Hey! Guess what we've got on tap for this weekend? It's super fun and it spreads like wildfire.
It's pink eye! Woo-hoo!
Poor Fiver is just streaming globs of goo from his swollen eye, and he is none too happy about the salve that we have to apply twice a day. I personally love the instructions on the tube of medicine: "Apply a thin ribbon of ointment to lower eyelid twice daily for five days." The part that they didn't have room to print on the teeny tiny tube is: "You may want to invest in some protective body armor because applying the thin ribbon of ointment to your freaked out child will be like trying to apply ointment to a rabid wolverine."
So we are raising the yellow flag of quarantine while doing our level best to keep Fiver's hands out of his eyes and off of the other kids. Especially the baby. I do not feel like applying any ribbons of anything to a four month old's eyes.
Maybe I'll just keep looking on the internet for more clips of movies with my new Pretend Boy Friend (PBF), also known as my Movie Boyfriend. Maybe I'll tell you more about him on Monday. Right after I break the news to Rob. And him. (Or maybe I should make you guess his identity?!)
Have a good, eye goop free weekend, my friends.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
We're All In This Together
Thank you for your comments on last night's post; I knew I liked you, my friends. We are simpatico.
It is comforting to know that we all have those days, and that we can come out on the other side and do better, be better.
I feel calmer today, after a little time and perspective, and I thought I might post something more lighthearted, but you know what? I've decided not to. Instead, I am going to sit with Rob and enjoy the Lost season finale (even though I am profoundly confused as to what the heck is happening). I just need to get back to myself, back to trying to see things from a slightly more humorous slant.
I'll be back, my friends.
It is comforting to know that we all have those days, and that we can come out on the other side and do better, be better.
I feel calmer today, after a little time and perspective, and I thought I might post something more lighthearted, but you know what? I've decided not to. Instead, I am going to sit with Rob and enjoy the Lost season finale (even though I am profoundly confused as to what the heck is happening). I just need to get back to myself, back to trying to see things from a slightly more humorous slant.
I'll be back, my friends.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Tomorrow Is Another Day
So today? Today kind of stank.
The day started out well enough, but something shifted around 10:30 this morning and we all found ourselves in the hand basket headed for you-know-where.
Bun, who has been warming up to the idea of a regular nap, decided to pull the old switcheroo on his mother. He would not settle down, and I finally had to leave him in his crib while I took a shower. If you can call ducking under the shower head for two minutes a real shower. It was more like a rinse-off.
When I got out of the shower, Bun was hoarse from screaming and I heard the distinct sounds of splashing water. That's never good when there is a belligerent nearly two year old on the loose. Never.
I walked into the bathroom to find Sally playing in the toilet, which, thanks to her older brother, was UN-flushed. Fiver subscribes to the chamberpot school of thought rather than we-have-indoor-plumbing-so-just-flush-the-darn-thing-already. I wigged.
I'm usually not too easily grossed out, but this sent my heebies jeebies to DEFCON 5. I had to put the baby down, who promptly resumed screaming, and grab Sally out of the toilet. I yelled at her the whole time I scrubbed her down, even though she kept calling my name in the most plaintive and obviously apologetic tone possible. This tone could have melted away the rest of the polar ice cap, that's how sad it was. But since I have no heart, I just kept on scolding.
Meanwhile, Fiver was sitting in his room, listening to various parties cry and rail, and he said, "I just can't take the noise." You and me both, brother.
Things eventually settled down, but we never quite got back on track. There is not a single area of this house that reflects the day's efforts. Things are messy and I feel defeated. I let my family down today because I let unimportant things take precedence over what I need to be doing around here. I sat too long at the computer, trying to answer emails and eventually succumbing to the lure of my Google Reader. And then, because I was angry at myself, I proceeded to be angry with the children. I am so very mature.
So here it is, 10:30 at night, and Fiver has crawled into our bed seeking solace. I would like to do a little more work, but I need to be available to my child. I need to put first things first. I need to shut down.
Good night, my friends.
PS: I apologized to Sally many, many times and gave her wet cheeks many kisses and she seems to have let it all go. She, evidently, has a heart.
The day started out well enough, but something shifted around 10:30 this morning and we all found ourselves in the hand basket headed for you-know-where.
Bun, who has been warming up to the idea of a regular nap, decided to pull the old switcheroo on his mother. He would not settle down, and I finally had to leave him in his crib while I took a shower. If you can call ducking under the shower head for two minutes a real shower. It was more like a rinse-off.
When I got out of the shower, Bun was hoarse from screaming and I heard the distinct sounds of splashing water. That's never good when there is a belligerent nearly two year old on the loose. Never.
I walked into the bathroom to find Sally playing in the toilet, which, thanks to her older brother, was UN-flushed. Fiver subscribes to the chamberpot school of thought rather than we-have-indoor-plumbing-so-just-flush-the-darn-thing-already. I wigged.
I'm usually not too easily grossed out, but this sent my heebies jeebies to DEFCON 5. I had to put the baby down, who promptly resumed screaming, and grab Sally out of the toilet. I yelled at her the whole time I scrubbed her down, even though she kept calling my name in the most plaintive and obviously apologetic tone possible. This tone could have melted away the rest of the polar ice cap, that's how sad it was. But since I have no heart, I just kept on scolding.
Meanwhile, Fiver was sitting in his room, listening to various parties cry and rail, and he said, "I just can't take the noise." You and me both, brother.
Things eventually settled down, but we never quite got back on track. There is not a single area of this house that reflects the day's efforts. Things are messy and I feel defeated. I let my family down today because I let unimportant things take precedence over what I need to be doing around here. I sat too long at the computer, trying to answer emails and eventually succumbing to the lure of my Google Reader. And then, because I was angry at myself, I proceeded to be angry with the children. I am so very mature.
So here it is, 10:30 at night, and Fiver has crawled into our bed seeking solace. I would like to do a little more work, but I need to be available to my child. I need to put first things first. I need to shut down.
Good night, my friends.
PS: I apologized to Sally many, many times and gave her wet cheeks many kisses and she seems to have let it all go. She, evidently, has a heart.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Better Homes and Gardens
After much tribulation, mostly in the form of sweaty kids and angry wasps, I am happy to say that the garden is finished.
We added our good, rock-free soil to our crapped out, bone dry, hey-are-you-living-atop-an-anthracite-mine?-rocky soil, and then I placed each plant container on top of the dirt so that Rob would know where to dig all the holes. We make an awesome team.
At some point during all of this placing and digging, we sent the children inside without us. Anyone with half a brain knows that doing so is a risky proposition, but we were desperate. They had planted a few flowers, played on the swings, they had pushed each other down the hill in a wagon, they had played Apache Raid in their fort, and they were exhausted. Which they chose to communicate to us by alternately running screaming from every flying insect in a ten foot radius and throwing their water bottles down on one another from the top of the fort.
You can tell that the garden is newly planted, mostly because the flowers are still alive, but also because it looks a little sparse. I know that the plants will fill in, provided they actually grow, but it still looks a little anticlimactic. Of course I do not have any pictures because the camera batteries are dead, so you'll have to take my word for it.
