The Writing on the Wall

Here is a little tip for any children, especially those who live here at The HomeFront, who decide to write on the wall:

When your mother comes to you and wants to know why you wrote the word SCRABBLE on the wall in the hallway, DO NOT DENY having done it. Your mother may be tired, but she is smart, and she knows that not only are you the only child in the house who can read and write, but you also love to play Scrabble. It also doesn't help your case when neither your brother or sister can hold a pencil long enough to form any letters, or that your mother, in her wilder preschool years, was known to deface some property with scribbles of her own.

Honesty really is the best policy - and she's totally on to you anyway, my friend.

Old School

I know that for many of us, the school year has really just begun. Here at The HomeFront we have finally gotten back into the swing of car line and lunch duty and paperwork, oh my! And it's only taken us a month - that's record time around here, my friends.

Despite all the new year kinks and jitters, my tip for the day is about the end of the school year, and what to do with all the leftover school Stuff. You know, all the pencils, crayons, workbooks, folders, penmanship copybooks and whatnot that come home in your child's filthy, ratty backpack (or is it just my kids who look like they've made a detour through the landfill on their way home from school? But I digress . . .).

If you're like me, you've probably paid some kind of fee to your school for Activities or Supplies or the all encompassing Student Fee. On top of that, I shell out a nice sum in tuition. Add to the mix that my children invariably need their crayons or pencils or glue sticks replenished during the year, and you may start to see why I hate to throw anything away at the end of the year.

This is what I do: All the pencils and crayons go into a common household pencil bag (or box) and are used up for art projects through the summer. Older Girl also has pencil cup on her desk that has the potential to one day rival an office supply addict like myself. Penmanship tablets make great writing or drawing pads for the kids, since they are usually wider than most notebooks. All those leftover workbooks make pretty fun coloring books, and they also serve as a great review to Older Girl, as well as a cool way to introduce the concepts to The Boy (because we all know that whatever our siblings have is cooler than what we have . . .).

I take the folders that are still serviceable, reinforce the edges with some tape, and use them as a filing system on my desk. I use one for bills, one for all the current therapy/doctor statements for The Boy, one for upcoming birthday cards, etc. Since they are so slim, I can tuck them right in beside my computer monitor and pull them out when I need them. I know that the Lightning McQueen folder is for all of The Boy's papers, the Care Bears are for the bills, and so on. And let's face it, seeing a winking Care Bear on the front of your bill folder beats a plain folder with "Bills" scrawled across the front.

Then, when school rolls around again and it is time to buy all new school supplies, I feel like I've gotten a full year's worth of use out of all of the things we bought last year. So of course that entitles me to a new pen or tablet while we are out. (I told you, it's an addiction, my friends. I may need some kind of Staples detox program.)

For more great tips, check out Rocks in my Dryer every Wednesday!

Straight to my Head

I've have had some more awards bestowed upon me, and I am starting to get a little embarrassed. . . but not enough to stop me from posting them, apparently.




Muddy Mama, over at Muddy Bathwater, has given me the Nice Matters Award. The official press release on this award says:

"This award is for those bloggers who are nice people; good blog friends and
those who inspire good feelings and inspiration. Also for those who are a
positive influence upon our blogging world."

Thank goodness it doesn't have a "and they are always really positive and nice with their family" clause, because we all know that would seriously hamstring me.

It almost goes without saying that I am flipping this right back at Muddy Mama. She has provided me with lots of ego-stroking, and she is also exceptionally nice. Here are a few others who I think are Nice Bloggers:

Blessed Among Men

4andcounting

SFO Mom

Our Story

The Estrogen Files

Oh, but wait - there's more! Janeen, from Our Story, gave me the You Make Me Smile Award.

"This is what the person who created this award says about it - the thing
that I love most about blogging is that I learn so much about a person just by
reading their blog. I have met many wonderful people with wonderful
stories to tell, and I am grateful every day for each person that I have the
pleasure of crossing paths in life with."

