Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

Today has been one of those days. You know the kind.

We had many appointments with multiple stops. Bun cried incessantly all day, and Sally decided to forget how to walk and fell no fewer than six times, scraping her knees and hands each time.

It was one of those in and out of the car days, and by the time we were on our last stop it showed. Francie, fresh from horse camp, was not looking so fresh. Thanks to her many spills, Sally looked like she had just had her legs beaten with a stick. And Bun, poor Bun. He cried so much that his eyes were puffy and he puked on himself.

I'm sure we were a sight as we traipsed through the grocery store. (And we weren't even in full rank and file since Fiver was out having his teeth cleaned.) Even though the children were well-behaved, I could still feel the heads turning and the eyes on us as we made our way to the checkout.

Standing in line, I began to wonder when four children became akin to housing a circus. Coming from a family of four, I have never thought that four children were "a lot of kids," but if one more person says "Wow! Four?! You sure have your hands full!" I might scream. I can't guarantee it, but it is a distinct possibility.

Because I know. I know exactly how full my hands are. They are full of little hands and chubby baby thighs; they are full of laundry and broken toys; and at some point during each and every day they are full of crap. They are indeed full, and I wouldn't trade that.

I would trade the comments and the stares and the questions. Are they all yours? You must be busy. Two and two? You must be done NOW. And my least favorite of all: Oh, you're brave to bring them all out. How do you do it?

No. No, I'm not brave. Brave is keeping your children alive in a refugee camp.

I am living in a free country where I can take my children to an air-conditioned supermarket and let them pick from a list of foods that, in the not so distant past, only kings and the very wealthy could have. And I expect them to behave. I fail to see the bravery in that. That is just living.

And as for how I do it? Please, don't think that I have some kind of secret method. Most days I do it impatiently, imperfectly, ungracefully, self-centeredly, and certainly not prayerfully enough. I do it one day at a time, sometimes one minute at a time.

Sometimes I don't even feel like I do "it" at all, whatever "it" is. It only takes me two seconds to go from kissing the children to yelling "For the love of Pete, will somebody please flush the damn toilet!"

I know most people don't mean any harm by these comments, but being treated like a sideshow can be tiring. I don't need to justify the number of children with which I've been blessed. I don't need to prove that I am a good mother. I don't need to have the perfect house or the perfect children to show that it wasn't a mistake to choose full hands.

But sometimes, in the grocery store, it just feels like I do.

When In The Course Of Human Events

If you haven't put the John Adams miniseries in your Netflix queue, I am telling you to get thee to the website.

If you don't use Netflix, then I don't know where to get thee to, but it should be wherever you can get your hands on these dvds.

Rob and I have only watched the first two episodes, up to the drafting of the Declaration of Independence, but we are hooked. The acting is excellent, the facts are accurate, and the material is our history. It's riveting.

There Is No Such Thing As A Free Lunch

This is for my friend, D, who so graciously invited The HomeFront to tag along with her and her boys, and then got to spend her time commiserating with me about how crazy expensive the world has become. Good times for her, I'm sure. Thanks, D!


An Open Letter to the Local Indoor Jungle Gym/Arcade:


Dear "Fun People",


I have visited your establishment several times this summer, and, after today's visit, I felt compelled to write regarding several of your new policies.


First of all, I notice that you are now charging the parents/caregivers an admission fee despite the fact that we do not use the equipment. In fact, we cannot use the equipment. It is clearly marked FOR AGES 1-9 ONLY!, and in addition, most adults would not be able to squeeze our way through your glorified gerbil tubes anyway.


Previously, I would sit on a bench and watch as my children made their way across rope nets and through slides, and I would pray that no one broke a limb. Or worse, that one would get stuck and I would have to heave myself up into the maze for a search and rescue. Now I get to pay for sitting on a bench and praying? I can do that for free at church.


In addition to the admission fees, all patrons must pony up the cash money for the arcade tokens. I would be much more willing to change more than two dollars into tokens if you would fix the stinking games already. It seems each time we visit, fully half of your games are broken. It is like some kind of flunky carnival came to town and left their useless machines behind.