It looks a little bit like this:
Oh, I kid. We don't have that many tulips.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Bloom Where You're Planted. Please.
Ambition, thy name is woman!
Today is the day, my friends. I am on a mission to beautify the dirt patch on the side of the house, even though my plans don't include any corn (at least not this year).
Believe it or not, this dirt patch used to be a wilderness of weeds and half dead creeping juniper. I think there may have been some burrows of some kind in there as well. I was fairly content to just not look at the whole hot mess while I was pregnant. And since I was pregnant for two springs in a row, the garden was allowed to sink happily into entropy.
We spent the better part of Saturday ripping out weeds and tearing our hamstrings. It's helpful that we live at the edge of the PA Slate Belt, so we have beautiful, rich, rock free soil. Ahem.
I offered the kids a penny a weed if they got in on the action, and they took me up on my offer for about eleven minutes. I'm surprised they lasted that long. Before they got called away by the siren's song of the swing set, they managed to rack up a whole sixty seven cents. I hope they don't spend it all in one place.
On Sunday, I took the older two to our local nursery to pick out some plantschosen to die a parched, weed-choked death that were clearly marked as HARDY and DROUGHT-RESISTANT and ABLE TO SURVIVE THE MINISTRATIONS OF CHILDREN. So we basically came away with some cacti and some plastic flowers. 
Now all we have to do is dump a ton of some kind of rich, NON-ROCKY soil into the dirt plot, and then carefully pick out a spot for each of the lucky plants. Oh, and I want to design a sort of dry riverbed of egg rock around the air conditioning unit so that no one will kill any plants when the air conditioner is serviced.
I certainly wouldn't want anyone to step on my plants when we all know that the right way to kill them is to let them wither on the stem.
Believe it or not, this dirt patch used to be a wilderness of weeds and half dead creeping juniper. I think there may have been some burrows of some kind in there as well. I was fairly content to just not look at the whole hot mess while I was pregnant. And since I was pregnant for two springs in a row, the garden was allowed to sink happily into entropy.
We spent the better part of Saturday ripping out weeds and tearing our hamstrings. It's helpful that we live at the edge of the PA Slate Belt, so we have beautiful, rich, rock free soil. Ahem.
I offered the kids a penny a weed if they got in on the action, and they took me up on my offer for about eleven minutes. I'm surprised they lasted that long. Before they got called away by the siren's song of the swing set, they managed to rack up a whole sixty seven cents. I hope they don't spend it all in one place.
On Sunday, I took the older two to our local nursery to pick out some plants
Coreopsis, Maiden-hair, Salvia: we hardly knew ye.
I certainly wouldn't want anyone to step on my plants when we all know that the right way to kill them is to let them wither on the stem.
Dead plants rolling!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
The Mailbag, Part II
I just finished my treadmilling in the bowels of the earth basement, and I am now comfily ensconced on the bed with Rob's laptop. You know, I used to scoff at the concept of a laptop with a wireless connection, but more and more I'm beginning to be convinced of its merits. I hope Rob doesn't want this back. It's not like it's issued to him from work or anything.
While I was putting in my sweat equity, I was watching Pride and Prejudice (Colin! Colin!) and trying not to swoon right off the treadmill. I can't help it; every time I watch it, I do the same thing. I get upset when Darcy and Lizzy are initially nasty to each other, and then, when they start throwing each other smoldering glances, I start to bite my lower lip and geek out at all the romance. I'm hopeless.
Anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about me, and answer some more questions, shall we? Fun!
Stephanie asks: What do you feel your most shining moment as a mom has been? I won't make you share your worst.
While I was putting in my sweat equity, I was watching Pride and Prejudice (Colin! Colin!) and trying not to swoon right off the treadmill. I can't help it; every time I watch it, I do the same thing. I get upset when Darcy and Lizzy are initially nasty to each other, and then, when they start throwing each other smoldering glances, I start to bite my lower lip and geek out at all the romance. I'm hopeless.
Anyway, enough about me. Let's talk about me, and answer some more questions, shall we? Fun!
Stephanie asks: What do you feel your most shining moment as a mom has been? I won't make you share your worst.
Bless you for not making me share the worst, although some may argue that this blog documents them. I hope that there are some good moments caught in the mix.
This question was harder to answer than I thought, only because my nature is so self-deprecating that I instinctively seem to shy away from naming the better parts of myself. I am excellent with the faults, to a fault, but I'm stingy with the praise in the old inner monologue.
I would say that my best "shining moment" (besides, you know, pushing them out of my own body) was when Rob was called up to active duty with the Navy Reserves and left us for nine months.
Rob and I spent the first eight years of our marriage as an active duty Navy family. It was a good life, but when the opportunity came with the perfect job to go civilian, we decided that we would take that path. Rob and I have always been very proud of his military service, so when we moved he decided to stay in the reserves.
We had been living the civilian life for a little more than a year when Rob got a phone call on the day before Thanksgiving. He was told that he was being called up to active duty, and that he would be gone by December 15. He would be gone for a year. Crap.
Once all the details came out, we were relieved to know that he would be going down to Pensacola, Florida for the year to fill in for the docs who had gone to Iraq. We had about two and a half weeks to get ourselves ready for his departure, which is more than many military families get, but it still felt like I was racing the hourglass.
All the sand ran out when he pulled out of the driveway on the fifteenth and I was left with Francie and Fiver. We spent the next six months without seeing Rob at all, even though he was still in the US. The problem was that we couldn't afford to go see him. The hospital held his job for him, but didn't pay us a penny until he came back to work. We went back to our Navy pay, which was great when we lived on a military base or got a housing allowance, but not so great when we had a mortgage that was calculated on Rob's civilian salary. We lost more than a third of our income.
All of a sudden, I was in charge of every.single.thing. Of course I talked everything over with Rob each night (and boy were those phone calls a blessing!), but the reality of any plans fell to me. I held my breath while I balanced the checkbook, I drained the savings account, and I racked up some impressive credit card bills.
Through it all, I just kept going with the daily routine of life with kids. We leaned on our families quite a bit, but at the end of each day it came down to the three of us. We clung to each other. Francie slipped silently into my bed every night because she "didn't want me to sleep alone." Even though Rob's absence was like a hole in my chest, my kids needed me to pull it together. And in needing me, they saved me from drowning in loneliness and self-pity.
When summer came and Francie was finished with school, we got the chance to go visit Rob. Friends of ours generously offered to let us use their home in Pensacola since they would be away for the summer (no hotel to pay!). We couldn't afford plane tickets or a rental car, so I drove the kids down to Florida myself.
We were so desperate to see Rob that I didn't even think twice about a trip that I would have sworn only a crazy person would make. I packed up the van and the kids and started driving, alone, down the eastern seaboard. We were running on the grace of God at that point.
Long story long, we made it, Rob got to come home three months early, and that whole time is now just a distant memory. In fact, Fiver has no recollection of it at all. And as an added bonus, guess who was born nine months and one week after Rob got back? (Give me an "S" . . .)
I have no desire to be a single parent, but there is always the knowledge, tucked away in the deepest recesses of my mind, that I can do it because I have done it.
There you have it, my shining moment, and I'll never ask for another like it. (Although I wouldn't mind some other kind of shining moment. Like when I win Mother of the Year. In my dreams.)