Now I get to pass this little gem along. You may have heard me talk about my group of friends from grade school/high school who are now blogging, and I am definitely sending this to them. They have been making me smile for YEARS, people!

Kim at blog my memory

T at T With Honey

Meg at The Misadventures of Mom

Billie at Life in the Circle

But the smiling doesn't end there, folks. Here are some more people who make me smile:

An Ordinary Mom

It Coulda' Been Worse

RC Mommy

Serving the Queens

Within Me Without Me (Carrie, I miss you!)

Whew, what a love-a-thon! Enjoy, my friends, and Happy Monday . . .

Half-Time Show

20 weeks -- the good old halfway mark

And since this picture is as serious as the grave, here's an outtake . . .

(I myself enjoy the prominently featured toilet paper roll to the right of my growing belly. Three guesses which room I was in . . .)

A Child By Any Other Pseudonym . . .

Lately, several people have pointed out the potential shortcomings of the pseudonyms I've chosen for my children. If this baby is a girl, then Baby Girl gets bumped from her place as youngest girl, and I don't particularly relish calling her Number Two Girl or Next to Last Child or Used-to-be-Baby Girl. Not only are they unflattering, but they are super long to type. And we all know I'm too lazy for that. If this baby is a boy, then technically we could still call The Boy by that name, but then what would the baby be? Baby Boy? The Other Boy? You can see the limitations.

The truth is that I've never been happy with the kids' aliases, and I have been trying to think of replacements for some time. I've always felt that their names lacked any imagination or flair; their monikers simply denote their birth order, not their personalities. I tried to remember why I picked out such bland names for the children, given the fact that I used to read baby name books before I was married. I have always loved names and their origins, so why did I saddle them with perhaps the most non-descript names I could find?


It boils down to this: I didn't know how long I would be hanging around in Blogville. I didn't think that anyone would come here (besides family members), and I figured I would either become too busy with the children to keep up with this, or that my technological ineptitude would give me an ulcer and I would be forced to stop. It was my Blogville version of Medieval baby-naming: you never want to whip out the really good names until you're sure that your baby won't get the Plague or some other nasty thing.

Since I'm hopelessly addicted to reading blogs still here and I haven't blown up the computer, I figured that it's time to take the plunge and pull out the really good names.

Except that I don't have any really good names . . .

Rob thought about naming them based on their personality traits. Sweet nicknames like Master of Disaster, The Destructor, Horseman of the Apocalypse, etc. And while they may be accurate at times, they are still too long for my lazy fingers. Not to mention that they sound too much like Transformers. What does that make the new baby? Optimus Prime?

In all of this brainstorming, I thought it might be helpful to ask the children for their opinions. After explaining to them the need for nicknames on the blog, they excitedly started throwing possibilities out from the back of the van.

Ooo, ooo, ooo . . . . How about Princess Starlightia the Unicorn?

I want to be called Thomas the Train. Or Sir Topham Hatt. Or Bertie the Bus.

I changed my mind. You could call me Princess Pegasus.

I changed my mind, too. I want to be called just Train.

I guess you could call me just Pegasus, but if you're not going put the "Princess" in front, then maybe you should call me Starlightia since that sounds better than Pegasus.

Train!

Umm . . . very creative suggestions guys, but I was kind of hoping to name you after characters from books that our family loves. Can you think of any books that you might like to borrow your name from?

[the silence is deafening]


So their suggestions were slightly less than helpful.

Rob and I have managed to come up with some very suitable character nicknames for the children, as well as some non-literary based nicknames, but I am not in love with any of them right now. I don't know if I will grow fonder of them in time, or if I just haven't found the right ones.

Either way, I'm open for suggestions -- and I'm hoping they are more helpful than the kids'.

Covered Up

All of my children sleep like they are wrestling with an alligator all. night. long. They can be sound asleep, and yet their limbs are twisting and turning and kicking and flailing - it's like sleeping with a turbine. Their sleep habits are one of the primary reasons we opted out of the family bed. They still come in the room, but they know they have a special little pallet on the floor right next to us. Sounds harsh, but if you've ever been kicked in the teeth at 2:00 AM, I know you're on board with me.

