Sunday Night
What distresses me is not the dirty white crews socks which are stuck to my living room fireplace approximately eight feet up. Nor, am I all that worried about the stacks of folded laundry which perch on the sectional.

What bugs me are the popcorn fragments scattered across the family room, because I vacuumed yesterday and by some grand delusion, I believed that my floor would stay acceptable through the beginning of a new week.

Alas, it was not to be.

Martha Stewart, felon, did not seem to have this problem, even when she was a free and productive member of society. I bet she did not have socks stuck to her fireplace or crumbs on her floor–because she did not have boys. Do you like how I blame everything on my boys?

I did have a moment tonight, just a while ago in the kitchen. My youngest boy came downstairs to inform me with great glee that his nose is so stuffy he couldn’t sleep, “and I think I should stay home from school tomorrow!” His smile was so wide, his cheeks so flushed, his hair so blond that I just really saw him for a second, really noticed how tall he’s getting and how big. Time is so fleeting. Tonight he was standing in my kitchen in his footy-pajamas that zip all the way up and next thing I know, he’ll be accepting a diploma and driving off to college.

TwinBoyA, meanwhile, is in a reading frenzy. He’s read three of the Harry Potter books in four days.

TwinBoyB spends his days watching the cooking channel.

My house is full of scritching noises tonight. YoungestBoy just came downstairs, dragging a pop-up tent that his brothers left in his room. It’s 10:07 p.m. I opened the twins’ door and when I do that, TwinBoyA always scolds his brother, his way of attempting to deflect any scolding that may come his way. They’ve been staying awake later and later, so I figure I need to start waking them earlier, more deliberately.

Sunday Morning
This morning, I gave ample warning to all the children. I am leaving at 9:30, I told them. I dressed YoungestBoy, Babygirl and myself and headed out the door. TwinBoyB couldn’t find his shoes. I said, “That’s a bummer for you. I hope you figure out a solution,” and went to the car. We sat about five minutes while he found his shoes. His hair looked like a rather unsuccessful Chia pet. I’m trying to not micromanage the older boys. Hair like that makes it tough.

I settled us into the second to the last pew in church, pleased that I was on time. Then a man came and whispered to me that there was no nursery volunteer and since I am the coordinator, I had to go. I actually said out loud (with no one around), “Yes, I love to get dressed up in pantyhose to sit in the nursery!” as I tromped downstairs with Babygirl in tow.

I found only three kids in the nursery, a three year old, four year old and five year old. They all left for their classes when the sermon began and then a visitor came in with a two year old boy named Zion.

Zion’s hair reminded me of the story of Samson in the Bible. I wonder if Samson’s locks hung in his face, though? Zion wasn’t quite two, but he was way bigger than Babygirl and had huge feet–or maybe just enormous shoes. Who knows? He never spoke, but he did grab and shove. His mother left and then returned with her baby, a girl named Anaya.

Babygirl immediately begged to hold the baby. The baby’s mom generously handed over her five month old chunk of sweet baby pudge with straight-up-in-the-air black silky hair. This baby almost weighed as much as Babygirl, but Babygirl did not let this deter her. She adores babies, any size, any type.

I had a lovely conversation with the mother of the children. She recently moved with her family from Hawaii. I had such a great chat that I regretted my stinky attitude about being relegated to the nursery yet again. I always enjoy visiting with the other mothers, even while I am wearing pantyhose which I am pretty sure are part of the Curse.

Yesterday, DaycareKid arrived a little late, so I took the opportunity to replace the fallen towel bars in the bathrooms. For some reason, my 11-year old twins have been using those bars as handles, apparently attempting to rock-climb the bathroom walls. How else to explain the inexplicable fallen racks?

I fixed the towel rack in the downstairs bathroom and before I could go upstairs, DaycareKid arrived. I welcomed him and he and Babygirl went into the family room to reunite after a long night apart. She’s always so happy to see him.