You're Never Fully Dressed Without One
I have been truly enjoying contemplating all of your questions, my friends. I didn't think I would be digging it this much, but you have asked some really good ones. I am working on my answers (remember my plan to turn them into a smorgasbord of posts), but in the meantime it's Thursday and that means it's time for Sincerely 'Fro Me To You, hosted by We Are THAT Family.
Bun is a very serious baby. He has mellowed considerably since his rocky early weeks, but he is still the master of the furrowed brow. And he is not even four months old. What does he even have to furrow his brow about?
But when you can get him to smile at you it is glorious. His merry eyes crinkle at the edges, and you can catch a fleeting glimpse of the little dimple in his delicious cheeks. I have decided to make it my daily goal to get him to smile as much as I possibly can. Between that and the blogging, there may be a serious downturn in productivity around here.
I'm willing to risk it. He's irresistible.
Hello, Mother! What are you doing with that camera? Are you still trying
to get that picture of me smiling? Give up now, woman. I am a rock.
I call this maneuver "Fists of Fury." Can't see me smiling if you can't see my face. Slick, right?
I call this one "The Razz."
Seriously, Mom? Are you still trying to get that picture? Why can't you admit defeat gracefully? I mean, you will never catch me smiling for the camera. Never! I am stoic. I remain unmoved. I am . . .
OKAY! I'm smiling! You win! I am powerless to resist you. That is some supercharged mojo you've got going on.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
The Mailbag, Part I
All right, my friends, I am so psyched that you brought the questions! (Does anyone even say psyched anymore? Probably just me.)
I am going to savor your questions and milk them for as many posts as I can. These babies are going to take me far, I can feel it. I also have a couple memes to finish (hey Amy! hey Domestic Accident!), so it's quite possible that I might be able to glide through a week (or more!) without one original post. I'm all about bringing you the best of The Bare Minimum of Blogging.
Before I start answering, I wanted to let you know that I have decided not to change my avatar. I just really like the original, and maybe I am in a rut, but I am happy there, so I think I'll stay. I knew that my indecision was keeping you awake at night, and I just wanted to put your minds at rest. You're welcome.
Now, let's dig in to the mailbag! Many of you sent me multi-part questions, so I think I will go through them buffet style. A little of this, a little of that, make a second (and third!) trip, until I've made my way to the end.
Barb asked: What was your college major? What jobs did you have before the kids?
Well, Barb, given the style and content of this blog, it may surprise you to learn that I was an English major. And I graduated Magna Cum Laude (and a tenth of a point shy of Summa, baby). Graduating Magna Cum Laude has never gotten me much (just like the stupid SAT's), but I earned it the hard way. By not partying and still turning in my papers at the last possible minute.
In truth, I loved college, and sometimes I miss it dearly. I loved walking around campus, living with my friends, and having the time and opportunity to immerse myself in my work. I loved siting in class and dissecting the subplot of a novel. I even loved those papers that I handed in at the last minute, because back in those days I sure could string a pretty sentence together. Quite unlike the stream-of-consciousness blather you find here. But I am in a different phase of my life right now, and I know that I don't have the time to devote to papers and in depth character analysis. I've been reading the same page for three days in the biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine on my nightstand. Luckily, my short term memory is shot, so it always seems new to me.
To tell the truth, I didn't have many jobs before I had the kids. In fact, I have not had a "real" job yet, in the way that the world defines that term. I went from being a college student to a military wife to a mom. I've worked lots of different jobs, like at a canoe and river tubing place, an ice cream parlor, a grocery store, a college theater box office. Rob and I got married less than a month after I graduated from college, and we moved to Florida the day after the wedding. I worked as a nanny while I was in Florida, and then I got pregnant with Francie. I always knew that I wanted to stay home with my kids, and that's where I've been. If I ever try to get a job after the kids are more grown, my resume is going to have a twenty year blank spot. Crap.
T asked: For each of your children tell us one personality trait or quirk that they inherited from you.
Francie: Her nice bossiness. Rob said not to call it bossiness because that sounds pejorative, but that's what it is. She's like a cruise director: she doesn't always boss in a mean way, but she is your typical Type A oldest child and she assumes that you'll want to follow her plan of action. She has an over-developed sense of responsibility, thanks mostly to me, so she feels like she needs to run the show with the younger ones. She takes it pretty hard when they assert their independence, but she gets over it.
Fiver: His fastidiousness. We joke about him being a little OCD with his belongings and his environment, but he's really no different than his mother. Rob has lost count of the number of times I have said, "I just want it the way I want it" in response to his questions about my system in the house. I am not annoying to live with at all.
Sally: Her baby love. All of my kids love babies, but Sally takes the cake. She is always content to push her baby around the house in the stroller, as she very carefully mimics everything I do for Bun. The older two never gave a flying fig about babies or baby dolls when they were her age. She points out babies everywhere we go, and she is enamored of her little brother. For now, anyway.
Bun: He's still small, so it's hard to tell, but I know he likes his food and sleeping in his own bed. That's got me written all over it.
Whew! That's only three questions, and it's already my bed time. Thank goodness there's always another post waiting in the wings. I'm having a great time so far - keep the questions coming if you like.
I am going to savor your questions and milk them for as many posts as I can. These babies are going to take me far, I can feel it. I also have a couple memes to finish (hey Amy! hey Domestic Accident!), so it's quite possible that I might be able to glide through a week (or more!) without one original post. I'm all about bringing you the best of The Bare Minimum of Blogging.
Before I start answering, I wanted to let you know that I have decided not to change my avatar. I just really like the original, and maybe I am in a rut, but I am happy there, so I think I'll stay. I knew that my indecision was keeping you awake at night, and I just wanted to put your minds at rest. You're welcome.
Now, let's dig in to the mailbag! Many of you sent me multi-part questions, so I think I will go through them buffet style. A little of this, a little of that, make a second (and third!) trip, until I've made my way to the end.
Barb asked: What was your college major? What jobs did you have before the kids?
Well, Barb, given the style and content of this blog, it may surprise you to learn that I was an English major. And I graduated Magna Cum Laude (and a tenth of a point shy of Summa, baby). Graduating Magna Cum Laude has never gotten me much (just like the stupid SAT's), but I earned it the hard way. By not partying and still turning in my papers at the last possible minute.
In truth, I loved college, and sometimes I miss it dearly. I loved walking around campus, living with my friends, and having the time and opportunity to immerse myself in my work. I loved siting in class and dissecting the subplot of a novel. I even loved those papers that I handed in at the last minute, because back in those days I sure could string a pretty sentence together. Quite unlike the stream-of-consciousness blather you find here. But I am in a different phase of my life right now, and I know that I don't have the time to devote to papers and in depth character analysis. I've been reading the same page for three days in the biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine on my nightstand. Luckily, my short term memory is shot, so it always seems new to me.
