Kidlet "Logic"

Saying that the kidlets keep me on my toes is putting it mildly. Every day brings new and potentially heart-stopping experiences with three individuals whose whole goal in life is to try and impose their "logic" onto everyone else. Invariably, I feel my brain cells die as I try to comprehend what on earth possessed them to pull a particular stunt, make a bizarre statement, or ask a question that appears to have no bearing on everything else going on around them.

After school today, Rooster was thrilled to discover our fall mums had really started blooming well. She was babbling about all of the flowers for quite a while.

     Rooster: "And then, after these flowers all bloom, then the apples start growing, and they have seeds hidden inside of them!"
     Me: "Honey, these are mums."
     Rooster: "I know. When are they going to grow apples?"
     Me: "These are not apple trees. Only apple trees grow apples."
     Rooster: "But my teacher said that after the blooms come the apples!"
     Me: "Only on apple trees. These are mums, not apple trees."
     Rooster: "I guess I have to wait and see. Can I eat the apples when they grow?"

Later on, darling Rooster was the reason I was cleaning the bathroom floor for the third time in two days. Her brother was the reason for the first two times, but at least he was not the one who chose to draw all over the floor with petroleum jelly. When she came to tell me she could not destroy the evidence, I asked her what happened. She told me some "fell on the floor when I globbed it there and smeared it around. I think it might be sort of my fault. Maybe. Can I say it was an accident?"

Still later, Pig Jr. and Rooster were playing a game and decided to throw the pieces all around the living room. "They fell!" Apparently, we have some special gravitational phenomena in our living room that allows objects to fall in an upward trajectory.

Let's not forget about Horse, either. She excels in trying to command her siblings to obey her every whim, and then proceeds to tattle on them whenever they tell her she's bossy. If the shoe fits, kiddo... She has yet to understand the cause and effect nature of those interactions. She especially likes controlling how her younger siblings play.

     Rooster: "I want to play with your Barbie house today!"
     Horse: "I don't want to set it up today, but I will let you use it tomorrow. I promise."
     Rooster: "Okay." (Fast-forward twenty-four hours...) "I want to play with your Barbie house!"
     Horse: "I'm not doing that today, so you can't either."
     Rooster: "But you promised!"
     Horse: "So what?"

I just may have a future politician on my hands here.

A relative asked me if it would be okay to give us some money so we could purchase Christmas presents for the kidlets ourselves. That was fine by me, and I asked Horse if she wanted to use any money allocated to her to go buy some clothing at a couple of stores that she adores. She was thrilled, to put it mildly. Those stores have more expensive clothing, and she has been jealous of her friends who frequent them. She's been talking about that shopping spree a lot. Today, I mentioned we should start planning the shopping spree, or at least narrow down where she wants to shop. Her response? "Yeah! But, um, can I buy a game for the [electronic gadget she rarely uses] instead?" This is why Santa has a coronary every year.

I love my kidlets, but I don't think I shall ever understand them.

Never Exercise with Kidlets Present

The kidlets were home from school today. They were under strict orders to try and sleep in this morning, pretty much because I wanted to sleep in this morning. That sort of worked, and they did not wind up making a ruckus until around seven in the morning. Given that we're normally all up, dressed, and eating breakfast by then, I considered it to be a blessing that we were simply starting our normal routine at that time.

I have a wonky digestive tract. There are a number of actual, physical issues that sometimes kick in and make my life miserable for a few hours at a time, and they decided to try and start hassling me after breakfast this morning. The kidlets gleefully let me rest on the couch while they took turns playing on the Wii. Not surprisingly, this meant the morning just flew by, and I had to drag myself up from the couch to feed the kidlets some lunch. Horse had an afternoon playdate...erm...I mean "epic card game battle"...at her friend's house. I dropped her off and drove the other two kidlets back home.

As soon as we pulled into the driveway, the kidlets started harping on me to use the Wii Fit. Now I know I need to get more exercise, but I had not intended on wasting what was left of the day by wrestling my body into spandex yoga pants and getting mocked by my offspring every time I botch something up in my exercise routine. No thank you. The kidlets, however, kept insisting I needed my exercise, so I allowed myself to be coerced into setting up the Wii Fit, much against my better judgment.

I insisted that if the kidlets were going to hang out with me while I tried to lose some flab, then they must play along and do the same exercises I was doing. I thought this would tire them out quickly so they would go off to do their own things and I could quit without witnesses. Silly me. They agreed to my  terms, but proceeded to keep up a running commentary on what was happening on the television screen.

     Pig Jr.: "Do the stepping one!"
     Me: "Okay, I'll do the stepping one for ten minutes."
     Pig Jr.: "No, do it for twenty minutes!"
     Rooster: "No, do it for thirty minutes! You said you needed exercise."
     Me: "Okay, fine. I'll do it for thirty minutes, but it's pretty boring, so you guys should go play while I do this."
     Rooster: "No, I want to step with you!" *thirty seconds later* "Are you done yet? That's boring!"
     Pig Jr.: "Yeah, that's boring. Is it done yet?"
     Me: "No, I still have over twenty-nine minutes left."
    
At least they weren't mocking me for times when I lost my balance or for my too-small spandex yoga pants. I still never want to do another thirty minute stepping activity with bored kidlets asking me every ten seconds whether it's done yet. They never left the room, either. Those little rascals stood by me, sometimes trying to take steps themselves, sometimes flapping their arms with the characters on the screen, and otherwise asking me questions about how boring it was supposed to be and why I was not playing all the fun games.

At least we all got exercise.

The kidlets are getting bath mats for Christmas...

Around a week ago, I finally decided I would splurge on a purchase that Pig had been ooh-ing and ahh-ing over for quite some time. Our bath mats were looking more than slightly worse for their wear, and Pig had been admiring a bath mat he saw in a particular store. It was fluffy, promised to absorb many times its weight in water, and even came in a shade of tan that matched our bathroom. I hemmed and hawed and wondered why on earth we should waste money buying a new bath mat when the old ones still did the trick. However, when I noticed the price had dropped a bit, I finally caved and made the purchase.

Pig, oddly enough, was underwhelmed. I suspect he was really only interested in items related to domesticity when he had to put up with some raggedy-looking frayed things on the floor. The kidlets, however, were over the moon.

The day I first placed that fluffy creation on the floor, the kidlets all spend far too much time in the bathroom. They wanted to jump up and down and feel the softness beneath them. Horse happened to have a friend over for a playdate that day, and she was also roped into jumping in our bathroom. After they were done jumping, they insisted on running their hands all over the mat. I decided we needed a rule about our new acquisition: no shoes on it, because they managed to get dirt chunks all over it from their sneakers. The alternative would have been to require them to clean their shoes better before entering the house, and that might be asking the impossible.

After these past few days, we have had to add more rules, and they have gotten more and more bizarre. After opening the bathroom door to ask Rooster what was taking her so long to exit the bathroom after getting out of the shower, only to discover her still completely naked and rolling around on the bath mat, we insisted that feet are the only body part allowed on the bath mat. After seeing the words "GO to HI" and wondering who would write about going to Hawaii, we mentioned that no one should write on the bath mat. It took a few more days for me to realize the "HI" in question was not referencing a US state, but Horse's initials. Regardless, we are still trying to sell the house, and how would it look to someone coming in to look at the house and seeing writing on the floor? Writing was a no-no. The day after, weird parallel lines were sketched all over the mat. A little investigation led to Horse confessing that she used her hairbrush to decorate it, since she wasn't allowed to write on it with her fingers. I suppose I should be grateful that the hairbrush is getting some use since Horse has a tendency to not thoroughly brush out her tangled rat's nest of hair. Today, we have weird patterns that appear to have been made by someone's size twelve-wide feet, complete with areas where toes figure predominantly and areas where heels have been dragged in bold stripes.

I shudder to think what they will come up with next.

Book Fairs Aren't for Everyone

I had such grandiose plans for this week. I was going to schedule an eye doctor appointment, buy some of my uber-expensive fake cheese (which I consider to be a staple for lunch, despite having run out of it over the weekend), get my hair layered (so it doesn't poof out and make me look like an electrocuted poodle--no animals were harmed in the making of this statement), and run out to a few stores I have not had the chance to visit in a while. Naturally, this is in addition to my normal grocery shopping, laundry, house cleaning, attempts at exercise, and kidlet routines. Unfortunately, I completely forgot that the kidlets' school Book Fair is this week.

Last year, Book Fair was a breeze for me. All three kidlets' classes were scheduled for the same day. All I had to do was show up, help them shop, cough up the cash to pay for their purchases, and then kill time until the next kidlet's class was due. This year, each kidlet has been assigned a different day to visit the Book Fair, and all at wacky times, thus killing my ability to schedule other appointments or run to the store for three days this week. Oh, and the fourth day the kidlets all have off from school, thus preventing stress-free errands, and the fifth day I have to get the groceries. So much for the best laid plans.

Horse's Book Fair was yesterday. She suffers from an extreme inability to make decisions. Throw her in a room with a few bucks and a bunch of books, and she will shut down and be incapable of determining which book or books she wishes to purchase. Her teacher more or less cornered me to tell me how wonderful she is doing in class, which is great to hear but does not allow me to help my daughter shop. I finally scared him away by asking why they cannot access their reading books online yet. (He laughed about forgetting to enter the students' information online, and then fled.) Eventually, Horse picked a couple of books for me to buy and borrowed against her allowance to purchase a few more. At least that made the choosing part easier, since she did not have to leave any books behind.