When the children moved out of their cribs and into twin beds, I used to spend a lot of time making the bed with cute sheets and pretty blankets. But in the morning, I would come in to find the sheets knotted and twisted and pulled out from the bottom of the mattress. They were so tangled, it looked like the kids had been trying to make a rope out of sheets to escape the tyranny of their parents. I was re-making the whole bed every single morning, and I was not feeling it.

When the kids got old enough to make their own beds, we still had the same problem. They could only get so far before they needed an extra set of adult hands to lift the mattress so they could tuck the sheets in all over again. It was a drag.

Then one day, Older Girl said to me, Mom, just don't put the top sheet on. I don't really like it anyway and you won't have to come in and help me tuck it back in.

Every responsible, prim-and-proper fiber in my being recoiled. No TOP SHEET? Are you kidding? Who sleeps without a top sheet? What separates us from the animals if we forgo the top sheet? Agggghgh . . .

But I was hugely pregnant with Baby Girl at the time, and I was so tired and sweaty just climbing the stairs that my brain completely overrode my ideal of the Top Sheet. I let her take the top sheet off, and she made her bed with no assistance. We've never looked back.

I came to find out that lots of people - decent, respectable people - let their children sleep without top sheets. I would timidly mention the kids' incomplete bedding, and my friends would nod and say, Oh yeah, we got rid of the Top Sheet years ago. Best thing we ever did.

So there you have it - no top sheets for the kids. It's cooler in the summer, I throw an extra blankie on top of them in the winter, and I get to walk up the stairs in the morning and see a bed made without me laying a hand on it. All of that works for me.

(For more tips, check out Rocks in my Dryer every Wednesday)

The Results Are In . . .

and the results all point to the fact that there are no real results.


Overall, the trip out to Penn State was very good. Rob and The Boy enjoyed some much needed father-son time, and their style would have been seriously cramped if all the womenfolk had come along. They ate pancakes for dinner, saw the Nittany Lion, bought souvenirs, listened to loud music in the car, and scratched themselves with abandon. (I'm not completely sure about the last one, but I'm willing to put money on their usual M.O.)


From a medical standpoint, it all boils down to this: The Boy is in the right place, and that is good news. The tests are all overwhelmingly on the side of occupational therapy for his problems. The doctor thinks that The Boy's troubles stem primarily from motor planning delays and less from visual perception problems. She was charmed by him, and she commented more than once on how articulate he is. I guess that twice a week speech therapy for a year and half really did the trick!


She didn't end up telling us too much that we didn't know. We did find out that his prescription has changed, and that we can now add farsightedness to the mix. Luckily, kids glasses are super cheap these days . . .


The doctor said that he has no problem with comprehension and knowledge retention; he is currently operating on the level of late kindergarten/early first grade. His difficulties seem to stem from his muscle weakness and his apraxia. I've talked about apraxia around here before, and, on a very basic level, it means that he has the knowledge and he has the desire to accomplish tasks, but his brain is not wired to tell his body how to do anything. It's a long road, my friends. The doctor did give us some specific visual exercises to do with him, as well as some suggestions for his occupational therapist, but other than that, the visit ended more with a pat on the back and cheese sandwich and less with an official diagnosis.


So that brings us back to the very beginning, which is that we know his symptoms, but there is no name for what causes these symptoms. Frustration has become our permanent house guest.
The boy's neurologist had warned us that we may never know what he "has," and that maybe, twenty years down the road, there will be name and a cause to rally behind. But we are here. Now. The best we can do is to keep on keeping on, stumbling our way towards answers to an unknown question. We seem to be getting pretty good at that.

Do You See What I See?

The Summer of Medically Testing The Boy officially comes to an end today -- and I am not with him to see its completion. Rob and The Boy are out in State College, home of our beloved PSU Nittany Lions, but they are not out there to whoop it up with all the tailgaters getting their grub on for tomorrow's game. They are there for some visual perception testing. What the hey-ho is visual perception testing, you ask? Good question. If you find the answer, let me know, because I'm pretty foggy on the whole thing myself. Isn't that a ringing endorsement from a mother of one who is undergoing said testing? Yep, I thought so too.