To tell the truth, I didn't have many jobs before I had the kids. In fact, I have not had a "real" job yet, in the way that the world defines that term. I went from being a college student to a military wife to a mom. I've worked lots of different jobs, like at a canoe and river tubing place, an ice cream parlor, a grocery store, a college theater box office. Rob and I got married less than a month after I graduated from college, and we moved to Florida the day after the wedding. I worked as a nanny while I was in Florida, and then I got pregnant with Francie. I always knew that I wanted to stay home with my kids, and that's where I've been. If I ever try to get a job after the kids are more grown, my resume is going to have a twenty year blank spot. Crap.
T asked: For each of your children tell us one personality trait or quirk that they inherited from you.
Francie: Her nice bossiness. Rob said not to call it bossiness because that sounds pejorative, but that's what it is. She's like a cruise director: she doesn't always boss in a mean way, but she is your typical Type A oldest child and she assumes that you'll want to follow her plan of action. She has an over-developed sense of responsibility, thanks mostly to me, so she feels like she needs to run the show with the younger ones. She takes it pretty hard when they assert their independence, but she gets over it.
Fiver: His fastidiousness. We joke about him being a little OCD with his belongings and his environment, but he's really no different than his mother. Rob has lost count of the number of times I have said, "I just want it the way I want it" in response to his questions about my system in the house. I am not annoying to live with at all.
Sally: Her baby love. All of my kids love babies, but Sally takes the cake. She is always content to push her baby around the house in the stroller, as she very carefully mimics everything I do for Bun. The older two never gave a flying fig about babies or baby dolls when they were her age. She points out babies everywhere we go, and she is enamored of her little brother. For now, anyway.
Bun: He's still small, so it's hard to tell, but I know he likes his food and sleeping in his own bed. That's got me written all over it.
Whew! That's only three questions, and it's already my bed time. Thank goodness there's always another post waiting in the wings. I'm having a great time so far - keep the questions coming if you like.
Monday, May 19, 2008
I Ask, Then You Ask
I have a couple of questions, my friends, so naturally I turn to you.
First: Do you think I should change my avatar? I love the picture I have right now. "Breakfast in Bed" is one of my favorite Mary Cassatt paintings, and the little girl in the painting reminds me of Sally. However, I've seen a lot of cute new avatars from different bloggers recently and I'm wondering if I should mix it up a bit. I know myself, and I am a faithful student of the "If It Ain't Broke Don't Fix It" school of thought, but on the other hand, I have had the same avatar since I began blogging. What do you think?
Second: Do you tip people who do things around your house? I don't mean appliance repair people or other jobs of that nature. I mean like movers or the extremely nice Mennonite gentlemen who came to install the swingset we bought for the kids. These guys had the whole thing up in about thirty minutes. I can't even get takeout that fast. And they gave Fiver some Juicy Fruit gum, which he bit off in small bits, chewed with only his front teeth, and spit in the trash so he could take another bite. But still. We paid for installation, of course, but should I have given them extra? I really don't know since all of my social skills leak out of my ears and run down the street whenever anyone comes over to work on our house. I do not know what is wrong with me. I am a reject, help me.
And now, in addition to the answering, you get to do the asking. Lucky ducks.
I have seen this "ask me a question, any question" kind of post making its way around Blogville, and I have been wanting to try it. Then T and I were tweeting about trying it, one thing led to another, and we decided we'd both go for it (with a little encouragement from Fried Okra).
Frankly, I am worried that no one will have any questions for me because I am not all that exciting. I can't even stay up later than my Granny.
Plus, I check in with my Sitemeter, and I know I have readers from all kinds of little nooks and crannies all over the map, but I seem to have only a small core of commenters. I am cool with that, as I don't really blog specifically for the comments. I maintain this site for myself, and for my family and friends. The comments are pure gravy. Thick, delicious, rib-sticking, pour it over everything, fattening gravy, and I will admit that I enjoy the gravy.
And while I appreciate all the friends who comment regularly (I do, I really, really do), I just want the lurkers to know that I am happy to know that they are out there. But if you ever thought about commenting, this might be the time. You want to comment ask me something obscure about the third grade or how I used to pretend I was deaf when my brother was born. You know you want to hear that story.
So go ahead and do it. Ask me anything. I will try to be as transparent as possible.
First: Do you think I should change my avatar? I love the picture I have right now. "Breakfast in Bed" is one of my favorite Mary Cassatt paintings, and the little girl in the painting reminds me of Sally. However, I've seen a lot of cute new avatars from different bloggers recently and I'm wondering if I should mix it up a bit. I know myself, and I am a faithful student of the "If It Ain't Broke Don't Fix It" school of thought, but on the other hand, I have had the same avatar since I began blogging. What do you think?
Second: Do you tip people who do things around your house? I don't mean appliance repair people or other jobs of that nature. I mean like movers or the extremely nice Mennonite gentlemen who came to install the swingset we bought for the kids. These guys had the whole thing up in about thirty minutes. I can't even get takeout that fast. And they gave Fiver some Juicy Fruit gum, which he bit off in small bits, chewed with only his front teeth, and spit in the trash so he could take another bite. But still. We paid for installation, of course, but should I have given them extra? I really don't know since all of my social skills leak out of my ears and run down the street whenever anyone comes over to work on our house. I do not know what is wrong with me. I am a reject, help me.
And now, in addition to the answering, you get to do the asking. Lucky ducks.
I have seen this "ask me a question, any question" kind of post making its way around Blogville, and I have been wanting to try it. Then T and I were tweeting about trying it, one thing led to another, and we decided we'd both go for it (with a little encouragement from Fried Okra).
Frankly, I am worried that no one will have any questions for me because I am not all that exciting. I can't even stay up later than my Granny.
Plus, I check in with my Sitemeter, and I know I have readers from all kinds of little nooks and crannies all over the map, but I seem to have only a small core of commenters. I am cool with that, as I don't really blog specifically for the comments. I maintain this site for myself, and for my family and friends. The comments are pure gravy. Thick, delicious, rib-sticking, pour it over everything, fattening gravy, and I will admit that I enjoy the gravy.
And while I appreciate all the friends who comment regularly (I do, I really, really do), I just want the lurkers to know that I am happy to know that they are out there. But if you ever thought about commenting, this might be the time. You want to comment ask me something obscure about the third grade or how I used to pretend I was deaf when my brother was born. You know you want to hear that story.
So go ahead and do it. Ask me anything. I will try to be as transparent as possible.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y, Night! *
I was a busy little bee this weekend. I went to see my maternal grandmother perform with her community choir on Saturday night and met up with my parents, two brothers, and sister. We also sat with assorted aunts and uncles and cousins. It was a regular family hootenanny.
I am guessing that the median age of this choir is roughly sixty four, but I could be low-balling it. They sang some classic show tunes (Sunrise, Sunset), some classic movie songs (My Heart Will Go On, Pennies from Heaven), and some straight-up seventies (Bridge Over Troubled Water, Joy to the World). Let me just tell you this: those seniors rocked some Three Dog Night. They rocked it hard.
My Granny has been singing with this ensemble for thirty years, and she decided that this would be her last year. Her farewell tour, if you will. This final concert also happened to fall on her birthday weekend (today is the actual day), so my aunt tried to get a good number of us to attend the concert. It's a lot like herding cats, but in the end we had a good number of people to stand up and sing Happy Birthday and make her cry in front of the whole audience. We like to make people feel special. And noticed.
