What's a little paranoia between friends?

Rooster was invited to a "teddy bear tea" birthday party today. She was really excited about seeing her friend again this summer. I was just happy that it wasn't over a hundred degrees, since this party mostly involved me having to stand outside in someone else's backyard for two hours. For a kid like Rooster who has numerous food allergies, most of them with a severe gastric reaction, I do not just drop her off at a party and go home. Besides, she's only six. It's reasonable to expect I'll be paranoid about her for a few more years.

We were the first ones there, which surprised me since we arrived a bit late. Normally, I am obsessive about being on time, if not early, but I had not realized that there was no parking on Birthday Boy's street, so I had to wait for a light, drive around a block or two, and try and figure out a safe place to stash the car. Upon arrival, I chatted with Birthday Boy's mother while the kidlets played a game.

It turns out that a friend of ours who recently moved to another town just had a rather severe issue with their new neighbors. Specifically, their next-door neighbor's dog attacked their little girl. This was the dog's first known attack and it was supposedly completely unprovoked and quite vicious. Not only that, but the dog was not current on its rabies shots, so they had to quarantine the dog before putting it down. (According to Birthday Boy's mother, the neighbors put the dog down even though they were not required to do so by law. They did not want a pet who would attack a child in such a brutal manner and without provocation. I personally believe this was the correct decision to make.)

Unfortunately, the side effect of having this conversation was that I spent the duration of the party trying to keep an eye on the two dogs that were running around with the kidlets. Since most of the other parents present were relatives who were used to Birthday Boy's cousins running around with their dogs, nobody batted an eyelash as kidlets and dogs ran amok. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck.

Just to up the ante on the level of paranoia, this was also a pool party. Rooster is dangerous around pools. A few years ago, the kidlets were invited to a hotel pool with a few relatives, including Pig and myself there. She slipped away from everybody and jumped in without anyone realizing where she was. She was struggling to keep her head above water when Pig finally fished her out. Thank God I had put her inflatable vest on before we all headed to the pool, or she might have been unconscious on the bottom before we even noticed she was missing. Since then, I have been extremely nervous taking her around any water that is not in a drinking cup.

Birthday Boy's pool was a decent size for an inflatable one and even the littlest of kidlets could stand with their heads out of the water without needing floatation devices. That made me feel a little bit safer, but not enough to sit down and try to relax while watching the kidlets in the pool. Rooster, naturally, loved every second she spent in the water. She was not brazenly trying to give me a heart attack with her in-pool shenanigans, but I did worry about her not knowing how to swim nonetheless. I am not sure whether I was more worried when Rooster was running around with the dogs or when she was tempting fate in the pool, but it was a couple of the longest hours of my life.

Overall, it was a delightful little party. The tea part of the afternoon was very fancy and the kidlets all seemed to enjoy their finger sandwiches, crackers with cheese, and lemonade and tea poured from fancy shmancy carafes into elegant glasses. The kidlets loved going into the pool and loved trying to pour the water out of the pool onto the grass even more. The dogs that had me so paranoid were probably the calmest mutts I have ever met. One was so docile that someone put a boa around her collar and a tutu around her abdomen and the dog just left them there. Those poor pups were squirted with water from water pistols in the hands of Birthday Boy's older and much more active cousins. Neither dog misbehaved at all from what I could tell. I cannot say the same for those male cousins.

I suppose that a normal person would realize that paranoia was unnecessary today and would relax a bit on any future events where either dogs or pools were involved. In case you haven't figured it out by now, I am not normal. I have every intention of worrying whenever my kidlets are around animals and water. But hey, what's a little paranoia between friends?

Being a Stay-at-Home Mother

Ten years ago, when I was newly pregnant with Horse, I was a middle school math teacher. I enjoyed my job, although I certainly suffered from moments of doubt where I wondered whether I was getting through to my students, encouraging them to the best of my abilities, and keeping them interested in a subject that I felt was both important in its own right and necessary for them to learn to succeed in this world. There were nights when I came home from work, absolutely overwhelmed with feelings of ineptitude. I was never very good at that whole "self-confidence" thing, and flippant eleven-year-olds telling me that they were not going to do their homework because their parents paid my salary and I had to do what they said did get to me sometimes. (In case you're curious, no, I never let those students get away with such an audacious statement. It's still frustrating to hear.) For the most part, I really enjoyed my job even if I worried that I wasn't nearly as good at it as I should be.

I spent my pregnancy, first being afraid of the administration finding out I was pregnant (We started the school year without a contract, which freaked me out.), wondering if I was going to lose the baby when I had contractions for a few weeks after 9/11 when my husband was one of the WTC survivors, then finally wondering how I was going to manage to waddle around my tiny classroom as I got progressively larger and larger (My largest class was about twenty-four students in a classroom that was only supposed to hold a third or so of that number.).

I never once questioned that I would be returning to my teaching position after the year and a half of maternity leave my district granted. Of course I was! Horse was going to enter daycare when she was about seventeen months of age and I finally returned to work. I even met with the administration when Horse was about five months old because I had heard a rumor that they were shifting the staff around and I would wind up teaching something other than math once I returned. They assured me that they wanted me in my usual sixth-grade math teacher role. There were days when I just could not wait for my return to work.

Then, once Horse was about six months old, something changed. The postpartum depression that had held me down suddenly ended. Instead of dreading each and every day, I looked forward to them. Horse started crawling, loved to have me read to her, and was a complete and utter joy to experience as she explored the world around her. Suddenly, the lure of teaching middle school math could not compete with a little girl who had me wrapped around her pinky. In fact, I could not bear the thought of handing her over to someone else to watch during the day.

Pig and I sat down and did a few calculations. Factoring in my teaching salary, the difference in our tax bracket, and subtracting the cost of daycare, we would have netted a whopping total of ten thousand dollars. For ten thousand dollars, Horse would be handed off to a daycare provider while I went off to work. There was no way that Pig and I could let someone else be there for our daughter when we were able to survive on his salary alone. Ten thousand dollars just wasn't worth it to us.

Yes, money has been tight over the years, especially since we added Rooster and Pig Jr. to our family, too. However, we have not once regretted our decision. I thank God every day that I have had the opportunity to stay at home and watch my kidlets as they grow. Yes, there are days when I greet Pig at the door with the question, "How soon until I can go back to work?" or with some veiled threat to run away and join the circus. Realistically though, there is no place I would rather be.

I recognize that not all mothers think like I do or have the ability to make the same decision to stay home. Some do not have the financial ability to stay home whether they'd like to or not. Some mothers feel like they would go stark, raving mad if they had to be home every day with their kids. Some parents would look at the same ten thousand dollars that Pig and I discussed and feel that they needed that money to survive. Others would not care if they lost money on the deal as long as they were able to return to a career that they loved. Some fathers elect to stay at home and raise their kidlets while the mothers go off to work. Each and every family faces these decisions and makes their own choices based on their own circumstances and preferences, and it is no one's business but their own who watches their kidlets.

I have had to deal with a lot of flak about being a stay-at-home mother in this day and age. I have had people corner me, sometimes literally, and ask me why on earth someone would ever choose to "not work." I have dealt with men who have implied I spend my days sitting at home, watching the soaps, with my feet up. I have had women accuse me of taking the lazy route instead of "contributing to your family." Let me make one thing completely clear: I work more now than I ever did back when I was getting paid. I have less money, more responsibilities, more pressure, and more joy than I ever did when I was teaching. If something isn't clean, that's my fault. If my children misbehave, that's my fault. If dinner is accidentally charred, that's my fault. If we run out of shampoo...yup, you guessed it. It's my fault. Instead of being able to split the cooking, cleaning, and errands with my spouse, as many married couples do when they both have careers outside of the home, I get to do it all. And I do as much as I can while having foolish people tell me that I am wasting my life and that what I do is not truly important.

The joke, however, is on those people who arrogantly assume that I am not "working." I saw my kidlets' first steps. I heard their first words. I see their smiles (or their grouchy go-away looks) when I wake them up in the morning. They feel safe coming to me if they get hurt, regardless of whether it is physically or emotionally. I hear them giggle when they smell freshly baked cookies come out of the oven. My arms give them a hug when they come out of school every day. My handwriting greets them in notes that I tuck into their homemade lunches for school. I have countless opportunities to enjoy my kidlets each and every day. I do not have to hear someone else tell me about my kidlets' days. I get to experience them firsthand.

So I say to those other stay-at-home moms, good for you. You have chosen one of the most arguably challenging and rewarding jobs on this planet. To those career mothers out there, I also say good for you. I could not do what you do unless I absolutely had to follow that path. I have no idea how you balance the joys of motherhood with the requirements of your occupation, but more power to you for doing so. To all mothers out there who love their children, I applaud you for every moment you take to watch your children grow. Now spread the word that we need to stop judging one another based on whether or not we choose to or are able to stay home with our children. That is a very personal decision.

Tattling

My early-morning reverie was shattered by the sound of whining. Now under normal circumstances, I would inform the whining kidlet that I am unable to understand what he or she is saying and ask him or her to tell me again in a big-kid voice. However, I chose to skip that route today. I chose to answer the complaining kidlet right away.

     Rooster: "Mommy! Horse called me a tattletale!"
     Me: "If the shoe fits...[sighs]"
     Rooster: "I'm telling you she said I was a tattletale!"
     Me: "And I said if the shoe fits, wear it."
     Rooster: "Horse, I told Mommy on you!"

