Month: April 2005

Doing My Civic Duty

Last night, I missed “24,” the television show. You know the one, where Jack Bauer saves the world every single week, practially single-handedly. I love that show. My husband jokes with me about my love for Keifer Sutherland, but really, it’s not that. I’m just hooked on the drama of Jack Bauer’s indestructibility and the outlandish situations that occur one after the other, stacked up like an evil set of dominoes just waiting to be tipped.

Oh, so where was I instead? What could be more important than my must-see t.v.?

I was at a city council meeting. I’d never been before, so I had no idea that a meeting which started at 7:00 p.m. would drag on and on and on past 10:30 p.m. (If I’d known, I would have set the VCR!) One of the issues they were discussing is of great interest to me, so much so that I attended a town hall meeting a month or so ago. Then I wrote a letter to the editor of the local paper, which was published in the Sunday edition. Last week, I noticed another letter on the opinion page which referred to an article that mentioned the town hall meeting.

I missed the article when it appeared, so I quickly got on-line, pulled up the article and grew so annoyed and irate that I immediately emailed the reporter (and his boss, the newspaper editor) to complain about his characterization of the meeting. Oh no, you don’t want to mess with Mel, but apparently the reporter hadn’t gotten that memo. He dared to email me back and argued with me. We exchanged several emails and then *poof* he disappeared in a black cloud of internet silence. I win.

The following Sunday, the editor of the paper issued an apology with regards to that article, specifically the way the reporter described the meeting. (Let’s just say he made it sound like a mob scene and it was as peaceful and calm as a public meeting could possibly be.)

Score one for Mel!

I emailed the editor and thanked him for his apology and he emailed back and admitted that they got it wrong.

Well.

So, last night, I was at the city council meeting where they were discussing this issue that concerns me. They dealt with other city business until 8:30 p.m., at which point I thought, I’m going to miss “24.” I shall have to leave early. I kept promising myself that I’d leave, but the meeting featured some high drama, some outright rudeness, some pointed questions and I couldn’t tear myself away, even though my contacts were dry and sticking to my eyes and I’d been awake for seventeen hours by then.

Will these efforts make a difference in the outcome? Who knows? I hope I didn’t miss an episode of “24” for nothing. And they haven’t heard the last from me, that’s for sure.

Three Ducks in a Puddle and More

Please, come back with me in time. Look around. It’s Friday, 2:50 a.m. Babygirl wakes you from a dead sleep. Crying? What is that noise? Crying? You stumble from bed and pluck a distressed girl from her crib. You turn off the light and sit for ten minutes, rocking Babygirl. Then you return her to her crib.

Back to bed. You fall into bed, exhausted. You have resumed your walking program, remember? The alarm will ring at 5:10 a.m. You reach over and click the alarm off and doze to the sound of pouring rain. Babygirl wakes again at 6:20 a.m. This time, you bring her back to bed and you both sleep again until the phone rings at 7:42 a.m. You are still in bed because DaycareKid and CuteBaby aren’t coming today. You deserve a break.

So you say, “Hello?” in a voice that sounds as sleepy are you are. Your Texan mother-in-law, the one who rises every morning by 6:00 a.m., the one who cannot remember that you live in a time-zone two hours behind Texas-time, she says, “Are you still sleeping?” as if you have committed a crime.

You admit to your slothfulness and don’t bother to offer an excuse. She needs to know if you cashed the birthday check she sent in February. You assume you did–have you ever been known not to cash a check?–but you tell her you’ll investigate and let her know.