The upstairs towel bar refused to budge–I need to find the really tiny screwdriver that the children have “borrowed”–and so I returned downstairs after only a few minutes. I’d left three bowls of oatmeal on the kitchen counter to cool–suddenly, I’ve turned into The Three Little Bears. Only one bowl remained.

I thought, Oh, my son ate his oatmeal already, but I realized immediately that 3-1=2 . . . and so where was the other oatmeal bowl? I glanced over and saw DaycareKid and Babygirl, both standing in the family room holding bowls of oatmeal and gigantic spoons.

Babygirl said, “We eat moat-meal!” Remarkably, they hadn’t spilled a glop. I could only smile at her resourcefulness at finding the oatmeal, carrying it one bowl at a time, sharing with her friend, digging around in the forehead-height-to-a-toddler silverware drawer for spoons.

Today, while I sat at the kitchen table, discussing poetry with my twins, I became vaguely aware of the toddlers talking about the potty. I paused, listened and heard “He play with the potty!” I jumped up and said, “OH NO! Oh no, no, no, NO!” I hurried over to find DaycareKid sitting a few feet away from the toddler-sized potty which we keep in the family room. Babygirl had peed in the potty earlier and I hadn’t immediately emptied it.

I know. How disgusting, right?

DaycareKid had been dunking Pokemon cards into the urine in the potty. When I knelt to investigate, I felt a wet spot on the knee of my well-worn blue jeans where he’d dropped the soaked cards. I gathered the cards up–ewwwwww–and carried them to the trashcan. I told myself, “Urine is sterile,” but–ick. I washed his hands in warm water, told him, “NO NO NO NO NO NO!” I emptied the pot. I can’t believe I had to say the sentence, “DO NOT PLAY IN THE POTTY!”

It reminded me of the time I heard myself say, “Do not pee on your brother!” That was way back in the days when the twins were three and I thought my life was hectic. Ha ha ha.

Who Are You?
I’ve been watching too much Winnie the Pooh–not the new-fangled shows you find on the Disney Channel, but the original Winnie the Pooh movies. We have three-in-one, called “Pooh’s Grand Adventures.” My favorite is all about the blustery day.

But here is what I have come to realize. I am Rabbit. I am the one likely to scurry around saying, “Oh no, no, no, no! My precious carrots!” And “my beautiful garden” in great dismay upon finding it trashed by the irrepressible Tigger. I am not simple and sweet like Pooh. I am not timid and fearful like Piglet. I have never been happy-go-lucky and energetic like Tigger. I wish I was Kanga with her June Cleaver voice and her broom, or Roo with his happy childhood. At one time I was gloomy Eyeore, watching my house fall down around me, but now? Now I am Rabbit, the party-pooper, the worry-wart, the one who freaks out upon finding a Pooh Bear stuck in the doorway of my house.

I have watched so much Pooh lately, that I’ve even decided that it would be a good quiz: A “Who Are You? Winnie-the-Pooh?” quiz. Guess someone else beat me to it!

(I just took the quiz I linked up there and it was obviously wrong because it said this:

Winnie the Pooh^_^You always like finding new stuff
and you have a lot of friends.You love everyone
and like helping them but you worry too much
about your food..

Which Winnie the Pooh character are you ? (with Pics)
brought to you by Quizilla)

And I took another one for kicks and this time it said this:
Take the 100 Acre Personality Quiz!

I guess I don’t know myself as well as I thought. . . or perhaps the Internet is not full of truth and beauty as I previously believed! I don’t care what the Internet says. I am Rabbit, neurotic, long-eared, crazed Rabbit. Send carrots.

I asked my youngest son, “Who do you think is the best reader in your class?”

He said, “Me!”

I said, “Who is the best at math?”

Again, he said, “Me!”

Then, I said, “Well, who has the most friends in your class?”

Without pause, he said, “Me!”