Rooster's class visited the Book Fair today. The first thing that happened with her was that she shut down due to the noise. Ah, the perks of taking a kidlet with sensory issues and cramming her into an enclosed area with a class full of boisterous chatterboxes! She clamped her hands over her ears, tried to huddle into me, and pouted. Eventually, the crowd of kidlets parted and she had some space to look at books. I managed to steer her to books at her reading level, but she was not overly impressed by the selection. She wound up finding two extremely girlie girl books and then stopped looking for herself. Rooster's teacher had a wish list of books for the classroom, and my daughter chose one of them to donate to the class. Naturally, it was the only book with the word "underpants" in the title. A girl's got to have standards, you know. Sigh.

Tomorrow, I get to visit Pig Jr. as he hits the Book Fair. It will be interesting to see if he hides from the sensory overload like his sister did or if he is in a sensory seeking mood and dives right into the fray. The last few Book Fairs he has attended, he has only been interested in one book, and it cost more than all of his sisters' books combined. He's got his standards, too, apparently.

Even though I have had to postpone every single goal I had for the week, I must confess to enjoying meeting up with my kidlets during the school day. They were also excited to see me in their school environment. Heck, even kidlets who weren't mine seemed interested in seeing "Rooster's Mommy" show up unexpectedly. I hope Pig Jr. will feel the same way tomorrow. Looking like a blind, electrocuted poodle and missing out on fake cheese at lunchtime are small prices to pay for seeing my kidlets' eyes light up when they spot me at their Book Fair. Those errands can wait. My kidlets' experiences growing up will not.

Speak Up So We're Not Alone

A friend of mine did something incredibly difficult today. She spoke up and talked about the massive panic attacks that hit her with her anxiety disorder. Now, she was not speaking from the perspective of someone who has been there, done that, and conquered all. She spoke from the perspective of someone currently battling with such issues, and that to me is far more difficult an experience to relate.

People facing anxiety attacks, depression, or any other psychological issues very often find it difficult to speak up to get the help they need. I say this from experience. When I was in the middle of postpartum depression after the birth of my eldest child, I was completely unable to talk about it. What was I going to say? "Gee, I spend every waking moment of every day just wishing I was dead." Yeah, can't see that one going over well. I was afraid I'd be locked in a padded room for the rest of my life and never see my husband or my beautiful baby girl again. So I said nothing until I became pregnant with my next child, and flat-out told my OB-GYN that I would lie to his face about feeling depressed after my baby was born. He wisely chose to start me on Zoloft (an antidepressant) immediately after giving birth. That doctor listening to me, and the medicine he prescribed, were lifesavers.

My friend spoke up now, while still suffering from panic attacks. I cannot even fathom the inner strength she must have in order to talk about her anxiety. As she pointed out, the more she talks about it, the more she realizes she is not alone. And she is definitely not alone. Numerous people suffer from similar problems, to varying degrees. However, what happens in far too many cases is what happened with me: No one talks about the problem. Not only do people not talk about what's going on, but they also live with the fear of having a stigma attached to them for having such problems. Never mind if it's a chemical imbalance in their brain, or something they were genetically predisposed to have. Never mind that there is no fault to be assigned. Somehow, those of us who suffer seem condemned to do so alone.

Here's where it needs to stop. We need to speak up. We need to talk about our experiences so that the stigmas attached to them disappear. Another friend of mine gave a speech a while back. He was talking specifically about special needs children, and how people still react as if there was something wrong with them. (Note: I have a special needs child. He is not as severe as many others are, but he still struggles with sensory issues, speech delays, low muscle tone, and reactive airways.) My friend talked about how we take wearing glasses for granted these days. If you cannot see properly, you get the help you need, through contacts, glasses, surgery, etc. and no one thinks less of you for seeking that help. Children with special needs should also be able to receive the aid they need in order to function to the best of their ability. I wish to extend his thoughts to include psychological issues in both children and adults. People who are dealing with anxiety, depression, or any other mental issue should be able to seek the help they need in order to function properly, whether it be medicines, counseling, or any other related service. But we need to talk about it, get rid of the negative connotations that are attached, and help those who need help.

Anxiety and depression are not germs or viruses. You can't catch them if someone sneezes in your general vicinity. Children cannot track them in through the house after playing outside. Hugging someone suffering from a panic attack is not going to infect you. Reaching out to those who are suffering from depression is not going to cause a widespread pandemic. Talking about such things will not give you cooties. However, talking about this (in a positive manner, not insulting those who are already feeling weighted down by the world) can help people feel more comfortable coming forward if they are suffering. We are not alone. You are not alone. The more we speak up about these touchy, uncomfortable subjects, the less touchy and uncomfortable they become.

To my friend who spoke up today, I applaud your ability to do so. You are in my thoughts and prayers, and I really hope the change in medicine that you discussed does the trick. Even if it doesn't, please know that a bunch of us are pulling for you and hoping you get some answers and solutions that help you live life to the fullest once more. Anytime you want to talk about what you are going through, we're here for you. You are not alone.

A Street Fair Named Desire

Today, in an effort to a) get out of the house, b) stimulate the local economy, and c) avoid getting guilt-tripped later for avoiding any festivities, we took the family out to a local street fair. This was the first year we decided to give each kidlet a few bucks to spend as they see fit as opposed to handling all monetary transactions by ourselves. Last year, kidlet spending totalled over fifty dollars, and we're still not sure where that money went. This year, we limited them to five bucks apiece, although we allowed the girls to bring their allowance and/or Tooth Fairy money with them to supplement our stingy funding, if so desired.

The first thing we noticed was that there were fewer vendors at the street fair than there were last year, or at least that appeared to be the case. There were also a fair number of people trying to sell makeup, and each and every one of them interested Rooster. I operate under the assumption that if I don't wear makeup, my six-year-old had better not either. Regardless, she was fascinated, and I felt as if I had to physically drag her away from those display tables. Rooster wound up getting a lot of practice pouting, but thankfully there were enough things to look at that she quickly got distracted.

The kidlets were fascinated by a pretend duck pond, where for just a dollar a kid, they could win something that cost half of that at best. We shelled out adult funds for their privilege of winning cheap plastic tiaras that freaked Pig Jr. out. He kept crying until I hid his tiara (He had rejected the offer of an inflatable sword that was there for the boys. Nah, no gender stereotyping there...). After that, we wandered over to the pony rides where both girls once again snookered the grownups into paying for them to ride around a small triangular shaped area twice. Pig Jr. once again rejected the opportunity.

After dismounting from their noble steed, the girls decided that five bucks from Mom and Dad was burning a hole in their pockets. They eagerly checked out each and every stall at the fair, regardless of the price of the objects for sale, until they figured out what they wished to purchase. They waited impatiently while I ogled the Tupperware displays. They "helped" to pick out a Christmas gift for their baby cousin, grateful that I was the one forking over the cash for that. Then, Rooster spent all of her Tooth Fairy money along with the money we gave her to buy a poorly made marionette from a woman who had a sign up stating that they were eight dollars, and then charged her ten. I wanted to kick that woman, and only let it slide because the eight dollar sign was hanging over smaller marionettes. I wish I put my foot down and said no, because the poor puppet is already losing its first limb due to poor construction. Pig Jr. found a toy garbage truck that was exactly five dollars and gleefully coughed up his cash. Horse decided to pay for an activity where she could fill up a tiny bottle with a cheap fake-velvet teddy bear glued to the top by a hot glue gun that was clearly manned by someone uncoordinated. I shudder to think about her standards for quality.

Once the kidlets spent all of their money, and I had done my share of economy stimulating (I'm such a sucker for Tupperware...), we headed home. The younger two kidlets and I sat down to eat lunch at home while Horse batted her eyelashes and somehow convinced her father to take her back to the street fair to eat something there. Pig returned home looking like an overcooked lobster, but Horse managed to avoid burning her skin. We're still not sure how, because none of us remembered to put sunscreen on our poor skin before going out in the midday sun.

All in all, it was an enjoyable experience. We got to spend time together as a family, roam the streets of a local town, and fend off countless vendors who kept asking us if we wanted to install new windows or gutter guards on a house we don't want to put any more money into before we try and sell. Fun times.

Epic Card Game Battle, Now With Added Made Up Rules!

Horse has been waiting for today for a long time. Okay, fine. She has been waiting for today for a week now, since it has been that long since we scheduled today's playdate. Okay, fine. We're not calling it a playdate because her friend is a boy and she is a girl and the last thing nine-year-olds want is to claim they are on a date of any kind. Okay, fine. The last thing Horse's father wants is to claim his nine-year-old daughter is on a date of any kind. We wound up stating Horse's friend was invited over to take place in an epic card game involving a collectible card game both kidlets play.

The first thing we did was to set up some ground rules for this epic battle. The living room was to be their turf. Call me overprotective, paranoid, or whatever you want, but my little girl was not going to be left alone in her bedroom with a friend who possesses both X and Y chromosomes. Therefore, all of her collectible cards were brought out to the living room before we left to go pick up her friend. That actually worked quite well, since the two of them wound up having a difference of opinion as to the rules of the game, and a moderator (in the form of Pig, who is Horse's normal opponent) could step in to help clear the air.

When Pig taught Horse the rules for the game, he tried to do so honestly. In other words, he followed the rules and expected her to do the same. Sometimes he won and sometimes she did, but Pig worked hard to teach our daughter both the rules and strategies that she could employ to try and kick her opponent's patootie.

