I entered all of my personal information into their popped up page, I would be the lucky random recipient of an Apple iPad 2. Yay, me.

Now I have no idea whether or not that site was legitimate. It could have been completely on the up and up. However, how stupid do they think I am if I am going to answer all of that personal information just because they say doing so will get me an electronic gadget? I would sooner trust a Nigerian bank scammer with my checking account's routing number than voluntarily give all that information to some random popup.

There was a commercial out there back in my television-watching days that demonstrated how people will voluntarily give all sorts of personal information to someone who asks in just the right way. Whether the camera was hidden or openly exposed, they showed people answering questions pertaining to their maiden name, mother's maiden name, favorite color, first pet's name, favorite number, etc. Do people not realize how easy it is to steal their identity or access all of their passwords when they give up this information? Today's lucky win strikes me as a similar type of experience. For the possibility of claiming a five hundred dollar electronic goody, they would have me give them enough information for them to scam tens of thousands of dollars, or more if they are really good at it, by stealing my identity.

Then again, as a stay-at-home mother, there are days when I wish my identity had a little more kick to it. While I do not want the hassle of having to straighten out the legal mess that could occur by having my identity stolen, I would almost be afraid of having the thief reject my identity on the grounds that it is too boring. It's not as if I live life on the wild side over here. Heck, my credit card company calls me up to check if everything is okay if I use their card in two different stores in the same day. We're pretty sure they wanted to call out the militia the day we had to purchase a washer, dryer, and refrigerator. Why would anyone want to steal an identity that is tied up in kidlet-based errands and already monitored by a hyperactive credit card company?

The worst part of this whole deal, however, is having to assume the worst of that website instead of knowing for certain that it is a load of hooey. I have this little pesky whisper of a voice in the back of my head suggesting that I could have had a really cool toy if I had just taken that popup seriously. ("It's an iPad! Even Pig doesn't have one of those! Think of how much fun it would be to own!") I will never know for sure that it was not legitimate. However, responsibly boring identities do not just give away all of their secrets in the hopes of winning it big, no matter how cool the potential reward might be. Harrumph.

Illnesses and other ickies

Today is officially the first day of summer. Naturally, this means that when we contract illnesses, we cannot blame the school district. Given that Pig came down with a stomach virus just this morning, I really wish we had someone else to blame. It won't help the virus run its course or prevent anyone else from contracting it, but it would make me feel better to know it's not somehow all my fault.

Here's one of the annoying things about illnesses and other ickies: whenever one enters my household, I instantly develop symptoms. Someone catches a cold and I'm wondering if the tickle in the back of my throat is connected. A stomach bug in someone else turns my stomach and thoroughly messes with my digestive tract so that if I do contract it later, I've managed to extend my feeling-miserable time. Someone brings home head lice and I spend the next three months itching even if we manage to contain the creepy crawlies to just the one individual. A possible tick located on one of the kidlets will have me slathering petroleum jelly onto random freckles just in an obviously futile attempt to suffocate the daylights out of them. Heck, if I even read an article about bedbugs, I panic thinking they might be hiding between our walls this very second. Never mind that none of us have seen a single hint of such an infestation.

I suppose this is a natural reaction for people like me. I really wonder though at how some families have all this yuck enter their worlds and not react to it. I hear about other families who take their just-puked-five-minutes-ago child to school in the mornings thinking it had to have just been that they ate too much. Never mind that the rest of the family will spend the next week or so "eating too much" and also getting sick. I have heard of families with a mysterious rash heading to large gatherings without wondering whether they are spreading whatever it is. Some families take their kidlets to playdates even when the children are running fevers and oozing green out of their facial orifices. How do people just assume that their contagions will not infect the others around them? Or do they know that will happen and they just figure that it doesn't really matter?

For the record, when Pig got sick this morning, I informed him he was staying home from work, cancelled Rooster's dentist appointment, and called Pig Jr. out of school. You might think this is overkill, but considering that my type I diabetic husband has needed to go to the hospital when he had an insulin reaction in the middle of vomitting, on more than one occasion, he cannot safely be left alone. Since the regular school year has ended, I have no problem keeping all three kidlets by my side in case we have to deal with another ER visit. Besides, my own digestive tract has not handled the news of his illness well, and even the kidlets looked a bit green when I told them why Daddy was home from work. I would hate to know that we had spread this virus, too. I do not wish stomach viruses on my worst enemies.

But as a friend of mine made me realize, when it comes to things we would avoid at all cost, at least we do not have to worry about zombies. I cannot even imagine what psychosomatic symptoms I might develop should an actual zombie outbreak occur. Graaaaah. Braaaaains.

The need for a drive-by Zolofting

There have been a number of times in my life when I have suffered from depression. The most recent bouts of it were a direct result of producing those three very special kidlets who I love more than life itself. Postpartum depression, however, makes my hate list. It is such a horrible thing for a new mother to feel like there is no reason to live. I was fortunate in that my own experience left me wanting to end my own life, not my child's, and I (obviously) did not go through with such an action. There are less-fortunate mothers out there, and my heart breaks for them. After my first bout with postpartum depression, I was cognizant enough about how horrific it was to tell my doctor about my experience so that once kidlets number two and three arrived, I was promptly put on antidepressants. Zoloft became my best friend for a number of months after the birth of them both.

To this day, I absolutely adore Zoloft. I no longer need a prescription, but I no longer consider antidepressants to have a negative stigma attached to them. I will tell absolutely anyone who is listening that if they feel depressed, then get thee to a doctor. Zoloft does not work for everybody, and I am sure the list of side-effects is probably long enough to cover the side of a barn, but it worked for me, and for that I am extremely grateful.

I probably feel more grateful than I should, truth be told. I have turned into a one-woman unpaid spokesperson for a pharmaceutical company. I am not sure whether I should be on  the lookout for their lawyers telling me to shaddup, or whether they would give me a pat on the back for so wildly endorsing their product.