If I could package and market this child’s self-confidence and optimism, I would be a very rich woman, indeed.

———————————————

My twins spent several hours today after finishing their school work building a “clubhouse,” which involved carrying every blanket and afghan they could find into the dining room. Their design relied heavily on draping these blankets on chairs. Then, TwinBoyA stretched out on his stomach and read the first Harry Potter book. Again. He decided to read them all again for the third time. He started reading it yesterday and I think he’ll finish it tomorrow.

The neighbor boys came over and all the boys spent a great deal of time assigning roles. I heard TwinBoyB informing the neighbor boy that he had to be a guard and go through beginning guard training.

The neighbor boys come over every day and want to stay late. My boys sometimes don’t really want to play with them, but YoungestBoy said he doesn’t want to make the boys feel bad by refusing to play. We need to figure out a way to preserve some space around my sons while reaching out to the neighbors at the same time.

Tricky stuff, this child-rearing. At least one child–the YoungestBoy–is making me look good! He’s gotten four perfect spelling tests, despite the fact I haven’t helped him study his words yet. Now, if I can remember to give him popcorn money tomorrow, all will be well.

I remember free time. Free time in third grade meant reading the library book I always kept on my desk, or drawing elaborate pictures of my black puppy, Midnight, while I waited for my classmates to catch up. It meant wandering my cul-de-sac and neighborhood on my bike. I used my free time to squish along the banks of the creek at the bottom of the “big hill.”

Free time in junior high meant riding my bike up and down the hills of my hometown. Free time meant hours spent in the public library, perusing bookshelves and striving for invisiblity while I stuck my nose in a book. I baked cookies and took piano lessons and grew nasturtiums outside my bedroom window.

I managed to get through high school with a straight-A average, yet found enough free time to be a hospital “Volunteen” on the “broken bones” unit at our local hospital. I wanted to be on the maternity ward, even then, near the tiny babies. I’d peer through the windows at the extremely premature babies. Then I’d return to my assigned floor, pass magazines to people immobilized by casts and fill water carafes.

As a high-schooler, I had enough free time to babysit, play the piano, read, participate in youth group activities, work part-time at Taco Time and work with children at church.

And then, there were summers. Remember summers? When you never saw mornings at all? I’d pry my eyes open at 11:00 a.m., then roll over until noon. I’d chat on the phone, ride around with my best friend, Shelly, in her canary-yellow Volkswagon bug. We’d jump waves in the Pacific Ocean and wander the waterfront in Seattle. We’d whittle away entire days, doing nothing.

I was so eager then for my “real life” to begin. I couldn’t wait to be grown, to be in charge, to be responsible.

I used to have free time before I had children. For nine anxious months while we lingered on an adoption waiting list, my husband worked and I was unemployed. I ate chocolate covered raisins, watched deer outside my back window and watched reruns of “thirtysomething.” I saw movies during the day. I can hardly imagine the bounty of free time that I squandered in those days.

Now, I must shove stuff out of the way to get free time. Sometimes, quite literally. I’ll push aside the malignant paper pile on the kitchen counter so I can open the front page of the newspaper and read while the babies eat noodles for lunch. I will become temporarily blinded to the unfolded laundry while I sprawl on the recliner and read. I will leave my house in complete disarray without a drop of much-needed make-up on my pale face so that I can drive in silence.

Free time comes in incremental moments or very late at night. Sometimes, I’m just too weary to embrace the free time that drifts my way. Sometimes I miss the window of opportunity.

Often, I long for the bulk of free time that I had in my youth. That kind of time is shattered now into a million shards, mostly too small to use. Is it possible to even foresee the loss of free time that occurs when one becomes responsible for the feeding, care, and toenail clipping of four children?

I don’t think so.

Because if you realized that clipping forty kid-toenails would cause you to neglect your own toenails–which sport summer’s polish at Halloween–you might pause. You might wonder how much, exactly, the going rate for “free time” is.