Actually, I do understand the idea behind visual perception testing, but I'm interested to know how these tests are implemented. Of course, I sent my husband out there and I'm relying on him to bring me every stinkin' detail. This is a man who I don't even send to the grocery store, despite his being armed with a list that details the exact brand and size of every item we need. It's not that he is incompetent, but we are meant to be a team. He is very laid back and I can get very keyed up, so together we make one normal person. Only sending half the team is a dicey proposition.

Anyhoo, back to the bunny trail . . .

The Boy has glasses, and he has been to ophthalmologists, so his vision is as corrected as it's going to be. But visual perception is a whole other ball of wax. It deals with what the brain actually does with the information it receives from the eyes. Basically, does The Boy see what we see? It also deals with things like depth perception and spatial awareness, two things that are major problems for him right now.

I'll be interested to see what comes of this exam . . . I think. I know it sounds strange to hope that your child gets diagnosed with something, but sometimes the not knowing has been the hardest part of our journey with him. I feel like we would be validated in some way if this doctor comes back and says, Yes, The Boy has some visual perception problems and this is what we need to do to help him overcome them. It gets tricky when all the doctor can say is, Yes, there is something going on with your son, but there is no name and no treatment, so good luck to you.

I am also hoping for some kind of direction for his therapy. What he is doing now seems to be working well, but what if he is not seeing what he is supposed to be seeing? That affects his whole outlook (ha!) on therapy, you see? (haha!) Of course all of this comes on the heels of his occupational therapy progress report that is chock full of glowing accolades such as well below average; distinct motor planning delays; poor visual perception; could not complete tasks.

Actually, The Boy has come very far in his therapy, and I am so pleased and proud of his effort and his almost constant positive attitude. I don't know if I could maintain that attitude if I didn't have the hand strength to pick up a pencil and write something. Who am I kidding? I'd be a total drag. I guess that I am just hoping this exam will help us to tailor his therapy more specifically to his needs. (Plus, we could totally dress him as Mr. Magoo for Halloween!)

I'll be away for a few days, sorting through all of his results and paperwork, but I'd be grateful if you could just say a little prayer of direction for us.

A Drop (or two) A Day, Keeps the Sniffles Away

It's that time of year again: school is in session, the weather is getting (marginally) cooler, and the colds have begun. At least in our house they have. Baby Girl has been hit by two colds since the other two children have started school; nothing serious, just the annual annoying, runny nose, I-could-live-without-this-thanks, cough and cold season. We'll see the end of runny noses some time around June, but until then I do my level best to keep the really bad germs away.


I know some exposure to germs is necessary for good immune system development, but I'd much rather keep the big ones at bay. Like the time Older Girl got pneumonia and missed two weeks of school. I can do without that kind of thing, especially with a new baby coming right in the height of the Germ-a-palooza.


The problem is always that we never seem to be near soap and water when I really need the kids to wash their hands. Like when we are coming out of the grocery store or T*rget and the kids have touched every possible surface, including the insides of approximately 3.5 bathroom stalls.


So I started keeping a pump bottle of alcohol based hand sanitizer in the cup holder of my car. This works like a charm because the kids get a drop as they climb into the car to buckle themselves. And Older Girl can get Baby Girl's hands while I am loading all the junk we bought.

I use only the alcohol-based sanitizers, like Purel*, except I buy the cheap, no-name stuff. I even bought one for Rob's car, because who knows what he is picking up at work and bringing home to us. (I don't use the hand sanitizers with any kind of "antibiotics" or "antimicrobial" additives because I am afraid of creating a strain of some kind of mega-bug that could wipe out the world - but I guess that is another post entirely!)



A little drop of hand sanitizer in the car - it really works for us! (Now if only they could invent some kind of mouthwash/sanitizer combo for when the kids insist on licking the shopping cart handles . . .)