Pig and I just looked at each other and tried not to laugh. Of all the things Rooster could legitimately complain that her sister was doing to her, why did she pick the one thing that we would not take seriously?

Kidlets seem to be born with the innate ability to tattle. They will say or do anything to try and get their siblings in trouble. I have often wondered whether only children learn the same tattling skills or whether they manage to avoid them. Knowing that my own kidlets will just as soon try and rat out Pig or myself if they think we did something wrong, I would tend to assume that even only children master the art of tattling on others. I do seem to recall Horse trying to tattle on her father back when she was still an only child.

The most common form of tattling I see is the pointless observation. No one is getting hurt or hurting anyone else. No name-calling was exchanged, nor were veiled insults hurled. There are no examples of actual misbehavior. These are merely observations that the tattler finds unfair somehow. "She got her own water instead of waiting for you to do it!" "He is breathing in the same room as me!" "She just looked at me!" "You let her read a book when I wanted her to play with me instead!" These are the little annoyances that drive both the tattler and the parent crazy. It is probably fair to state that the typical parent hears at least two bazillion of these pointless observations whined at them during any given day.

Wronged tattling occurs when the tattler has been wronged by a sibling doing something deliberately to misbehave or to get back at them. "He hit me with his backpack!" "She just threw a book at my head!" "She smashed my toy to bits!" "He just bit me!" Wronged tattling requires the parents to sort out who did what and determine what actions, if any, are required.

Legitimate tattling is when one kidlet tattles on another kidlet who is doing something that requires immediate adult intervention. "He just fell in the pool!" "She climbed out of the window onto the garage roof!" "He left the park with a stranger!" "She was clowning around on the stairs and fell down into the basement!" You might think that this does not count as tattling at all, and sometimes it doesn't. I, however, still consider it to be tattling when the reporting kidlet gives the parent this information in order to get the tattled-on kidlet to get in trouble. There is a difference between a truly concerned kidlet and one who is just interested in getting her big sister grounded for the rest of her natural life.

The most annoying type of tattling, in my opinion, is ratting out of the other parent. Kidlets love to try and play one parent off of the other, and they will go out of their way to find ways to do this. "Mommy, weren't you saving those cookies? I saw Daddy eating some." "Daddy, Mommy called you 'ooh, that man' when she realized you didn't close your dresser drawer all the way." "Dad, Mom said we weren't supposed to tell you how much the grocery bill was until she had the chance to butter you up with a steak dinner. Can you ask for cookies, too?" "Mom, Dad says he has to leave you alone to do all the work today because he forgot it was your birthday and has to run out to the store to buy you something. You like vacuum cleaners, right?" Ratting out the other parent almost never ends well.

Thankfully, my kidlets mostly deal with pointless observations in their tattling. In the grand scheme of things, I suppose they are just learning how to deal with frustrations in life. At least one of my kidlets recognizes that a lot of tattling takes place and is capable of calling her sister on it. I guess the next step is going to be to explain what it means "if the shoe fits." I'm sure once Rooster realizes what I meant, she'll rat me out to someone else, too. Gotta love vicious cycles.

Lists exist for a reason...for my hubby to ignore them

Let me preface today's entry with the information that I love my husband dearly. That being said, there are times when I just have to shake my head at him. It's either that or put him up for sale on some online auction site, and the powers that be generally frown on such activities.

I am a list writer. I keep running lists for each and every store where I might need to purchase something. I have various "to do" lists floating around, for things needing to be accomplished both for and by each person in my household. Lest I be shunned for murdering oodles of trees to feed my penchant for list writing, most of those notes to myself reside happily inside an application on my cell phone. How they live there is a mystery to me, but that is where they are whenever I need them.

Any time I take something out of the pantry or a closet, I make a mental note of whether it was the last of its kind. If it is, I immediately write it down on one or more of my numerous shopping lists. I like having spares tucked away somewhere safe so that we never run out of the necessities. This method would work wonderfully if everyone in the household stuck with the plan.

Pig, however, believes that there is no need to actually purchase something until the very last iota of whatever it was is completely finished. So if he tells me he would like it if I would pick up an item from the store, this means we have actually been out of it for three days and counting. Knowing what he's like, I do try to keep an eye out for when we run low on certain stockpiles. I have no desire whatsoever to run out of soap, toilet paper, toothpaste, or my breakfast cereal.

It gets a bit tricky when I have to be the one to notice if we are running low on certain items. I am notoriously bad at paying attention to certain details. If my favorite cooking pot is put away two inches to the left of where it normally rests, I am almost guaranteed to not be able to find it. In other words, I do tend to buy an additional "spare" supply of things because I did not realize we already had one or more of them slightly shifted from where I expected them to be. Because of this issue, I tend to ask Pig to double-check to see if we are truly out of an item before I buy another. Sometimes, this backfires on me.

One day, we took the whole family out to the store. I asked Pig whether we needed mouthwash for the kidlets. I knew we were extremely low on our open container, but was not sure whether I just missed seeing an unopened one on the shelf. He assured me we had at least two unopened containers. I trusted him. Silly me. Upon our arrival home, we discovered that we were still down to just that minuscule amount left in the container. There were no unopened bottles at home. I might not have been so annoyed if this didn't happen at least once a week. You'd think I would have learned to just buy a spare item regardless of what Pig says, but apparently I have not figured that out yet.

Another fun game we play together is called "I'll tell you about something we ran out of, but not until you have already come back home from the one store where it is sold." We played a few rounds of this tonight. It's a fairly self-explanatory game, but I'll give you a paraphrased example anyway.

     Me: I went grocery shopping today.
     Pig: Oh, that reminds me. We need diet soda.
     Me: Why didn't you tell me this before I went shopping?
     Pig: Oh, I realized we needed soda earlier this week, but you told me you went to the grocery store already.
     Me: I bought milk and meat earlier this week. I told you yesterday at the dinner table that I would be doing the rest of the grocery shopping today.
     Pig: But I thought that if I told you we needed soda after you already went shopping this week, that you'd be mad.
     Me: But if you'd told me after the last trip to the grocery store, I could have picked it up when I went today!
     Pig: Oh, well I can drink water for a few days.
     Me: Darn tootin' you can!

You get bonus points for the more items you add after each trip to the store. You lose points if your spouse catches on to what you are doing and makes you do the dang shopping yourself.

Anyway, it's fairly obvious that neither Pig nor myself is a perfect match when it comes to making lists. We are both pretty darn good at driving each other crazy with either having too many lists or ignoring them entirely. The good news is that we have yet to lose the ability to laugh about it. I figure if that event ever transpires, it will suddenly be Pig's job to do all the shopping. I will do my best to not smirk when I tell him that we've run out of something important and that he needs to drop everything to go out and buy some more.

The kidlets can S-P-E-L-L

I made an uncomfortable discovery today. Horse came into the kitchen where her siblings were eating their healthy snacks, and she asked if she could have a small piece of "c-a-n-d-y." Rooster immediately looked up and said, "Hey, I want some candy, too!" Horse looked a bit miffed that she was unable to keep her sweet tooth a secret, and asked how on earth Rooster knew what she was saying. I knew the answer. We only spell the fun words, so those are the words that the younger kidlets learn how to spell first.

"Hey, Mom, can we watch a m-o-v-i-e?" "I'm hungry for a s-n-a-c-k." "Rooster wants an expensive toy for Christmas. I'm thinking it should be a gift from S-a-n-t-a." "I picked up a b-i-r-t-h-d-a-y g-i-f-t for you-know-who." "Mommy really wants to take a n-a-p." (This last one is translated directly into, "We get to watch a m-o-v-i-e," by the kidlets. They're quick learners.) By now, the kidlets have realized that if they start hearing letters strung together, it generally means something good will happen to them. Want to plan a fun outing to Grandma's house? Spell out the details. Want to purchase a little something special for the family? Spell it. Talking about a visit from a friend? Spell out their name. The second letters start flying out of our mouths, six small ears perk up and start paying attention.

This spelling has gotten a bit more challenging over the years. With a nine-year-old who can spell a fair number of words, we sometimes attempt to spell quickly enough that she cannot follow. Unfortunately, this means that neither can the other adult involved in the conversation. This leads to repetitive spelling, which almost always gets us found out. Horse sometimes asks us about the words we are spelling by using the actual words instead of spelling them herself. This kind of defeats the purpose of straining our brain cells to spell them in the first place. In circumstances where the spelling is to prevent the younger two kidlets from finding something out, we have been known to resort to Pig Latin to tell Horse to keep her trap shut: "Ix-nay on the alking-tay." When we are trying to keep it a secret from our eldest child, we either have to wait until she is asleep or send a text message to one another, which is just silly when we're sitting at the dinner table across from each other.

What we probably should start doing is spelling out words that are not really secrets from the kidlets. "I think it's time to p-a-y the b-i-l-l-s." "Can you do the d-i-s-h-e-s for me tonight?" "I got a call from the l-i-b-r-a-r-y today. We have an overdue b-o-o-k." If we do this often enough, one of two things will happen. Either the kidlets will start to glaze over when we spell things, thus keeping our ability to spell in front of them intact, or they will greatly increase the number of words they are capable of spelling. It's a win-win situation! H-u-z-z-a-h for solutions!

When Sweet Potatoes Aren't

My first thought upon opening the pantry door this morning was to wonder what died. That's generally not a good sign, even less so when you are supposedly trying to sell the house and want things to look and smell clean. You can make the house look as presentable as possible, but if it smells as if something crawled into the walls and died, you are not likely to have any bidders.