Even though you had sleep, interrupted, it’s still Friday and it’s your twin boys’ birthday. They are twelve. You had them do all their schoolwork the day before, so they are taking the day off from school. Your plan:

1) Cash check at bank.
2) Hand over $100 to each boy. “Happy birthday! You get this in lieu of a birthday party and gift!”
3) Drop off film at Costco, one-hour developing, please.
4) Arrive at Red Robin for birthday lunch promptly at 11:00 a.m.
5) Drive boys to Toys R Us so they can spend their money. Be surprised that they each only buy a GameBoy game.
6) Purchase a new dolly and carseat for Babygirl. Notice how cute she is, how thankful she is.
7) Return to Costco. Pick up film and stand in extremely long line to buy cake, meatballs, granola bars.
8) Stop by GameCrazy so TwinBoyB can buy “DonkeyKonga.” While the twins go into the store (park right outside the door), have Babygirl pee in an empty Taco Bell cup. Don’t forget to pour it into the grass so it doesn’t spill in your used van. Babygirl will beg to pee in cups for the next few days, but you saved yourself from having to take her into the Hollywood Video public bathroom.)
9) Go home. Nap with Babygirl.
10) Pick up YoungestBoy from school while Babygirl still sleeps and twin boys play video games. They are 12, you will only be gone 5 minutes. Don’t worry. Be happy.

And on the way, at the very beginning of your adventure, please take note of the three ducks–one mallard, two dull brown females–which are sitting at the edge of the busy road, filling up a small puddle with their duckness. Wonder if the ducks are lost. Point out ducks to kids, but kids won’t see them. Wonder if perhaps those were decoys and if you are hallucinating.

Your husband normally picks up YoungestBoy and NeighborBoy, but today, he’s in Seattle, visiting a child at the Children’s Hospital. When he returns home, say, “How was it?” and hear him say, “He died about thirty minutes before I arrived.”

Oh. Stop. Blink. Breathe. Shake your head.

The child, an only child, a five year old child of a mother who is now expecting her second child, this child died from a blood disease of some sort. Try to sort out the details and promise yourself that you’ll google “spleen, attack red blood cells,” to try to figure out what exactly the boy died from. Try not to imagine your own blond son dead. Stop yourself everytime you hear yourself say, “You are driving me crazy!” Rebuke yourself each time you think, “I am so sick of picking up after these KIDS!” Wonder if you’d survive if one of your kids did not. Stop wondering how that other mother handles walking into her absent boy’s bedroom, how she can bear to look at his stuffed animals and boy-toys.

But before you can think too much, you must take YoungestBoy to the school for a “Beach Party.” Stand near a wall and be grateful when a dad you know chats with you. Shout loudly so he can hear you. Smile as a mom you know approaches. Shout loudly to her, too. Watch your son–your healthy, alive son–as he tries to hula-hoop and laugh out loud. Wonder why the temperature in the multi-purpose room is always set so high that beads of sweat glisten on your upper lip. Be relieved when your son is ready to leave after an hour of beach music and red-faced children running berserk.

Sleep in this morning as late as you can, even if it involves tucking Babygirl into bed next to you. She won’t sleep. But you can give her a snack and crawl back between the flannel sheets and listen to the rain and doze while she plays. Shower late. While husband goes to meet with the family of the deceased child, putter around. Clean off the kitchen counter, put recyclables into the new bin, fold some laundry, relocate a table and bookshelf, make lunch. Stay busy.

When your husband walks through the door, he’ll say one sentence, “There goes Vegas.” He was going to meet his college buddies in Las Vegas for the weekend, leaving next Thursday. The guys have been getting together annually for quite a few years, but he’s never been able to afford the time or money to go. He’s looking forward to seeing his old friends. But the funeral for the boy is Friday.

You are as disappointed as he is because after being married this long, you truly want him to be happy. Struggle, though there is no point. That family lost their son. The family must fly in from Germany. Your husband didn’t mention his cancelled four day trip to them. It’s his job to comfort people in their time of loss.

But you can feel a little annoyed, if you keep the annoyance isolated from the rest of your more responsible, grown-up response. The timing sucks. Your husband rocks.

Now, it’s 1:00 p.m. and he suggests that you get out of the house for a few hours. Off you go (no need to tell you twice) and as you drive toward the freeway, you spot those crazy three ducks, sitting in their make-shift home, the puddle. It’s not even big enough for them all to sit in it at the same time and they certainly can’t float in an inch of water. Where do they live? Why did they claim that puddle? Think about the ducks all afternoon.

Wonder if you are a duck in a puddle. Is some part of your life a ridiculous compromise? Do you limit yourself because you claimed the first puddle you saw? Is there a pond around the bed? Just over the trees? Do you stay at a puddle just because your friends decided to stay?