I also noticed that you charge full admission for crawling babies. Seriously? Crawling? I don't think so. You seem to be under the impression that two Exersaucers, a plastic rocking horse, and a mini slide with a two foot drop-off makes good fun for a crawling baby. It doesn't. Even my toddler cries when I point her towards the baby section.


But the biggest problem by far is the "No outside food or drinks policy" you've instituted. As I could see from your sign, and from your employee who told me to put my child's half-finished drink away, you include coffee cups (from home or from other businesses), other beverage containers, any kind of food, and sippy cups. Harsh.


Now I understand that you've got to make a living, I really do, but come on! No sippies? I know that you are willing and able to provide me with a coffee for triple the price or a pack of fruit snacks for a dollar fifty, but I can't afford it!

I can buy an entire box of fruit snacks for a little less than two dollars, making each pack roughly thirty three cents. You are charging me a dollar fifty for one pack. That's a markup of 500%! Those better be gold nugget fruit snacks you're passing over the counter.

In short, it's all just too rich for my blood. I'll be taking my business down the highway to the Chick-Fil-A, where my kids can play on the same kind of indoor jungle gym and I can eat waffle fries and drink sweet tea. I'll gladly pay for that.

Word.

Sincerely,

Aimee and The HomeFront Corp.

Yakety-Yak, Don't Talk Back

Did you ever have one of those days where you got all caught up talking with a person and then, later on, you started to feel really badly about all the things you were talking about because you probably just should have kept your mouth shut?

No? Just me? I figured.

I have an annoying habit of replaying every conversation of the day in my head and then obsessing over what I said and if I conveyed my meaning properly. Was my friend upset? Did I use the wrong tone? Was I trying to help or was I just gossiping? I don't think I was gossiping, but now I'm not sure. Ack!

I've done this for a long time, and it is a sickness.

Today was one of those days. I got caught up in a conversation which, when I did my mental playback, just started to feel icky. Not that either my friend or myself meant to be gossipy, but our conversation sort of devolved into the smarmy range and I regret that. We weren't talking about a specific person and we weren't being malicious, we were just jacking our jaws about a situation in which we have only a peripheral involvement.

I am a sharer by nature, hence this blog, and I love to be the one to spread good news. Unfortunately, I admit that I have been known to get a little thrill out of sharing some hush-hush news as well. I do not delight in other people's misfortune, but I do like to be on the inside of the information loop.

I heartily dislike this flaw of mine, and I have tried hard over the years to curb my tendencies to be the town crier. I purposely deny myself the task of telling tales. If I happen to hear something interesting, I force myself to keep my mouth shut.

Of course, sometimes I look like an idiot when another person finds out something I already knew. Why didn't you tell me that before? Um, because I have diarrhea of the mouth and this is my way to staunch the flow. Well, you could have told me at least. Um, yeah. No. It's an all or nothing kind of deal.

So tonight I will retire to bed, say an Act of Contrition, and ask God to keep His arm around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.

What about you, my friends? Do you ever feel this way?

(And yes, I realize the complete and total irony of soliciting answers to questions about talking too much and trying to keep one's mouth shut. I'm a work in progress.)

East, West, Home's The Best

I am so glad to be home.

And not in the car.


I was so done with the wafer-thin piece of foam that the rental house tried to pass off as a mattress that I almost kissed my own bed when I walked in tonight. I am looking forward to stretching out between sheets that have no sand in them because - I don't know if you know this? - but at the beach there is sand everywhere. It is inescapable. And it clings to your children long after you bathe them.



But even with all of this sand free and luxurious stretching, I will admit that I will miss this view every morning.

Catch you on the flip side, my friends.

Sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean, Carolina Beach, NC

Re-Entry

I am (almost) back! We are on our way home from North Carolina and I am soaking up some wi-fi in our hotel in Virginia. Tomorrow is the last leg of our vacation (even though driving for several hours with four children should not actually be considered part of the vacation).