Horse's friend Lee apparently did not learn how to play "correctly." The translation here is that he made up rules as he went along, and generally only informed Horse of his rules when he wanted to do something that was not typically allowed. Now most of the time, we have no problem with using house rules for a particular game. Just let us know what the rules are before starting, and we'll all play the same way and be on equal footing, even if the rules themselves make the game easier or harder than they were intended. Lee almost always forgot something he was supposed to do, did it when he remembered (instead of losing the ability to play that part of his turn, which is the standard rule), and made up rules that allowed him to play only his biggest, baddest cards. Horse was still trying to follow the rules and play correctly, so she lost all three games they played. How can someone compete when the cards are (literally) stacked against them?

At one point, Lee was telling Horse about how he had "Level X" cards, which were supposedly the highest level possible. There's no such thing in that game. Typically, in card games like that, if a card's level, hit points, damage amount, or any other number is given as an "X", it means you can pay a certain amount to make it whatever level, etc. that you can afford. When a self-imposed rule is that you don't have to pay anything to put a card into play, yes, that can seem as if you have an incredibly high level card. The thing is, none of the cards Lee was claiming were "Level X" even had that capability. Their numbers were givens, not variables. He was taking random base cards and adding his own details on his whim of the moment in order to make his cards seem more impressive.

Naturally, Horse was getting more than slightly flustered. Pig, too, was getting frustrated. I was trying desperately not to laugh at how ludicrous the whole situation was. The only one who seemed perfectly content with how the games were playing out was Lee.

If nothing else, today's epic card game battle taught Horse a little something about what type of player she wishes to invite over for a game. Does she want to follow the rules or have house rules? Is she willing to overlook spontaneously generated rules that are only imposed to help their creator win? Does she wish to allow people to complete tasks they forgot, especially when the forgotten task was to attack and destroy one of her monsters? Is she able to deal with just clowning around and throwing random attack monsters at each other and letting the best cards win regardless of what the rules stipulate? Does she want to follow the letter of the law and insist that the game must be played as intended? What actually makes Horse feel as if she is enjoying the game? This sort of thing is much easier to determine when someone tries to do something that makes you angry. Lee ticking off my daughter was actually a good thing for helping her figure out her preferred gameplay.

It will be interesting to see if she agrees to go play a follow-up game at Lee's house this upcoming week. She was invited, and we've told her that it's all up to her whether she goes or not.

The Sea of Umbrellas

I was so proud of myself for remembering to check the weather report multiple times before heading off to take the kidlets to school. I wanted to make sure nothing had changed since last night. As of my last weather check at around eight o'clock this morning, today was clearly scheduled to be cloudy, seventy degrees, and with high humidity. Given that it was seventy degrees, humid, and cloudy at the time, I figured the weather folks hit that nail on the head.

After dropping the kidlets off at school, I headed home to do a few odd chores before a particular store opened up at ten. I finished my tasks with about twenty minutes to spare, so I laid down on the couch to close my eyes for a few moments. My chirping cell phone woke me about fifteen minutes later, and I prepared to hit the store. I opened the garage door to get to the car and discovered an unexpected pelting of warm, drippy, wet stuff from the sky. Apparently, the weather laughed its fool head off at the prediction of mere clouds and then proceeded to try and drench everyone in sight.

Warm rain never bothered me, so I set about running my errand. It was slightly problematic to try and bring large, unbagged items into the house after purchasing those bulky things from a big box store. Nevertheless, I managed to only mangle my umbrella once, and that was while attempting to carry a very wet cardboard box that held three huge containers of bleach. I chose to let the umbrella be the injured party instead of dropping, and potentially exploding, the bleach.

Not too long after that, it was time to pick up the kidlets. I elected to drive instead of doing my usual all-weather hike to school. None of the kidlets had boots, not all of them had umbrellas, and we were also picking up an additional child to bring home for a playdate and I had no idea if she was prepared for the weather. (The real truth, however, is that I was tired and the unexpected rain was the perfect excuse to avoid a long walk. Shh. Don't rat me out.)

Once Pig Jr. was picked up and stationed with me near "our" self-designated lamp post, I looked out at the hordes of people who were staking out their spots near the school exits. Parent after parent, kidlet after kidlet, guardians and relatives were all sporting their umbrellas of choice. There were animal umbrellas with eyes popping up over the tops of the umbrellas. There were huge golf umbrellas with just one person underneath and miniature umbrellas with four people trying to cram together in its tiny protected form. There were kidlets who were turning their umbrellas upside down to try and collect rain water. There were men without umbrellas, who looked as if they were somehow trying to prove how tough they could be for getting wet, and women without umbrellas, who were silently ruing their decision to wear a white tee-shirt today. Some umbrellas had elaborate designs and others were as plain as can be. Some had eye-popping color combinations and some were a standard black. Some had wind flaps so that gusts of air would not turn them around, and others looked as if they had been turned inside-out and back again more times than their owners could count. A fair number of umbrellas sported either a team or a business name. There were so many different umbrellas there that it would be difficult to try and spot identical ones. I should know. I tried to find a matching set. They appeared to be unique, yet they were still all classified as umbrellas.

One thought that struck me while I umbrella-watched was that if an inanimate object could be that different from one owner to the next, how much more would those owners be different? Each and every one of those individuals was unique, and in far more ways than umbrellas could ever differ. Some people are newer than others. They have different shapes and colors. Some look frumpy as if they had been wrung through the ringer and some still look fresh. Some sported team and business names across their chests or backs. I am grateful to say that people cannot turn themselves inside-out in a gust of strong wind, but we can certainly bare our souls to the people around us, which is often a similar experience. We might be unique, but we are all part of the human race.

What a weird world we live in if a sea of umbrellas leads to such thoughts.

Recessive Genes

Throughout the years, Pig and I have had numerous strangers stop us on the street to tell us how beautiful our kidlets are. We are certainly biased, but we tend to agree with those individuals. Granted, it is quite unnerving to be window shopping and have some strange woman rush up to you while exclaiming, "Oh, my goodness! You could have the next Gerber baby!" (That was in reference to a two-month old Horse, as she nestled snugly in one of those strap-on baby carriers that makes Mommy walk with a funny gait while trying to either not bump baby's dangling feet or see over baby's head, depending on the size of both Mommy and baby.) All three kidlets have been ooh-ed and ahh-ed over by countless people who have no idea who we are or whether my innocent looking kidlets are actually biters waiting for the perfect target to come and squeeze their pudgy cheeks.

It's not just strangers who drool over my kidlets. Friends, acquaintances, my former co-workers, and Pig's current co-workers have all sworn that we produce adorable kidlets. There is, however, a major difference between how strangers and friends comment. People we know almost always ask the same question. "How on earth did YOU manage to have such beautiful children?" The first time we heard that, we pondered why someone would say such a thing. Assuming they were insulting our looks, whether it be intentionally or inadvertently, we just smiled and answered, "Recessive genes." That drove a blush to the cheeks of the questioning individual. We have used that response ever since.

Today, Horse told me how a friend of hers questioned how she, meaning Horse, got so pretty. Horse confessed that she was at a loss for how to respond to her friend. I dusted off our long-standing retort and told her she could just tell her friend it was all those recessive genes she inherited from her father and I. My kidlet's response? "Mom, you're not THAT ugly." Yeah. Thanks for the boost to the old self-esteem, kiddo.

I cannot wait for the day when she looks in the mirror and realizes she has turned into her mother.

Enough Straws, the Camel's Back is Broken Already!

Today was a "little thing" kind of day. Every single little thing just happened to irk the heck out of me. My normal cure for such a day is chocolate, but unfortunately, there is none to be had in our household.

Facebook rolled out another revamp that divided its users into two camps: those who were highly irritated at the changes, and those who were annoyed at the people irritated at the changes. My personal opinion is that Facebook is a business, and even though it is free to its users, advertisers are paying them big bucks for the privilege of inundating the users with their ads. Therefore, the users are allowed to have opinions. Yes, it is an inconvenience and yes, we do not need to use the "free" site, but it is still a business that is making money off of us and we should be allowed to gripe about it. Starving individuals are unrelated to this issue and should not be brought up as an excuse for why we should not complain. That's an insult to those starving people to be equated with something so inane.

Two of my kidlets have congestion that may or may not be allergies or colds. I have congestion that is either allergies or a cold with allergies on top of that. From the itchy eyes, throat, and ear canals, I can guarantee that allergies are involved somehow. I also have my usual it's-going-to-rain-soon headache that has been plaguing me all day.

Errands consumed most of my day, leaving me to wonder why I am called a stay-at-home mom when I am rarely at home.

Pig Jr. kept hitting "replay" on the same YouTube video over and over again for half an hour. It was barely over a minute long, and I swear I am going to be hearing that stupid perky music in my sleep tonight.

I was stuck waiting around the elementary school (hence the YouTube video, thank you smart phone...) to see if I was supposed to take another child home from school because her father never sent me the promised text message to let me know if I was off the hook. I wound up stuck in traffic while trying to get the three-quarters of a mile home because I drove rather than walk my kidlets past a hornet's nest the school promised to take care of tonight. (I had spotted it, along with a group of boys who were looking for a way to stir up the nest, before school this morning.)

Horse realized she left her reading book at school today, and her reading homework is due tomorrow. In theory, we could access it online, if only her teacher had sent home her user name and password. He did not, so we could not, and I wasted almost an hour trying to come up with a combination of her first and last name that might do the trick. The irony was that she was given a homework pass for use tonight on anything except her reading homework.