Think that maybe you are insane because you see everything–ducks in a puddle–as a possible metaphor for life.

Realize while you are shopping that your right gold hoop earring is missing. Remind yourself to check your pillow before you sleep tonight.

Shop. Shop. Shop. In this order: Once Upon a Child (consignment shop–buy Babygirl’s summer wardrobe for $17), Value Village (purchase old Fisher Price cash register with decals intact, still containing six plastic coins for $3.99, three books, a leopard print comforter for church Vacation Bible School this summer), Famous Footwear (buy YoungestBoy, owner of the World’s Stinkiest Shoes, two new pair for $50 total), Fred Meyer (groceries).

As you drive toward home, notice the strip club advertising some XXX “star.” Do a double-take when you see a man standing outside his Hummer, grabbing at dollars the wind is whipping into a tornado of cash. Slow down and crane your neck, then do a u-turn so you can drive by and look again. Laugh when you see him clutching a handful of bills. He looks so frantic. Is he the owner? How did he drop a bundle of cash? Think again what a metaphor this is–the money swirling in the parking lot, the man in a panic, chasing his dollars.

Return home promptly at 5:00 p.m. and let the children create their own sub sandwiches.

You are almost done! Bathtime, bedtime routine with Babygirl, read a chapter of “Pride and Prejudice” while Babygirl watches “Spongebob Squarepants” . . . can you still catch a movie? Alas, you cannot. Bad timing. But now you can help out your husband and type his sermon. Good thing you type so quickly. You have enough time to blog about ducks and funerals.

Aren’t weekends restful?

Stay Tuned

Yesterday, on the way to the bank, Costco, Red Robin, Toys R Us, Costco (again), and GameCrazy with my twins, the 12-year-old Birthday Boys, and my daughter, I saw three ducks in a puddle by the side of the road.

Today, I saw them again.

In between the duck sightings, my brain has become cluttered with bloggable stuff. I’ll be back when I have more time, later tonight, God-willing, if the creek don’t rise.

One Crime Scene: Zero Body

This afternoon, I realized I hadn’t seen YoungestBoy after his arrival home from school. I called his name and when he didn’t answer, I began to search. I found him in the bathroom, standing over the toilet. Blood covered his face and dripped into a scarlet red toilet bowl. He was sniffing and snorting the dripping blood into the toilet.

Blood drops led from the laundry room into the bathroom. Blood spattered the walls, the toilet rim, the floor and my boy. Sticky blood coated both hands. I’m surprised he didn’t need a transfusion. He looked like a murderer or a victim of violent crime.

He said, “I have a bloody nose.” And I said, “You sure do. Here, press this on it.” I handed him a washcloth and noted the newly stained yellow shirt he wore. The last time he wore this shirt, which was the first time he wore this shirt, he also managed to bloody it. Hydrogen peroxide removed the stains then. The shirt may be beyond salvage now. Blood splatters cover it now..

I directed him to sit down with a cloth on his nose and he said, “Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up.” As if!

While he sat and bled some more, I cleaned up the scene of the nosebleed. I hope that’s the closest I ever come to a crime scene. Mopping up his blood was a gruesome task. I am just thankful there was no corpse.

And he’s fine. Occasionally, he just gets a little rough with his nasal passages and has a nosebleed. That was the first time he’s ever bent over the toilet and let his blood dye the toilet-water crimson, though. I hope it was the last.

(Oh, and speaking of shirts–at noon, I received a phone call from school. He’d spilled chocolate milk on the same shirt, and because it was Picture Day, they asked if I could bring a new shirt to school. I couldn’t, but my neighbor came to my rescue and delivered a shirt. Apparently, after the photograph was taken, he put his stained shirt back on, which became completely blood-splattered upon his return home. That shirt is just destined for destruction.)

Fits

Babygirl has launched a new career. Well, maybe it’s just a hobby, but she could make it into a career. She is perfecting the art of throwing a tantrum.