Normally, I put my husband's nose to the task of locating the source of an odor. Unfortunately, the rascal had left the house for work a few minutes prior to my discovery of the smell. I hunted around the pantry to see if anything was noticeably awry, and I discovered a small plastic bag that had fallen behind a few other things on the floor. That bag held an even tinier bag. Inside this clearly not airtight set of bags, I found the most odoriferous set of thoroughly rotten sweet potatoes I have ever had the dubious distinction of owning. Pig can be very, very relieved that he was not set on their trail; the one thing that makes him gag by scent alone is rotten potatoes. I suspect that sweet potatoes would also qualify.

As quickly as possible, I scooped up the offending tubers by the very edges of their plastic prison, and I threw them into our kitchen garbage can. I then spent the rest of the day trying to come up with ideas on how to prevent the scent from lingering without actually taking the trash out to the outside containers. Trust me when I say I would rather deal with rotten sweet potatoes inside the house than having to bring them out to the very ripe, desperately in need of bleach garbage cans that were stewing in the ninety-degree heat of the day.

I tossed a few vinegar-soaked paper towels into the trash can. I poured some baking soda on top. Other than making a slight fizz, there was no noticeable change in our garbage. I attempted to cover up the stinkiness with some foam packaging material that came via UPS today. I made up a batch of popcorn in an effort to at least mask the smell in the rest of the kitchen. All that really accomplished was to make me hungry and I made up a second batch after the kidlets polished off the first round of popped kernels. I debated going out to the store to buy some scented spray to aim at our garbage, but gave up that idea as a poor choice for the air quality in the house, and an even worse choice because of our family's breathing issues. Surprisingly, what appeared to finally do the trick was when I wiped out the pot in which I made the popcorn and threw that paper towel into the trash can. I don't know whether it was the olive oil, salt, and partially popped popcorn remnants that did something, or whether it was a combination of everything I had tried before, but I could finally open the garbage can lid without passing out from the stench.

Eventually, Pig came home from work and took the trash with the rancid sweet potatoes to the outside garbage cans. I suppose I should flutter my eyelashes and proclaim him my hero, but mocking flattery almost never gets me anywhere. Perhaps I should make him some of that popcorn as a thank you. More likely, I will simply wait to do so on the next day some neglected food dies a horribly putrid death and needs a masking scent of popcorn residue to make it all go away.

Toe Tickles

Somehow, Pig Jr. managed to start a nightly tradition in our family. He says good-night to either Pig or myself and then asks the other parent to pick him up. Once in our arms, he will start adamantly demanding that we not tickle his toes. Not a day goes by that he does not urge us to leave his tootsies alone.

Now, Pig Jr. is laughing hysterically when he insists, "You not tickle my feet!" He contorts his body to still remain in our arms while keeping his toes as far away from us as possible. If we try to avoid actual toe tickling, he gets offended. I have known him to shove his feet at me if I ignore the proffered appendage. He has even forced his feet into my hands when I did not rise to his supposed bait. Clearly, the game is to try and tickle his feet while he laughs his fool head off and tries to prevent that from happening.

So every night now, Pig Jr. is carried down the hall to his room while squealing with glee. We are expected to play along and chase after him, lunging and feinting in attempts to tickle his toes. He cackles hysterically when we fail in that endeavor. Indeed, he laughs so hard that we often intentionally "miss" when leaping after his flailing legs. We vary how we carry him down the hallway, too, so that the game can be played differently every night. One evening, Pig Jr. might ride on my shoulders while Pig chases after the four-year-old feet. The next night, Pig might carry him in his arms while Pig Jr. tries to strangle his father with an overly enthusiastic hug and shrieks of giggles. After that, I might carry my little man like a baby while his feet wiggle in the air for his father to try and grab. No matter what, Pig Jr. always has the ability to keep his feet away from us. We never force him to be tickled.

With this routine, we get our son into bed while he is panting from laughing so hard and acting as if he is hopped up on goofballs. We have no idea whether we are winding him up so that he cannot sleep or wearing him out so that he does. We know we're tired when the game ends with Pig Jr. tucked in his bed, his feet safely hidden out of sight. What is important to Pig and I is that our son loves his bedtime routine, goes to sleep with a smile on his face, and sleeps through the night. That he makes us smile with his desire to simultaneously avoid being tickled while getting his toes tickled is an added bonus.

The hardest part of this routine is convincing a four-year-old that although he might want his own tootsies tickled, Mommy and Daddy don't want the same thing done to their feet!

At least Grandma didn't get run over by a reindeer...

Some people have warm and fuzzy grandmothers. They equate Grandma with the smell of freshly baked cookies straight out of the oven and oodles of hugs and kisses. They might wonder whether their Grammy is secretly Mrs. Claus. Their Oma always has time for them and calls or writes to them frequently, even if she has not figured out the joys of e-mail and has no idea what LOL means.

Then there is my grandmother. She was never a very touchy-feely person to whom we could run whenever we needed a hug. To this date, she has never called me on my birthday. Come to think of it, I cannot remember a time when she has ever picked up a phone to call me at all. She is not opinionated; she is always right, regardless of the facts. She can be incredibly cranky and has been known to go from normal to obscenely irate in half a second. Underneath that curmudgeonly exterior, there beats an injured heart. She does not mention most of the trials and tribulations that helped forge her seemingly cold exterior, but she has lived through experiences that I would not care to see firsthand.

When I was in college, I made the decision to write to her. A friend of mine lost one of her grandparents, and I decided I had to make the effort to know mine. I only had one grandparent left, so she was the logical person with whom to reach out. I was pleased and pleasantly surprised when she wrote back to me.

For a number of years, we exchanged letters every few months. I told her about my college courses, dreams for the future, my first job as a graduate, meeting my future husband, my elopement, and having my three kidlets. She told me about how she used to get paid twenty-five cents an hour to babysit, her own elopement, what it was like to raise kidlets back before everyone was paranoid about food allergies and learning disabilities, and how she still handles cooking the meals and canning fruits and vegetables from my uncle's farm even though she is well into her nineties. She made random references to her parents' anniversary causing problems for her because she was born fewer than nine months after their wedding date, the alcoholism that controlled her husband, and the difficulties in trying to finish raising her children after her husband's death. She never talked about major historical events that occurred in her lifetime, such as the Great Depression and World War II.

After a few years of written correspondence, I noticed how illegible my grandmother's handwriting was getting. She eluded to finding it difficult to write and I was concerned her eyesight just was not what it used to be. I started calling her every few months instead of inflicting my own chicken-scratch handwriting on her. This is how we still keep in touch: I call her when I can and I try to not feel guilty about inflicting my life on her. She has never called me, although she almost always answers the phone and seems to talk willingly with me for an hour or so when I do call. I almost always make the first move to get off the phone, not because I am bored talking with her, but because I feel guilty about taking up so much of her time while we are talking.

In recent history, I have not seen much of my grandmother. To be fair, part of this is a conscious decision and part of it is due to the fact that she lives around four and a half hours away from us, not including the six bazillion potty breaks that would be necessary to make that drive with three kidlets in tow. She has never met my younger two kidlets, and she has not seen Horse in person since my little lady was still in diapers. A more than slightly unstable relative of hers lives with her, and Pig and I do not want our kidlets to be around that relative. Since my grandmother is housebound, this makes visiting difficult. I keep hoping that other relative will move out once more and give us the opportunity to visit again.

This morning, I found out that my grandmother had fallen and broken her knee. This apparently occurred over a week ago, and no one thought it was necessary to let me know what had happened until today. I am very grateful for the person who did tell me about my grandmother's fall while still being appalled that the two people who live with my grandmother did not feel the need to relay that information when it happened. I suppose I should refer again to the "unstable relative" part of the last paragraph for my reason why I received no notice.

I called my grandmother in the rehab facility where she is staying until further notice. She sounded exhausted, but still made time to talk to me. Was she gruff? Yes, just like she always is. In a way, her crusty answers to questions made me feel like she was going to be okay. I talked with her for a while, then suggested I should let her get some sleep. She encouraged me to e-mail my uncle to have him keep me up to date on how she is doing. I asked if it was okay if I called her again while she was still in that facility. She sounded pleased that I would even ask, although that might have been my interpretation of a less-than cranky answer.

As I got off the phone, I told her that I loved her. For the first time in my life, my grandmother sounded like that warm, fuzzy grandmother who dotes on her adoring grandchildren. Right before she hung up, I heard her say, "I love you, too, honey."

I'm still misty-eyed about that.

It's a date!

I remember back in the pre-kidlet days when Pig and I could go out pretty much anywhere we wanted to go and whenever we wanted to go there. We saw movies when they were still in the theaters, ate at diners somewhat regularly, and could drop everything to go check out a particular store just because we felt like it.

Enter the kidlets. Movies are now seen multiple years after the fact when we finally have two uninterrupted hours awake after the kidlets get to sleep. We have not eaten out anywhere for a number of years now due to Rooster's and my severe food allergies. (My food allergies got worse during and after my pregnancy with Rooster, which may or may not be related to why she has such bad reactions to certain foods.) We can, potentially, still go out to random stores, but we have to take into consideration how cranky, hungry, tired, alert, and ornery everyone is before heading out the door. We certainly have less of a window in which to shop, but that's kind of okay since we have far less money with which to spend. I'm not entirely sure I know what "alone time" is anymore either, since there is always a kidlet or more who is trying to separate Pig and I.