Rooster continually picks books to read that are way beyond her current reading level, and frustrates me with my need to read every other word before she does. She refused to follow the directions on her spelling work, and it is currently illegible from all of the erasures. Horse could not figure out how to sit down, shut up, and do her own work, and instead spent time harping on her sister about how wrong Rooster was. Oh, and then she decided to write on Rooster's math homework, which caused Rooster to burst into tears about how Horse ruined her paper. I'm fairly certain I should have handed out Academy Awards to them for their melodramatic reactions.

I have to get out to the library this evening in order to return books that are due today and to pick up a book that is being held for me. Sadly, I have been unable to finish any of the books I had taken out, and it does not look like I will have the time to read them in the near future. By "near future," I mean "until next Spring at the earliest."

My favorite eReader changed its format and now I cannot figure out how to delete a number of free ebooks that I had downloaded under the mistaken belief they were historical fiction. Unbeknownst to me, "historical fiction" is apparently code for "crummy, graphic, romance novel theoretically set in the 1800s despite a complete lack of accuracy for the given time period." I do not want that trash on my eReader, and now I have no immediate knowledge on how to purge it from those digital pages.

I also have a hangnail. Oddly, that's the most serious of all the issues I have today.

None of my problems today are insurmountable. None of them are serious. None of them are even life-altering, although I do have to remember to not loan my daughter my eReader until I manage to delete that junk from it. But I'm still cranky and sulking, regardless of the level of severity of today's obstacles. It's all the stupid little things that get me down.

I probably should be thinking of all the little things that can cheer me up: Pig Jr.'s cackle while watching that video over and over, Rooster's enthusiastic cartwheels while we waited at the school this afternoon, Horse's delight at not having to do her spelling homework, Pig not having to work late, my thrusting the kidlets on Pig so I can hit the library all by myself after dinner (okay, so maybe that would be a straw for his camel's back even while it's lightening my load), Pig Jr.'s pride in managing to blow his nose loudly, the friend of mine who called to check on me because she thought I looked "down" when she saw me today,  getting a new pair of shoes delivered, and many other things. The little things might get me down, but at least they can also cheer up me up.

Pig Vs First Grade Homework

The vast majority of school days, Mommy is the one in charge of homework. To be fair, as a stay-at-home mother, doing homework with the kidlets is part of the job description and I am certainly not complaining about that fact (at least for today). When you start with preschool homework of writing a letter or number a few times and gradually work your way up to double-checking fourth grade math word problems, you have slowly adjusted to the challenge. It is not as if you've been up and fed to the wolves or anything.

Well, today my poor husband was fed to the wolves. It was a wacky school day schedule, with one kidlet following normal hours, one kidlet needing to be picked up early to go to a doctor's appointment, and one kidlet staying after school for choir practice. Unfortunately the doctor kidlet and the normal school hours kidlet overlapped, and Pig and I had to split the parenting duties. He drove Rooster to her appointment while I stayed behind to make sure Pig Jr. was picked up on time and to pray that Pig returned with the car before I had to go pick up Horse. Since Rooster missed more than half of the school day, she brought her missed work and homework with her to the allergist's office, thus working on her assignments under the frazzled eyes of her father.

Now I have spent the past four years (five, if you count preschool) and counting working on homework with the kidlets. Even with all of those years of experience under my belt, first grade homework with Rooster is still quite the challenge. I can honestly say that I thought it might be easier for Pig to handle helping her while she did not have her siblings to disrupt the flow. Clearly, I was mistaken.

I have no idea what transpired between my two family members when they were doing homework while waiting to see the doctor. I do know they were unable to finish everything because scissors and glue had not been put in Rooster's bag before they left. Quite frankly, I think Pig should have been grateful for that fact. Keeping Rooster's glue and scissor abuse under control is complicated enough in the confines of our house, let alone in a waiting room somewhere. I do know that when they arrived home just before I had to leave to go pick up my eldest child, Pig seemed overwhelmed. I suspect he was also frustrated that he had to finish up homework duty while I returned to the elementary school. I reminded him that I do homework duty with her almost every day. He grunted that I don't have to deal with cutting and pasting letters everyday, and left it implied that I had forced him to deal with the brunt of the year's homework burden by leaving him in charge of the cutting and pasting while going to pick up Horse.

I have the sneaky suspicion he is looking forward to going back to work tomorrow.

I also wonder why teachers assign cutting letters out of newspapers and magazines to glue into spelling words. It's almost as if they are training the next generation of blackmailers or kidnappers. Seriously, is there any other real-life application for cut and pasted letters? That's not how I write shopping lists, to do lists, my reading list, or just about any other list I can imagine. I certainly do not write letters to my friends and family members that way. So why do they need the practice? My kidlets already cut up magazines and catalogs at home until my living room is littered with tiny scraps of paper, and they are masters of the glue stick.

Anyway, I'm grateful it's not just me that struggles with my little lady and her homework. Pig can at least be glad he held his own today. Even a draw is better than losing the homework battle.

Cackling

As we slowly ambled on home after collecting all three kidlets when school let out, Horse turned to Rooster to ask her how she liked the school assembly today. Rooster piped up excitedly, jabbering about the talking animals they supposedly saw today. She described parrots that could say a lot of things, which did not surprise me, but I must admit I was perplexed when she mentioned the talking turtle. What startled me even more was Pig Jr.'s reaction to hearing about the talking turtle. He cackled. Repeatedly. For a very long time.

For the next two hours and counting, Pig Jr. burst into bouts of cackling every so often. Each and every time he does, his sisters confirm with him that he is laughing about the talking turtle.

Now the conversation has strayed far from the school assembly my kidlets had. We have done homework, eaten snacks, and completed both potty and shower trains. Other than my son's random outbursts of laughter, no one has so much as breathed a hint about that assembly, yet we keep being reminded of it through his cackling.

This actually makes me wonder about something that happened almost ten years ago. Pig and I had flown out to visit his Canadian relatives when I was about six months pregnant with Horse. A group of us went out to watch a movie. I wound up sitting next to one of Pig's grandmothers. In the dead silence of an extremely somber scene, I heard the delighted sounds of cackling emanating from that wonderful lady. This repeated a number of times throughout the movie. Later on, it was explained to me that hearing loss was suspected as being the reason for a delayed reaction after an amusing scene. Apparently, it took some time for Pig's grandmother to process what had been said in order for her to react. It just so happened that she almost always reacted in the midst of a serious movie moment, so it was extremely noticeable.

After hearing Pig Jr. do almost the same thing, I am not so sure.

I wonder whether my son inherited the same DNA that his great-grandmother has when it comes to laughing. They both cackle, pause for a few minutes, then cackle some more. I take great delight in witnessing Pig Jr.'s obvious love of whatever made him laugh himself silly. Thinking that it might be a tie to a woman he will most likely never even meet makes it that much sweeter. His great-grandmother is well into her nineties now, and most likely will not live forever. When she does leave this world for her next big adventure, I will be glad to hear my son's random cackling and know that she still lives on through my little boy. I hope plenty of her other great-grandchildren have inherited that trait, too.

When Did Forty Become Young?

Poor Pig. After only a decade of me calling him an old fart and telling him how archaic he is, he turned forty. My long-suffering husband wanted nothing more than a quiet day at home with the family, preferably without jokes involving balding, old age, memory loss, or prune juice. Given how long I have been picking on him for how old he is, I'd like to think he was pleasantly surprised at my sudden change of mind on this subject.

Truth be told, I woke up this morning feeling quite panicked that my husband, who is a few years older than I am, hit the big four-oh. At thirty, I could tease him about being an old fuddy duddy because he clearly was not one. At thirty-five, I could torment him about having such a youthful wife while he was older than dirt. At thirty-nine, I'm sure I drove him to distraction with my conjuring up old fart jokes left and right. At forty, I am suddenly freaked out that my young husband reached a number that I used to think was in Methuselah's age range. All of a sudden, forty went from being ancient to being babyish. Or maybe it's just me being the baby here.

The worst part about having a husband who is forty is knowing that I probably look older than he does, darn that man. My dark brown hair eagerly showcases every single, rapidly multiplying white hair that sprouts on my head. My wrinkles are starting to develop wrinkles. Things that never concerned me before, such as muscle tone, age spots, and gravity-induced sagging are now very real concerns for me. Darling Pig, on the other hand, has yet to grow one single, solitary gray hair. I ought to know. I cut his hair, and I've looked. His skin is smooth and unblemished by wrinkles that should, by all accounts, be digging vicious trenches across his features even now as I type this. If gravity is stretching out his form, he has yet to admit it. I am starting to worry that people think my almost-five-years-older husband is actually younger than I am. There are few things quite as unsettling as people accusing you of robbing the cradle when you are the younger party.

Because I still perceive my husband as being quite young, I am at a loss at how to deal with this whole forty thing. Nevermind that I have, and always will, claim to be a hundred forty-eight years old myself. That's an obvious lie, but I can often forget my actual age and remain blissful in my ignorance. Forty is not a number that allows for such delusions. And up until very recently, I was convinced that forty was some far off old age that I could simply ignore.

I think I finally understand why Baby Boomers still consider themselves to be middle aged. This whole age thing just creeps up on a person.