This morning, she was happy to see DaycareKid arrive. She invited him upstairs to play in her room. Soon after, they came traipsing downstairs. She put on her yellow rainboots and DaycareKid put on his sneakers and I helped them with jackets and they went into our fenced-in backyard to play.

The mornings have been chilly, though, so they were quickly ready to come back inside. Babygirl came through the patio door and decreed that DaycareKid must stay outside.

I overruled her decision and she revved up her engines. By the time I had her jacket off, she was screaming and stomping. I gave her a choice (stop or go upstairs to bed) and she screamed more. So I carried her, still wearing the rubber boots, up to her crib where I deposited her without ceremony.

I closed the door.

Eventually, she quit screaming and I retrieved her.

Fit number two came when we layed down for a nap. I was so tired–5:20 a.m. comes so early for this nightowl. She began to cry and worked herself into a frenzy, complete with kicking her feet and banging her head into the pillow. I ignored her first, then mimicked her, but that had no effect, so I went back to ignoring her. She must have carried on for a good thirty minutes before she settled down. It took her another thirty minutes to actually fall asleep.

She woke up and launched right into fit number three. When I heard her wake up, I hurried to the room, but she was already in the throes of irrational crying. I gave her a few choices, which she completely rejected. Then I carried her to her own room and plopped her into her crib. This time I turned on a Winnie-the-Pooh video, so when she stopped, she could watch.

The fit lasted long enough for me to wash all the lunch dishes.

When my older children were her age, I used to reason, threaten, even spank them for tantrums like this. Now, I just ignore fits.

The moral of the story: As they say, if you can’t change the behavior, change the location of the behavior.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

We’ve been friends such a long time. I remember rifling through my mother’s hidden stash of marshmallows. You were there. When I sneaked cookies from the jar and restacked them so no one would notice, you were there. You even came along to my grandmother’s house that summer when I was just nine. How embarrassing to find that Grandma had taped closed the jar where she kept M&Ms after she noticed I’d pilfered some. You understood, though.

You were my friend, even when my parents became enemies. You stood by me when I found myself lost in middle school. Even though we parted ways for a year or so in junior high, you were waiting for me when I needed you again. You have been a steady friend, available at any moment of any day. Boring weekend? Nothing to do? You were there offering a bowl of ice cream slathered by peanut butter and chocolate syrup, and on a lucky day, miniature marshmallows.

My friends liked you, too. We’d all go out and eat french fries at that dumpy little drive-in which was demolished years ago. And a salty main course always called for something sweet, so we’d head over to the new Dairy Queen for a Peanut Buster Parfait. We were all pals. We stuck together.

Who needs boys when you have popcorn drizzled with butter?

My high school job made it convenient to spend time with you, which was great, wasn’t it? All those tacos and freshly deep-fried chips? I loved those “Crustos,” even though the name is disgusting–what’s not to like about deep-fried flour tortillas dusted with cinnamon sugar?

I know we weren’t on the best of terms in college, but I was so busy! I did appreciate how you’d lurk in the basement on the off chance I might come downstairs with fifty cents for a Twix bar, but I know we didn’t see each other too much. As it turns out, boys are more interesting than you, at least they were at the time. You have to admit, though, that occasionally, when we did get together, a whole pizza would disappear and sometimes a pound-size bag of M&Ms, too. And I never did practice moderation on those rare occasion we’d go a buffet. Hello!? Starving college student! I had to get my money’s worth.

Even though I didn’t see you all that much while I was preparing for my wedding (all that sewing, what was I thinking?), I did perfect my one-pan brownies, didn’t I? And let’s not forget those jumbo muffins at the bakery next to work! See? Always, forever friends, even though my wedding was coming. I still thought of you often.

I didn’t really expect to see you once I got married. And I probably wouldn’t have if my husband hadn’t started working the night-shift. I will never forget the first time we were together again. They’re not kidding, are they? Once you pop, you just can’t stop. I had to hide that Pringles can when it was all over so my husband wouldn’t realize how much I ate when we reunited. We picked up right where we left off, didn’t we?