Now enter the babysitters. Pig and I were actually granted time alone together today. Relatives of mine agreed to man the battle stations here at the house while my husband and I had our first date in ages. I was thrilled, but very much concerned that the chimney repair company would come too late and interfere with our date start time. Sadly, that almost came true. The chimney people came just a few minutes before Pig and I left for our movie date. Pig went outside to explain to them what work needed to be re-done correctly, and then we left.

It was with great glee that Pig and I saw our first movie theater movie in ages. We were annoyed with how badly it strayed from the book. We kept whispering to one another about all of the plot points that were completely disregarded or altered. Before you start scolding me for talking during a movie, please keep in mind that there was only one other couple in the entire theater, and they were rows away from us doing the same darn whispering thing. We basically ripped the entire movie apart, from its inability to exist as a stand-alone movie to its thumbing its nose at the second half of the book on which it was based. In other words, we had a blast.

Pig and I do not always have time to string two sentences together to direct at one another, and here we had the chance to watch and critique a movie. We joked. We bantered. We were not interrupted fourteen times by a kidlet asking us to come and look at what a good job they did going potty. We could hold each other's hand and no one suddenly pushed us apart so they could be in the middle of Mommy and Daddy. There were no tiny, cold fingers poking us in the face to get our attention. No one demanded that we leave to go home after the first preview rolled or asked to use the bathroom so they could play with a new and improperly cleaned toilet. It was bliss.

Don't get me wrong. I certainly love my kidlets and am incredibly thankful that they have blessed my life. However, I was extremely grateful for the ability to have some grown-up alone time with their father. Maybe next time we can actually watch a movie that we will enjoy!

How many repairmen does it take to fix a washing machine?

I love my washing machine. It is able to wash a king-sized comforter which, for the most part, means it can easily keep up with our family of five's needs. Unfortunately, it does not love me back. I have this nasty tendency to break all things related to technology, and the washing machine falls under this category.

Less than a year ago, my lovely washing machine decided to go on strike. The buttons and knobs just up and refused to work properly. Thankfully, we purchased an extended warranty when we bought the washer, so the uber-expensive circuit board was replaced free of charge and everything was once again as it should be.

A month or two ago, those newly fixed buttons and knobs started acting up once more. I would press the button for the mixed wash cycle and suddenly the washing machine would start up the basket clean feature. I would press the start button and the volume of the end-of-cycle beep would increase. I was annoyed, but held off on scheduling another repair call because we were in the midst of the end of the school year chaos. A few weeks ago, I happened to be in the basement next to the washer and dryer while they were running, and I realized that there was an odd metallic clinking sound coming from the washer. I can only assume it thought that causing me further problems would make me arrange for a repairman that much faster. Sadly, that was true. I made the appointment.

Our first scheduled appointment was a no-call, no-show. Being stood up by a repair guy was an interesting novelty that I did not care to repeat. Unlike the dating scene, it was nothing personal, so I rescheduled for another day with a minimum of miffedness.

Call-me-Bob appeared for our second scheduled appointment.  There was no hello, howdy, or nice to meet you. The greeting was simply, "Call me Bob." He vaguely reminded me of an adjunct professor at college where the entire class called him Call-me-Jim for a semester. Call-me-Bob stayed for an hour or so while that darn washing machine refused to let its buttons misbehave. Even the clinking sound did not appear for a while. I swear the washer was trying to make a liar out of me. Eventually, the clinking sound did appear and Call-me-Bob was able to find a loose terminal that was clinking onto the heating element. It was some grounding wire, or whatever he called it, so it coming loose could have caused the buttons and knobs to be cranky for me. I was just grateful it was a quick and easy fix.

That quick and easy fix lasted a whole whopping twenty-four hours. I started singing, "Clang, clang, clang went the trolley..." from Meet Me in St. Louis every time I put a load of clothes into my clinking front-loader.

Our third scheduled repair visit was set for today between the hours of noon and five o'clock in the evening. This meant that I had to pick Pig Jr. up from school early so that we would be home during that time. Naturally, this also meant that the repairman did not show up until almost six o'clock.

This repair guy came in asking about what was wrong with our dryer. You mean besides absolutely nothing? I directed him to the washing machine and told him its story. I even told him what panels Call-me-Bob had taken off to get to the obnoxiously clanking terminal.  Of course he did not believe the housewife. Why take off the lower front panel that needed to be removed to access the terminal when you can take off the top of the washing machine and not be able to reach a darn thing? He was either a slow learner or used to people giving him erroneous information.

Eventually, he discovered the same loose terminal swinging around on the underneath of the washing machine's interior. He also discovered that tightening it would not take care of the problem because some sort of metal part was too loose. He claims he fixed the problem. On his way out the door, he informed me that the easiest way to prevent the terminal from coming loose again would be to not put clothes in the washer. I have the sneaky suspicion he isn't used to people actually listening to what he has to say. Well, it's either that or he really hopes I stop using the washing machine so nobody has to come and fix that stinking terminal again.

Ah, Allergists...

Pig Jr.'s allergist is trying to drive me loopy. I do not think it is intentional, although you never know. What I do know for sure is that she seems to have changed her mind when it comes to the correlation between my son's allergies, breathing issues, and his sensory issues.

A few months back, when we had Pig Jr. tested for allergies for the first time, his allergist smiled patronizingly at me when I asked if she would be testing him for food allergies for foods he outright rejects. I explained that with his sensory issues, I could barely get him to eat a few different foods. Most of what was presented to him five, ten, twenty, fifty times or more would not even be touched by Pig Jr.'s fingers, let alone find their way into his mouth. I expressed my concern that he might be allergic to those foods and he had no other way of telling me that something did not seem right about them. Without coming out and directly informing me that I was wrong, she scoffed at the notion that his sensory issues would have anything to do with food allergies. In fact, she refused to even test him on foods he had rejected without eating.

Now, I have numerous food allergies. I also have sensory issues, although thankfully not quite as severe as my son does. There have been times in my life when I have outright rejected certain foods without attempting to eat even one tiny bite only to find out later that there was indeed something in them to which I was allergic. I have read countless books about sensory issues, and many of them do point out that sensory issues and other immunological issues often go hand in hand. In other words, I was already aware that there can be a correlation between allergies and sensory issues. I am living that life. I was trying to determine if my son was, too, but his allergist was having none of that.

We saw the same allergist today. She made a comment about how well his breathing was doing, and then asked about his sensory issues. Suddenly, she was trying to educate me about how often she sees that her pediatric patients who have sensory issues often have food allergies. She explained how she might see a nine-year-old who never ate peanut butter and the parents just thought he was picky and it turned out to be an allergy. Somehow, people with sensory issues can pick up on the allergic potential for a food and just reject it entirely. There appears to be a correlation between sensory issues and allergies. Really? You think? Say it ain't so!

In the course of just three months this year, Pig Jr.'s allergist went from not wanting to test my son for food allergies to trying to convince me that testing needed to be done.

Now, Pig Jr. is still on his allergy medicines, so testing was not possible today. His allergist did note that he had what looked like signs of eczema in the folds of his ears, which is one of those possible signs of chronic allergies. She is suddenly taking his allergies more seriously and comparing notes about kidlets with sensory issues. I have no idea what prompted her change of heart, but I am quite happy about it. Maybe now I can finally get some answers about why Pig Jr. does not eat much of anything.

Rock-Paper-Scissors-Lizard-Spock

"Rock-paper-scissors-lizard-Spock, shoot!" There are days when I hear this combination of words often enough that they continue to ring through my head even after the kidlets are all sound asleep. Someone, possibly Pig, taught my three little darlings a manner in which to compete even when there was no real need to determine a winner. I had never even heard of such a game before my kidlets' nonstop chanting.

For those that do not know, and I was one of them until quite recently, the game is basically the same as Rock-Paper-Scissors, except it has a few extra ways to win or lose. Rock still crushes scissors and covers paper. Scissors still cut paper. Rock can now also crush lizard and get vaporized by Spock. Paper disproves Spock, which I find highly entertaining, but can be eaten by lizard. Personally, I think a goat would be a better option to eat paper, but no one consulted me in this game's creation. The scissors can decapitate lizard but have to watch out for Spock, who smashes them. That poor lizard has the ability to poison Spock, but that seems like a fairly pathetic attack when compared to decapitation or being smashed to bits.

The hand gestures that go along with this little game are not as clear as I would like, either. You make a fist for rock and put your hand flat for paper. You use your fingers to pretend to cut something when making scissors. Lizard reminds me of someone trying to control Kermit the Frog, and I keep wanting to pipe up with "Live long and prosper," when someone attempts the Spock sign. My younger two kidlets are unable to properly form a v while holding their index and middle fingers together and ring and pinky fingers together to try and form Spock's sign. That's almost irrelevant when you consider that they argue over which hand signal beats which other ones. It's pretty much a moot point whether you can do the gestures properly when you don't even know which ones win each time you call, "Shoot!"

Naturally, what with not being able to properly play this game, my kidlets have decided that it needs to be a constant occurrence in our house. Not a day goes by when I don't hear, "Rock-paper-scissors-lizard-Spock, shoot!" at least twice before breakfast, numerous times if we drive anywhere, and have even been known to just use the hand gestures at one another when they have already been warned that Mommy does not want to hear it again today.