Did you miss me and all of my witty blog posts?

Of course you didn't, because you have lives and whatnot, but can I admit something without sounding lame?

I missed you, my friends.

I was without an internet connection for over a week, and I missed it more than I thought I would. And not just for Googling all of the bizarre questions my children ask me.

I don't consider myself a deeply dedicated blogger; I have too many children and not enough time for that status. If I was a deeply dedicated blogger I would have written a week's worth of posts and set them to publish in my absence. Or I would have begged my friends to babysit my blog with some witty guest posts. At the very least, I would have dredged up some old posts and slung them at you, all warmed over and faintly funky.

I did not do a single one of those things. I just left my blog to its own devices, and that is why I am not a deeply dedicated blogger.

I do, however, consider blogging a fun hobby, and I thought that leaving a hobby behind for a week would be no problem.

I was surprised to find out that I was wrong. I felt a little loosey-goosey in the early mornings, the time I usually blog.

I wasn't caught trying to sneak out the door in search of a wi-fi hotspot with Rob's laptop, but, in the quieter moments, I did find my mind wandering. I thought about all my fun, albeit mostly anonymous, blog friends, and I wondered about you.

And I sat on the deck of the beach house, overlooking the Atlantic ocean, and, on the first stars I saw, I wished you all something happy.

We had a wonderful trip; my camera is full of pictures, my suitcases are full of wash, and my Goggle reader checked in 1000+ items. Clearly I have my work cut out for me.

But for now, I'll just smile and say I'm happy to be back.

For My Francie

Here it is, baby, your last year in single digits.

I shouldn't be surprised that it has come to pass already; I have rushed your growth from the day you were born. It hasn't been fair of me, but it is the truth.

You are my first, for better or worse.

I rely on you,

I get by on you,

I scold you when I should hold you.

You're a mother hen, a gem, a wild one and a mild one.

You are a big sister, a baby kisser, a boo-boo mender, and befriender.

You're long-legged, warm-hearted, and you've just started.

You are nine, you are very fine, and you are mine.

Happy Birthday, Francie. We love you.

And Away They Go . . .

It is 11 PM, I have lost my voice, my two youngest children are hacking and sniffling in their beds, and I am exhausted from having an extra child here all day (long story), but we are packed.

I always promise myself that I will get up extra early to finish any packing that needs to be done, but the never happens. Ever. And Rob is a punctual man. That's all I'll say about that.

We have left a list of things for my brother to check on while we are away, and I think I'll take some Tylenol PM and lapse into a coma.

Watch your back North Carolina, The HomeFront is coming to town.

Packing It In

So I have a question for you, my friends:

When you buy a piece of new clothing, do you wash it once before you wear it? I am a definite washer before wearer because my mother always did that for us.

See, my mom was "green" way before it was on the national radar. She was always concerned about environmental toxins, and when she learned, many years ago, that formaldehyde was used to treat clothing at the factory to retain sharp creases through shipping, into the washer every new piece of clothing went. Before it touched our tender skin.

I don't know if formaldehyde is still used on clothing, but now it has become an involuntary action for me. I wash the clothes before the kids wear them.

It never occurred to me that other people didn't do this until I married Rob and saw him rip open a bag of underwear and put on a pair. Directly from the package, no washing, all that formaldehyde rubbing off on him. In his most vulnerable regions.

Is that why my kids are so weird sometimes? Huh.

Now, every time I wash a new piece of clothing, I wonder if other people do this or if I am just a little spastic. My money is on the latter.

In other unrelated news, I am knee deep in packing for our upcoming vacation to North Carolina. I am having a swell time trying to cram approximately three tons of crap into two suitcases. We don't have any spare room in the van, and as it stands now someone is getting strapped to the roof rack if they bring me one more thing and say, Do you think you can fit this in the suitcase? I don't care if it's a Q-tip, it's off to the roof rack.

And also? Bun and I are sick. It's just a cold, more annoying than anything else, but it is making both of us grumpy.