So I suppose I should not be surprised to hear that someone's first thought upon starting to read the same depressing book I was reading was to wonder whether I had some Zoloft handy. Unfortunately, that comment made me start thinking, which we all know is a very bad idea.

Can you imagine what life would be like if instead of drive-by shootings, people only had to worry about drive-by Zoloftings? Instead of a car full of angry individuals wearing gang colors and waving some pretty imposing weaponry, we could have a car full of scientists in white lab coats wielding dart guns loaded with antidepressants. Someone leaning against a retaining wall looking miserable? Bam. Zolofted. The author of an incredibly depressing book out on an autograph signing? Bam. Zolofted. A family of four sitting in a semi-vegetative state in front of the television set during the nightly news? Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. Zolofted. The applications would be nearly endless. Drive-by Zolofters could be placed at strategic locations during political rallies, any kind of protest, memorial services, and anywhere else depression might run amok.

Naturally, such an event is unlikely to ever occur. Antidepressants do often run the increased risk of suicidal thoughts and behaviors among certain users, which means they need to be monitored carefully. They are also prescription items, have the ability to react badly to an allergic individual, and have not, in my completely unresearched opinion, been approved for use on an emergency widespread basis. Drive-by Zoloftings are never going to be medically endorsed or even looked upon as a humorous possibility. But a postpartum depression survivor can dream, can't she?

Jokes with Pig and Pig Jr.

It's Father's Day, and Pig is sitting out in our living room with our son on his lap. They just finished reading some Disney-based storybook and now Pig is reading Pig Jr. all of the jokes that are printed on the last page of the book. Pig Jr. is cackling at the various punchlines, but the real kicker is that he doesn't actually get the jokes.

First, we had the "Why did the [insert noun here] cross the road?" jokes. Pig Jr.'s response was almost always, "There weren't any cars there!" He followed that up with laughter. It did not matter what the punchline was. His own response was clearly hysterical enough to justify laughing his fool head off.

Next, Pig read the knock-knock jokes. Pig Jr. knew enough to say, "Who's there?" at the appropriate times, but that was the extent of his expertise in that area. He tried to occasionally ask his father a knock-knock joke, but could only remember the "knock-knock" part and then to laugh.

Finally, the more complex, punny jokes were read. Play-on-words or homonyms were totally lost on my four-year-old with a speech delay, but that did not seem to matter. Pig got the random chuckle out of me from my hiding spot in the kitchen, but Pig Jr. seemed to enjoy these jokes the best. He did not care that he was laughing just as much at the start of the joke as he was at the punchlines. Clearly, his father was the funniest person in the entire world, and he was going to prove this through the sheer quantity of laughter that he could produce.

Throughout this joke exchange between the males in my household, I noticed a change come over myself. I had been stressed and cranky about all of the work that had to be done. I have really been feeling overwhelmed with the inability to sell our house and trying to keep it clean and still make improvements on it while three kidlets run amok. Truth be told, I had been wondering whether the other four members of my house exist solely to make more work for me. But as I listened to Pig and Pig Jr. as they went back and forth, reading and telling these stupid jokes, I relaxed. I forgot about the work and the stress and just lost myself in that special moment between father and son. Pig's smile and Pig Jr.'s laughter were an amazingly calming influence. For those few precious moments, I could just tag along silently while they bonded. Thanks, guys. I owe you one.

Pretending to be a grown-up

Today is one of my favorite days of the month. I told my kidlets that tonight I get to pretend to be a grown-up. This confuses them, and it amuses me. But it does seem a fitting description to my stay-at-home self.

Tonight, I will kiss the family good-bye and run out to the car. I will get in the car without anyone fighting over who gets to sit behind Mommy. No one will be kicking the back of my seat as I drive. There will be no need for threats to "turn this car around right this minute if the fighting does not stop." There will be no shrieks loud enough to wake the dead if a deer walks near the edge of the road. I will not hear the words "I'm telling" even once. I can turn on the GPS (Earl, for those who remember) and actually hear his directions without little mocking voices laughing at me every time he recalculates. I do not have to keep looking in the child mirror to make sure seat belts have not been removed while the car is in motion. If I want to blast music from the soundtrack of Rent, I can do so. Heck, I can even sing along without some snide remark about my musical talents from a child who could not find the correct key if it hit her upside the head with a musical staff.

You see, I attend a book club. I actually get to read a book that has polysyllabic words. Every other sentence or phrase ending will not rhyme. The books might have the random picture or two, but the reader does not require them to understand the plot. There might be actual foreshadowing. There will be characters with or without depth and dimensionality, but none of them involve felines wearing headgear.

For a couple of hours, I will have the pleasure of sitting in a room with other adults. Kidlets might be involved for a brief howdy, but they are not mine and wind up going to bed immediately afterwards. Candles are often lit, providing me with the ability to enjoy their glow and faint scents without worrying who is going to bump the table or stick their fingers into the flame just because they wanted to see how hot it could get. Everyone brings a snack or two, and no one feels obligated to eat something just because a kidlet handed it to them and said they were full. The atmosphere is pleasant and relaxed. No one has to worry about keeping a question or comment G-rated. Indeed, some of the books themselves could not be read if that was a concern.

The other adults in the room, all women, are well-read individuals. They each have a distinct perspective on the book we have all read. We sometimes agree and sometimes disagree, but we each allow one another to have opinions that are not our own. Not all of us have finished the book in question, but we have the ability to banter about other subjects as well. Tangents are often encouraged, although it is probably more accurate to say we have each been guilty of creating those tangents from time to time. I find the other ladies to be quite intelligent, and hope against hope that I can keep up with their discussions sometimes. I come from a different educational background than they do, yet they have welcomed me into their group with open arms.

For this one night a month, I have the ability to be someone other than "Mom," "Mommy," or "Hon." I am Dragon once more. I am an individual. I have my own opinions, which I am free to verbalize. I can enjoy or loathe a book and no one thinks less of me for it. At least for this one night, I am me again.