Free time here costs me sleep. That’s the price I pay for “free” time. A girl has to have her priorities, after all.

I haven’t crashed into anyone’s living room. (See post immediately below if you haven’t been following along. And if you haven’t been following along, why not? Where have you been? I couldn’t wait all day for you!)

The Deathtrap only cost $43.00 to repair.

So, really, it was a comparatively good day. I’m reading Left for Dead by Beck Weathers which tells the story of how he was left for dead on Mt. Everest during a tragic climbing expedition. Severals others were killed, including some elite mountaineers. Reading about some guy eating raw bacon to fuel him on his quest to reach the South Pole tends to put your own life in perspective.

I’m fine. We’re fine. So what if it’s dark when I wake up and drizzly most of the day? So what if Babygirl inexplicably peed her pants in the dining room where I have brand new carpet? So what if there are six baskets of folded laundry to put away?

At least I don’t have to sleep in a tent on a frozen mountainside.

I can hear my husband’s snores, even though the television news is on. The boys finally stopped talking and fell into a sloppy sleep. The little kids sleep quietly and soundly and I haven’t heard from them in hours and hours.

Tonight, before I left for Weight Watchers, I asked my husband if he could put Babygirl to bed for me. He said he could if I wanted. So, off I went to my meeting and received news of a gain this week (what do you expect when you are lingering between two plans, not doing either of them?) and afterwards, I went to Target to get dishwasher liquid.

I felt like crying. I feel like a tree bending in the wind, just before it snaps and crashes into someone’s living room. In other words, I am a woman who is hormonal.

When I pulled into our driveway at 8:11 p.m. (eleven minutes past Babygirl’s bedtime) her bedroom light was on. I came into the house and she was halfway down the stairs, joyously announcing, “Mommy’s here!” I could not understand why I was seeing her cute little face when it was past her bedtime and I’d asked my husband to put her to bed.

I went into her room with her, watched her video with her and wept. I cried because I have too much to do and I didn’t stay on the Weight Watchers program and I can’t seem to find time for myself until my youngest child/ren are three years old and by that time, I’ll be over 40 and our trip to Walt Disney World is next summer and will I actually be the fattest mom in the Happiest Place On Earth?

Then I plopped Babygirl into bed. She protested, until I offered her the choice, “Would you like Mommy or Daddy to cover you up?” She thought a moment, then gave up and let me cover her. She stopped crying just as I closed the door. So did I.

I’m still typing (my transcription work) because I agreed to transcribe another tape. Why? I have clearly lost my mind. This afternoon, I cooked an entire dinner and then gave it away to my friend who has a newborn. Then I cooked again for my own family. (I know. There would have been a more efficient way to do that, but I hadn’t planned ahead because I’m a dunce.) I feel like I washed every dish in my kitchen–twice. I also think I washed, dried and folded every item of clothing in this house. So how it is that I still have dirty laundry on the laundry room floor?

Last Christmas, my friend‘s father-in-law gave her husband $25,000 to buy a new vehicle, so they could get rid of what the father-in-law thought of as their “death trap,” an older full-sized van. No mini about it. He thought it wasn’t safe for his darling three grandchildren, ages 8, 8, and 9.

My friend and her husband kind of chuckled at this extravagant gift, yet to them, it wasn’t really all that extravagant, considering they live in a half-million dollar house and the van is their fourth vehicle, if you include the pick-up truck they keep around the haul their boat to their summer home on Hood Canal.

At the time, she confided to me that when they purchased the new vehicle, they intended to give us their old van (a.k.a. The Deathtrap).

Now, almost a year later, they finally purchased a new vehicle, a fancy-schmancy SUV. Today, my husband picked up The Deathtrap, filled it with $40.00 worth of gasoline and parked it in our driveway.

A bit later, he went out to run errands. He noticed the odor of gasoline. He called me outside to observe the large puddle of gasoline under The Deathtrap. The gasoline that cost almost $2.00 a gallon.

