Month: March 2006

Friday!

Here’s what I’d like to do today:
1) Go crazy trimming ivy and hedges in front and back yards.
2) Remove old perennial growth from fall and grin and wave at new growth.
3) Sweep off patio and gather up toys from yard.
4) Eat lunch at Taco Time.
5) Nap.
6) Read all afternoon while my maid tidies up and my chef cooks dinner. (Oh wait, I think I just lost my tentative grip on reality.)

Here’s what I’ll actually do today:
1) Eat oatmeal while waiting for boys to become lucid and ready to work.
2) Sit at kitchen table for two or three hours and participate in School-At-Home.
3) Make lunch for little kids.
4) Put all little ones down for naps and thank God I made it through the morning.
5) Wash, fold, put away laundry.
6) Wonder what to make for dinner.
7) Make dinner.
8) Thank God for parents who retrieve their children and for neighbor kids who go home. (Eat dinner. Clean up after dinner.)
9) Try to read 13 Ways to Look at a Novel while concentrating on keeping eyes open. Wonder if I’ll ever actually read a novel again or if I am doomed to be stuck in the middle of this extra-long-super-deluxe-big book about novels forever.
10) Watch pointless television, maybe.
11) Read blogs, definitely.
12) Think about working in yard tomorrow, but realize that I’d rather leave my house in a car than stay home and work. Plan my escape.

Update: What I Actually Did
1) Finished eating oatmeal.
2) Changed baby’s diaper.
3) Dragged almost-13 year old twins through an entire unit of poetry. They were not impressed (hostile, really), but we conquered it with only a minor fit-throwing. One boy wrote his own poem about gluing a cat to the table, accidentally, of course.)
4) Debated merits of pitching navel orange at Reluctant Student’s fit-throwing head. Refrained from violence. Barely.
5) Laundered three loads of clothes. Swept and mopped the laundry-room floor. (You really don’t want to know.)
6) Made lunch.
7) Cleaned up disgusting kitchen mess.
8) Wondered how it was possible for whole house to look like a Goodwill store, post-bomb-explosion.
9) Figured out how many lessons of each subject we need to complete per day for the last ten weeks of school. (Answer: A lot.)
10) Ate Pizza Hut pizza, delivered personally by my husband, Mr. Candyland.
10) Watched mindless television (“Deal . . . or No Deal?”), read 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel (curse you, Jane Smiley, for writing such a long and meticulous book!), and thanked God for Fridays.

Six People Danced All Night and Then Died In the Morning

Actually, I have been thinking, so I take that back. I’ve been thinking about this rave after-party in Seattle at which party-goers were shot and killed by Kyle Huff. My sister (not the one who stole my birth pictures and hasn’t spoken to me since, but the other sister who is seven years younger than me) used to go to raves in Seattle in her wild and crazy days. She’d be gone all night. Once I arrived at my mom’s duplex on a Saturday morning just as one of my sister’s friends was leaving. The friend’s black clothing contrasted with her painted white face and stark red lips. She looked more dead than alive. My sister knew this girl only from the raves and after the dancing to thumping electronic music, they’d made their way back from Seattle on the bus and slept a little in the wee hours of the morning.

(And if they thought we didn’t notice that they were behaving strangely and dangerously and using crystal meth, they were sadly mistaken. Because rave = drug use no matter what you say.)

So the reason I keep thinking about Kyle Huff shooting all those ravers after he was invited to their after-party to hang out is that he could have shot my sister. She used to go home with people she didn’t know and share needles with people she didn’t know and drink alcohol with people she didn’t know and then lie about it. I used to toss and turn at night, praying, worrying, wondering how she’d live through the choices she was making. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t be stopped.

Two of the girls (ages 14 and 15) who were shot dead by Kyle Huff were much younger than the men who were shot. If news reports are to be believed, their parents knew they were going to a rave. They didn’t know one of the girls would lose her friends and go home with strangers. That girl’s dad didn’t know she was missing until the next morning. But the parents knew what their kids were doing, staying out all night, partying. (I can’t understand this. I know we are overprotective in many ways, but I believe strongly in boundaries for kids.)

This news story about the murders of six people plays in my head like a catchy tune stuck on repeat. Over and over and over again, shooting and dead bodies and the devastation in the rave community. (Did you know there was a rave community? I didn’t.)

My sister, during those run-away days of Greyhound buses and needle tracks hidden by long sleeves, said to me once, “I just wish I was still grounded, at home in the living room.” For only a short time before, she’d said to my dad, “I hate you! I wish you were dead!” And then he died when she was sixteen and she tasted the frightening freedom for which she’d yearned. And when the highs faded and the hangovers lasted longer than the fun, she changed her mind.

The consequences of the choices she made back in those days continue today, of course, even almost twenty years later. But at least she stopped before she was dead. Not all kids living more in the night-time than in the day are so lucky.