If forty is still so young, I suppose fifty is not that much older either. That pushes sixty down to seeming much younger than it used to also. Same with seventy, eighty, and ninety. It's funny how just changing one's perspective on aging suddenly makes everyone seem a whole decade younger. I am wondering how much more creeped out I am going to be when I realize just how young fifty is, too. It just might take me this whole decade to wrap my head around that idea. Oy.

Beware the Wet Floor

It has been a very long day for the kidlets. Their grandparents came to visit them for the first time in a number of months, and they crammed as much playtime as they could into today. Needless to say, by the time they all tromped inside after running amok in the backyard, pretty much everyone was exhausted.

The kidlets were herded into their usual shower queue. After his shower, Pig Jr. was instructed to clean up the mess he made in his bedroom. As per usual, he plunked himself down and played more than he cleaned. Since I knew he was tired, I did not make that big a deal out of him cleaning up before dinner. I simply figured I would help him after dinner ended. Sure enough, after Pig Jr. was done rejecting his vegetables, I sent him to use the bathroom while I started straightening the mess of Lego bricks, fake foods, and other random toys that were strewn about his floor.

I did not get very far before stumbling upon a large wet spot on the floor, right about where he had been sitting while he "cleaned" things before dinner. Now I know I have been a parent for nine years now, but for some reason, that puddle had me stumped. I could not for the life of me figure out when Pig Jr. had snuck a cup of water into his room, nor could I imagine why he would have spilled it without gleefully exclaiming that he needed a paper towel. He loves using paper towels to clean up anytime he drops his water cup. I'm fairly certain that enjoyment has actually been the reason he has made a mess with water on at least one occasion.

I walked into the bathroom where Pig Jr. was preparing to wash his hands. As I started to ask him why water was spilled on his floor, I realized that his shorts looked wet. He looked up at me, mortified, and sudden comprehension dawned. The poor kidlet had an accident before dinner and was so embarrassed to admit it, he sat through dinner while completely soaked.

After shower number two for my now sobbing little guy, I cleaned up the mess in his room and tucked him into bed. I feel horrible that he had an accident and did not want to tell me about it. My poor little kidlet hates feeling wet, and he suffered in silence rather than let me know. He's never gotten in trouble for having an accident. Heck, he is four years old. Accidents happen at this age, especially with little boys who are too busy having fun with their grandparents to want to stop playing to use the bathroom. I am actually relieved that I found the wet spot on the floor so that I investigated the problem. That would have been horrible if Pig Jr. had to be miserable all night long because he was sleeping in wet clothing.

Poor kidlet.

The Tooth Fairy Cometh

Rooster lost tooth number three this morning. Let me rephrase. Rooster whined, complained, whimpered, repeatedly said "ow," flinched, and otherwise irked everyone around her until she finally realized the darn tooth needed to come out and she just was not willing or able to do it herself. So at just a bit past six in the morning, she hunted down her father where he was finishing up his breakfast, and asked him to do the dirty work. A minute and multiple "ow"s later, and the tooth was out.

I am still amazed that Pig has the capability to just reach in to one of our kidlet's mouths, grab the offending loose tooth, and rip that sucker out of there. I cannot even stomach it when they wiggle their teeth in front of me.

Ripping loose teeth out of kidlet mouths is just as bad as squishing a spider or other creepy crawlie. (Incidentally, I have also recently learned that if you get a group of small boys together and have them all ooh-ing and aah-ing over a Daddy Longlegs, even if you tell them to be nice to the spider and leave it alone, one of them will invariably stomp the poor creature. Coincidentally, they will also likely do this right next to the one individual who cannot handle seeing the smashed spider innards spread on the concrete next to her. Just trust me on this. Those boys should be grateful I did not puke after such a stunt. Actually, they might have found that cool, too. Never mind.)

Anyway, after Pig came to the rescue this morning, Rooster was a very happy camper. She gleefully posed to get her picture taken. She grinned that hole-y smile all the way to school, and was exceedingly pleased when one of the crossing guards noticed the gap in her mouth. She later told me she showed all of her friends at school but forgot to show her teacher. Now she has something to look forward to on Monday.

The Tooth Fairy has already come and gone here in our house, and has deposited some cash in the little Tooth Fairy container that had been a baby gift from one of my students years ago when I was pregnant with Horse. The Tooth Fairy cannot be bothered with searching under pillows for teeth in our house. The tooth goes in that box, which resides out in our living room, away from light sleepers and siblings that are merely pretending to sleep in order to try and catch the poor fairy in the act.

Money in exchange for a tooth that is no longer needed, plus an adorable gap-toothed grin, will likely make for a very happy Rooster tomorrow morning. I give her all of half a day before she is trying to find another baby tooth to force from its comfortable position in her mouth.

Unexpected Mail

Towards the end of last school year, my poor third grader was frazzled, stressed, and otherwise pulling her hair out. The cause of this anxiety was the standardized testing that her school was preparing her class to take. Horse is the type of person who wants to do everything perfectly, and working her up about some stupid test was probably the dumbest thing her teacher could have done.

Here's the thing: Horse is a smart cookie. I know I am her mother and am therefore biased, but my daughter is intelligent. She knew all of her numbers and letters by age two, was reading by three, and was reading chapter books by the time she enrolled in kindergarten. Her math skills really took off last year, too. The school should therefore be extremely interested in her test scores, because Horse's scores are pretty much guaranteed to be above average. Stressing her out so that she does not live up to her score potential was a pretty poor decision, as far as I am concerned.

I, however, felt it was my parental duty to put a stop to such nonsense. I told her I did not care if she failed the standardized test. I informed her that such testing really only grades the school district on how well they teach for the test. I ranted endlessly on how poorly thought out the "No Child Left Behind" nonsense actually was. I repeatedly referred to their particular type of standardized test as "a bunch of hooey" whenever I could slip that into casual conversations. I pointed out that Principal Input had claimed only about fifty percent of all third graders the prior year had achieved proficiency on the stupid thing. Heck, at one point I'm pretty sure I told her that she could deliberately fail the test and I would be okay with it. My child's mental state of being is more important than how the school rates in terms of overall test scores. Sorry, school district o' mine, but that's how I feel. Forcing my worrywart kidlet into high stress levels is just cruel.

That load of hooey was perhaps the farthest thing from my mind when I went out on the front porch to check for the mail today. I startled when I realized there was a letter from the school district addressed "to the parent and/or guardian of Horse." I opened the envelope immediately, wondering whether it was something related to the choir group Horse recently joined. Instead, I found her test results from that ridiculous testing that had her so stressed out this past spring.

Horse was rated as "advanced proficient" in the two categories in which she was scored, which is the highest possible rating she could have achieved. I am incredibly proud of my girl, and would have been proud even if she had not passed (Hey, I told her it was fine to fail it, so why would I be upset for her if she did as I said?), but I probably should stop claiming it's all hooey.

Showers!

Pig Jr. has been afraid of drops of water pretty much since he was born. Good old sensory issues. It has taken a lot of time and work to get him to voluntarily wash his hands. Bath time used to be a nightmare until he was finally able to be distracted by toys instead of creeped out by that nasty "wet" sensation. The few times he was able to play in a pool were fraught with angst instead of being fun.

Even when Pig Jr. was able to stand baths, he still hated droplets of water hitting him. Rain freaked him out. The first time he attempted to run through sprinklers with his sisters, he froze. He wanted to play with them, but his body rebelled. He was able to move through them if an adult took his hand and essentially pulled him through the spray, but he did not seem able to initiate such a sprint without help.

I was often overwhelmed with wondering how a kidlet who was too freaked out for swim lessons and in danger of drowning upon panicking in the bathtub would ever be able to handle getting himself clean. We knew he managed bath time better when he cleaned himself since it put him in control, which is huge with getting kidlets with sensory issues to handle things. A plan was therefore needed to switch him to showers, which would allow him to take control of bathing himself and developing independence, preferably before going off to college. Seriously though, his pediatrician prefers kidlets to be cleaning themselves independently by the time they turn five, so we just have a few months left if we are to meet this goal.

On nights when I had bath duty, I would take the handheld shower head down to spray his shampoo-covered head instead of using a cup to pour water over him in a gentler manner. I started attempting this in half-second bursts, with him getting his hands drenched by the spray before aiming next at his body and then finally his hair. We gradually worked up to longer times with the nozzle aimed at his head. In the meantime, when Pig had bath duty, he would talk about how it is the really big kidlets who are able to take showers instead of baths. I knew peer pressure could be pretty intense, but I had no idea it might actually work to my favor when dealing with a four-year-old. After a few days of this, Pig Jr. informed his father that he did not want a bath anymore. He wanted to take a shower.

So it is with great pride that I announce Pig Jr. has been taking showers ever since.

With any luck, and probably a whole heck of a lot of work, we might be able to now work up to swim lessons in a local club's pool. I feel as if a whole new world of experiences suddenly opened to us. My son is learning to tolerate the sensation of water on his skin.

Less-than Organized Chaos

Today was the second day of the first full week of school, and I have already accosted the principal when he least expected it. He has this tendency to hang out and chat with the police officers that are assigned to school pickup duty. I apparently have a tendency to interrupt his chats to bother him about things that I assume a principal should already know. He has learned to put on his best frozen smile expression when he sees me coming.