I suppose I should be grateful that the kidlets have found something to do to occupy themselves when they would normally be squabbling with one another. However, I find myself scolding the kidlets who are turning around in the car just to hope their lizard beat someone else's paper. Not for nothing, sitting properly in the car is more important to me than them winning another round of a game, but they need to be reminded that their safety comes before determining who crushed whom. I also find it difficult to concentrate on driving when I am hearing, "Rock-paper-scissors-lizard-Spock, shoot!" for the seven billionth time in a row.

Because of its unusually distracting tendencies, I have decided to make my own gesture to add to this little game. It's our house rules for the game, so no one needs to do the same thing unless they are playing along with my kidlets. I simply hold up one hand, with a fist created out of everything but my extended index finger. I shake my hand in that universally accepted gesture of scolding where you waggle your forefinger at someone else, and I call out, "Mommy!" You see, Mommy throws out rock, recycles paper, puts scissors away, returns lizard to the wild, and tells Spock he's worn out his welcome. Mommy wins.

Unexpected Honesty vs Hidden Thoughts

It has been a fairly weird day today. Horse, who is visiting relatives for the week, has called home in tears multiple times. The most perplexing phone call, in my opinion, came this morning when she called because the person who was trying to get all the knots out of her hair mentioned that her hair was knotted like feral cat fur. Personally, I thought that analogy was better than my knotted-hair comparison to a rat's nest, which has yet to lead her to the shedding of even a single tear. The best I could figure out when she called here sobbing over this interaction was that she did not understand what was being said. I explained it simply meant that her hair was knotted and tangled, and informed her that analogies are not the same thing as name-calling. She sounded tired and said she had not eaten in the few hours she had been awake, so I am fairly certain that hunger and exhaustion played a part in her mood swings, but whatever was really bothering her might never be known.

Horse might have been tired and cranky. She might have been hungry, homesick, bored, overwhelmed, PMS-ing (hey, even at age nine, it could happen), distracted by the novelty of having a bedroom all to herself, upset because she had a bedroom all to herself, worried about getting in trouble for having knots in her hair, thinking about something that happened six months ago, or afraid to say what was on her mind because she did not want to speak too loudly and risk startling the very deaf dog who resides in the same house where she is staying. She excels in not speaking plainly when something is on her mind.

At least Horse and Rooster are not actively involved in teary arguments together right now. Both of my girls definitely make it a challenge to understand what is bothering them. It becomes even more of a trial when they actively conspire against being understood. I wonder if there is some secret gene in their DNA that allows them to try and manipulate the facts to avoid comprehension. Their brother, on the other hand, has bouts of unexpected honesty that cause me to blink in confusion and consternation.

Here was one of our conversations at home today, upon my hearing a mysterious thumping sound emanating from the room where Rooster and Pig Jr. were playing:

     Me: "What was that noise? Are you behaving in there?"
     Rooster: "Nothing! Yes, we are behaving!"
     Pig Jr: "No, we're not!"
     Rooster: "Don't listen to him! He's just confused."
     Pig Jr: "No, I not confused!"
     Me: "Are you going to behave now?"
     Rooster: "Yes, Mommy."
     Pig Jr: "No. I not behave."
     Rooster: "He's just teasing."
     Pig Jr: "No, I not teasing. I not behaving. I not want to behave."
     Me: "Well, if you are not going to behave while playing with Rooster, then you are not allowed in her room right now."
     Pig Jr: "Okay, I leave the room. I not want to behave."

I am not sure what scares me more: Rooster's dishonesty about their behavior or Pig Jr.'s contented but honest commentary about not wanting to behave. I find myself having daydream nightmares about what I imagine they will be like as teenagers, with both girls keeping reality hidden and Pig Jr. piping up with random honest tidbits just often enough to make me wonder whether or not I really want to know the truth.

I can picture what it might be like a few years from now, should they be caught trying to sneak into the house after denting the car. Horse might burst into tears and then start bawling about how someone in one of her classes said something rude to her. Rooster might stare blankly at the car and ask how on earth such a dent occurred. Pig Jr would probably just look up with a huge smirk on his face and say, "Gee, Mom, I was wondering how a drum solo might sound if pounded out on the hood while using a baseball bat. It was awesome!"

Heaven help me survive their childhood.

Bath salts and other mysteries of life...

After extensive research, which mostly involved me sitting around the dinner table and talking with my husband, I have come to the conclusion that I am too stupid to ever have teenagers. This stupidity actually has nothing to do with intelligence. It has more to do with the fact that people are finding more bizarre ways to get stoned and I am simply not able to keep up with their ideas to even warn my kidlets to not participate.

The subject over tonight's dinner was how some random person or group of people have discovered a way to get high off of some specialty bath salts. Pig had read a NY Times article pertaining to this PCP-like creation and he shared it with me in case I ever overheard the kidlets mention such a thing.

The first thing I want to know is who is stupid enough to try and snort bath salts? I swear that people these days will try the most bizarre things in order to get high. I just don't understand why, and I have been baffled for years now. I remember being warned against random strangers giving away tiny stamps with Smurfs on them that were supposedly laced with LSD. This was back in the 1980s. I had no idea what LSD was, nor had I ever seen any stamps like the ones mentioned. Besides, why create a stamp for the purpose of just licking a picture? That made no sense to me. Why would someone sniff correction fluid fumes? Why would someone breathe aerosol fumes? Why should normal people have to beg, borrow, and steal just to get enough allergy medicine to last a week because somebody somewhere decided those were the best meds to use when establishing meth labs?

I am wondering where we go from here. It was bad enough that parents had to worry that their offspring were creating new drugs from diet supplements and allergy medicines. Now we have to worry about bath salts. ("Sorry kiddo, Mom's forcing you to go through mandatory drug testing because you are spending far too much time soaking in the tub." "Dang it. I knew I should have gone for the filthy hippy look!") What's next? Do we worry when a kidlet overuses the shampoo? What if toothpaste disappears at an alarming rate? Do we collect hair follicles for testing when a teenager wishes to use acne medication? What happens if we discover asthma inhalers can be used for tripping? Do we refuse to let our progeny breathe in the off-chance they are actually trying to get stoned?

The second thing I want explained is who on earth would waste their knowledge on chemistry to try and take something so mundane and turn it into a really easy way to overdose and die. It used to be so simple when I thought only stupid people got high. However, if people have to know the science behind converting something innocuous into something trippy, then some level of intelligence must be involved. I am tempted to hunt these people down and thwack them upside the head. Of all the ways we need people to use chemistry, finding illegal uses for bath salts should not be one of them. Seriously, find a cure for cancer. Create a medicine for depression that does not increase suicidal tendencies in teenagers. Create a form of inhaled insulin so diabetics no longer need to rely on subcutaneous injections to stay alive. Do something--anything--positive. But don't waste those brain cells trying to find the next most bizarre manner to get high.

My kidlets have to live in this world, and I have no idea how to protect them from people like this. Everything that used to be innocent and pure is now corrupted by some fool with a Bunsen burner and a little chemical know-how. I still have a few more years before the kidlets become teenagers, but I have the sneaky suspicion I will be learning more about drugs from them than I could possibly teach them myself. However, I am starting my broken record-playing now: When in doubt, don't do it. If it changes how it makes you feel, do not use it without a doctor's or parent's permission. If someone else is using something that makes them act differently, tell a trusted adult. And above all else, dear kidlets of mine, talk to me. Oh, and don't snort the bath salts. That's just creepy.

I fought the Wii and the *pause* Wii won.

Immediately after breakfast this morning, I made up a batch of chocolate frosting to slather on a cake I made yesterday afternoon. Naturally, once the cake is decorated, even in the sloppy manner that I used today, it must be eaten. So at nine o'clock this morning, Rooster, Pig Jr. and I plunked ourselves down at the kitchen table and let that cake fulfil its destiny as food for our bellies.

Pig and Horse were out at Horse's swim lesson, so they were unable to share in our gluttony. However, I did snap a picture of the two kidlets chowing down and sent it to Pig as a text message with the caption, "Nanner nanner." Pig was not amused, but I sure as heck was.

After having overindulged in sugars and fats so early in the day, I decided that I needed to work off some of that junk food. I asked the two kidlets if they wanted to do a Wii Fit routine next to me while I attempted to exercise. They gleefully agreed to stay out of my reach so they would not get clobbered by any stretching I had to do, and we set up the balance board to get started.

I was leery of starting the Wii Fit Plus again. It had been over a hundred days since I last attempted to use it, and it tends to get snarky and mean sometimes in an effort to make you use it more often. If there ever was a passive-aggressive codependent machine, this is it. However, it behaved itself nicely and even told me I had lost over seven pounds since my last workout. I attempted the little balance activity it does to show you a Wii Fit age, and it had the decency to pretend my Wii Fit age was younger than my actual age. Clearly, the Wii was trying to butter me up.

Foolishly, I thought I could use my normal routine, which is a combination of yoga and strength activities, to try and bring myself back up to speed. I have been doing a lot of physical activities around the house, such as painting and cleaning, so I figured I wasn't as out of shape as I had been in the past. This is proof positive that when I am wrong, I am completely wrong.

I managed to drag myself through my normal routine, but that silly machine kept telling me my legs were shaky, my core needed to be strengthened, and I was wobbly. Really? I could have told it that from my position on the floor after my numerous crashes. Pig Jr. told me it was a boring routine, but he kept watching and laughing at me, so I am assuming he was implying that doing the exercises was boring but witnessing their spectacular failure was amusing. Rooster did her best to keep up with me, but she fell down even more than I did, so she was just as miffed at the Wii as I was.