Supposedly, the mechanic fixed this problem a month ago, and they should take care of the problem today. No charge.

But, what is wrong with this picture?

Double-income family, earning well over $300,000 per year (probably a whole lot more), owners of four vehicles, three houses (they have a rental, their main house and their summer house), a boat and three bunnies.

Our family, earning well under $100,000 (ha, if we made $100,000 that would mean one of us had died and the life insurance check arrived), owners of one vehicle, one home, and three kitties.

Who should get a brand new vehicle? Who should have a father who can write a check for $25,000 at Christmas time?

Okay. Just checking.

And yes, I guess that makes me ungrateful to have The Deathtrap leaking gasoline all over my driveway. But really, I am grateful. Won’t it be exciting to cheat death every time I take my children somewhere? Think of the adrenaline!

Don’t you hate when you check a blog, but the blog-writer hasn’t written anything? For weeks? Or days? Or hours? Yeah, me, too.

So, I’m popping in at midnight on Saturday to say a couple of things.

I agreed to take a transcription job, so I’ve been typing furiously when the kids go to bed. It’s kind of boring and whenever I agree to type for pay, I suddenly get crazy ideas like: Oh, I should put all the Christmas china back into the hutch. Then my storage room would be cleared out a little. Or, I should paint the entry-way and I wonder if that wall in the kitchen should be red? Or, Today, right now, I should put out Halloween decorations.

But, of course, I can’t do any of that. I have to type. I can do nothing but type or I won’t possibly be able to meet my deadline. Tomorrow, I will have to fit in four hours of typing. Why do I do this to myself?

Today, when Babygirl went to sleep, I went to Joann’s Fabrics–a brand new store with wide aisles and a take-a-number system for the fabric-cutting station, so customers can take a number and wander the store rather than standing impatiently in line. Oh, I loved that! I could live in a fabric store, easily. Just walking into one makes me want to drag out my sewing machine (I need to have it fixed) and learn to knit and resume my scrapbooking. Fabulous store. I bought black material to make YoungestBoy a cape for his Halloween costume. He’s going to be a character he created called “Flame.”

I went to the grocery store afterwards and came home to a house full of kids. When I drove past my living room, my baby was peering out the window, waiting for me.

DaycareKid’s birthday party is tomorrow. We are invited, Babygirl and I, but the last time we went to a birthday party, Babygirl freaked out and we had to leave before it began. I’ve been preparing Babygirl for Sunday’s party. I told her a few days ago and she said “birthday cake?” Today, I told her that tomorrow we’re going to church, then after we rest, we’re going to DaycareKid’s house. She said, “Party?” She’s probably no smarter than the average two year old, but I was impressed that she remembered why we’re going. I hope this means she will not be frightened and that we can stay for the party.

I love to go to other people’s homes, even though it makes me suddenly self-conscious about my own humble home.

Well, the clock strikes twelve and I’ve turned into a pumpkin. (By the way, we saw “Friday Night Lights” on, well, Friday night. Loved it, and my husband loved it even more. He grew up in Texas, playing high school football and read this book years and years ago. Great movie.)

October has surprised us all with its glorious, warm afternoons. Last night, after dinner, I prepared to sit in the backyard to watch Babygirl and YoungestBoy play while the sky faded to black. I’d been peering at them out the window and had seen YoungestBoy wielding a garden hoe suspiciously close to the area where bees have plagued us all summer. He’d crept close to the corner of the wooden playhouse, trying to peer around the edge where the bee-line began.

Before I even sat down, he came running fast toward me, shaking his hand, yelling that he needed a Band-aid. His actions indicated that he’d had his finger amputated and I expected to see dripping blood, but I saw only a little red dot. I said, “What happened?”

He said, “I was smacking the hoe on that stump and then my hand got hurt by magic!”