The last day of school...until Monday

Two of my kidlets had their last day of school today. As of right now, I no longer have a third grader and a kindergartner. I have fourth and first graders.

Horse received an awesome report card, filled with A-pluses and exceeds expectations. She is, in my humble and completely unbiased opinion, a pretty darn smart cookie. She has to be. She took all my brain cells when I was pregnant with her, as the family story goes, so she darn well better be intelligent.

Rooster had a pretty darn good report card herself, with almost everything stating that she meets grade level expectations. Anyone who knew what Rooster has been through with her health this past year and a half would agree that for her to catch up and meet expectations is amazing. The only thing she is still struggling with is her self-esteem, and yes, kindergarten grades on that, too. That can go along with chronic conditions, so it's not overly surprising. Her tummy troubles, acid reflux, and related food-allergy issues qualify. Thank God they were under control enough for her to not miss much school this year! She was only absent twelve times the entire school year, which was half of what she missed last year when she was only scheduled to go to preschool three days a week under normal conditions. (That counts as missing two whole months of her ten-month preschool program last year, in case anyone was curious. )

Between Horse and Rooster, our house looks like a school-related bomb went off in it, with a tornado thrown in for good measure. Backpacks and extra bags were stuffed full of oddities that needed to come home. There were scarves, Pokemon cards, tissues (both used and clean), extra pencils, umbrellas, art smocks, erasers, pictures, a winter hat, scrap papers, three metric tons of schoolwork, sneakers, bracelets, paper plates, journals, thank you notes, and a random pair of socks. Thankfully, the summer math and reading packets had come home on an earlier date or they would have probably gotten lost amongst the detritus. I am thinking it will take us the better half of the summer just to find new homes for all of the items they still want or need to keep.

And then there is Pig Jr. When I sent him into school this morning, I requested his spare set of clothing and quiet time blanket be sent home so that I could wash them and make sure everything was seasonally appropriate for his return to school next Monday for the extended-year program. When I went to pick him up, he was dressed in a long-sleeve shirt and long pants. He had an accident at school and was wearing his spare clothing. Clearly, I am not winning any parenting awards for not making sure he had spare clothes appropriate for the 80+ degree weather we are having. At least the only spare items he had to cart home were the blanket, sopping wet clothing, and his art smock. Somehow, those items did not seem so bad compared to his sisters' stuff.

So here we are, kidlets wired beyond belief and with the house looking like it is about to be condemned due to the horrific mess. I am wondering if Murphy's Law will rear its ugly head and have a parade of Realtors coming through trying to show the house today. So far, our chaos has not been witnessed by anyone outside of the immediate family. I hope to have everything nice and neat once more when Pig Jr. goes back to school on Monday, but until that point, I will hope Murphy's Law works so someone will come check out the house. I just hope they don't run away screaming from all this junk.

The Not-Graduation Graduation

My son is in an integrated preschool program at the same elementary school that his sisters attend. He and several other students who have classifications and IEPs due to their delays and disabilities are in a regular classroom setting with regular education children. Pig Jr. started attending when he turned three years old. Trust me when I say there is a huge difference between a three-year-old with delays and a typically-developing five-year-old, which was the case when he first started attending the preschool. This year was a bit better because he was only a year younger than most of the other students.

Since he is four and most of his classmates are five, this means that most of the class will be going into kindergarten in the fall. Because of this, they held a graduation ceremony for the two preschool classes, complete with caps and fake diplomas. The "graduating" children all wear blue and the remaining students wear red. Since Pig Jr.'s favorite color is red, this worked well for him. I am already wondering how on earth I am going to convince him to wear blue to next year's ceremony. I guess I can always hope we will move and change school districts mid-year just to avoid this very issue, but that seems a ludicrous extreme to try to avoid an unwanted clothing color. Then again, any parent who has ever tried to force a child, particularly one with sensory issues, to wear clothing they did not want to wear would probably back me up on the hope of moving.

I remembered vague aspects of the program from last year. Pig Jr. had started attending preschool towards the end of that school year in the middle of a very sick time for Rooster, so my memories are a bit hazy. I could recall the students filing into the media center, singing a bit, and then having some form of cake before they pressed a helium balloon into each of their hands and kicked us out. With a sick Rooster and a very young Pig Jr., I chose to skip the cake, failed at my attempt to avoid the balloon, and jetted out of there early.

I did notice a few distinct differences between last year and this year, and I am not just referring to the different students "graduating" while my little guy wore red yet again. There were about twice as many people in the audience this year, and a goodly number of them brought the graduate's siblings and extended family members. Also, no one cried this year. There was the token child who did not want to participate at all, but given that he was the one who sobbed throughout the entire time last year, this was a huge improvement. (Please remember also that some of these children have special needs, and to expect them to do what a typically-developing child could do is not always realistic. For a child who already cannot handle eye contact to have to sit and have oodles of eyeballs staring his way and not cry is a very, very big deal, and I am sure there were a fair number of us in the audience who were silently cheering his ability to handle it as well as he did. Yay for Pig Jr.'s friend!)

After the children had paraded in to the tune of "Pomp and Circumstance", we saluted the flag and then sat down to watch their entertainment. The kidlets did an adorable job singing their little songs and remembering their arm movements and dances when necessary. In-between songs, one little boy piped up that he loved his mother. A collective, "Awww..." filled the room. From that point on, any time there was a break in the music, one or more random kidlets would chime in that they loved their mom or their dad. Pig Jr. was one to chime in repeatedly, lest I had missed it the first couple of times he said he loved me.