That’s why I can’t stop thinking about Kyle Huff and the six dead people (two of them only kids) and shots ringing out at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

Untitled Due to Lack of Creativity

Hi.

Do you sense that yawning chasm in my brain? Because I have been digging around in there and find that it’s pretty much empty. Just echoes in the air and foil wrappers from chocolate Easter candy littering the floor.

I would like to point out that if you arrive on my doorstep around 3:00 p.m., you will find my house in a state of complete disarray. I don’t bother picking up toys or straightening up the kitchen or doing much of anything between the hours of 1:00 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. These are the sacred hours, the Nap Hours, the house during which I try to trick my 3 year old into staying upstairs, watching television. These are the hours in which my almost-13-year old boys disappear into their room, wandering out only to find a snack. If they speak to me, I say, “Please, do NOT talk to me!” I suppose they’ll discuss my behavior with their therapist in years to come.

And from 9:00 a.m. until 1:00 p.m., I am doing school-at-home with the boys while keeping an eye on my daughter, her 3-year old buddy and the 16-month old baby boy. You can imagine the utter devastation occurring moment by moment.

My daughter woke up at 4:45 a.m. She was hysterical over a bad dream she’d had. In her dream, a spider licked and licked a bee, then ate it and spit it out. Apparently, this is terrifying if you are three and a half. She insisted on watching a video, so I pushed in “Blue’s Clues” and warned her not to wake me and abandoned her in her room. Because I am self-centered like that and completely delirious in the dark hours of pre-dawn.

She woke me once to ask for a cookie. (“No, you can’t have a cookie. Go back to your room.”) Then at 6:00 a.m., she crawled into my bed and slept. Problem was, I had trouble falling back asleep and so this morning at 8:00 a.m., I was not ready to face the day. I’m still not really ready, but the day is moving forward anyway.

And now, my bladder pleads with me to heed its call and I hear a baby crying somewhere in the distance. (Oh wait. Too much information?)

Bye.

Husband on Strike?

This husband is on strike. My only question is, “And how would that be different from not being on strike?” I bet his wife is happy he’s on the roof. If I were her, I’d put the ladder away in the garage. One less person to pick up after.

(This is no way reflects on my husband, who happens to be a great husband and father. I offer this proof of his superiority to all other men: he plays Pooh-Bear Candyland every night with my daughter so I don’t have to.) Sure, he wants me to iron his pants (*gasp* OH THE HORRORS OF THE PATRIARCHY!!) but honestly, everyone has to make some sacrifices and that’s mine.

Stuff in the News That Bewilders Me

From USA Today.com: So, President Bush “believes the best way to end the black market in labor, which has drawn an estimated 11 million illegal immigrants to the USA, is to legally expand opportunities for foreigners to take jobs that Americans don’t want. ‘By creating a separate legal channel for those entering America to do an honest day’s labor, we would dramatically reduce the number of people trying to sneak back and forth across the border,’ he said Monday.”

That makes sense to me. And yet:

“The House bill by Judiciary Chairman James Sensenbrenner, R-Wis., passed in December, would make illegal immigration a felony and increase penalties on employers. It would also expand 14 miles of fencing along the U.S.-Mexican border by 700 miles, at an estimated cost of $2.2 billion.”

Eleven million illegal immigrants are here. The question is, what now? Isn’t a a “guest-worker” reasonable? Am I missing something, Mr. Sensenbrenner? Are we seriously considering making their presence a felony, increasing our the load our courts and prison systems must bear? What is the penalty now for being an illegal immigrant? And how did we accumulate 11 million of them before we decided to take action?

See? I’m so confused. I need more information and yet, I’m not sure I’d have enough unbiased information to ever really understand these sorts of things.

I’m also confused about Michael Schiavo. Why would a man who claims to shun publicity and decry public interest in a so-called private matter write a book about it? Am I missing something? I have no patience for a man who began dating, having children and cohabitating with another woman while waiting for his wife to die. What ever happened to duty and faithfulness? And why put yourself back in the news just when we were starting to forget that he begged the courts to deprive his wife of nourishment (and water, too).

I wonder about Rusty Yates who is getting on with his life, while his ex-wife faces a second trial in the drownings of their five children. How does one just move on like that? Don’t dead children require at least a decade of mourning? And what kind of woman marries a man with that kind of baggage? This boggles my mind.

And just when you thought a pastor’s wife was a quiet little woman with a beige personality, along comes Mary Winkler with her sassy haircut, three little girls and husband shot dead in his bed. I know. We are all thinking the same thing: What was her motive? Why would she shoot her husband in the back? (Oh wait, I presume guilt. Shame on me.) Still. Why? Why? Why? Why didn’t the vision of her children with a dead dad and an incarcerated mom stop her?

I don’t understand a lot of things today, I guess.

MISSING: Maternal Brain Cells and More

ALERT!
Have you seen this shoe?
  • Appearance: Reebok, black, right shoe, baseball cleat, dusty, no laces.
  • Missing since: Fall 2005
  • Size: 3.5

    This black Reebok baseball cleat was last seen in the vicinity of the family room and the Nintendo GameCube. Owner’s mother offers a reward of $5.00. Foul play not suspected.