I think there must be some law of the universe that says someone always has to be sick on vacation because it happens to us every. single. time. We now build sick time into our plans.

On the bright side, though, I'm thinking that medicating myself and the baby will make the ride
much more quiet and enjoyable.

Especially if we put someone on the roof rack.

PS: And seriously, I want to know about the clothes. It won't stop me from all the washing, but it will satiate my curiosity. Thanky kindly.

A Diversion

After all of the heavy discipline talk and blah, blah, blah-ing around here, I thought it was high time for an injection of hilarity, courtesy of The HomeFront employees:

That is all. Carry on.

A Retraction. Sort Of.

I knew it would happen eventually, my friends, and now it has come to pass.

I have blogged in a heated moment and instead of just saving it and revising it when I have cooled off, I accidentally hit "publish." Frankly, I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner.

That is why the previous post doesn't make any sense (not that you would have noticed any difference from what I usually write). I didn't even finish it, I just left it hanging. I found that it was slowly devolving into a rant, and I just didn't want to waste the energy.

I do feel that it's necessary to discipline my children in a way that will teach them to be compassionate and Christian adults. My correction of them is an act of love even though it's the unpopular route; even though I feel like I am spitting into the wind some days. I don't relish being the harda*s, but I'm not going to stop.

So, my friends, what I am trying to say is that the tone of the previous post was a mistake but the intent was not.

Is It Me?

I should become a hermit. A curmudgeonly hermit who scuttles in and out of her cave once a day and doesn't see anyone. Well, except for her kids and husband on occasion.

I don't know about anyone else, but sometimes I feel like I am in the minority with the way I "handle" my children. And by handle I mean discipline.

The word discipline actually means "to teach" (as all my smarty friends out there already knew), and I am bound and determined to teach my children that they cannot do whatever they want whenever they want.

I Feel Pretty

How do you like the new look, my friends?

I think it's grand, and I think that I owe a huge amount of thanks to Jo-Lynne over at Musings of a Housewife. This is the magic she hath wrought through her business, DCR Design.

If you want to have a little makeover and you are either a) completely inept and unable to do it yourself for fear of blowing up the internet (or at least your little corner of it), or b) so strapped for time that you cannot possibly get to it yourself, I heartily recommend DCR Design.

I gave Jo-Lynne some vague suggestions, sometimes not even in complete sentences (Me like purple! Me like flowers! Want three columns! Make pretty!), and she got back to me with at least half a dozen ideas that were all great.

I chose this one because it is my exact favorite shade of purple, and I love the branching flowers. It looks so calm and serene, unlike the booby hatch in which I live. I told Jo-Lynne that I feel like I've been to the spa. I know -- I need to get out more.

Jo-Lynne is fun to work with, and she has several nice package options in different price ranges. If you are thinking about mixing it up, go see her. You won't be disappointed.

Just Another Day

Well, in a turn of events that I must admit is not very surprising to me, the kids have lost their allowances this week.

They have managed to lose their allowances before they even got them for the first time ever. That takes some talent, my friends.

It was the fighting that ultimately did them in. At base level, my kids are usually pretty nice with each other, even though they have their moments of sibling rivalry or taunting or fisticuffs sprinkled on top. I think just about every household with more than one child goes through that.

But this morning, oh this morning they were in rare form. From the moment they opened their eyes, there was bickering that escalated into shouting which in turn became a short lived kickfest. The allowances were revoked before 9:30 AM.

Fiver was the one responsible for the kicking, mostly because he cannot match Francie in the War of Words. She can taunt him mercilessly, and his recourse is always the same: Pound her. It's a good thing for her that he has some fairly significant muscle weakness.

In all honesty, today was one of those days where I could not get a grip on Fiver. He was extremely distracted and jittery today, and he was also a little belligerent. Anyone who knows him, will realize how out of character defiance is for him. You usually could not find a more agreeable child, and I'm not exaggerating.

Even his therapist commented on how hard it was to get him to focus; he wasn't even maintaining good eye contact with us today. I tried all the usual "tricks" to bring him around and to help him focus, but they just didn't seem to get the job done today. We finally just called it a day and sent him to bed.