After the songs came the presentation of fake diplomas. Each child was called to their teacher and classroom aide to shake hands and receive a rolled up piece of paper that enclosed a laminated paper that announced they would either be going to kindergarten or had completed the year in preschool. Most of the students went proudly up to receive their papers. The non-participant had to be led up to his teacher after adamantly refusing to budge from his seat. After he was forced to take his diploma, he refused to go sit back down and had to be carried back to his chair. I was secretly relieved Pig Jr. had not done the same thing, as I know he is fully capable of shutting down like that.

The kidlets then announced there were refreshments and came hurtling towards their respective parents like untied inflated balloons that are suddenly released with a whoosh and a rude noise. Pig Jr. was thrilled to climb onto my lap and tell me pretty much nothing other than to say "uh-huh" if I asked him a question about his special day. Eventually we spotted a break in the mass of bodies and we pushed through it in search of a table seat and some cake for Pig Jr. We were corned by one of the preschool teachers who foisted the requisite helium balloon at my son, which then made the act of retrieving cake slightly more challenging, but greatly amused the little guy.

The rest of the time was spent watching Pig Jr. snarf down his cake or try to attack people with his balloon. He had no concept that hitting the balloon would send it flying wildly in other people's directions, and he wasn't the only kidlet to be doing so. After a while, I gave up on trying to remind him he had to be careful and just took the dang balloon away from him. He held on to the string at the end and still felt happy to be holding his balloon. We said our good-byes to his teacher and left a few minutes early.

I am sure this whole routine will take on a larger significance next year, when Pig Jr., as the last of my babies, will be moving from preschool into kindergarten. For this year, however, I could smile at the cute graduation ceremony in which my son did not graduate.

Proud Day

Some schools have kindergarten graduation ceremonies. The students all wear little caps and gowns and receive some rolled up paper that passes for a diploma of sorts. Not my kidlets' school. They have kindergarten Proud Day. Every student receives some sort of award for their talents or behavior. I think it is a much better concept than a graduation ceremony for six-year-olds, but I'm iffy on the name. "Proud Day" makes me wonder if we are supposed to be disappointed in them the other 364 days of the year, which should not be the case. I guess no one in a power position at school views it that way though.

When Horse was in kindergarten, she looked forward to her Proud Day ceremony. Unfortunately, she developed a random fever and was unable to go to school that day. This also meant that I was unable to witness a Proud Day ceremony. At the time, I was actually grateful. I had a one-year-old Pig Jr. and a three-year-old Rooster I was supposed to bring with me, and I had been dreading it. Looking back at it, I wish she had the opportunity to be there, regardless of whether I would be pacing the halls in the school while someone screamed bloody murder instead of sitting nicely for their sister's special day.

Three years later, I had the chance to experience Proud Day for the first time. Rooster was excited. They had been preparing for this special day for months now. Ages ago, we had to send in a plain white shirt for the kidlets to silkscreen with a "PROUD TO BE ME" smiley face. You would think they would tell us then that we would need a white tank top for the kidlets to wear underneath, but no. They waited until this Monday to send home that notice. That gave those of us whose families do not own tank tops a little more than twenty-four hours to come up with the required article of clothing. Thankfully, a friend of mine had a spare in Rooster's size, so that averted a minor clothing-store fiasco.

I had not counted on the fact that Rooster had not ever worn a tank top. She had no idea how to put it on properly. When she came out of her room, "dressed" for school, she had one armhole around her torso and she had somehow gotten the other shoulder wrapped over her head before putting one arm through the remaining armhole. By the time I helped disentangle her, the shirt was stretched beyond recognition. This also meant that the neckline sagged to her navel. Thinking quickly, I grabbed a barrette, pulled the back of her shirt together, and clipped the two shoulder straps together by her neck. At least now she would not be flashing anybody.

Off we went to school. I dropped all three kidlets off at their respective drop-off points and returned later when it was time for the Proud Day ceremony.

The ceremony was nowhere near as long as I thought it would be. The students filed in and sang and signed a song that I am still not sure how it related to being proud, going to school, or having anything to do with anything other than looking cute while ninety kidlets performed it. Then the teachers explained each award and called the names of the students who earned them.

I know I am a bit cynical about these things, but I cannot help but wonder what some of the awards really meant. Two children proceeded to cry through a good portion of the ceremony. Those two students both received the "Good Humor" award. At least one child who won the "Smile" award did not so much as have a twinkle in their eye, let alone a cheerful grin. When they got to the "Good Friend" award, I knew exactly what that meant. These kidlets must be the ones who would rather socialize than learn anything academic, and I was not surprised at all when Rooster was one of the chosen ones. I am fairly certain that the "Eager Scientists," who wanted to explore the hows and the whys, were the same kidlets who would dismantle their chairs when the teachers' backs were turned. I assumed that the "Eager Readers" were the students who had to be repeatedly asked to put down their books while the rest of the class had already moved on to another subject.

In short, I amused myself to no end by making up things while the awards were given out. If there was an award for "Runaway Imagination," I would have received it. Then again, so would my daughter. Rooster definitely takes after me in the imagination department. No wonder Pig gives me that look whenever Rooster goes off on a wild story arc.

After all the awards were handed out, the kidlets sang another song, this one about being proud to be themselves, and then the teachers closed the program. All in all, it was cute. The kidlets all ranged somewhere between petrified and soaking up all the attention like happy little sponges. Almost all of them participated in singing both songs. Most of them remembered to line up in a row with the others who won the same award, so the paparazzi in the form of parents and grandparents could gleefully snap away. Every child had applause just for them, too. Even with spending the vast majority of the time there applauding, it was still short and sweet. It ran less than an hour and then the teachers released the kidlets to their parents so they did not even have to complete the school day.

I know that we have the house on the market and would like to leave this school district should the house actually sell. However, I think it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to have Pig Jr. be able to have a Proud Day ceremony just like this in another two years. But even if we move between now and then, I will still be proud of my kidlets.