After the concert, we went out to get something to eat and I realized how decrepit I have become. We made it to the local diner by 10 pm, and I nearly fell asleep in my food. The last time I was at a diner until 11:30 at night, I was in college (shout out to The Coop!). All the while, we were surrounded by a different set of senior citizens who had come out of some other kind of performance. They were about a thousand times livelier than I was. If last night is any indication, Rob and I have a busy social calendar awaiting us when the kids are grown.
Despite the lethargy, I had a great time and I think my Granny did as well. For a kid who was born two months premature, the sixth of thirteen children, and sent home in a shoebox with her death certificate all filled out and ready to go, she has turned out to be a keeper. She married a great man, had eight kids of her own, and now has forty grandchildren, and nine great-grandchildren (I think - it's like a full time job keeping track of all of us).
Not too shabby, Granny. Happy Birthday!
*and bonus points (which are basically worthless) to the person who can name the band behind the title of this post.
I am guessing that the median age of this choir is roughly sixty four, but I could be low-balling it. They sang some classic show tunes (Sunrise, Sunset), some classic movie songs (My Heart Will Go On, Pennies from Heaven), and some straight-up seventies (Bridge Over Troubled Water, Joy to the World). Let me just tell you this: those seniors rocked some Three Dog Night. They rocked it hard.
My Granny has been singing with this ensemble for thirty years, and she decided that this would be her last year. Her farewell tour, if you will. This final concert also happened to fall on her birthday weekend (today is the actual day), so my aunt tried to get a good number of us to attend the concert. It's a lot like herding cats, but in the end we had a good number of people to stand up and sing Happy Birthday and make her cry in front of the whole audience. We like to make people feel special. And noticed.
After the concert, we went out to get something to eat and I realized how decrepit I have become. We made it to the local diner by 10 pm, and I nearly fell asleep in my food. The last time I was at a diner until 11:30 at night, I was in college (shout out to The Coop!). All the while, we were surrounded by a different set of senior citizens who had come out of some other kind of performance. They were about a thousand times livelier than I was. If last night is any indication, Rob and I have a busy social calendar awaiting us when the kids are grown.
Despite the lethargy, I had a great time and I think my Granny did as well. For a kid who was born two months premature, the sixth of thirteen children, and sent home in a shoebox with her death certificate all filled out and ready to go, she has turned out to be a keeper. She married a great man, had eight kids of her own, and now has forty grandchildren, and nine great-grandchildren (I think - it's like a full time job keeping track of all of us).
Not too shabby, Granny. Happy Birthday!
*and bonus points (which are basically worthless) to the person who can name the band behind the title of this post.
Here is my hot tamale Granny, rocking the two piece at the Jersey Shore, 1945
Thursday, May 15, 2008
You Know You Married A Scot When . . .*
Me: I'm heading out to Target for a few things, okay?
Rob: Oh, then you can stop by Dunkin' Donuts and get a free iced coffee.
Me: You know I like my coffee hot. I'm not that into iced coffee.
Rob: But it's FREE! It doesn't matter if you like it. Who are you?
*Some have called the Scottish cheap, but Rob prefers frugal.
Rob: Oh, then you can stop by Dunkin' Donuts and get a free iced coffee.
Me: You know I like my coffee hot. I'm not that into iced coffee.
Rob: But it's FREE! It doesn't matter if you like it. Who are you?
*Some have called the Scottish cheap, but Rob prefers frugal.
Saddest Halloween EVER
I am joining in the "Sincerely 'Fro Me To You" Carnival fun, hosted by We Are THAT Family. The point of the carnival is to share, in photos, some events from your past (either distant or recent), with an accompanying post. Here are all the details and rules if you want to join in.
This week, I am recalling The Saddest HomeFront Halloween EVER. The whole saga is here and here, but a quick recap goes like this:
It was late October 2007, and it was time for Rob to go on his annual humanitarian mission to Central Asia. He had signed up for the trip way back when Bun was still in rapid cell division, and I thought that I could handle being pregnant and alone with three other kids milling around and always asking me to "cook something." In other words, I was delusional.
Since my kids always think of something original (read: off the wall) to be for Halloween, I usually help them make their costumes. Nothing elaborate since I don't sew, but something that can be pulled together with things we have around the house. This year Fiver wanted to be a AA battery and Francie wanted to be a Phoenix. To compensate, I just bought Sally a one piece monkey costume from Target. I can only do do much before I lose it, my friends.
Halloween came around and it was pouring. I mean get-an-ark-it's-the-end-of-days kind of downpour. Thank God my mother had come over to help me, because when I told the kids that they were not going out there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth (but not rending of garments, since it had taken me so long to make the garments).
To add insult to injury, some parents in our neighborhood drove their children from driveway to driveway to trick-or-treat. My kids stood at the door and handed out the candy while they cried. It was a very Dickensian Halloween.
Our Halloween shenanigans were ultimately saved by my mother (because GeeGee makes everything better), our local zoo, some generous local business sponsors, and a ragtag band of wildlife, but we didn't have a very auspicious start. Pictures don't lie.
There's nothing like the face of abject misery in a monkey suit.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Oh, And One More Thing . . .
Thank you so much for all your prayers and good wishes for today's big meeting. Everything went very well, and his teachers seemed to be very receptive to all of the information we presented.
I gave my inner nerd/office supply junkie free reign, and I made up a nice packet of summarized information on all of Fiver's problem areas. I highlighted his problems that will be more common in a classroom setting, and I included all of the suggestioned accommodations from his therapist. I essentially turned myself into Fiver's one-woman resource learning support staff, and I think it paid off.
I wanted to strike the right note at this meeting; hit the right balance between concerned parent and the nightmare parent that alienates the teachers. I think it works in our favor that Fiver is not our first child in the school, so we are a known quantity and we have good relationships with the faculty. They know that we are always eager to volunteer or help, and I think that definitely disposes them to being as helpful as possible with Fiver.
Plus, everyone who knows Fiver loves him, and I am not just saying that because I am his mother. I've stopped counting how many people who tell me that "there is just something special" about him. No one can put their finger on what it is, but people are irresistibly drawn to him. When they try to explain the quality, words fail them, but I know what they mean. I have always felt that God gave Fiver a special light so that people would be drawn to him. Just as He created Fiver's discombobulated central nervous system, He infused him with a grace and a gentleness that compels people to want to be with him and help him. It was no happy accident, my friends.
So we continue to put our best feet forward and take things one day at a time. It seems to be working out so far. And now, for all those who thought happy thoughts for us, I leave you with a little "Fiverism" nightcap:
Fiver (on the sofa, looking at our children's Bible): And now I will be reading a good book called "The Word of God." It's by God.
I gave my inner nerd/office supply junkie free reign, and I made up a nice packet of summarized information on all of Fiver's problem areas. I highlighted his problems that will be more common in a classroom setting, and I included all of the suggestioned accommodations from his therapist. I essentially turned myself into Fiver's one-woman resource learning support staff, and I think it paid off.
I wanted to strike the right note at this meeting; hit the right balance between concerned parent and the nightmare parent that alienates the teachers. I think it works in our favor that Fiver is not our first child in the school, so we are a known quantity and we have good relationships with the faculty. They know that we are always eager to volunteer or help, and I think that definitely disposes them to being as helpful as possible with Fiver.