Both kidlets joined me for the last two yoga poses, although Pig Jr. did try and crawl underneath me while I was in one of them. I was not amused and greatly feared I would fall down and squash him like a bug. Thankfully, Pig and Horse arrived at home at that point and Pig Jr. decided he would rather show off his yoga skills than try to become flattened underneath his exceedingly exhausted mother.

When my routine was finished, Rooster asked if I could play one of the "fun games" instead of more "boring yoga." I had not hit my normal thirty minute marker yet, so I acquiesced. I spent another ten minutes proving that I was unable to accomplish those activities either. I fell off of virtual cliffs, was flatted by virtual rolling logs, and fell off the balance board once more with my overenthusiastic attempts at jumping without actually jumping. It did not help that during that time, Horse and Pig were chowing down on the very same cake that had spurred me to action earlier. I had pretty much decided by that point that no amount of cake was worth such torture.

Unfortunately for my exhausted, sore, and battered body, I will most likely eat more cake in the future, thus prompting another battle against the Wii. I sincerely hope that I am able to hold my own next time despite having lost spectacularly today. In the meantime, please excuse me while I go collapse.

Dear House of Mine...

Dear House of Mine,

I know you are upset that you have been placed on the market. What you need to understand is that it's not you, it's us. You were the perfect house to move into when it was just Pig and I with a newborn Horse. Unfortunately, as our family grew, we outgrew you.

I know we have had our difficult moments in the past. I vividly remember how Rooster tried to blow you up by somehow turning on multiple gas burners, two of which did not actually ignite, seconds before we left the house one day. I did not realize she had done so until we returned almost an hour later. I am still not sure how a toddler managed to do that right in front of me in the half of a second she was out of my line of sight while walking through the kitchen and out the back door.

I remember how our newly installed stovetop had a gas leak and how you filled up with gas and freaked me out. We had that fixed quickly, remember? I assure you that were not intentionally doing anything to hurt you.

I know about all of the plumbing issues we had to deal with in getting you in tip-top shape. We had the bathroom redone so you did not have that hideous pink tile and leaky, beaten-up shower any more. Surely that must have made you happy. We replaced the Bilco doors into the basement so that you would not have to deal with leaks through fifty-year-old concrete. We replaced the sump pump and had a new pump put onto the boiler in the basement so that your mechanical parts would run smoothly. Were you upset with us thinking that we were trying to replace you?

We keep trying to tell you, dear House, that we have nothing against you. We just outgrew you. We were trying to do our best to take care of you and maintain you, but you seemed exceptionally hostile towards us today. We had that appointment scheduled with a chimney contractor to get rid of your old, chipped, falling off stucco and replace it with nice, fresh, properly mounted stucco. But you had to go and show them that you had been secretly cracking for years. Why did you not tell us your chimney could be pushed away from the house? Why did you not let us know that it could have come crashing down at any time? Why did you leave us to discover the massive cracks hidden behind your old stucco without giving us any warning beforehand? We would have rushed to get it fixed before it became a huge issue, I swear!

Dear House, think of what you had us give up to take care of you today. Horse is going to have to wait a year or two before getting braces. I am going to have to hope my one molar does not crack in half while I put off yet another root canal and crown for as long as possible. Pig is going to have to postpone his own dental visits, which makes me wonder if the two of you are in cahoots so he can avoid all the work he needs to have done. Whatever tax refund we might have gotten next year has just been spent, too. Did you not want us to be able to dream about spending that money? That hardly seems fair since we had already spent a good chunk of this year's refund on you.

I do adore you, dear House of mine, but I want you to start behaving so that the next owners love you just as much as we do. Please, please, dear House, stop falling apart on us.

Sincerely,
One very broke Dragon

Telling Stories

Back when I was just a geeky-looking nerd in elementary and middle school, I used to love working on puzzles. I was pretty darn good at them, too. I could just sit for hours working on their assembly, feeling perfectly content. I would come up with stories to tell myself while placing puzzle pieces into their correct locations. Most of the time, my imagination was running rampant while I went about the soothing repetition of putting together a picturesque scene from somewhere else in the world. Working on puzzles and creating story lines went hand in hand, and I enjoyed almost every moment of it.

Okay, so I am still a geeky-looking nerd all these years later. I would love to sit and work on puzzles once more, but I have neither the time nor the inclination to find a spot to set up a puzzle table that is safe from "helping" kidlet fingers and randomly dropped puzzle pieces. Until the kidlets are all in school full-time, the house is sold and a new one purchased, and Pig forgets that he wants me to re-enter the workforce to help pay for three eventual college tuitions and our potential retirement, my puzzle and story days are not going to reappear.

However, I still have the ability to see three kidlets demonstrate that genetics never gave them a chance.

Horse has been telling stories since she learned how to string together a sentence before she hit the ripe old age of two. She could sit for hours on end, weaving intricate plot lines involving characters who seem oddly like a cross between a princess and herself. She would tell these stories anywhere and under almost any condition. Telling stories while placing letter magnets on the fridge while Mommy washes dishes? Check. Telling stories when she is supposed to be sleeping at night? Check. Telling stories while wasting shower water because she forgot she was supposed to be actually cleaning herself instead of telling stories? Check. She absolutely loves creating stories and telling them out loud to anyone who might be within hearing distance.

Rooster has recently developed both a love of puzzles and a love of storytelling, but she does not do them simultaneously. Most of her stories are told while playing with her dolls or stuffed animals, although she is quite adept at spinning a yarn when caught doing something she is not supposed to do. She must consider fact and fiction to be identical, as she will tell us oodles of stories about events that supposedly transpired in her daily life yet bear a remarkable resemblance to a movie she has recently seen.

Pig Jr. has yet to pick up on the verbal storytelling, but he absolutely loves his puzzles. He could just sit and immerse himself in them for hours on end. This, perhaps, is part of the sensory issues he and I both have. Repetition is soothing, and what could possibly be more repetitive than putting one puzzle piece after another in place? Then again, it could simply be that we just both love the creation of a finished product from hundreds of disjointed pieces. Regardless, Pig Jr. certainly inherited my adoration of puzzles. He is not much of a talker, but I do wonder whether he is telling himself stories while he works. His sisters do so verbally, but it would not surprise me to find out he would do so silently.

Of all the things my kidlets inherited from me, I am the most thrilled to see them enjoy their stories and their puzzles. Even if I am unable to indulge my own puzzle habits, and most likely won't indulge the story one unless I get the urge to try and write a book that will never sell, I can live vicariously once more through my little munchkins. I love that. :)

Doing Nice Things

A couple of days ago, another parent was telling me about her life growing up in India. She told me about what I think she termed "moral science" classes they had to take in school. The basic gist was that the students were all required to do a certain number of "nice things" a day. Those things could be as simple as avoiding squashing a bug to a planned activity meant to honor someone else. She challenged me to do some sort of equivalent Nice Thing activity with my kidlets.

I walked the girls home from school after dropping off their brother and I pondered that challenge. I mentioned to the girls that it might be fun to try and do a certain number of Nice Things a day, perhaps to try and make the goal scale with our ages. Horse promptly started complaining that it was not fair that she had to do more Nice Things than her sister just because she was older. I think she missed the whole point if she was considering it to be a competition, but I immediately followed up her argument that the whole family could make it a goal to do five Nice Things a day. I probably then made myself go into negative Nice Thing numbers by pointing out that now I do not have to find 148 Nice Things to do for her every day.

As an aside, no that was not a typo. I turn 148 every year and have done so since I was in my early twenties. I am also the type of person who holds onto my handbag when stepping on the scale at the doctor's office so that I can blame my weight on my obviously exceedingly heavy bag. Clearly, the rules for age and weight no longer apply for adults who think like I do.

Back to doing Nice Things. Pig Jr. does not appear to understand the concept at all. However, at his age, I am trying to point out times when he is not playing fairly, being rude, or becoming inappropriately physical with someone else by asking him if his behavior is "nice." The first step in changing one's behavior is to acknowledge there is an issue, so that is what Pig Jr. and I are working on together. He is able to admit that certain behaviors are not nice, and apologizes for them.

Rooster, on the other hand, understands the concept of doing Nice Things, but she prefers to be the recipient of someone else's Nice Things instead of doing them on her own. When she is playing with a sibling and not screaming her head off, she considers this to be a Nice Thing, regardless of whether toys have become attack projectiles or not. Clearly, this concept still needs work.

My own Nice Things probably need more work, too. Calmly telling a kidlet they are behaving poorly instead of yelling at them for filling  the toilet with toilet paper counts. Reading a book for the five thousandth time instead of rolling my eyes when asked, "Again?" counts. Sneaking off to eat only five cookies instead of the ten I really want to ingest counts. (Hey, they're small cookies. Keep your opinions on my gluttony to yourself.) Doing the dishes at night instead of reading the book I want to finish counts. Never mind that these are all things I should be doing anyway. I am still going to count them, dang it!

The big surprise to me is how well Horse has taken to this challenge. She is more patient with her siblings and reads to them a lot more frequently now. She takes the time to play a game through instead of stalking away when they forget the rules. When Rooster melts down in Horse's general direction, Horse finds a way to redirect Rooster's attention to something they both would like to do. She shares her toys and offers her sister a chance to play together quite often. She is patient, kind, and caring, regardless of her siblings' behavior because she really, really wants to say she did her five Nice Things.

If I had known it would be so simple to eliminate the constant bickering between Horse and Rooster, I would have done this years ago.