A cupcake for Rooster

It's that time of the year again. School is ending, and there are approximately seventeen bazillion parties taking place. Once again, I find myself trying to figure out what needs to be baked and sent in for each kidlet's class. Some years I have to make more than others. With three kidlets in three different classes, someone always needs something. This year is fairly calm, all things considered. Horse's class needed ice cream sundae toppings sent in and Pig Jr. only had to supply napkins. Neither required baking, to my immense relief.  Even with just Rooster's class requiring baking, there is still far too much to be done for me to try and complete.

Then again, I am struggling with issues that I would hope most classroom parents would not need to address. First of all, since we are trying to sell the house, we had to box up a number of items to put them in storage. We have to make our tiny house look larger than it is. This presents a challenge when it comes time to cook or bake. Where is my mixing bowl? Why did I box up the extra measuring cups and spoons? What on earth possessed me to pack up all of my cookbooks thinking they took up too much space? Did I really think that buying a smaller container of oatmeal was a good idea when I can either let a child have cereal one day or I can bake the required cookie recipe, but not both? Whose bright idea was it to leave the rolling pin that I never use but to pack up almost all of my spatulas? None of this is insurmountable, but it really tends to wear on a person after a while.

Secondly, the only dishwasher we have in this house is me. Not only does this not bode well for eventually selling the house, since I refuse to stay with it once it sells, but it also makes baking with minimal utensils a bit of a challenge, too. It complicates the whole "keep the house immaculate" shtick that the Realtors seem to think is possible, even with three kidlets strewing their chaos everywhere. Dishwashers should be lovely appliances that exist solely for the purpose of shoving dirty dishes so they do not clutter the counters or sink. If they clean up your messes for you, so much the better. My dishwasher is surly and not amused after having to maintain a pristine environment while baking two batches of cookies and some cupcakes.

Finally, our family has the added bonus of having severe food allergies. Rooster cannot physically stomach a number of foods, with dairy presenting the most severe GI reaction. This means that everything she is going to come in contact with must be made from scratch using ingredients that have been researched for possible cross-contamination with the problem foods. Her allergist sent a letter in to the school to let them know she is not allowed to eat one single thing unless I send it in with her that day. For end of the year parties, this means that I have to bake multiple items that are comparable to whatever her class is being served. To further complicate manners, she had been complaining of a bellyache a few weeks ago, and her doctor wanted us to take her completely off of additional foods so we could try and isolate whatever triggered her gut's reaction. All of the recipes we had relied on to be safe for her belly now have to be tweaked.

So for right now, I am frazzled, stressed, overwhelmed, and pulling my hair out while trying to complete this Herculean task of baking for Rooster's classroom party. But when I see my child able to partake of the coolest cupcake in the classroom, with her favorite frosting color and sprinkles chosen just for her, it will be absolutely worth the hassle.

My love/hate relationship with Grape-Nuts

Conversations with my middle child are not always rational things. At six years of age and with a very active imagination, Rooster is not the type of child who I can trust to tell me what is going on in that mind of hers, let alone in reality. She has been known to tell very long stories about things that have supposedly happened to her at school, only to have the listener suddenly recognize a similarity between that story and a recently-viewed movie. The tales she tells even have the capability to bring her to tears.

So when I asked Rooster today whether she'd like to stay overnight at her grandparents' house over summer vacation, I was not entirely surprised to see her eyes well up. She acted somewhat petrified as she told me there were scary things at their house. I remembered how she had melted down the last time we attempted an overnight visit, and thought that perhaps we could get to the bottom of what was truly bothering her. I asked her what was scary at Grandma and Grandpa's house. Her reply? "They have Grape-Nuts!" Seriously?

Now, I have a love/hate relationship with that cereal. I love to hate it. I also detest, scorn, and abhor it. I loathed it so much over the years that back when I was in high school, I wrote a persuasive speech on why Grape-Nuts should not be allowed as a breakfast cereal. I came up with alternative uses for it, such as aquarium gravel, filling in cracks in the sidewalk, and to create pathways through gardens. Obviously, this was not a well-researched speech, but it was certainly amusing (to me) to present. I would like to think that my audience enjoyed it as well, but that could be a completely erroneous assumption.

My children, naturally, absolutely love Grape-Nuts. The taste, the texture, and the way it crunches in their mouths just thrills them to no end. It is one of the few cereals all three kidlets will consume voluntarily. Why? I am assuming it is just to drive me crazy. They think it is hysterical that Mommy shudders every time they ask to have some for breakfast.

So the fact that the absolutely terrifying thing about staying overnight at my folks' house was the presence of Grape-Nuts was truly baffling, even more so because it is not a cereal they would purchase on their own. If Grape-Nuts were actually at their house, it was because their grandchildren loved the cereal and asked to have it while they were there. There is no possible, rational explanation why Rooster would be so petrified about a cereal she loves.

Quite frankly, Rooster was easier to understand when her stories were quoted almost verbatim from the latest movie in our DVD queue. Although I do not understand her, I suppose I should take some solace from the knowledge that she is starting to be swayed to Mommy's opinion of Grape-Nuts. Perhaps I should dig out that old speech of mine and put it to good use solidifying her opinion.

Piano Recital a la Horse

Horse and I went to her first piano recital this afternoon. She has been playing for about a year and a half now and was thrilled to finally be included in her teacher's massive lineup of students in the yearly recital. I was thrilled not only because this was my little girl's chance to shine, but also because this meant I would no longer have to listen to her repeating the same two songs ad nauseum on the piano every day. Mother of the year, I'm not.

We had been planning on going as a family to this joyous event. However, after speaking with her teacher yesterday and seeing the panic in her eyes when I mentioned bringing the younger two kidlets ("Can't you find a babysitter? It's really, really long!"), we decided that Pig would stay home with them and Horse and I would go together. Given that Pig Jr. was doing somersaults in the living room around the time we left, this was probably a good decision.

Did I say "good decision"? I meant fantastic decision. Rooster and Pig Jr. both have sensory issues that they inherited from me, with Pig Jr. having the most difficulties with them. There is no way they would have survived that ordeal, I mean recital. Heck, I barely survived, and I love my kidlet and wanted to be there for her.