Principal Input, thus named by me for his annoying habit of responding to emailed concerns with only the words, "Thanks for your input," followed by signing his first name, makes me seriously wonder if I am wasting my time talking with him. I figure it is probably better than just glaring in his random direction and infinitely more mature than blowing raspberries at him. Despite my comments here, I really do try to pretend I have some respect for the man so that the kidlets do not automatically assume he is a pushover. However, I believe that he really does not handle confrontations well, and should therefore not even attempt to take on the role of school principal. Besides, any skinny man that stands out in front of the school in twenty degree weather without wearing a coat, gloves, or even a hat to cover his shiny scalp makes me wonder whether his elevator goes all the way to the top floor.

Anyway, Principal Input pretends to tolerate me about as well as I tolerate him. Today, he asked how he could help me. I proceeded to tell him my concerns about the random mass of less-than organized chaos that are the students' class lines between 8:05 and 8:15 AM. I told him that taking away the orange cones to delineate line locations and the nice, propped up signs that stated teacher names was making it very difficult for a goodly number of first graders to determine where to stand. I explained that the third grade students, who line up next to the panicked first graders, did not even attempt lines, and they were adding to the confusion. I further explained that the third and fourth graders are running, shoving one another, playing tag, knocking over people accidentally, and that no one seems to be even attempting to get them where they need to be. Horse indignantly piped up that she was not doing such misbehavior, so I amended my comments that it is not all of the third and fourth graders, but a number of them.

Principal Input told me he has a teacher in charge of that area, and asked if I see "them." (Note: He did not appear to remember even the gender of the assigned teacher, let alone said teacher's name.) I explained that I see a lot of adults out there, but I have no idea who is in charge, or even which adults are parents hanging out to chat versus teachers paid to maintain order. He told me he will let "them" know of the situation. (Note: I'm fairly certain this is the real-life version of, "Thanks for your input.") Principal Input followed up by telling me he would take care of my problem for me. (Note: It's not my problem. I'm there, every morning, watching to make sure my own kidlets are behaving, and have even been known to speak up to tell students I do not know to stop trying to push, shove, knock down, or steal things from the others.)

I never knew just how much I would be missing the usual assigned adult. Mr. Megaphone normally patrols the outside lines and shouts at the kidlets through his bullhorn. They might not react immediately, having had numerous years' worth of experience ignoring him, but they were a heck of a lot calmer than the mess that exists now. Unfortunately, Mr. Megaphone had surgery this summer, and is not supposed to return to school for another month.

What a mess Mr. Megaphone will return to after his recovery. Please, Mr. Megaphone, heal properly and come back and get these morning lines into shape. I did not know what a good thing we had until you were gone. And to the not so dear principal of my kidlets' school, thanks for your input.

First Grade Homework Just Might Kill Me

Rooster is a big kid first grader this year. That's all well and good except that it means she has big kid first grade homework this year. Even that would be alright if it wasn't for the fact that kindergarten homework just about did me in last year.

Last year, homework was a dreaded event as far as I was concerned. It wasn't work for Rooster so much as two hours of my time spent trying to get a kidlet who did not want to focus to pay attention and follow directions. She tried screaming, crying, recycling her homework pages before I saw them, refusing to look at the page, going boneless, kicking, and intentionally breaking her pencil point. None of that worked and she still had to complete her homework, but it took a lot out of me to get her to that point.

Tonight was our first example of what is in store for us this year. First was a paper which had sentences one one side and words in boxes on the other. Rooster somewhat easily read both sides of the page once I read her the directions. Next came a double-sided math paper. Just having Rooster read the simple directions involved me first reading almost every word out loud and having her repeat it. I doubt she actually looked at the written words. Almost none of the words she initially said even had the same beginning word sounds as the word she was supposedly reading. One side of the page was about the numbers zero to five. She had to draw a picture representing one of the numbers and then write the number she chose. She picked six, and could not understand why I told her to erase some of the drawn objects and try again. Spelling came next. Rooster was supposed to write a total of thirty words: ten spelling words three times each. She did this, but not actually on the lines she was supposed to use. We spent more time erasing her work so she could do it correctly than she spent writing the darn things. Her last homework assignment was to read a book out loud to a parent. Actually, make that two books. It was one of those annoying two-books-in-one deals. In and of itself, that might not have been too bad, if Rooster had even bothered to look at the words she was supposed to be reading. Half of the words she did not know and the other half she was supposed to know but only took random guesses. Once more, the random guesses had little to do with the printed words' beginning sounds. The fact that she also read "Mommy" as "Mudder" did not endear her to me as we slogged through those two evil books. For the life of me, I cannot understand why she would have to read a book out loud when it was so clearly above her reading level. Either the teacher is asking too much or my daughter is trying to pull the wool over my eyes somehow. Only time will tell which it is.

Rooster's homework took us over an hour to complete, and this was without her actively resisting. I am not overly sure I will survive this year's homework if this is what it is going to be like.

I remember.

Ten years. Where has the time gone? This year, there seems to be an overwhelming number of articles, blogs, commentaries, and whatnot written about the events that transpired on 9/11/01. Since I have only relatively recently started my own blogging, I have yet to record my memories of that day. I plan on doing so now simply so that I have a written record somewhere for my own children to access when they are old enough to ask for details. The problem with writing ten years after an event is that some details are starting to get fuzzy. I will write as I remember, and since 9/11 and the days after were then, and still are, a blur, please excuse me for any discrepancies that might occur. I assure you they are unintentional.

Ten years ago, I was a middle school math teacher. I had been married for just shy of six months, and was approximately thirteen weeks pregnant with our first child. Although it had been a couple of weeks since I had felt any morning sickness, I woke up the morning of September 11th with extreme nausea. As I was gagging and dry heaving, neither of which a preferred activity of mine, my husband volunteered to take the day off of work to take care of me. This would have involved him having to skip a morning meeting at the World Trade Center, and would have required me to come up with plans for a substitute teacher, so I thanked him but rejected his offer. Pretty much the moment I said no, my nausea cleared up. I still wonder if my body knew something about that day before the events transpired.

I drove my husband to the train station to drop him off early so he could get into New York early enough to take care of a few things. Due to my illness at home, we were a bit late getting to the train station, and he had to run to make it before the early train pulled away. I drove to school and prepared for the day.

My first class of the morning was a small group of seventh grade Algebra I students. Their class went smoothly, as it almost always did. After seeing them off to their next period, I walked down to my sixth-grade level team meeting, which took place every day in the same room. I was tired, probably because of my feeling ill earlier, and was looking forward to sitting down already.

For the first time that I could recall, the classroom where the other teachers and I were supposed to meet was empty. I was annoyed, truth be told. The other teachers were all coming off of a prep period, so I thought the other teachers were just not paying attention to the time and were off somewhere else. It never even struck me as odd that all three of them would be running late on the same day. While I sat down and waited for them, I realized the radio in the classroom was on, and slowly paid attention to what was being discussed. It took me a few minutes to realize something serious had happened.

The Social Studies teacher came back into the room, probably to let me know where everyone was, and the only thing I remember was standing in the middle of the classroom, looking up at him, and saying, "I think that's where my husband is." He told me to use his phone to try and get through to my husband. I felt so shell-shocked that I could not remember my phone code, so I somehow staggered down the long hallway to return to my own classroom to find it. I placed a panicked phone call first to my husband's cell phone, which went directly to voicemail, and then to his landline work number. I remember trying not to sound like a paranoid newlywed, but told him the school phone number and for him to call me immediately. I kept trying to convince myself that the World Trade Center was not actually where he was scheduled to go for a meeting. I had been feeling sick that morning while he was giving me the details of his meeting, so perhaps I misheard him. Regardless, I needed to hear his voice, especially since I knew deep down that I had not misheard or misremembered.

For the first time ever, I kept my own emergencies-only cell phone out on my desk while I greeted the next class of students to arrive. I remember that someone had told me we were not allowed to tell the students anything, but I cannot recall who told me or when I had the chance to even see another adult. I existed solely in a state of shock at that point. My cell phone rang in the middle of class, much to the surprise of my students. I don't think they even knew their teacher had a cell phone. It was my mother, calling to find out if I knew anything about my husband's whereabouts. For the brief moment I was on the phone with her, I noticed my school voicemail light was blinking, and I got off the cell phone to retrieve my message on the landline phone. It was my husband's voice, telling me he had been there when the planes hit, but that he was trying to get home. I almost collapsed.

I do not remember calling my mother back to let her know her son-in-law was still alive. I do remember trying to laugh with the students, saying that I could not believe someone would call on my cell phone when I was trying to teach, and I apologized for the interruption. I do not recall their responses, nor do I remember any of what I taught for the rest of the day. I do recall that I re-taught the same lesson the next day.

During my own prep period towards the end of the day, I could not handle being alone. I still had not heard any more from my husband, and was worried that he was still trapped. I walked down to another teacher's classroom, which I knew would be empty since it was her prep period, too. I finally talked about the voicemail message I had received from my husband. I talked about how I was worried that his blood sugars would tank, he would have a severe insulin reaction, and that his diabetes would kill him even after he escaped the World Trade Center. She was one of the few people who knew I was pregnant, and the only comment I remember her saying was that I came close to being a single parent. My heart just about plummeted to my feet, since I had not even considered that possibility. I had been worried about my husband as my husband, not as the father of my unborn child.

The school day had ended when I received a phone call through the school telephone, with my husband telling me to come pick him up at the train station. The next thing I remember is giving him a quick hug from the front seat of our car, and somehow driving back to our apartment.