Plus, everyone who knows Fiver loves him, and I am not just saying that because I am his mother. I've stopped counting how many people who tell me that "there is just something special" about him. No one can put their finger on what it is, but people are irresistibly drawn to him. When they try to explain the quality, words fail them, but I know what they mean. I have always felt that God gave Fiver a special light so that people would be drawn to him. Just as He created Fiver's discombobulated central nervous system, He infused him with a grace and a gentleness that compels people to want to be with him and help him. It was no happy accident, my friends.
So we continue to put our best feet forward and take things one day at a time. It seems to be working out so far. And now, for all those who thought happy thoughts for us, I leave you with a little "Fiverism" nightcap:
Fiver (on the sofa, looking at our children's Bible): And now I will be reading a good book called "The Word of God." It's by God.
Monday, May 12, 2008
We Can Work It Out
It is after eleven and I am finally checking in with the old blog. It was a hectic day, and tomorrow promises to be much the same. Rob and I have a meeting with the Fiver's future kindergarten teacher and the principal in order to discuss all the things we always have to discuss about Fiver. We will try to teach them to navigate the murky waters of his needs.
While he has come so far in many ways, there are still some areas that make it difficult to know what to expect from him on any given day. Today, for example, he had a complete meltdown in the car because of a leaf that was stuck on the window. A leaf. How do explain that to someone? How do you tell a person that you had no choice but to leave the car and remove the leaf to stop your child from crying and shaking and flapping his hands? In some ways, you don't. In many ways, you can't.
I came across a post from this time last year, and I am reprinting it tonight. Fiver has profoundly changed in a year, and some of the problems listed below have been resolved. He has overcome some hurdles that, on tough days, we thought might be insurmountable. In other areas, he has changed very little, but one thing always remains the same: the way I feel about him. Nothing can change that.
I love my children. I love each one of them more than I love my own life. They shine like new pennies, full of promise, brimming with potential. My daughters are spirited and wild, maddening and hilarious. I have the same worries for them that every mother has for a child; worries for their safety, their health, their happiness. They are so strong-willed, so easily confident, that I imagine, were we deities in ancient Greece, they would have been the ones to spring fully formed from my mind. They were born ready for life.
The Boy [Fiver], I imagine, would have sprung fully formed from my heart. It's not that I love him more, I just understand him less. In a way, my heart has to shelter him from my mind, because my mind can't wrap itself around him. How do you deal with something that takes your child into his own world, and then drops him unexpectedly into the middle of the real world, unequipped to handle what he encounters? You can only love him, to make up for the lack of understanding.
Many people have asked me to explain SPD. They have asked me with questioning eyes, and with sympathetic smiles. They have asked me with pointed stares and head wags. They have asked me with love, with curiosity, with judgment. I still don't have a succinct answer; I don't know if succinct is even possible with SPD.
Here's the thing: SPD encompasses so many behaviors, that I am not entirely unsympathetic to those who seem skeptical while listening to a truncated definition. It sounds like a catch-all, a cop-out, and if I didn't deal with it everyday, I would be thinking the same thing. Some kids with SPD are sensory-seeking because they are hypo-sensitive. For them, the brain does not receive the message from sensory input that enough is enough. These are kids who may literally bounce themselves off of the wall in order to "feel" anything. Then there are the SPD kids who are so hyper-sensitive that they retreat and recoil from every sensory experience. They only wear one brand of socks; they eat all their food cold because even lukewarm feels hot to them; they run inside at the sound of a distant helicopter. Their senses are on overdrive, and they cannot recover when they are bombarded by life. I know I've talked about all of this before, but this is my life.
The Boy is a typical case for SPD, meaning that he is hypo-sensitive for some things and hyper-sensitive for others. He has fine motor delays and some gross motor delays. He has bilateral coordination delays, sequencing problems, some expressive language delays, and some receptive language delays. Certain noises or motions will cause a complete meltdown, from which he may never fully recover. If that happens at 9 am, well, good luck for the rest of the day. Unless you are a familiar fixture around our home, The Boy probably won't look at you when he talks to you, if he answers your questions at all. He has finally started using his classmates names - he has been in school with them since last September.
Each day with The Boy is like a blank slate, only the slate is all cracked, but you are still expected write on it as if it were whole. Mornings find him in bed next to me, after having come in sometime in the night, sucking his fingers and rubbing the shoulder of my nightgown between two fingers. He eats a waffle every morning, after all of "the parts" have been removed. "The parts" consist of the entire outer edge of the waffle that gets a little too crunchy in the toaster, and therefore must be removed so as to render it edible. He has to ask what he is drinking every morning because he is so hyposensitive in smell and taste that he can't tell on his own. He knows the difference between milk and juice by texture, not taste, and if you ask him what something smells like, he will tell you whatever color it happens to be. (That smells like purple!)
I could go on ad infinitum, but to what purpose? There is no way that I can ever predict what the day will hold by simply enumerating the many ways in which The Boy may react to the world. I've tried. If he is comfortable with a shirt one day, he may refuse it the next time because of a string that has come loose in the washer. But there are some things I can always count on: he won't try to sit on a bike; he will cry when you rinse his hair; he does like to have deep pressure in the form of a big hug or gentle, but firm arm squeezes; he'll always have room for a treat. He will always retreat into himself when he becomes overwhelmed - this is most typically when he stims. He calms himself by watching spinning wheels, flashing lights, pressing the same button on a toy a hundred times in a row, humming, running around in a circle. He's not hurting himself or anyone else, he is coping with a world that is not comfortable for him.
Where does this leave us? It leaves us on the path of every parent and child, trying to navigate a world that is not always an ideal place, but one that holds myriad wonders. It's leaves us grateful to live in a state that offers great intervention for SPD, with an occupational therapist and speech therapist who adore him. It leaves us happy that he is whole in body; smart, funny, and unbelievably endearing.
SPD takes a toll, there is no denying that. A toll of exhaustion, frustration, sorrow, and anger. But for all that it takes, it leaves behind a boy that I love beyond my wildest dreams. A boy who works harder than anyone for things that should be as natural as breathing. A boy who can't hold a pencil, but can memorize a song after hearing it one time. A boy who must have sprung fully formed from my heart, because my mind is too small for the job.
While he has come so far in many ways, there are still some areas that make it difficult to know what to expect from him on any given day. Today, for example, he had a complete meltdown in the car because of a leaf that was stuck on the window. A leaf. How do explain that to someone? How do you tell a person that you had no choice but to leave the car and remove the leaf to stop your child from crying and shaking and flapping his hands? In some ways, you don't. In many ways, you can't.
I came across a post from this time last year, and I am reprinting it tonight. Fiver has profoundly changed in a year, and some of the problems listed below have been resolved. He has overcome some hurdles that, on tough days, we thought might be insurmountable. In other areas, he has changed very little, but one thing always remains the same: the way I feel about him. Nothing can change that.