The brave never die, though they sleep in dust: Their courage
nerves a thousand living men.

-Minot J. Savage

Christians, Start Your Engines

It's a good thing that we've been feeling the love around here this weekend, because we had a little incident at church yesterday. More like a little accident. In the parking lot.


Everyone is fine -- we weren't even at the car when it happened -- and I know the whole episode is destined to become a vague memory of aggravation, but that doesn't help the poor crumpled hood of our van today.

After Mass, I went down to the church hall to sign The Boy up for "church school" (sort of like a Sunday school kind of thing), and when I came out, I saw Rob talking to a woman, gesturing at the front of the van, and writing in our little insurance portfolio. Now that's an ill wind that blows no good, my friends.

Here's the rundown (ha!): The woman parked in front of us had done a "pull-through" to the next space when she parked. We pulled in behind her and, in a funny turn of events, were sitting directly behind her at Mass. Since we are encumbered by three dawdling children, a pregnant woman, and seventeen-odd bags when we go to church, we are usually the stragglers out to the parking lot. We have been known to serve as impromptu greeters to the attendees at the next Mass, that's how slowly we move. One the flip side, we usually miss the Grand Prix race that is the church parking lot after Mass. We don't have to jockey for position or make an illegal turn out of the entrance. It's much more calm by the time we arrive on the scene.

Except for yesterday morning. Apparently, the woman threw her Jeep Liberty into Reverse instead of Drive, and the rest was history. And as is usually the case, her car shows little to no damage, but ours looks pretty sorry for ever having parked there. I can understand the mistake at the gearshift, honestly; we've all made bonehead mistakes in the car (admit it!). The thing that gets me is that it seems like she was trying to get out of there like a bat out of Gehenna, because she didn't just roll backward and bump our car. She stepped on it. Plus, she didn't want her husband to find out because she had just run into their garage. Well, let's just say that horse has left the barn, my friends, since we told her we would be going through the insurance companies for this.

The silver lining in all of this is that, having just come from Mass, Rob and I were more inclined toward a calm and forgiving attitude than maybe we would have been at another time. The information exchange seemed to be fairly amicable, at least from what I could see. Besides, I'm pretty sure it's considered poor form to be irate at a fellow parishioner in the parking lot right after you've just received the Body of Christ. There was a lot of deep breathing, but not as much stewing. At least not on my part, which is how I know that grace of God is working in me. I'm a natural born stewer. Rob, however, averts his eyes whenever he goes out to the garage because he says that looking at the van bums him out.

Let's look on the bright side: maybe we'll get a hot little sporty rental car when the van is away getting a face lift. Think of how much hotter it will look with two booster seats, a car seat, and a pregnant woman with inch-long gray roots driving it. Yowsa!

Love Is In The Air

Just like Bartles and Jaymes (remember them?), I thank you for your support. The morning after the blow-out was calm and full of chastened family members, Mom included. Plus, Rob had made it back home in the early morning; it was easier for the kids to forget that their mother is a raving lunatic when they could hang on their dad. Actually, the children seemed to be none the worse for wear on Friday morning, which means either a) they are very resilient and have short memories or b) they are so used to me losing it by now that it hardly registers on their radar screen for more than twelve hours. Sadly, it's probably a combination of the two.

All of your comments were so, so lovely - a balm to me, honestly. I really want to be a person who can reflect on the ups and downs of motherhood with a more relaxed and humorous outlook, and I never intended for this blog to be a place where I would come to complain about the ugly underbelly of raising children. But sometimes you have to let it all hang out, I guess. When I am caught in the throes of the difficulties of child-rearing (read: when I am screaming so loud I can feel my blood pressure rising, and I know that this is the moment when I stroke out) I always think that no one else could possibly be losing their minds like this with their children. Not to this extent. So to hear all of you tell me that you have been there, well it makes me a feel a little more normal, my friends.