…………………………………………………………………..

Recovered earlier today in a frantic pre-P.E. search:

Brand new baseball glove owned by 12-year old son; located in underwear/socks drawer.

Brand new softball, necessary for P.E. at the YMCA; located under children’s desk, nestled in a nest of cat fur and dust.

It’s that time of year . . . when the seasons change and I suddenly have no idea where necessary accoutrement hides. I used to be the kind of person who could locate any item–no matter how obscure or tiny–in a matter of minutes. I had a brain that retained minute bits of information, little diagrams of the interiors of drawers and cupboards. I could remember.

Now, I am lucky to find my slippers. Oh, that’s right. They’re on my feet.

On my 8-year old’s feet? Yeah, red Chuck Taylors. He may not have any traction, but he sure will be stylin’.

Worse Than Interruptions: Pepperoni Pizza

What’s worse than being constantly interrupted? What’s worse than never being alone in the bathroom? What’s worse than constant noise when only silence will do? What’s worse than chatting on the phone while peering into the eyes of a 3-year old who chants, “I want to talk! I want to talk! I want to talk!”? What’s worse than reading the same sentence in a book three times, no four times–no, make that a half dozen times–because you’re being paged by the girl in the bathtub? What’s worse than walking into a room and forgetting what you’re doing because you were sidetracked by an “urgent” matter?

I’ll tell you. Pepperoni pizza.

That’s right. Pepperoni pizza. Had I known during those feverish days of baby-lust that the day would come when pepperoni pizza would trump my craving for black olives and mushrooms and onions and–oh, just give me everything on it, yes, even pineapple–I might have reconsidered. All I want now is a decent pizza, one loaded up with all the things my kids refuse to eat.

But I don’t order the pizza of my dreams because:

1) I don’t want to spend that much money on a pizza just for myself.
2) I don’t want to tempt myself to eat that much pizza myself.
3) Too many leftovers.
4) I’m ridiculous.

How many things have I sacrificed for my children? Long bubblebaths, nights of reading until the wee hours, days spent browsing in antique shops, the last cookie, watching a grown-up show at 8 p.m. downstairs in the comfortable recliner, sleeping in on Saturday mornings and sitting all through the service on Sunday . . . let me count the ways.

You see where this is leading, don’t you? Papa Murphy’s, of course. If I had a working vehicle and three fewer children in my house at this very moment, I would be in the car RIGHT NOW, heading for my beloved Papa Murphy’s franchise, coupon clutched in my sandpapery hand. I would throw all caution to the wind–to the wind, I tell you!–and order a combination pizza for me and a pepperoni for the picky kids.

A girl can dream.

(For the record, I’d pay the price over and over again, but first, I need sustenance. And a day off and a maid.)

Update: So, I called my husband and asked if he’d go pick up pizza from Papa Murphy’s for me. “Sure,” he said. I told him to let me know when he’d have time and I’d call the order in.

A few minutes ago, he called me. He was so pleased with himself. He reported that he happened to speak with a friend of ours who was shopping at Costco at that very minute and he’d asked her to bring home a pizza for us. Saves him time going to the pizza place and all. Cool, right?

Guess what kind of pizza she’s bringing?

Yeah.

Pepperoni.

Tomorrow? I will buy myself a combination pizza . . . or die trying!

Thinking Interrupted Thoughts

I used all my fingers and one toe (the pinky toe which turns sideways, much to my chagrin) to count the number of children in my house today. And yet, I managed a creative dinner (breakfast burritos) and kept everyone alive all day long. I had some thoughts in my head at some point today–I believe I was going to complain about my utter fatigue and about the depression that sometimes lurks in the shadows until I poke it with a stick–but that all seems a foggy dream now.

Sometimes, I’m here all day, routinely switching laundry from basket to washer to dryer to basket to folded on the back of the chair back to basket, changing diapers, fetching snacks, dragging the boys through their lessons (lately, the War of 1812 and the Monroe Doctrine), answering the phone (I need to get a cordless phone–what is this, 1974? I have to run into the kitchen to catch the phone before the fourth ring, which is clearly archaic) . . . and I feel so disconnected with what is happening in my household because my brain is churning and then–STOP–interrupted. Over and over and over again until I am positively strung out from the effort of thinking a coherent thought from beginning to end.

That has to be the worst part of motherhood–the elimination of meaningful thought. I used to have thoughts, ideas, actual beginnings, middles and ends to my daydreams. Or maybe it only seems that way. The constant interruptions drive me berserk. I did not know that becoming a mother would mean I would never have an uninterrupted thought again.

Except for short thoughts, thoughts like, “GET ME OUT OF HERE!” and “HEY, WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE COOKIES?” and “LET’S HAVE PIZZA FOR DINNER.”

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