Married life stressed me out, but not because of the marriage itself. The other stuff that happens to grown-ups challenged, teased and tested me–my dad’s death, the infertility, adoption, moving, job changes, financial woes, my husband’s cancer, parenting twins, pregnancy, moving again–oh, and let’s not forget the breast lump and biopsy. I am so glad you were there for all of that. I am, really. You were the one I could count on. Making friends is tough when you’re a grown-up!

But here’s the thing. I outgrew you, just as surely as I outgrew those size 10 blue jeans. Sure, you still feel comfortable to me, you calm me down, you welcome me with open arms. But I’m tired of sneaking around with you. I realize that you act like my Best Friend, but you are sabotaging me. You stab me in the back. You do not have my best interests at heart. It’s really all about you and never about what is really best for me.

So why is breaking up so hard to do? You have become my worst bad habit, the dark sin I repent of every Monday morning. I am embarrassed by my association with you and I pretend that we aren’t really that close. But it’s clear enough to anyone who looks at me and my extra chin. We are on intimate terms.

You have got to go. Food, you are the sorriest excuse for a friend ever. All that time when I thought you were helping me, bringing me peace, entertaining me, you were wrapping your chubby little fingers around my heart, ready to cut off the circulation.

You are demoted. Go back to your proper place, that of serving me, nourishing me, keeping me healthy. Our sick relationship is clearly out of hand.

I’ll be lonely for you and I’ll be tempted to call you. You are so familiar to me! The easiest possible solution to every problem I have! Bored? Sad? Happy? Tired? Cause for celebration? I want to call you. But I can’t. I’ve got to stop. You are no friend, despite your chumminess.

We’ve got to break-up.

And I mean it this time.

Keeping Promises and Making Kids Cry

While Babygirl napped this afternoon, I decided to take my couch-potato, GameBoy-playing sons for a hike. I took them back to the trails at Point Defiance, which were so lovely that even the memory of Babygirl weeping and wailing as she hiked did not deter me.

The air was still, cool. The boys chattered incessantly as we briskly walked down the trail to the beach. I’d point out the trilliums and they wouldn’t quite yawn, but really, all they wanted to do was find a good stick. I described the process of decaying tree trunks and new growth and they scarcely blinked. I used the word “ecosystem,” but it didn’t spark any flicker of recognition.

The tide was low today and so the beach stretched out before us. TwinBoyB nearly fell on his head as he carelessly scrambled down the last ten feet of the trail. Then he slid on his bottom as he tiptoed across a fallen log. He finally screamed, “I HATE WALKS!” I ignored his outburst and carefully picked my way down the stairstepping roots of the giant beach-side tree.

We meandered down the beach. TwinBoyA was intent upon finding “aquatic life,” as he called it. We immediately came upon a pink and blue sea star. YoungestBoy held it and I photographed it. Then we discovered symmetrical holes in the rock, which turned out to be mudstone which contained oblong-shaped clams called piddocks. The piddocks opened like gaping bird mouths. If touched, they’d squirt and then sink back down into their holes.

We found rocks which crumbled in our hands and then it dawned on us that the rocks had broken off of the soaring walls of the bluff which bordered the beach. I think the rock was probably gypsum–it was soft as a bar of soap. We each carved our names into the rock wall. We could break the rocks with one hand, as if they were chalk.

TwinBoyB began to complain and suggest that we turn back. He is a whiner extraordinaire and always has been. His complaints are so tiresome and have ruined many an adventure. Today was no different.

We eventually turned back and found the roots of the tree which marked our trail. As we began our ascent up the trail, I said, “Children who do not complain will get a treat! Children who complain will get no treat!” I did not want to hear any bellyaching as we climbed back up the steep trail. I prompted YoungestBoy to tell the twins where we’d have our treat (Dairy Queen).

And then we trudged uphill. Although the trail was quite steep in places, it was not impossible. TwinBoyB immediately began a tirade of complaints: “I’m tired!” “I hate walking!” “Why did we have to do this?” “My legs are going to fall off.” “I’m going to explode!” “I think I am going to die. Seriously. I mean it.”