Thank you, Billy Joel

A number of years ago, far more than I would like to admit, I used to play the piano. I used to think I was decent at it, but certainly far from proficient. Whether or not that was true is irrelevant; we are all confined by the limitations we believe about ourselves.

After a few years of receiving piano lessons and discovering that music could cut deeper than a knife under the wrong circumstances, I stopped playing. Many people have the ability to be stirred by the music they hear. It became too difficult for me to play music for this reason. I just could not keep my emotions in check any more. I still sat at the piano on random occasions, but it was to play the same few songs that comforted me instead of trying to branch out into anything new.

Fast-forward a few years from that awkward teenage angst to the years when I had a house, husband, and one child. My childhood piano found its way into my living room. I sat with my daughter and played a number of children's songs while she and I sang the lyrics, off-key, of course. I attempted to play Christmas carols when that season was upon us, but always felt that overwhelming urge to just shut down and stop playing.

When my second child was born, she kept me hopping. She was up pretty much all stinking night for the first five months of her life, and had several health issues that kept me worried. I no longer had the desire to plink away at songs on the piano. I was simply too overwhelmed.

By the time my youngest was born, I had almost completely forgotten about ever playing the piano again. I tried once, while he sat on my lap, to return to the children's songbook and hoped I could at least fake my way through the right hand's notes. My son screamed his head off and covered his ears. He could not handle the sensory input, and I gave up the idea of trying to pick up where I had left off three years before his birth.

When my oldest turned seven, I sought a piano teacher for her. I wanted to find some activity she could do that would not require me to have to entertain her two younger siblings, who both had different health and behavioral issues, while trying to instruct and monitor a group of kids. I had to pull her out of her Girl Scout troop because they were suddenly mandating that a parent volunteer at a couple of meetings a year, and I just could not do it, not with her younger siblings present. Piano lessons seemed like a good match at that time.

Turns out, this was an excellent decision. My son was able to handle the piano playing from a distance even if he could not handle the noise up close. My daughter was able to immerse herself in music, and it appears that she inherited my musical talent. She absolutely loves it. She keeps telling me she wants to be a pianist when she gets older. I think that is a wonderful aspiration, although I do wish she would pronounce it correctly so people wouldn't look at me oddly every time she makes that declaration.

Last Saturday, at her piano lesson, her piano teacher asked her if she ever heard of Billy Joel. I piped up that she darn well better have heard of him, given that we've played a number of his songs for her at various points in her life. In fact, one of the few songs she had heard me play on the piano was a very rusty-sounding Piano Man. This sparked a discussion between her piano teacher and myself, and we compared various compositions of that very song. My daughter was assigned a fairly simple version of the tune to work on this week.

Every day now, I hear my daughter plinking away at a tune I used to adore. I think back to the days when I  would play my version of Piano Man, or listen to another friend play it, and anyone who was nearby would just start singing along. It is the one song I equate the most with my high school drama club days, and I once again find the old stirring of emotions when it comes to that song. That pull became so strong that I actually dug out my old sheet music and attempted to play it once more.

Yes, I am rusty at making my fingers move the way they should. Yes, I make mistake after mistake, and I am no longer able to sing and play at the same time. It takes all of my concentration just to play the few notes I am able to still hit accurately. However, I feel it again. I feel the lure of music as an emotional outlet. I feel like I might be able to regain some of my lost abilities if I start practicing regularly once the kids return to school in September. I feel hopeful that I have not lost my own talents at the keyboard. One song, long since mastered and then forgotten, has given me back something of my own when I least expected such a boon. Thank you, Billy Joel.

The Real Purpose for Kidlets

It only took me nine and a half years, but I have finally figured out the real purpose for kidlets. Contrary to popular beliefs and opinions, it is not to continue the species, to fill an empty void in one's life, or to have someone to take care of you when you are elderly or infirm. Nope, the sole purpose for which kidlets exist is to make liars out of their parents.

A misbehaving child will become a total angel for a caregiver who was just told the little devil would be behaving badly. The same kidlet who would not pick up a book at home even if it was the only implement left to throw at his sibling will read voraciously at school. The little daredevil who taught herself to climb onto her dresser so she could reach a shelving unit to crawl across six feet in the air will keep both feet firmly planted on the ground when anyone other than Mom or Dad is present. They want to make us sound as if we do not know our own offspring.

Pig Jr. is my own kidlet example for today. He is the kidlet who has the most severe sensory issues out of our whole household. At home, he will not touch anything remotely sticky, gags when I apply sunscreen on him, refuses to eat pretty much anything except dry carbs, and hides his face and covers his ears when someone even slightly raises their voice. He had an Occupational Therapist come to the house when he was in Early Intervention so that he could get help with these issues, and we have been working with him ever since, but his sensory issues have continued to this day. I explained this to his preschool teacher before he started attending school.

In school, Pig Jr. washes his hands without complaining about it being wet. He will play with paints or rub glue on his hands without threatening to vomit. He did, however, manage to go the entire school year without getting one single, solitary stain on his art smock. This implies to me that he is actually still reacting to things, but his teacher just doesn't notice how he will hold himself carefully so as not to accidentally get anything on himself. This is the same kidlet who could play outside in the snow for an hour and not actually get any snow on himself. I have no idea how he accomplishes these feats of sensory-avoidance, but he does. The important thing here is that he at least fakes it well at school.

Since he is willing to do some things in preschool that he will not do for me at home, I asked his teacher if she could help me try to get him to eat some different foods. The only fruits Pig Jr. eats are raisins and applesauce that is liberally mixed with cinnamon. I would like to try and branch out, if possible, so that he gets more of a balanced diet. She readily agreed, and suggested we give it a shot this summer. I was to send Pig Jr. in with a snack he normally would not eat and supply her with a snack he wants that she can reward him with if he actually eats anything new.

This morning, I sent my little guy in with a container more than half-filled with frozen blueberries. I also sent in a secret snack supply of Saltines. He loves dry carbs, remember? The best I can do at home, even with his favorite dry carb snack sitting right in front of him as bribery, is to have him place one blueberry in his mouth, gag, then spit it right back out. Even doing that little is a huge deal and has taken him just shy of three years to get him that far. I was hoping that by the end of this week his teacher might be able to get him to actually chew and swallow one single blueberry.

The little bugger actually ate each and every single blueberry in his snack container.

The "best" part of the whole deal was when his teacher came out and explained how to get him to eat new items by describing the same thing I have been doing with him for over three years now. He will not do it for me, but he sure as heck was willing to go along with his teacher!

To be fair, I was thrilled that he ate his snack. Completely baffled, yes, but thrilled nonetheless. I just stood there, jaw dragging along on the ground, and kept reiterating that I do the same exact type of bribery at home and he balks. Pig Jr. stood next to me with a smirk on his face and proudly declared he loves blueberries and ate them all up. I kept swearing he wasn't like that at home, and that I had no idea why he chose to eat something new today, but that I was so proud of him for doing so. I felt convinced that his teacher thought I was lying about his food aversions to try and get him to qualify for more services at school than he currently is required to receive. Then I walked the kidlets away from Pig Jr.'s teacher, got to the car, got them situated, and started to drive home when that same little boy piped up from the rear with, "I hate blueberries! No more for snack! I not eat them again!" I quit.

Well, since kidlets' sole purpose in life is to make liars out of their parents, I suppose Pig Jr. is succeeding in that endeavor. For what it is worth, I have every intention of continuing to have his teacher introduce different foods with my little man. If she can get him to eat them, more power to her. I will just have to accept that she thinks I do not know anything about my son. But if he ever balks and refuses to eat something for her, don't blame me if I snicker and say those magic words: "Told you so."

The house next door

The house next door to some of my relatives is for sale. It's on a fairly large piece of property with a more than decently sized house, in my opinion quite underpriced, and is conveniently located directly next-door to free babysitting for us. It is also too much of a commute for Pig to even consider looking at it as an option for us to buy, even if all of us relatives could get along nicely living directly next to one another. Besides, our house has not yet sold and there is no way we could afford two mortgages simultaneously.

So why was it that when I heard that someone I knew in high school is trying to buy the house that I felt oddly misplaced?

Truly, I am happy for him and his wife. I think it is a great place for them to raise their child. I know they will have pretty calm next-door neighbors. The neighborhood is lovely, and located close to a reservoir that is well-maintained and open for people to walk or sit along. The streets are pretty wide and there are sidewalks throughout. I know the two of them are getting a really good price, although to be fair, I am not certain as to the condition of the inside of the house. Even if they have to gut it, though, it's still a good price. I am happy that someone I knew was able to find a house like that.

However, my first reaction upon hearing the news was, "Dang it. There goes my chance." This startled me, since we had no intention of even checking out the place online, let alone bidding on it or anything.

I suppose I am a bit jealous because I know we will most likely not be able to afford property that size in our neck of the woods. I am also feeling a bit depressed about the lack of interest in our house, and wondering if it is ever going to sell. Thankfully, we do not need to sell right away, but I miss having my homey touches, family portraits, and just my usual collection of odds and ends all around me. They've all been packed up and stored in the perhaps misguided idea of making the house appear larger than it actually is. I detest living like this. Yes, it is easier to keep clean. It also makes the soul yearn for those missing comforts of home. Our home has turned into a house, and I am desperately craving a home once more.