My husband described how he had been down with the Path trains, working on pedestrian counts for some survey he had to take as a transportation planner. He told me how his team smelled what they thought was a track fire, and how they radioed to the Port Authority to find out if there actually was one. The Port Authority had no reports of any track fire, but they told the team to pack up just in case. The team started to head up to their meeting in one of the Towers.

By the time they arrived at the mezzanine level, they could see charred papers floating down, and heard some guy on a bullhorn screaming for people to get out. My husband and his team took off running for their lives, not knowing what the attack was, or whether more was coming. They were just a short distance away when they watched the second plane hit. My husband described the heat given off by the engine, and the pervasive smell of gasoline in the air. He told me about how he just kept running, stopping occasionally to help someone else up, or to look back. He described the flower-print dress of one of the women he saw jumping out of a window, presumably to her death. He was shaking with sobs as he described how he could not believe that image. He said he knew nothing about her except for the fact that she appeared overweight, and that the fabric would probably be stuck in his mind forever. I immediately gave the wrong response. I tried to joke that maybe she wasn't fat, she was just pregnant. I think both of us lost it at that point.

My husband did not sleep for at least three days. He was consumed with survivor guilt. He wanted me to return to work the next day, because he said he needed at least one thing to remain normal. He never talked about any of his personal experiences from 9/11 with me after that first day. He tried returning to work a few days later, but there were bomb scares in a lot of buildings in the city, including his office building, and he wound up coming home until that settled down a bit and he could enter his building without having to worry about false alarms ruining what little sanity was left.

My lower abdomen was stuck in an almost constant muscle contraction. It was weeks before I stopped worrying that I was going to lose my baby due to the stress. She is nine years old now, and I have yet to forgive her kindergarten teacher for telling her that some bad men flew planes into the buildings where her father was back when I was still pregnant with her. We had tried to slowly teach our children about the events of 9/11. It is important that they learn, but it needs to be age-appropriate lest too much information spark paranoia about events repeating in the future. All we had told her about that day was that some people made very poor decisions and a lot of people were hurt, and that it happened at the World Trade Center. We told her Daddy had been there, and he was one of the people they tried to hurt, but that he was okay. Her teacher was the one to give details, and I am still livid that she took away my child's innocence. Five-year-olds do not need that level of information.

We stopped watching regular television. Neither one of us could handle watching events that had become far too personal already. We glued ourselves to the Food Network, of all things, because it was safe. Then they, too, started showing recipes that were somehow "patriotic", and we just turned off the television altogether.

There are several other things I remember from the weeks that followed. First, one of the other grade level teachers insisted on having out graphic images from the planes exploding. With the contractions I was having being even worse anytime I thought about those events, and still trying to avoid seeing them firsthand, I tried to tell her to not bring them to our grade level team meetings. She ignored me. I can say that to this day, I absolutely loathe that woman. She had no respect for those of us who could not handle those images. It was even worse that she had them out in her classroom, where one of the students had lost a loved one and was then forced to see those images every day. Wasn't it bad enough that he had to live that? Couldn't she give him one safe place where he was not being constantly bombarded by his loss? There are few times in life that I wish I had told a person off for their behavior. This was one of them. I should have gone to the principal with my concerns. I should have gotten other teachers to back me up. Instead, as emotionally shut down as I was getting over my fear for my husband's life, I said nothing.

A couple of months later, when all of the other teachers found out I was pregnant, another school employee told me that it finally explained why I was so upset over 9/11...because of the pregnancy hormones. I was livid. My husband could have died, and thousands of others did actually die or were injured, and she was blaming pregnancy hormones for my being upset? You have got to be kidding me! It occurred to me years later that she might have been doing her best to shut down her own overwhelming emotions and felt denial was the way to go. I am not upset with her anymore, and I hope she has found her own peace with that horrific day.

I am sure there are other memories I have about the events from ten years ago. However, it is almost time for me to take my oldest child, who ten years ago was still in-utero, to her piano lesson. It is important that while we remember the events of 9/11/01, we do not forget to live. I know I attempt to write a daily blog entry here, but I shall not do so tomorrow. I intend on living my life with my beautiful family: my loving husband and our three children. I have been so blessed. May God bless you, too.

Down Time

Last night was a long one. Pig was out for an evening of cards with some friends. It was the first time in ages he had the opportunity to do so, so I cannot begrudge him those few hours. That does not mean that things ran smoothly in his absence.

Rooster was concerned about her digestive tract. It's fickle, and that's putting it mildly. She has multiple food allergies and reacts gastrically. She also has acid reflux, which causes its own problems. Then there's the fact that she has to take multiple medicines daily, one of which is a powder that can cause digestive woes if she accidentally has slightly too much or if she does not drink enough water to counteract the side effects. I did my best to calm down my little girl when she told me she was concerned. Truth be told, she might be fine, or everything might all go to hooey. Regardless, when it does go to hooey, it does so big time, so it is hard to miss. Thankfully, that did not happen last night, although she was still nervous it might happen at school today. It's hard to calm her down when her nerves are shot and that can mess up her digestive tract even without any of those other issues rearing their ugly heads.

Once Rooster was calmed down, I got the kidlets all in bed for the evening. Sometime around nine o'clock, I heard Pig Jr. coughing, gagging, and wheezing. I ran into his room only to discover the fan in his window was sucking in the cigarette smoke from one of our neighbors who must have been outside smoking. My son has reactive airways. Generally, his breathing is fine unless he is congested, then he starts with the coughing and wheezing. Apparently, cigarette smoke can also trigger a reaction. I tore the fan out of the window and shut it as fast as I could, then checked on my little boy, who had calmed down almost immediately once the fan was off. He was sweating up a storm. I turned on his window air conditioner, and the dang thing refused to work. It burbled and groaned and generally refused to put forth more than a token small stream of warm air. Eventually, my sweating little boy fell back asleep. At seventy-nine degrees in the house, it was not roasting, but he generally will not sleep without his blanket and comforter on him. He needs the weight on him. I peeled the layers off of him so that he could rest without sweltering, but it was clear that he was not resting as well as he should have been. My monitoring his breathing was not helping him sleep either.

And let us not mention the muscle pain I was having after overexerting myself in my attempts to exercise. Needless to say, it was a long evening.

This morning, all three kidlets went off to school, one enamored of her first ever male teacher, one finally calm and not mentioning her digestive tract, and another freshly bathed, partly because he needed it after sweating so much, and partly because it helped to wake him up after such poor sleep. I made the executive decision to take today off, per say. I am putting my feet up, watching a couple of movies that I cannot play while the kidlets are home and awake ("Thelma and Louise" does not strike me as good fodder for young minds.), and napping if I feel the need.

I feel as if I should be doing something, anything, other than just resting right now. Part of me feels quite guilty about taking this down time. The other part of me knows that if I do not rest while I have the chance, the kidlets sure won't let me when they come home from school. I know that I will be a better, more patient parent if I have the chance to make up for the missed sleep, stress, and pain of the past twenty-four hours. At least the ibuprofen took care of the muscle pain already, and I'm off to a good start resting.

Sometimes, it is good to just take a day off, even if the definition of "day" is "five-and-a-half hours while the kidlets are all at school."

How many relatives does it take to buy a house?

We are attempting to sell our house. I am personally tempted to hang a sign out front bragging about how well we withstood Hurricane Irene, and telling people they should come buy the house. I am not going to do that, frankly, because luck seems to have a lot to do with which houses were fine and which had problems. We never lost power, so our sump pump could keep up with the water. Other houses in our town lost power, and if they did not have a generator to run the pumps, they flooded. Some houses had trees fall on them simply because of the direction the high winds were blowing. There is a large tree out in front of our house, so we ran that risk just as much as the next house. We were fortunate. I would like to be even more fortunate and sell our house.

There is one woman who is the only person to really show a serious interest in our house ever since we put it on the market months ago. She came to check out the house multiple times, and with different combinations of relatives each time. I am starting to wonder whether we should start charging her room and board for the amount of time she spent here already.

Today, she returned to look at the house with her father. We have already had her mother, her daughter, her daughter's father, and now her father, in addition to visiting here by herself a couple of times. I have no problem showing the house to someone who is actually interested in buying it, but her welcome is starting to wear a bit thin. Her father, on today's visit, walked through the house mumbling as many blasphemies as he could under his breath. Supposedly, they told our realtor that her father had "different ideas for the house, so they're still thinking about it." Oh, goody. I suppose this means they will ponder those ideas and then come back for another perusal to see if the ideas really make sense for this house.

I know I should be grateful that they are looking. It is a very slow market, and few houses are moving unless it is at significantly reduced prices. We cannot afford to drop our price and still be able to buy a house in the town in which we would like to live. Therefore, we have to wait it out. And waiting it out means putting up with repeat visits from a woman and her three zillion relatives as they check out oodles of houses, repeatedly.

I want to tell her she is not allowed back in my house unless she coughs up a respectable bid. I want to tell her that it is her decision to buy or not to buy and she needs to grow up and make a decision without involving each and every one of her relatives. I wish to scold her for wasting my time, my realtor's time, her family members' time, and that if she wishes to get the opinions of her loved ones, she should do it all together to save everyone the hassle of repeat visits. I very much want to hang a sign out front that states, "The house has not changed. Either buy it or don't, but stop bothering me until you've made up your mind." I did tell her we got a tiny bit of water in one corner of our basement with the hurricane, in the hopes that it would either give her the excuse to stop looking at the house or would provide useful information in case she does cough up an acceptable offer. If I acted on my obnoxious thoughts, I might be my realtor's worst nightmare. Too bad I do not voluntarily take on that role in life, no matter how many times I might have stumbled into it accidentally.