With all of this love floating around in Blogville, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to say thank-you to Janeen at Our Story for awarding me this:

This award has nothing to do with parenting, so I could still be safely considered as a winner. I'd like to send a great big "right back atchya" to Janeen. I've learned so much from her blog about kids with severe food allergies. I am always amazed at the things I forget about, even when I am trying to be allergy-conscious.

Now I get to pass this on to blogs that I love. I'm not sure of the "rules" for this award, but I tend to disregard the rules for awards anyway. Awards are like presents - no strings attached. These are the blogs that I look at almost every day. I've even been known leave the comfy nest of my Google Reader page and head over to the actual blog!

Muddy Bathwater
Serving the Queens
SFO Mom
T With Honey
Et Tu? (this is a new one for me- I haven't even commented yet!- but I can't believe I haven't read it sooner)
RC Mommy
It Coulda' Been Worse

There you have it - blogs I read all the time. They aren't the only ones I love, but I had to refrain from just publishing my whole Google Reader List.

And thanks again, my friends, for all of your hugs, well-wishes, and sage advice. I've said it before, but I'll say it again - you're the best.

How Low Can You Go

A friend once told me that I sound different on this blog than I do in real life. Not alter-ego different, just a little more chipper. I guess it's better than sounding more crazed or more angry. I like to think that I sound the same, but truth be told, I am sure things come out sounding a little neater, a little more mentally stable after I've had the time to get through the actual situation and be past it far enough to post about it. For me, it's the main luxury of blogging.

Tonight there will be no self-editing because, by some miracle, I find myself here at the keyboard at a very low parenting moment. The past few days have been rough for various reasons, most of them small, but when piled on top of each other, they make a nice mound of crap. Tonight was the cherry on that mound, and it just so happens that it all played out in front of the school principal, the teachers, and most of the parents of Older Girl's classmates.

Rob is still away, so I took all of the kids to Meet the Teacher Night at school. This meeting is supposed to be a chance to have a quick sit-down with your child's teacher; the teacher explains their teaching philosophy, what is expected of the children during the year, what kinds of fun things they will be learning. It's not the time for an in depth parent/teacher conference, and the evening is strictly optional.

I knew the children were tired, I knew I was tired, I knew I wasn't at the top of my parenting game, but I wanted to meet the third grade teacher and get the gouge on the year ahead. You can go ahead and say that the whole evening is my fault, and you would be right, but I'll ask you not to say it just the same. I already know the whole debacle can be laid on my doorstep.

The ride there was full of chatter and promises of good behavior, so I was feeling like maybe I wouldn't end up looking like the crazy hag who has more children than she can handle and OMG is she pregnant again?! What gives?! I should have known better.

Of course we were late, but only by a few minutes, and I wasn't the only one hurrying in. The meeting was in the cafeteria, which is basically the fixed up basement of the school. Older Girl spotted some classmates as soon as we got in the door, and she asked to sit on the steps with them while I went in to listen to the principal. I got The Boy set up with a magnet game, and the baby was in the stroller, looking at me with eyes that were begging for sleep.

While the principal was giving the overview of school procedures, The Boy was getting progressively louder with his toy. I asked him to whisper, but it's really no use - he doesn't know what whispering actually entails. I know his modulation problems are part of his SPD, and in a loud environment his only response is to get louder. I know he is not aware that he is doing anything disruptive, and he is often incapable of changing his response. But all of that knowledge could not stop the fire from creeping into my cheeks when I saw the other parents staring at him.

Instead of being grace-full and patient, I became terse and hard with him. His response was to start wailing, a low mournful wail, punctuated with things like "Mom, why are you mad?" I shushed him relentlessly, mercilessly. I hate myself.

About this time, Older Girl came in from the hallway and, while the principal was still speaking, proceeded to ask me if she could go outside with her classmates. In full voice. With no pretense of whispering. I told her no, for a variety of reasons, all of which relate to safety. She then moved from asking me to begging me. Whining like a baby. In full voice. Did I mention the principal is still speaking? Again the parents were staring. I took her by the arm, in a not so very gentle way, and lead her out to the hallway where I contemplated just shaking the living daylights out of her. In a moment of weakness and desperation, and against my better judgement, I let her go outside with the other kids just to stop the whining.