Let me state that for the record, all thirty-ish of the piano students that performed were a joy to watch. Yes, some made mistakes and a few started over a couple of times, but the students were not at all part of my problem dealing with the recital. Many of them have real talent, and I sincerely hope they continue on their musical journeys. The novice performers had cutesy little pieces and the old hats played compositions full of vim and vigor. Nothing was duplicated, although you could tell which students were at similar levels by watching to see who played air piano in time with the current performer. Like I said, the students were worth the watch.

Speaking strictly as a sensory experiment, it was a rough recital. For starters, I had painted part of the house today, so I went into the afternoon already feeling sore. I neglected to factor in the pain of having to sit on hard, wood, spindle-backed chairs for two and a half hours. The acoustics in the room were outstanding, which is another translation for "bring earplugs next year." You could feel the vibration of each and every lightly plunked note through either the floor or the wood chairs. Someone turned off the fans and air conditioner right before the performances started, so the air felt a bit claustrophobic with its lack of movement. It was physically painful to sit in that room. If I felt it that horribly, I cannot even imagine how Rooster and Pig Jr. would feel. Pig Jr. would probably have been covering his ears and screaming from the moment he walked in the door.

And did I mention it was two and a half hours? Seriously, it was two and a half hours. That was far too long for the children to sit there and listen to one another. You could see them yawning. A few of them stretched out on the couch where they were sitting. More than one closed their eyes and appeared to be sawing wood, although it wasn't likely anyone could hear them over the thundering reverberations of the present pianist. Only the oldest of the students managed to sit there without appearing to nod off, and I suspect that was because they were put on the latter half of the schedule and still had nerves to keep them alert and on edge.

The farther into the program we went, the more the piano teacher wanted to give explanations for everything. Personally, I thought it would have been better to write a blurb or two about each composer and include that in with the program rather than wasting time talking about them to an audience that had long since adopted a glazed over demeanor. She also included personal snippets about some of her more advanced students as well. The next thing I knew, one of the students was singing in Hindi in the middle of a piano recital, and not on the program, while no one played the piano. That was about the same time that I started sending miffed text messages to Pig. ("Running too long. Now off program. Your turn next year, buddy.")

The whole audience perked up when the final piece was played. We all applauded loudly and started shifting in our seats. Then the piano teacher announced yet another piece was to be played by one of the students. We all sank into our stupors again. The song ended and we became alert only to have to wait while the teacher presented awards and chatted about the students who were graduating from eighth grade this year. In the meantime, about half the students were starting to do the "I have to pee" dance. By the time the recital ended for real, we exhaled a collective sigh of relief.

Horse, in case anyone was curious, did a wonderful job performing. I might be biased, but I thought she had a wonderful stage presence and seemed perfectly at ease and pleased as punch to perform. Even some random parent sitting behind me, when Horse performed, muttered about how good my kid was. Another parent stopped Horse and I on the way out to tell me how wonderful she performed and what a great job she did. I am quite proud of my little lady.

All in all, I'm glad I was able to see Horse shine. That being said, I think I'm going to have to plan a way to avoid going through that sensory overload next year. Either Pig is going to have to be the parent to go, or we will have to come up with another solution. Perhaps Horse can develop a case of Siblingitis, which would necessitate her staying far away from others. After all, any parent of multiple children knows that Siblingitis is highly contagious and is to be avoided at all cost. Think that will work?

Crashing a Yard Sale

I have a friend who will be moving her family over 1200 miles away in just a few weeks. Needless to say, she is insanely busy right about now, trying to finalize the sale on her house, packing everything, and also trying to take care of her two boys. I am also quite busy these days, between the three kidlets' schedules, painting, and other tasks for my own on-the-market house. It was looking less and less likely that she and I would ever be able to meet up for one last visit before her move. So when I logged into Facebook this morning, all bleary-eyed and glazed over while I waited for my brain to wake up, it took me a few minutes to realize she had posted about having a yard sale this morning. Suddenly, it dawned on my newly-wakened brain that I could crash her yard sale!

I tried to process reasons why this plan would work. It had rained earlier this morning, so it was still too wet for me to paint anything. Horse was the first kidlet who needed to be anywhere today, and her piano lesson did not actually start until around eleven. My friend would surely be at her house to work her own yard sale, so I shouldn't have to worry about her not being home with me just popping by for a quick visit. I should be able to drive there, say my good-byes, and still be home in time for piano. With my plan set, I felt amazingly awake and alert and set about making it happen.

Pig was supportive of my morning plans. I asked Pig Jr. if he wanted to come with me in order to make things easier for Pig at home with just the girls. Pig Jr. was thrilled at the prospect of going for a car ride with Mommy, so off we went.

Pig Jr. was fine in the car, until we approached the exit we normally take to go to his pediatrician. He balked at that point, crying out, "No doctor! No ouchies today!" I kept reassuring him that was true, that we weren't visiting his doctor, and that he would be okay. I don't think he fully trusted me at that point, but he calmed down a bit. He was relieved when we continued on our way after passing the exit in question, although he did continue to affirm that there was no way he was going to the doctor's office today.

Ten minutes and several hundred "No doctors!" later, we pulled onto my friend's street. I was eager to say a quick hi and good-bye, since I'm not really good at this sort of thing. I hoped she wouldn't be too overrun with customers to deal with my unexpected visit.

Pig Jr. and I got out of the car and walked up to my friend's house. I spotted her husband, and promptly asked him where my friend was. I almost felt bad for the poor guy. It was clear he couldn't quite figure out who the heck I was. Truth be told, I hadn't seen him for a number of years, so I'm not surprised he couldn't place me. I will admit it was slightly amusing to see him try and figure it out. ("This person here knew my name, could pick me out of a group of yard sale customers, knew my wife's name, acts as if I should recognize her...Dang it. Maybe she'll drop a clue as to who she is.") He informed me my friend was probably still sleeping, as she hates yard sales and wants nothing to do with them, but went in to check on her when I asked if she would forgive me for waking her up. Turns out, she had woken up on her own and was getting ready to come down anyway.