So I am feeling depleted and scattered tonight, and I hope tomorrow is a more peaceful, productive day.

Oh, but I am happy to report that the ENT says that Fiver doesn't need a new set of ear tubes this summer. He had been having problems with his hearing and the fluid that seems to just hang around forever, but he passed his hearing test so that was good news. The ENT thinks that his ear problems are aggravated by his seasonal allergies, so we are going to try a course of aggressive allergy treatment in hopes of keeping his ears clear and keeping him out of the hospital.

I guess that's just a fancy way of saying that we're flying by the seats of our pants, since who knows if that will work for the long run.

Oh well, why should this be any different than any other thing about Fiver?

Johnny Paycheck

We've hit some uncharted waters here at The HomeFront Corp: the employees are getting paid.

In an effort to begin teaching our kids how to handle small amounts of money, and to curtail the "I Wants," we've decided to start allowances on a trial basis. I will admit that this decision has been uncharacteristically discussed to death, mostly by me.

Believe it or not, Rob and I are usually pretty quick to decide on a course of action and then follow it. If it turns out to be the wrong decision, we'll have a discussion and make a course correction, but we don't usually talk about it incessantly.

The allowance is different. Since I didn't receive an allowance, I didn't know where to start with my kids. What should they do to earn an allowance? How much do I give them? What chores should be considered a natural part of living in a family and therefore not eligible for payment?

I would have been content to ignore the whole thing, but Francie has been asking me money questions lately: what is the best way to earn it? how should she decide what to save and what to spend? She has worked hard to earn all of the money for her horse camp supplies this summer, and I had to admit that it might be wise to start teaching her the basics of finance management. I don't want the kids to have no idea how credit works, or how to avoid living on it.

Even though I worked at different jobs, I didn't really learn to manage money well until I married Rob. Which is funny, because we were po' when we got married. We were sitting on cheap lawn chairs in our living room and storing our clothes in suitcases. We had nothing to manage.

Rob didn't know much more about money than I. He also worked through high school and college, but when he got a loan in med school for his living expenses, he stored that money under his mattress. Under his mattress, my friends! Like some kind of crazy old coot living way back up in the mountains or something. (He let me share this with you all as long as I promised to tell you that he has come a long way since then. He now is a great supporter of banks and other financial institutions. And he has gotten rid of that moonshine still, too.)

I did a little informal research on the internet and I polled some friends, and then Rob and I cobbled together a little plan:

• Anyone over the age of five is eligible for a wage.
• There will be a posted list of chores that must be done CHEERFULLY each week or there will be no allowance.
• Rob and I are the final arbiters of the degree of cheerfulness in each child's attitude. If we catch even a whiff of bad attitude, we have the right to reduce or revoke the allowance.
• Each child has the opportunity to earn a dollar amount equal to one half of his/her age per week.
• Each week, the child must divide allowance into three groups: Spend, Save, and Share.
• Allowance will cease when the child is old enough to get a real job.

When I told Francie and Fiver about the plan, you could practically hear the cha-ching! in their heads. Fiver immediately made plans to "buy all the trains and digital pets they have at Target." I guess it's good to have goals.

Since this is only the first week, I am interested to see how the Summer of the Allowance will pan out. Hopefully it will motivate them to work hard and not to just expect that money will be falling into their laps at the end of each week.

What about you, my friends? Does anyone else do allowance? Any thoughts on the pros and cons? I'm interested to know how other people handle this.

Check It Out

Psst, I'm not here tonight - I'm over here!

I haven't said anything about it, but I am now an official contributor to Blissfully Domestic. I will be talking about Fiver, SPD, parenting a special needs child and all that that entails.

You can also leave me some comment love if you want. That way I won't be like the weird new mom blogger who doesn't know anyone. Even though I am the weird new mom blogger who doesn't know anyone.

And so, in the inimitable words of Messrs. Bartles and Jaymes, I thank you for your support.