I listened to the principal finish her remarks, although I doubt that I could tell you one word of what she said, and I stood up to find the table with Older Girl's teacher. Meanwhile, I was still regretting my decision to let her go outside. It was fully dusk by now, and while we were in a "safe" neighborhood, it was still an unfamiliar one. Plus, I was all the way down in the basement cafeteria. I wasn't getting a good feeling, so I left The Boy and Baby Girl with my friend for a minute while I went upstairs and called Older Girl.

I should have just left her outside. She was mad, and when she gets mad, she is like me: pissy. I led her to the table where I was sitting with the other kids, and she turned to me, while her teacher was speaking, and told me how it's not fair! and this is boring! and I never get to do anything! and I! want! to! go! outside! Again I grabbed her arm, not caring that I was in a room full of witnesses, and between clenched teeth I hissed at her to get herself into the bathroom and get her behavior under control. My cheeks were so hot by this time that I was sure they had burned right off my face.

I turned back to see the teacher still speaking, but looking straight at me, and I wanted to die. Right there. Just swallowed up whole by some cataclysmic turn of events. I should have just packed up the old kit bag and left, but I'm stubborn. I had made it this far and I sure wasn't going to leave now, not before hearing every last word this woman had to say. Meanwhile, my eight year old daughter was standing in the door way of the bathroom, audibly crying and bemoaning her fate of getting the meanest mother in the world. I shot her my dagger eyes, but she was too busy being fresh-mouthed to notice.

It turned out that there weren't too many more words to be said. Third grade seems very straight-forward, and although the teacher stayed for questions, I could not get out of there fast enough. I ran up the stairs, carrying the baby inside the stroller, and almost not caring whether the other two were following me. I was seething, and they knew it, because they followed without a word.

I got everyone in the van and blew my top. And as I was screaming at the wide-eyed children in my rear view mirror, I wanted to stop. I did. And yet I kept on going. Everyone was crying, even (and especially me), and I was yelling at them for crying. The irony did not escape me. What also did not escape me was how utterly inane it is to yell at someone for crying. All it does is make them cry more. As the piece de resistance, I yelled at them for crying about missing their dad. Mother of Year right here, my friends.

At home, I pulled the Old Woman in a Shoe act and sent them all to bed, except without the whipped them all soundly part. But don't think I didn't think about that. I could hear them crying in bed as I came down here to the keyboard, and this is where the night has brought me. I feel wretched, ashamed, full of regret, sick to my stomach, and tired, mostly just plain tired. And I'm sure you are all so glad that I didn't give myself any time to let the anger pass, to let the humor come and blur out the embarrassment.

Gah. I am eminently unqualified for this job. And I really do hate myself sometimes. I think I'll send myself to bed.

Arrivals and Departures

Things have been crazy around the old HomeFront Corp these days, and most of that craziness has revolved around the telephone. We've been waiting on tenterhooks for Rob's middle sister to deliver her fourth baby, and she did not disappoint (so kind of her, really, to make our day and all!) My sister-in-law has had a long pregnancy, fraught with complications that led her to an induction two weeks early. This being her fourth child, she sort of expected it to just leap happily from her womb, and truth be told, so did most of the family. We're not really known for our patience.

But my new niece, Little Kitty, had no intention of going gently into that good birth canal. She got her full day of labor in before finally making an entrance late last night. All seems to be well with both mom and baby, and for that we are grateful.

In the midst of all this birthing, we received word that Rob's godmother, Eileen, passed away. She had been suffering from a lengthy and debilitating illness for several years, but her death was still quite a shock to us. Maybe it's because we all had our eyes looking toward the new life that would be joining our family; maybe it's because Eileen was so full of life that you could never imagine that spark going out. I don't know, but we are feeling her loss keenly.