I'd like to think my friend was happy that I showed up. She certainly seemed pleased to see me. She kept telling me how great I looked, which makes me wonder if she's feeling delusional these days. (She, however, looked great. I have no idea how that woman manages to not age at all, but I swear she looked younger today than the last time I saw her, which was probably a handful of years ago. It's a good thing I'm friends with her or I would have to hate her for her aging abilities.) We had a lovely conversation, and I felt badly when it was finally time to go. Pig Jr. was busy trying to pull my arm off to go towards the car, and I did have to get back to take Horse to her lessons. I managed to say my good-byes, but was surprised at how difficult that was.

You see, I might not have seen my friend for a few years now, but I still consider her to be a good friend. She and I were both novice teachers together at the school at which we used to work. Together with a third friend, we would go out for dinner and drinks almost every week as a means of surviving that first tough year. We continued to meet up even after the third friend moved away. She was the person who popped in to check on my cats when Pig and I eloped in Vegas. (To this day, I wish she had been the friend we flew out with us to be our witness, but had doubted that our Superintendent would have given her the same days off from school to be there.) We handed maternity clothes back and forth each time we both swore we were done popping out the kidlets. We had numerous laughing phone conversations that were generally triggered by one of her sons picking up her cell phone and calling me without her knowledge. Before today, the last time I remember seeing her was when she came over to drop off tons of baby boy clothing for when I was pregnant with Pig Jr.. Once Pig Jr. was born, I had kidlets in school and therefore sick all the time. Her boys followed the same path shortly thereafter. We kept in touch through phone calls and Facebook, where it was physically impossible to exchange any germs or viruses that were wrecking havoc in our respective families.

Despite not having much real-life interaction these past few years, I still felt it was vital for me to crash her yard sale, give her one last hug, and wish her safe travels for her move. Part of me knows that I might not ever see her again. She will start a new life miles away from here. Yes, the virtual worlds and telephone conversations will still be there to help us keep in touch. However, it still doesn't beat being able to laugh until the tears start flowing when you're standing or sitting next to a friend who loves you for all your quirks.

You will be missed, my friend. Stay safe and please keep in touch. It's not likely that I will be able to crash your next yard sale as easily as I could today.

The Bug Dance

The kidlets' school district is winding down for the year. As such, there are a number of different activities they are trying to cram into a rapidly narrowing window of time. Today was the first day that Rooster, along with all the other kindergartners, was let out around lunchtime so that next year's crew of kindergartners could come in and have an orientation of sorts. The other grade levels all followed their normal full-day schedules.

After getting some Mommy/Rooster alone time, which doesn't happen very often for my poor middle child, we returned to the school to pick Pig Jr. up from his preschool class. The preschoolers let out close to an hour before the rest of the school, so we wandered over to the park that is adjacent to the school. My hope was that Rooster and Pig Jr. would run amok and wear themselves out so they would sleep well tonight and actually let Pig and I sleep in tomorrow morning. (Hey, a mother can dream, can't she?)

I met up with another mother who had the same hope for her child. We gratefully watched the kidlets run wild, chasing each other all over the place, while we actually got some unexpected exercise of our own.

Another mother wandered over and wondered briefly why we were both standing instead of sitting on the lovely park bench right near us. She gave us questioning looks as she watched us twitch and flail wildly. Then she entered the swarm of bugs that decided that the adults at the park were highly attractive. Soon, all three of us were swatting, randomly stepping in different directions, fanning ourselves, and laughing our fool heads off over how ridiculous we looked trying to escape the ever-present gnats. None of the kidlets so much as even batted an eyelash over the bugs. It was just us moms.

Our assumption was that the torrential downpours of the spring, combined with the unseasonably hot weather, led to the perfect breeding scenario for millions of those little pests. They did not appear to bite, but they were quite inquisitive, and seemed to really want to explore any facial orifice they could penetrate. This led me to the conclusion that there are few things that creep me out as much as realizing there are a few gnats trying to spelunk up my nose or in my ear canals.

At least the other mothers and I were able to laugh about the insect invasion. We had our own bizarre little workouts going on while our kidlets continued to run about blissfully unaware of their suffering mothers. We had each other to verify that we were not merely attempting to dance badly. Our twitches and jumps were for an actual reason that was confirmed by the presence of two other adults who were also acting in the same manner. It wasn't all just in our heads! Well, technically, the insects were trying to get inside our heads, but that's not quite the same thing.

A few minutes earlier than was necessary, we all decided to head out to pick up our older children from school. We would gladly wait on the pavement or sidewalks the bugs were avoiding rather than sustain our massive twitching any longer. I can't speak for the other ladies, but I know I am trying to come up with a solution that will keep those flying beasties away from me for the rest of the school year.

There are still a few more days while I have to entertain Rooster and Pig Jr. for almost an hour while we wait to go pick up Horse, and I'd love to have them play at the park during those times. I just might attach a flyswatter to my belt loop and hope that I'm quick on the draw. Otherwise, it's quite likely that those little gnats will start their own travel agency with "Spelunking In Dragon's Mouth" as it's main attraction, and call it a hunch, but I'm fairly certain they wouldn't pay me a percentage of their sales either.

The Bermuda Triangle's got nothin' on the cabinet under our TV

I used to pride myself on being a fairly organized individual. (Okay, let us all pause for a moment to give my mother time to stop laughing.) Seriously though, I might have had things in piles, but they were organized piles, and I could always find exactly what I needed within just a moment or two of needing it. I still love the concept of purchasing random plastic tubs, bins, buckets, or drawers to throw a bit more organization into my life. What I apparently keep forgetting is that it's not just me anymore.