I love my children. I love each one of them more than I love my own life. They shine like new pennies, full of promise, brimming with potential. My daughters are spirited and wild, maddening and hilarious. I have the same worries for them that every mother has for a child; worries for their safety, their health, their happiness. They are so strong-willed, so easily confident, that I imagine, were we deities in ancient Greece, they would have been the ones to spring fully formed from my mind. They were born ready for life.
The Boy [Fiver], I imagine, would have sprung fully formed from my heart. It's not that I love him more, I just understand him less. In a way, my heart has to shelter him from my mind, because my mind can't wrap itself around him. How do you deal with something that takes your child into his own world, and then drops him unexpectedly into the middle of the real world, unequipped to handle what he encounters? You can only love him, to make up for the lack of understanding.
Many people have asked me to explain SPD. They have asked me with questioning eyes, and with sympathetic smiles. They have asked me with pointed stares and head wags. They have asked me with love, with curiosity, with judgment. I still don't have a succinct answer; I don't know if succinct is even possible with SPD.
Here's the thing: SPD encompasses so many behaviors, that I am not entirely unsympathetic to those who seem skeptical while listening to a truncated definition. It sounds like a catch-all, a cop-out, and if I didn't deal with it everyday, I would be thinking the same thing. Some kids with SPD are sensory-seeking because they are hypo-sensitive. For them, the brain does not receive the message from sensory input that enough is enough. These are kids who may literally bounce themselves off of the wall in order to "feel" anything. Then there are the SPD kids who are so hyper-sensitive that they retreat and recoil from every sensory experience. They only wear one brand of socks; they eat all their food cold because even lukewarm feels hot to them; they run inside at the sound of a distant helicopter. Their senses are on overdrive, and they cannot recover when they are bombarded by life. I know I've talked about all of this before, but this is my life.
The Boy is a typical case for SPD, meaning that he is hypo-sensitive for some things and hyper-sensitive for others. He has fine motor delays and some gross motor delays. He has bilateral coordination delays, sequencing problems, some expressive language delays, and some receptive language delays. Certain noises or motions will cause a complete meltdown, from which he may never fully recover. If that happens at 9 am, well, good luck for the rest of the day. Unless you are a familiar fixture around our home, The Boy probably won't look at you when he talks to you, if he answers your questions at all. He has finally started using his classmates names - he has been in school with them since last September.
Each day with The Boy is like a blank slate, only the slate is all cracked, but you are still expected write on it as if it were whole. Mornings find him in bed next to me, after having come in sometime in the night, sucking his fingers and rubbing the shoulder of my nightgown between two fingers. He eats a waffle every morning, after all of "the parts" have been removed. "The parts" consist of the entire outer edge of the waffle that gets a little too crunchy in the toaster, and therefore must be removed so as to render it edible. He has to ask what he is drinking every morning because he is so hyposensitive in smell and taste that he can't tell on his own. He knows the difference between milk and juice by texture, not taste, and if you ask him what something smells like, he will tell you whatever color it happens to be. (That smells like purple!)
I could go on ad infinitum, but to what purpose? There is no way that I can ever predict what the day will hold by simply enumerating the many ways in which The Boy may react to the world. I've tried. If he is comfortable with a shirt one day, he may refuse it the next time because of a string that has come loose in the washer. But there are some things I can always count on: he won't try to sit on a bike; he will cry when you rinse his hair; he does like to have deep pressure in the form of a big hug or gentle, but firm arm squeezes; he'll always have room for a treat. He will always retreat into himself when he becomes overwhelmed - this is most typically when he stims. He calms himself by watching spinning wheels, flashing lights, pressing the same button on a toy a hundred times in a row, humming, running around in a circle. He's not hurting himself or anyone else, he is coping with a world that is not comfortable for him.
Where does this leave us? It leaves us on the path of every parent and child, trying to navigate a world that is not always an ideal place, but one that holds myriad wonders. It's leaves us grateful to live in a state that offers great intervention for SPD, with an occupational therapist and speech therapist who adore him. It leaves us happy that he is whole in body; smart, funny, and unbelievably endearing.
SPD takes a toll, there is no denying that. A toll of exhaustion, frustration, sorrow, and anger. But for all that it takes, it leaves behind a boy that I love beyond my wildest dreams. A boy who works harder than anyone for things that should be as natural as breathing. A boy who can't hold a pencil, but can memorize a song after hearing it one time. A boy who must have sprung fully formed from my heart, because my mind is too small for the job.
Originally posted 4/26/07
Friday, May 09, 2008
A Mother's Day Tale
My husband Rob, fellow HomeFront board member and Johnny Paycheck around these parts, is a pretty quiet guy, and from all accounts of his childhood, he seems to have been born that way.
The thing about Rob is that he rarely says things just to say them. He doesn't chatter just to fill a void, and he is totally cool with sitting in silence. That freaks some people out, and they start to think he's mad at them, but it works out for me. I am perfectly happy sitting in silence, especially since that never happens around here.
Anyhoo, the point is that Rob only says things he means, and my mother-in-law has told me this story since I first started dating him:
When Rob was in kindergarten, he used to ride the bus even though the school was six houses down the street from his own. (They were out in the boonies with no sidewalks.) He went to afternoon kindergarten, so he would get home around three, to his mother waiting at the door.
One day, he came home and looked up at his mother and said:
"Mom, this is the best part of my day, when I come home and see you."
My mother-in-law melted into a puddle right there at the door. How could she do anything else?
My own mother always taught me to watch how a man treated his mother because that was the truest indication of how he would treat a woman. As you may have been able to deduce, I am treated pretty well.
And now I that have two dimpled boys of my own, as well as two darling girls, this story means so much more to me. It's amazing how one gummy smile can erase a fussy afternoon, or how one sleepy head on my shoulder, one warm, breathy mouth in my neck can make me cover a downy cheek with kisses.
It's a good life, this gig.
Happy Mother's Day, my friends.
The thing about Rob is that he rarely says things just to say them. He doesn't chatter just to fill a void, and he is totally cool with sitting in silence. That freaks some people out, and they start to think he's mad at them, but it works out for me. I am perfectly happy sitting in silence, especially since that never happens around here.
Anyhoo, the point is that Rob only says things he means, and my mother-in-law has told me this story since I first started dating him:
When Rob was in kindergarten, he used to ride the bus even though the school was six houses down the street from his own. (They were out in the boonies with no sidewalks.) He went to afternoon kindergarten, so he would get home around three, to his mother waiting at the door.
One day, he came home and looked up at his mother and said:
"Mom, this is the best part of my day, when I come home and see you."
My mother-in-law melted into a puddle right there at the door. How could she do anything else?
My own mother always taught me to watch how a man treated his mother because that was the truest indication of how he would treat a woman. As you may have been able to deduce, I am treated pretty well.
And now I that have two dimpled boys of my own, as well as two darling girls, this story means so much more to me. It's amazing how one gummy smile can erase a fussy afternoon, or how one sleepy head on my shoulder, one warm, breathy mouth in my neck can make me cover a downy cheek with kisses.
It's a good life, this gig.
Happy Mother's Day, my friends.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
I've Gone And Done It
No, not the corn.
I've joined Twitter. More specifically, I've joined Twitter and I have no idea what I am doing.