I just have to behave. I shall keep my mouth shut, my house as clean as possible, and will tolerate visits from that lady's sisters, cousins, doctors, neighbors, etc. I really hope it leads to a sale.

Silence

It is eerily quiet in my house this morning. I can hear each and every tick of the clock in my kitchen. Each random chirping of birds and insects outside sound as if it is being blasted by megaphone. I can hear the faint rustling of the curtains when they get caught by gentle breezes. The drone of the refrigerator makes me aware of its presence. Even the faint clicking of the oven as it alternately heats up and cools down reminds me of just how many faint noises actually exist in my house of which I have been unaware until today.

The kidlets went back to school this morning. I thought I would be thrilled to have them out of my hair for a few hours a day. I looked forward to scheduling appointments, getting my hair cut, vacuuming without having to chase kidlets out of a room or up onto the furniture, and dusting all of the stick-figure people that have been drawn onto any available hard surface. Instead, I find myself antsy, pacing back and forth, and baking a special treat for them to eat upon their return home this afternoon.

Horse, as the big kid fourth grader, was the first to walk away from me to find her own place in line this year. I watched her find her classmates all by herself as she sought out her independence. She is growing up so fast. She carried a pocketbook for the first time, complete with tissues, lip gloss, sunglasses, and her do-not-even-think-of-turning-it-on-during-school-hours-it-is-for-emergencies-only cell phone. When did my baby girl become so big?

Rooster clutched my hand, nerves completely on edge, as we looked for her first grade line. We found her spot, I kissed her good-bye, and Pig Jr. and I moved back beyond the throng of parents fighting to keep the umbilical cords attached. There is a very good reason I should never own a taser or cattle prod, because I would have been sorely tempted to use it on those adults. A friend came over to tell me that Rooster was in tears, which I could not see over the crowd. I sought out my baby girl and discovered she was upset because the teachers shifted where the lines were and she could not stand on the painted line I said was for her class. I managed to calm her down somewhat by telling her to listen to the teachers because they know more about the school rules, lines, and whatnot than I do. She nodded and turned back to her friends, but I worry that she will be off-kilter for the rest of the school day. I am grateful that she was standing in line with one of her close friends from last year. Even six-year-olds need the support of their peers sometimes.

Pig Jr. was the last of my little bugaboos to enter the school. The preschool does not start until after all of the elementary school kidlets have already started their day. Thankfully, we only had to walk around to the other side of the building to meet up with his teacher. This is technically his third school year being with the same preschool teacher, but his classroom aide this year is different. I have known the aide from years past, when she was the aide in one of Horse's classes. I think she looked more nervous than the kidlets did this morning. I pray that she finds her groove with the children. Preschool is challenging enough without a classroom aide who looks freaked out about her young charges.

In just two hours, I will be back at the school to pick up my offspring from their first day of school. They will most likely be bouncing off the walls, hollering their joyous news about finding their friends from last year and making new ones. They will want to tell me each and every last detail about their day, and the silence that seems so overwhelming now will seem as if it was merely a fleeting occurrence. I can hardly wait for it to get noisy again.

The Last Day of Summer Vacation

It was a chilly sixty-three degrees today, with rain coming down pretty much the entire day. If that does not sound like summer vacation to you, I would have to agree, but I will take it anyway. At least I could open up the house and enjoy those brisk, cleansing breaths of fresh, cool air.

The kidlets were bouncing off the walls today. I managed to have them work off some energy playing on the Wii, then we prepared backpacks for tomorrow's big day. Pig Jr.'s backpack had been completed yesterday, so at least I only had two left to arrange. Horse's backpack was easy. I simply went down the list sent home by the school, handed her items, which had long since been collected all together for this very moment, and had her label everything with a marker before shoving it in her bag. Rooster was more of a challenge, since she needed far more items than Horse did, and everything needed to be labelled in a slightly more thorough manner. Knowing my kidlet, I did not just label her box of crayons; I put her name on each and every stinkin' one of them. The same went for her colored pencils, number two pencils, highlighters, dry erase markers, and red pens. Then I had to find the correct number of coins to put together a baggie so she can learn about counting change this year. Note: We only pay with credit cards. Second note: Credit cards do not give change. Third note: It was not until I frazzled myself looking for coins that I remembered we had the bag from when Horse was in first grade, and coins do not spoil.

After finally organizing the backpacks, I dug out the summer math and reading packets to make sure they were actually completed and could be put in the appropriate folders to return to school. Unfortunately, Rooster still had a couple of pages left. I think next summer I will schedule a root canal for the day before school so that someone else can handle the torture of trying to sit with her to get her to complete two pages' worth of work. At one point, she was stymied by words that start with the short u sound. The troublesome picture was an arrow pointing up.

     Me: What direction is the arrow pointing?
     Rooster: Front.
     Me: It's really the same thing as this: *points up*
     Rooster: The ceiling.
     Me: What do we call where the ceiling is from here?
     Rooster: Uh, paint.
     Me: No, I mean what direction is it?
     Rooster: That way. *points up*
     Me: What direction are you pointing now?
     Rooster: At the ceiling.
     Me: *bangs head into wall*

I shudder to think how much "fun" this is going to be once harder homework starts coming home.

After the homework fiasco, I promised the girls I would paint their toenails. They love this girlie girl ritual, which is as close as I will ever get to a pedicure. I did not have the energy to do my own nails, so I figured I could at least help them out. The girls picked out their nail polish colors and we got started. Pig Jr. interrupted us to declare he wanted some toenail polish, too. Fine, kiddo. I do not care, and toes are covered up by socks and shoes anyway. But if anyone asks, I will deny that my son is wearing light pink nail polish with glittery sparkles.

Other than those few things, today was pretty much the same as it was every other day, which works just fine by me when it comes to summer vacation. I have always thought a good vacation is where one day just blends into the next and you never know what day of the week it is. Tomorrow morning, we will once again have to care about daily routines, scheduling conflicts, and remembering how many days there are until Saturday. For today, it was nice to forget all of that.

The Day Before the Day Before School

Today is Labor Day. Generally speaking, this means my family has just one more day after today that still counts as summer vacation. In just two days, school will start. Specifically, this means that I just now remembered that I never checked to see if Pig Jr. could fit into any of his long pants. Oh, and Wednesday's weather is supposed to be in the high-sixties, low-seventies, so he kind of needs to keep his chilly little legs covered.

Thankfully, I had decided to get Pig Jr.'s backpack ready for school today. He is the easy one to prepare. Preschool does not require the same level of purchases that the elementary school does. They do, however, require a spare set of clothing to be sent in just in case it is needed. I had already learned my lesson about those spare clothes. On the last day of our last school year, on one of the hottest days in June, my little man had an accident and was forced to don a long sleeved shirt and pants because I had neglected to send in shorts and a t-shirt. Oops.

So off I went to procure a spare set of clothing that would take my little fellow through at least October. Shorts were easy enough to locate this time of year, and we always have oodles of socks and underwear. I grabbed the one polo shirt that Pig Jr. had used as an experiment to see if his scissors could cut through the knit material. (They can, and the shirt has the hole to prove it.) I figured that the hole was fine in a spare shirt, especially since it is down towards the bottom where it can be tucked in and hidden. Pants, however, were a bit more of a challenge.

Upon opening Pig Jr.'s dresser drawer, I realized he only had 4T pants there. He is currently wearing 5T shorts, with the exception of a few pairs of denim 4T shorts that have those adjustable waistbands. Rather than just running up to the attic to see where I stashed the 5T clothing, I eyeballed the pants and thought that perhaps they might still fit him. We then embarked on Operation Sensory-Kidlet-Trying-on-Clothes.

In years past, Pig Jr. has rejected any clothing that was not of a knit material. As far as pants are concerned, this means my kidlet has been wearing sweatpants, sweatpants, and more sweatpants. We did actually have a number of other pants which were hand-me-downs from a friend. I held on to those other pants in the off-chance that my son might suddenly reject all things knit and only want to wear denim. With sensory kidlets, they tend to know exactly what they can tolerate, and anything else is outright rejected, but they do sometimes change their minds if something about the fabric or cut of the clothing offends them. A quick glance at the 4T sweatpants told me that about half of them were too small. The 4T pants looked like they might actually still fit, provided I could force them onto my kidlet's unwilling body. I was not keen on even attempting such a feat.

Pig Jr. was fairly eager to try on the sweatpants and, as expected, about half of them no longer fit. Surprisingly, he grabbed at the denim, khaki, and mystery fabric pants and tried them on without me having to so much as suggest he do so. The next thing I knew, he was running back and forth from his bedroom to wherever his father was in order to show off his "new" pants. He was happy, relaxed, and so very proud of himself for having pants with pockets. The miracle was not in that they fit my son; it was that he wanted to wear something that was not in sweatpant-form. The fact that they fit him perfectly was an added bonus.

All of the pants made it into the hamper so that I can wash them tomorrow and have them ready for my big boy to start school on Wednesday. Most of them had been sitting untouched in his drawer for the past year, so they needed to be freshened up a bit. His sisters' clothing needs were already addressed so I am not expecting any major surprises until their next regularly scheduled growth spurts. Hopefully, this will make everything much easier to collect tomorrow when we prepare for school.

Now all I have to do is convince them they want to actually sleep tomorrow night, and we should be ready to go.