When Pig and I first got together, we managed fairly well to maintain my level of organization. By this, I mean that I kept my stuff in an order I understood, I organized anything that we both had to use, and Pig kept throwing his stuff all together in a manner that would probably spawn its own type of chaos theory. I love the man dearly, but I have absolutely no idea how he ever manages to find anything.

Three days shy of our first wedding anniversary, we brought into this world the first of three kidlets who all inherited their father's organizational genes. From those first few, sleep-deprived, post-partum depressed days, I was doomed. Organization as I knew and loved it went the way of the dodo bird.

When Horse was old enough, I had this crazy thought that I could teach her how to keep her arts and crafts supplies neat. I was pregnant with Rooster and really not up to the task of maintaining neatness all by myself anymore. Horse was therefore assigned the cabinet under our television as a safe place to store her crayons, markers, glue, scissors, and the like. I installed a magnetic lock so that when the soon-to-be born Rooster was old enough to try and steal Horse's things, they would be protected. Little did I know that I was actually protecting a newly formed black hole.

Every year, both at back-to-school sales and Christmas, Horse is given a new pencil sharpener. She hasn't been able to find or use one yet. She owns approximately one hundred pencils, of which she can locate half of one chewed stub. Scissors are commonly lost, and are only able to be found by a kidlet young enough to not understand the damage they can do to someone's hair. Markers mysteriously lose their caps and dry out, crayons magically break into tiny pieces, and stickers hurl themselves at the underneath of the shelving in an attempt to not get sucked down by the swirling vortex that must exist as soon as that cabinet door is closed. Coloring books have disappeared only to surface months later when Horse is actually looking for a glue stick. Bottles of glue have the white stuff inside them disappear into nothingness, leaving behind a row of empty bottles that peer out at us forlornly. Anything that is placed into that cabinet is forever altered or disappears in a manner that would impress even the Bermuda Triangle.

As we draw to the close of yet another school year, I harbor the same frantic hope that I do every year. Will this be the year that the chaos under our television will be tamed? Will Horse actually be able to keep things from disappearing? And is it really necessary to go out and buy yet another pencil sharpener with just six school days left? I am sure that her first task of the summer will be to organize that mess in the hopes that all of her supplies will resurface.

Ultimately, my hope is that our house will sell, we will buy another one, and the very act of moving to a different location will close the astral rift that clearly must exist under our television set. I vaguely wonder whether our own personal Bermuda Triangle is something we need to disclose to potential buyers. In the meantime, I'm going to hold off on giving Rooster or Pig Jr. their own special space to store arts and crafts supplies. One black hole in our house is enough for me.

What's a little 98-degree weather between friends?

The part of the world in which I currently reside is experiencing a bit of a heat wave. The temperature is in the high-nineties with a heat index of over a hundred. Quite a few schools in the area have decided to have a half-day schedule due to the extreme heat and the lack of air conditioning. For some odd reason, this change in school hours seems to have ticked off a substantial portion of the population.

I have heard people decry a shortened school day on the grounds that we are "spoiling", "pampering", and "coddling" our children. I have heard "back in my day" so often that I'm fairly certain I've hit my lifetime maximum for hearing that phrase. Most of the time, I would tend to agree with anyone complaining that kids these days are very well off. In this case, however, I must disagree.

Yes, back in the days when we were children, we did not have air conditioning. We rode to school in buses that roasted us alive or we walked to school dripping in sweat. We stuck to vinyl seats in cars. It was a huge deal when our parents agreed to let us sleep in the living room, where our family's lone window air conditioner kept us from boiling alive at night. Yes, back in the day, we suffered in the heat. I am not disputing that fact. We were miserable. Not even decades of time separating the present day from those memories can erase the stifling feel of that ever-present summer heat.

But we are forgetting a number of things. One is that back in those days, people did not always know what they know now. We are much more in tune with the possibility of overheating or even dying. With television and the Internet spreading news like wildfire, it is hard to miss the warning signs as the temperatures climb. Are there even people out there in our society that have not heard of the dangers of overheating?

We are also not living on the same planet these days. The ozone hole is larger, pollution is increasing, the population has grown, technology has changed, and our demands on the planet are different. We cannot compare then and now without allowing compensations for the differences. Populations used to wash their clothes by pounding them with rocks at the local stream, but that does not mean that it is the defining characteristic of doing laundry today, nor does it mean we are spoiled by our modern conveniences. Change is inevitable, and we cannot compare apples to oranges without weighing the pros and cons of each difference.

People themselves are different. Babies that would have died due to premature birth weight alone are now growing up. Children that would not have survived various disabilities are able to live with much better prospects. People with life-threatening allergies, asthma, and other breathing problems are able to maintain a quality of life that far surpasses what could have happened a generation or two ago, and more people have these health issues. But with these increases in life expectancies comes an increased susceptibility when the weather heats up. More at-risk people are living, and they deserve to be protected.

Even perfectly healthy people without so much as a hangnail can still die from overheating or dehydration. Despite this, people are still objecting to a half-day schedule when their children are in classrooms where the temperature is over ninety degrees first thing in the morning.

As for myself, I heard that Horse's third grade class trip tomorrow was going to involve a non-air conditioned school bus. Temperatures tomorrow are still supposed to be hot as Hades. I pestered the office, sent e-mails to Horse's teacher, and I am sure I was not the only one to do so. The assistant principal stepped up to the plate and found charter buses that were air conditioned. Horse was relieved, since I was going to keep her home otherwise. You see, my "pampered", "coddled", or "spoiled" daughter has motion sickness that is exacerbated by the heat. If I put her on a bus without some means to cool her down, she would spend the entire ride either trying not to vomit, or actually doing so. So cut me some slack for not doing what would have been perfectly acceptable back in the day. She is my child, and I will do what is right by her, regardless of anyone's opinion. Now step up and do the same for your children.