Eileen was one of those people who could talk to anyone for five minutes and make them feel like family. That is such a rare and special gift. She was still deeply in love with her husband, George, who she fondly called "G." When we would visit them, after she had filled our kids with ice cream and made them a pillow fort to sleep in, we would sit down to watch movies or television with them. She would always sit on the couch and pat the spot next to her; George, wherever he was, would come directly to that spot like a homing pigeon and hold her hand. To be honest, Rob and I felt the same way. You just had to be around Eileen; she told the best stories and gave great advice. She always knew the right thing to say. Her family was her treasure, and we are so blessed to have been part of that family.

Rob is flying down to North Carolina for her funeral, and I wish the whole family could go. I feel like crying even as I write this, so it might seem strange to wish to go to a funeral, but not for Eileen. Not for Eileen.

Eternal rest, grant unto her, O Lord,
And may perpetual light shine upon her.
May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God,
Rest in peace.
Amen.

Gotta Have It

When I was beginning my career as the CFO of the HomeFront Corp, it did not take long for me to become a devotee of The Household Budget. I found that the two nickels Rob and I were rubbing together went much farther when I actually knew where that money was going. I also became acutely aware of the cost of everything. I joined the elite ranks of people who could look at an item and say "hmm, that's a great price," while nodding approvingly.

In those early days, I was a big fan of the generic, no-frills products. I found that in many cases the store brand was just as good as the big money product, and I am still fairly satisfied with the no-name labels. But in the back of my mind, I sometimes heard my mother's voice saying "Sometimes you get what you pay for." I most often heard her when I was cursing the inferiority of some super cheap household item.

Now that we have a few more nickels left over at the end of the month, I have found that I have relaxed the reins over the brand-name products. This week's WFMW centers on the specific brands we choose over their less expensive counterparts. To that end, here are the things that keep the employees at the HomeFront Corp happy.

JIF peanut butter: This is a demand request from Rob. To say the man loves his peanut butter is like saying the ocean is salty. I'm pretty sure that he eats peanut butter at least once a day, and it has to be JIF. Having grown up with Skippy, I figured one peanut butter was as good as another. Apparently I was mistaken, as it is JIF that is superior in taste and texture. Rob grew up eating the store brand peanut butter, but having tasted the ambrosia that is JIF, he can never turn back. Besides, I hear that choosy moms choose JIF.

Clover Farms Icy Tea: I may be wrong, but I think this brand is only available in eastern PA. Icy Tea comes in a gallon jug and looks like motor oil, but oh my stars and garters is it full of sweet deliciousness. It's local challenger, Turkey Hill Iced Tea, is also very good and they make better flavored tea, but something in the Icy Tea keeps us coming back.

Downy Fabric Softener: I've used many dryer sheets in my day, mostly because we couldn't use them while I was growing up (due to allergies), and most of them have done a fine job of making my towels feel softer than a piece of cardboard. But Downy . . . well, Downy just smells like babies to me. Everything soft and snuggly and warm about a baby distilled into one piece of paper than I can toss in my dryer . . . um, excuse me while I throw in a load of laundry.

Crest toothpaste: Just the straight-up mint flavor, no fancy concoctions like vanilla or lemon or whatever else is out there. I don't know if it works any better, but the minty taste is just right for me.

Huggies Extra-Sensitive Wipes: There are many wipes out there that say they are fragrance-free and hypo-allergenic, but the Huggies Extra-Sensitive are the only ones that have been the most gentle on my kids bottoms. Plus, they are thick and they retain just the right level of moisture; not so dry as to chafe tender skin, but not so wet as to be slip-sliding all over a squirming toddler's business end.


Glad Force Flex trash bags: I have learned, through serious trial and error, that not all trash bags are created equal. Not even the heavy duty kind. I'm willing to pay a pretty penny for a reliable trash bag.

Mr. Clean Magic Erasers: These things really are magic. I once scrubbed an entire crusty refrigerator with just one magic eraser. They are so good they practically pay for themselves.


After reviewing this list, I'm surprised to see that I don't buy as many name brands as I thought I did. I am usually happy to go generic, or to try new or different products, but I will admit to the above as my tried and true stand-bys. They work for us!