My friend T says that Twitter is like micro-blogging, which sounds great, except that I am not that great at macro-blogging (did I just invent a new word?). I already neglect mychildren laundry enough for the regular blog, so this is on a trial basis.
Crap. I just burnt the meatballs trying to do this post and get set up on Twitter. This does not bode well.
If you want to follow me, then there is a little linky thing on my sidebar. I have no idea if it works, because I am already ruining dinner just getting this little blurb out and I have no time to check it. No time!
Except to say that you can try this link as well: http://twitter.com/themotherload
I hope nobody wants meatballs tonight.
I've joined Twitter. More specifically, I've joined Twitter and I have no idea what I am doing.
My friend T says that Twitter is like micro-blogging, which sounds great, except that I am not that great at macro-blogging (did I just invent a new word?). I already neglect my
Crap. I just burnt the meatballs trying to do this post and get set up on Twitter. This does not bode well.
If you want to follow me, then there is a little linky thing on my sidebar. I have no idea if it works, because I am already ruining dinner just getting this little blurb out and I have no time to check it. No time!
Except to say that you can try this link as well: http://twitter.com/themotherload
I hope nobody wants meatballs tonight.
How Does Your Garden Grow? (or: Children of the Corn)
Pfffft ...... That's the sound of my deflation.
I am just flat-out tired, and I have nothing to write about. How that makes this post different from any other post I've written, I don't know, but I thought I'd make that disclaimer right away. I feel better now that I've warned you.
Allergies have got three fourths of the children against the wall, and a nice juicy cold has gotten a hold of the last one. We are doling out Zyrtec and Infant's Tylenol like we are running a pharmacy, and it still is not making them sleep. What good is that?
We have a kindergarten readiness meeting next week with Fiver's principal and teachers, and I have been trying to get all of the doctor/therapy information together, but the nice weather has been stressing me out. I know - I'm a crackpot.
It's just that when the weather is pleasant, I feel like I should be working outside in the garden. Or the dirt plot that I dream is a garden. And then, when I am outside, I start to stress about all of the things that are not being done inside the house. Add to that the fact that I have approximately 7.8 minutes per day to get out to the garden before someone starts crying that they are hungry. I'm getting itchy just thinking about.
I've bribed the children to help me with the garden, but that has quickly spiraled out of control. I offered to let the children make the side garden their own, and I also told them they could earn a modest sum for helping me with weed and rock removal.
I should have known better than to mention the project to Fiver unless I was prepared to begin immediately. His poor concept of time combined with his obsessive personality traits make him sound like the Verizon guy of gardening: Are we going out now? How about now? Are you ready now? (Is that the Verizon commercial? Did I get the brand identification correct? I am an ad exec's worst nightmare because I always put the product with the wrong commercial.)
There have also been the interminable, and often heated, dinner table discussions regarding what we will put in the garden once it is ready (How about now?). Here are a few of the children's suggestions, and this is by no means an exhaustive list: sunflowers, roses, cabbage, watermelons, ones like the purple flowers near therapy (lilacs), an oak tree, tomatoes, some like the yellow flowers growing on the side of the highway (weeds), grass, and corn. Especially the corn. They are really gung-ho on growing themselves a bumper corn crop this summer.
I broke down the several reasons why I felt confident in saying that we would not be harvesting any golden ears this year:
I am just flat-out tired, and I have nothing to write about. How that makes this post different from any other post I've written, I don't know, but I thought I'd make that disclaimer right away. I feel better now that I've warned you.
Allergies have got three fourths of the children against the wall, and a nice juicy cold has gotten a hold of the last one. We are doling out Zyrtec and Infant's Tylenol like we are running a pharmacy, and it still is not making them sleep. What good is that?
We have a kindergarten readiness meeting next week with Fiver's principal and teachers, and I have been trying to get all of the doctor/therapy information together, but the nice weather has been stressing me out. I know - I'm a crackpot.
It's just that when the weather is pleasant, I feel like I should be working outside in the garden. Or the dirt plot that I dream is a garden. And then, when I am outside, I start to stress about all of the things that are not being done inside the house. Add to that the fact that I have approximately 7.8 minutes per day to get out to the garden before someone starts crying that they are hungry. I'm getting itchy just thinking about.
I've bribed the children to help me with the garden, but that has quickly spiraled out of control. I offered to let the children make the side garden their own, and I also told them they could earn a modest sum for helping me with weed and rock removal.
I should have known better than to mention the project to Fiver unless I was prepared to begin immediately. His poor concept of time combined with his obsessive personality traits make him sound like the Verizon guy of gardening: Are we going out now? How about now? Are you ready now? (Is that the Verizon commercial? Did I get the brand identification correct? I am an ad exec's worst nightmare because I always put the product with the wrong commercial.)
There have also been the interminable, and often heated, dinner table discussions regarding what we will put in the garden once it is ready (How about now?). Here are a few of the children's suggestions, and this is by no means an exhaustive list: sunflowers, roses, cabbage, watermelons, ones like the purple flowers near therapy (lilacs), an oak tree, tomatoes, some like the yellow flowers growing on the side of the highway (weeds), grass, and corn. Especially the corn. They are really gung-ho on growing themselves a bumper corn crop this summer.
I broke down the several reasons why I felt confident in saying that we would not be harvesting any golden ears this year:
- Your mother is a novice gardener. And that's on her really good days.
- The only thing I know about planting corn is that Squanto told the Pilgrims to plant their corn with a dead fish for fertilizer. I'm not sure how far that would get us.
- I'm pretty sure that the four feet of weed and rock riddled dirt next to the air conditioning unit are not enough room for a corn crop.
- I'm also pretty sure that corn does not thrive in the nine hours of shade and three hours of late afternoon sunlight that falls on that side of the house. Every corn field I've ever seen is right out there in broad daylight.
- I like to support the local economy by buying some super sweet Silver Queen from the farm stand on the way to the Target.
- Seriously. See #1.
I think I have managed to talk them out of the corn crop by promising them that they can buy a few ornaments to decorate their garden. I don't need to be psychic to know that that promise will eventually come down to a nail-biting decision between a flock of plastic flamingos or the wooden trompe l'oeil cut-out of the fat lady bending over the garden so that you can see her bloomers.
Maybe I should just let them plant the corn.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Calling All Those Wise in the Ways of the Internet
I am embarrassed to ask, but what exactly is Twitter and how does it work?
I mean, I have a general idea, and I know I can go to their website and read all about it, but I would like a few real life reviews. How do you use it? Is it fun? Will it turn me into a zombie? (All very important questions. I'm sure Rob would need to know if I was going to turn into a zombie.)
I have received several emails from other bloggers who want me to join Twitter (does that make me a Twit? Oh, no, Aimee, that's not what makes you a twit . . .), so if you know about it, or use it, fill me in please!
I mean, I have a general idea, and I know I can go to their website and read all about it, but I would like a few real life reviews. How do you use it? Is it fun? Will it turn me into a zombie? (All very important questions. I'm sure Rob would need to know if I was going to turn into a zombie.)
I have received several emails from other bloggers who want me to join Twitter (does that make me a Twit? Oh, no, Aimee, that's not what makes you a twit . . .), so if you know about it, or use it, fill me in please!
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