Somehow, at some point in time, this whole house thing will work out. We will eventually sell, or we will not. We will eventually find a new home, or we will not. There is nothing I can do, short of dropping our asking price below a level we are comfortable trying to sell at, to make our little rinky-dink, no curb appeal, old house sell any faster or generate any interest. Heck, our Realtor has told us there is almost no action at all in their company right now. Almost nobody is buying in our little town. That should make me feel better, and maybe it will tomorrow. For today, I am basking in my pity party over a house that I never intended on buying in the first place.

To my former high school friend and your wife, I wish you all the best of luck as you purchase the house next door to my relatives. Don't be surprised if I pop on over for a quick hello when we visit your soon-to-be neighbors.

Lego my toys!

Today, we were officially kicked out of our house for three hours. Darn those Open Houses. We left our house in the care of our Realtor and decided we would go wander around the local mall for a while. We had not gone there for a few months and we figured there was plenty to do to kill some time.

The first store we went into was the Lego Store. Pig Jr. had been given some birthday money a few months ago and he had decided it was burning a hole in his pocket. Well, let me rephrase that a little bit more honestly. He knew, vaguely, that he was owed a birthday gift, and when we asked if he would like to pick out something in the Lego Store, he gleefully agreed. Heck, I would imagine that few kidlets would actually reject the opportunity to get a present should the opportunity to do so arise. Given that Pig Jr. has freaked out about being dragged into that particular store before, we figured whatever we could do to bribe him to enter it willingly was a good thing.

Today, Pig Jr. actually walked around the store of his own volition. This is a huge deal for my little sensory guy. He normally shuts down in stores like that because it is too noisy, crowded, and overall busy for him. I would assume this means that bribery works because he looked at all of the displays and pointed excitedly at the televisions they had showing various Lego-themed creations. When we made it almost all the way through the store and I found a box that showed an airplane, fuel tanker truck, and some little baggage cart, he was in love. He grabbed that sucker out of my hands while squealing, "Yes!" A little quick arithmetic showed me he still had five dollars remaining from his birthday money, so we went off in search of something smaller that would fit the bill. We found a flat, blue square base in that price range, and he decided that was perfect. After a quick visit to the cash register, which I find to be vaguely ironic since few people actually pay cash anymore, we exited the store with a bag bouncing along attached to my little guy's eager hands.

When we were finally able to return home from our Realtor-imposed banishment, all Pig Jr. wanted to do was open up his Legos. We forced him to eat a snack first (oh, the horrors of caloric intake when one just wants to build with one's new toys!) and then helped him open up the package. For pretty much the first time ever, I had the chance to teach my little boy how to follow printed directions to assemble the item pictured on the box.

At first, Pig Jr. was perplexed why we had to separate the bricks into different color piles. Then, as he made the connection between finding the correct piece in a given color, he got all shades of giddy. Together, Pig Jr. and I found each correct piece to make the three different vehicles that his kit could create. Then, wonder of all wonders, we realized there were tons of pieces left over. He could build whatever the heck he wanted out of the rest of them! What a glorious concept!

It was an amazing experience to play with Lego bricks with my son. Watching his eyes light up when he found the correct piece as he learned how to follow printed directions was just priceless. Yes, he still needed help making sure the blocks were connected properly, but it was mostly him doing all of the work. Seeing him excited over leftover parts was even better. I appreciate the fact that this particular Lego kit gave him enough pieces to not only make the vehicles he was hungering for, but he could also do his own thing. Both are skills he will need. Following directions is a huge deal in life, as much as we might want to deny that fact. Creativity is possibly an even bigger deal, since innovations and inventions are a direct result of someone problem-solving, daydreaming, or just goofing around in a creative manner.

For today, my son was allowed to play with his new toys all by himself. His sisters watched like hawks from the sidelines. In another day or two, when Pig Jr.'s Legos wind up mixed with the family storage container of three zillion tiny bricks, all three kidlets will probably wind up sharing at least the loose spare parts. If I know Pig Jr., and I'd like to think I do, he will probably keep a really close eye on those three vehicles and will claim them upon opening up the box. This is the first time he has contributed a box set of Legos to the mix. It means he is learning to share. It means he is growing up. It also means I will be asked about a bajillion times to help him fix a broken vehicle. On second thought, maybe this wasn't such a great idea. ;-)

What Open House?

Tomorrow will be our first, and hopefully last, Open House. Ideally, someone will come in, fall in love with the house, put a bid in on it, and we'll be on our way to actually making a sale. Realistically, our nosy neighbors will be the ones to show up and poke around while we are wherever we are supposed to be so that we do not get in the way. I'm thinking of hiding in the closets to pop out at them, but I'm guessing our Realtor will not like that one little bit. I suppose in the off-chance an actual interested buyer appears, we should behave and spend those few hours anywhere else but on our property.

Anyway, most people would probably suggest we spend today scrubbing the house from top to bottom until it shines. We should empty all of the cabinets, use Q-tips to clean out the corners, vacuum everything, wash the items before replacing them, then move on to the next task. Heck, we should probably bleach the bottoms of our shoes to make sure we do not accidentally track in one speck of dirt to sully our house's appearance.

Yeah, I baked cookies instead. When they were done, I ate a bunch of them. My concession to cleaning was to wash the bowls, measuring cups, and cookie sheets when I was done.

Part of me is surprised at how lackadaisical I am about the Open House. I normally do my best work when completely stressed about a given situation. I turn from a normal human being to a frazzled workaholic who cannot sleep until I find a way of removing every last fingerprint from all of the shiny objects around me. With three kidlets, who just happen to be fingerprint-producing fiends, you can imagine how little sleep I get under those circumstances.

Truth be told, I just cannot bother. If the house is meant to sell, it will. If it is not, it won't. I did put a fresh coat of paint on a lot of things. The house will be vacuumed, dusted, and have the bathroom freshly scrubbed before the Open House. Other than that, I really cannot justify additional cleaning simply for neighbors that do not come to my house to visit me while I am here. If it makes them happy to discover that I did not bleach the inside of the fridge, then so be it.

My official excuse for not turning the entire house apart to get it white-glove clean is that I was waiting for the washing machine repair guy to show up and did not want to be mid-project when he appeared. Guess what. He never showed. I've been stood up before, but never by an appliance repairman, so this was an interesting novelty. I called his company and was told a call was placed to my house saying there was a need to reschedule due to a lack of an available repairman. None of the phones in my house record such a phone call, and there has been an adult in the house all day long just waiting for this guy to call. Thanks, Mr. Nocallnoshow. (Hey, I wonder if the repair guy was Damian--see yesterday's blog entry for an explanation--and he was mad at me for destroying his ability to get a job because he erroneously put my cell phone number on his resume instead of whatever his own number is. Huh.)

Whatever my excuse, it was still a lot more fun to bake and eat cookies than it would have been to clean. I have no regrets. This might change by tomorrow evening if our Realtor tells us there were complaints. However, think of how much wasted effort was saved if nobody shows!

I'm sorry. You have the wrong number.

While in my basement, arms overloaded with the laundry I was pulling out of the dryer, I heard my pocketed cell phone start ringing. Knowing that few people call me on my cell, I immediately threw the laundry into a basket and answered the phone. I heard the same thing I have heard numerous times before, "Hello, I am trying to reach Damian [insert unintelligible last name here]."

Now, last time I checked, my real name was not Damian, nor am I male like the name Damian implies. Pig and Pig Jr.'s real names are not Damian either. I am assuming this means that, once again, this mystery Damian has given out the wrong cell phone number. Given the sheer volume of people trying to reach him at this number, I can assume that either he has to give out his number a lot and does not truly want people to reach him, he is really bad at numbers and transposes them often, or he used to have this number at some point in time and never bothered updating his contact list.

So when I heard today's female caller requesting this individual, I laughed. I could not help myself. I told her, "You and about twenty other people, and I'll tell you the same thing I told them: this is not Damian's number and I have no idea who he is to even tell him to stop handing it out."

There was the briefest of pauses before the lady responded, "Oh, really? That's interesting because I am reading it off of his resume." I guess this answers the question why I am fielding so many calls for this particular stranger.

For a few minutes, the mystery caller and I laughed our fool heads right off our shoulders. We both agreed that it does not bode well for him getting the position he desires when he cannot even handle typing in the correct phone number. In this crumbling economy, the prudent decision would be to proofread one's resume before sending it out en masse. Instead, Damian made a mistake and his potential future employers are calling and dealing with a frazzled stay-at-home mom who is getting more and more snarky with each erroneous phone call received.

In a way, I feel bad for Damian. He must obviously have an impressive resume to get so many people trying to reach him. Unfortunately, it must really make employers wonder what else is incorrect on it. Did he just make and fail to catch two randomly transposed numbers? Did he not have a contact number and made one up instead? Was his entire resume fabricated? If he missed this one detail, how many other oversights can be expected should he be hired? At least today's caller told me that if she is able to contact Damian, she will let him know his phone number is incorrect on his resume.

Now it is completely within the realm of possibility that six months ago, my current cell phone number was Damian's. It did not become mine until three months ago. He might have put the correct number on his resume, mailed it out, then not heard anything, lost the phone number for whatever reason, and then it was reassigned to me. Sometimes, employers hold resumes for a number of months to paw through as needed.

Most likely, I will never find out how my number came to be on the resume of a complete stranger. However, it has taught me something important. Always check and double-check information before sending it to potential employers. If your contact information changes, send them a corrected copy with an explanation. And above all else, do not trust your cell phone number for your next job to someone like me. I guarantee I will point out to your callers how unprofessional it is to have the incorrect information printed on something like a resume. At least one of them agrees with me, too. Sorry, Damian, but that's just how it is.