I realized that this boy would get no treat or my words would have no value. I even commented out loud and so in a great dramatic performance, he collapsed in tears and slid on his bottom on the path. His brothers were shouting encouragement and giving him their walking sticks. He cried, his face red, his attitude stinky. I dreaded what was about to happen. His brothers were frantic, cheering him on.

Just as we reached the parking lot, I mentioned that he would not get a treat. He wailed and gnashed his teeth, begging for another chance, for mercy. “Mom, what do I have to DO?” I said, “You needed to walk without complaining the whole way.”

His tantrum reminded me of Babygirl’s fit the other day. By now, his brothers were desperate. “Mom, PLEASE, you have to give him another chance!” YoungestBoy went so far as to suggest that if I’d been in his class the other day, then maybe I would have learned to think how I might feel if I were in another person’s shoes. TwinBoyA cautioned me, “Mom, God is frowning on you! Whatever happened to mercy and compassion? Huh? Huh?”

I said, “Look. I told you the rules. I made a promise. I have to keep it. He made a choice, a bad choice, and I’m sad for him, but I can’t break my promise.” At that point, TwinBoyB broke into a mournful yell, “JUST KILL ME! KILL ME NOW! I WANT TO BE DEAD!”

I stopped the car. I said, “Get out. When you’re finished, you can get back in.” He stopped screaming and looked at me through narrowed eyes. I started the car again, he started crying again and the TwinBoyA, in a great show of moral support, burst into loud weeping. He hid his face behind the sleeve of his fleece jacket. I think he was faking.

Behind me, YoungestBoy joined the chorus, sobbing so hard he could barely speak his accusations aloud. “You are so mean!” I turned to see tears running down his pink cheeks. All three boys were now crying in unison.

I wanted to roll my eyes. I wanted to laugh. But I calmly pulled the car over–again–and warned everyone to stop. I explained again why TwinBoyB would get no treat.

I think they expected me to crumble–and how I wanted to collapse under the weight of their collective disapproval–but I held steady. I pulled into the drive-through lane of the Dairy Queen and said, “What do you want?” to YoungestBoy. Then I asked TwinBoy A. I ordered a hot fudge sundae and two Georgia Fudge Mud Blizzards (one for me, one for TwinBoyA) and told TwinBoyB that I was sorry he didn’t get a treat.

He accepted his fate without a sound. TwinBoyA rose to the occasion and shared his whole treat with his brother. Before we’d gone a block, the sound of pleasant laughter filled my car.

I can only hope TwinBoyB learned something. I know I did. I need new hiking companions.

Two Year Olds Must Be Quarantined

For the most part, we are homebodies. Partly by choice, a lot by circumstance. The school-at-home thing ensures that we are at home on school days, doing school work. The daycare babies means I have to be on duty, taking care of little ones from 7:15 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. I’m not one of those grab-the-kids-and-go-go-go kind of moms.

But yesterday, Friday, DaycareKid was at home with his mom. CuteBaby left at 3:30 p.m. The twins were with my husband, visiting the Washington State History Museum and its traveling exhibit of 9/11 artifacts. I’d been wanting to take the kids to Point Defiance Park. We go to the zoo occasionally, but have never hiked the trails in the 700 acre park.

So, off we went. We tramped on the muddy trails and I exclaimed over all the huge trees and took pictures.


[Zach and Grace (caught mid-cough) in front of an enormous old-growth tree.]  Posted by Hello

We wound our way down a meandering trail until we found ourselves at the beach–well, six feet up from the beach. The final feet were impossible for Grace to traverse and so we sat on the exposed roots of a giant tree and watched Zach scamper down to the water’s edge. A blue tugboat chugged past us, pulling a huge barge as if it were made of styro-foam. The wind tousled our hair.

At last, I convinced her we needed to go–she’d be happy to sit near the beach forever, I think. Back up we went. My morning walks have done me good. The steep climb did not leave me gasping for breath. About halfway back to the top trail, Grace abruptly turned and headed back down. “I go this way!” she said.

I cajoled, I bribed and finally, I waved bye-bye and continued walking up the trail. She began to cry, but followed me. Then she wailed and walked until we reached the car, scaring wildlife and annoying the rare fellow-hiker, no doubt. I’d reach my arms out to her and ask, “Do you want me to hold you? Do you want a ride?” and she’d stomp and yell, “No!”