He was hopping from side to side, shaking the injured hand. I said, “Okay, go inside and get a Band-aid.” I figured he had a sliver or a tiny little cut. I didn’t even think of the bees.

My husband of seventeen years and three months came out a short time later. “Did you know our son is hurt?”

I said, “Yes. I sent him in for a Band-aid.”

He said, “Well, you should take a look at him. He’s on the couch, crying.”

Rather huffily, I tossed my newspaper aside and rolled my eyes and went in. I found YoungestBoy writhing on the couch, shaking his hand as if he could shake off the pain. Still, no blood. No amputation.

“Did a bee sting you?”

“No!”

“Did you hear buzzing?”

“No!”

“Honey, I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with you. Let me see.” I saw a tiny red dot surrounded by a whitened circle. Looked like a bee sting to me. I tried to pick at it to see if that red dot was really a stinger.

He yelled, “NO!”

My husband came in to supervise. I said, “I think it’s a bee sting.”

He said, “Give him pain reliever.”

I said, “Hold on.” I went to check my medical book. Should I tweezer out the stinger? Was that a stinger? I wanted some information.

I’m like that. I need a lot of information before I am comfortable making a decision. And I don’t want hearsay. Or old wives’ tales. Or stories of personal experience. No. I want the cold, hard facts. And lots of them.

As I was rummaging through my book, looking for the information on bee stings, my husband appeared again and said, “Just give him some pain reliever!”

I’m thinking, “Bee stings. Bee stings. Where is the section on bee stings? Should I use ice?”

With great exasperation at this interruption, I stomped into the kitchen and grabbed Tylenol and Advil and with my mouth pursed into an angry line, filled a glass of water. My husband, now sitting at the kitchen table and observing my unmistakable expression said, “What are you so mad about?”

I said, “I need information! And you never let me get the information I need!”

He said, “You can make us both happy.”

I said, “Oh, that’s funny. I can make us both happy by doing what you want?!”

He said, “Just give him medicine and then look up the information.”

I rolled my eyes again (they’re going to stay that way!) and delivered the medicine to my still red-faced, crying kid. Then I went upstairs to find the information I needed.

I came downstairs awhile later, put ice in the bag and soon, YoungestBoy forgot about his pinkie because it’s so much fun to nibble a corner off the Zip-loc bag of ice and suck the water out.

This incident reminded me of my honeymoon. My husband and I foolishly went to Mt. Rainier to honeymoon for a few days before we moved from Washington state to Connecticut. Neither one of us were avid hikers, but staying in the mountains had sounded romantic. Next time, we’re staying in a city by movie theaters and restaurants. You can only get to “know” someone for so long before you need diversion. Trust me on that.

So, the first day, we headed up to Paradise, the highest spot you can drive on Mt. Rainier. We decided to go for a hike, so we headed toward the trails. Right at the base of the trail was a handy map, showing an assortment of trails, the mileage of each trail, the elevation, and other fascinating stuff.

I studied the map, trying to pick out a trail that wasn’t too steep, one that was a round-trip trail, one that had a good destination.

My new husband said, “Let’s go!”

I said, “Um, let me look at this map first.”

He said, “Let’s go!”

I said, “Okay.”

Then we headed straight up a steep trail with no destination in mind. I was discombobulated, seething, annoyed. Who starts a hike without any information?

This has been a problem for me ever since. I need a lot of information to make decisions. My husband only needs someone to say, “Hey, I liked that!” I need to read books, to line things up in my mind, to sort and examine and measure. He’ll base a decision on his friend’s dad’s recommendation. He trusts people’s opinions. I think people might be morons and I want the facts. A lot of facts.

You can see how this would be problematic.

What’s funny is that even seventeen years and three months into this marriage, we still view obstacles and problems and situations from vastly different perspectives. He’s ready to spring into action and I want time to consider options.

And yet, he can’t diagnose and treat a bee sting without my involvement.

And he thinks I’m the neurotic one. Ha.