When she realized we had reached the parking lot, she was furious. I had to chase her and plop her into her carseat. She screamed even louder. She carried on until we pulled into the Dairy Queen drive-through. Then she said, “I want ice cream.”

And that is why we have a policy of never taking two-year-olds in public. (A policy which is broken all the time, but still.)

(I use a film camera, so the pictures of the fit–of course I took pictures of that tantrum–aren’t available yet, but you can be sure I’ll add them!)

Bad Hair

I’m having a bad hair year day. Alert Oprah. I need a makeover.

I’m not saying God made a mistake, but somewhere in the DNA hair warehouse, someone made a boo-boo and went hog-wild, inserting way too much genetic code giving me this ridiculous, curly hair. And no, I’m not thankful for it, so all you naturally straight-haired girls can just slap me.

Stylists always gather it into a thick rope and comment. “Wow! Look at all this hair!” The last stylist admired the curls and said, “This is exactly what a perm is supposed to look like!” But, a-hem, this is not a perm. And perms aren’t even in style anymore. And why are my bangs suddenly curving in a backwards “C” on my forehead instead of curving straight down? They’ve suddenly decided to swarm to the beat of their own drummer and I am not amused.

I need bangs, obedient bangs which will frame my haggard face. I’d do away with them entirely (OFF WITH YOUR HEAD HAIR!) except that my forehead needs a disguise and because my head is too big for a ten-gallon hat, I need bangs. Regular, normal, obedient bangs. Is this too much to ask?

I can’t think straight when my hair is a-tangle. I’d had it short. I’ve grown it long. I highlighted it for years and then three years ago, I decided to embrace my natural dirty-dishwater, how-now-brown-cow color. Then I found a gray hair.

So, at the moment, I’m distracted by my below-shoulders mane which is mainly a pain in the rain. Hide the scissors.

Speaking Too Soon

Yesterday, Babygirl boycotted naptime. Oh, she rolled around on the bed next to me and claimed the best pillow for herself, but she did not sleep. I teetered on the edge of consciousness, rousing periodically to find her still chanting or wiggling or singing. And then after an hour and twenty minutes of this, the clock said 2:18 and I leapt from the bed and told her I needed to check on the boys. As I exited the room, I heard CuteBaby’s cries from the crib. He was awake. So much for my lunch.

Babygirl did not stay in bed, but called down from the top of the stairs a few moments later, “I had a good sleep!” She emphasized this lie by rubbing her eyes.

Hours later, I thought to myself, she’s doing really well. . . no fits at all this time. The last time she missed a nap, she disintegrated into a physically fit bundle of fury, stomping her feet, refusing to answer any questions, screaming while drool trickled down her belly.

I should know better than to even think such thoughts, because moments later, she threw a doozy of a tantrum. Right before bedtime, she followed up her earlier effort with a prize-winning shriek of irrationality, complete with tears, snot and saliva.

You’d think I’d learn.

This morning, I luxuriated in a day filled with fewer responsibilities. It’s Spring Break, so we aren’t doing schoolwork. CuteBaby won’t arrive until after lunch, so I cleaned off my desk and enjoyed catching up on some reading. If my body can’t be on vacation, at least my mind can.

And then–HOW CAN THIS KEEP HAPPENING?–TwinBoyA opened the door and said, “Hey, why is there water all over the floor?” So much for peace and tranquility. The washing machine strikes again, wriggling the hose loose from its mooring.

On the bright side, the boys rushed to find all the towels in the house. What teamwork! What an exciting adventure! An indoor pond! I worked up a good sweat dragging soppy towels over the floor with my foot and into the stupid washing machine. Only three unexpected loads of towels for today.

I wedged the washing machine firmly against the utility sink. I can only hope that this water-filled disaster does not happen again. But as surely as a two-year old throws fits, my washing machine hose will come loose again. And it will happen when I am least expecting it, basking in the uncharacteristic glow of optimism. I should know better.