Oh, it was awful.

First of all, last year, I was out of town on my baby boy’s birthday and therefore did not deliver cupcakes to his classroom but his friend‘s mother did (they have the same birthday), thus spotlighting my parental neglect.  I didn’t even KNOW that they were allowed birthday celebrations at school anymore, but I learned.  Oh boy, did I learn!

So this year, I fixed my hair, put on my makeup, drove to Albertson’s, bought twenty-nine cupcakes and delivered them to his classroom before noon.  I rock.  (I would have baked them with my own dried-out dishpan hands, but you can’t bring homemade stuff to school, only store-bought.)

When he returned home from school, we’d decorated the kitchen with balloons and streamers.  And he smiled and thanked us.  He was so happy.

We popped by the (boring) Science Fair, then went to Red Robin for a birthday dinner.

He claims to love shrimp and when I noticed it on the menu, I said, “Hey, they have shrimp here,” and so he decided to order Jumbo Shrimp.

I was eating my Cobb Salad when I looked over and realized that he did not love his Jumbo Shrimp.  He gets this “I am trying not to cry” look on his face and I was puzzled.  I must have glanced at my husband because he said, “He’s not getting anything else,” and I said, “What’s wrong?  Don’t you like it?” and I could totally tell my baby boy, the Birthday Boy, was working hard at not crying.

So, my husband flags down the waiter who is apologetic and offers to bring him something else.  Minutes pass, we eat in a somewhat grim silence, broken finally by my husband who is the King of Small-talk and I think, okay, this dinner will be redeemed, we will all be okay, he won’t cry–he’s getting a burger–all is well.  Good.  Right.  Okay.

The burger comes and he fiddles with it awhile (muttering, “I said no pickle and no onion”) and then I understand that somehow the burger is wrong.  It was supposed to have an egg on it.  (AN EGG ON IT?  WHAT?  AN EGG?  HUH?) and I’m all confused and like, “Wha– an egg?  That is so gross!” and my husband flags down the waiter and now the manager comes out and they are all so sorry and apologetic and they say, “Oh, we’ll get you an egg.”

At least, they bring an egg and a bottom bun so his burger will not be contaminated by the dreadful red sauce and it’s evil pickly bits.

Everyone but me and the Birthday Boy were done and so my husband gathers up the other kids, realizing we have two cars at Red Robin, and tells us that he will meet us at home.  Plus–and this is important–our upset boy was growing more upset by the attention and sympathy and questions from the other kids.  So, he thought it best to just leave.

Which it was.  So, my son finished his burger (comped by the restaurant) and we jetted out of there without a birthday song or ice cream.  Instead, we went to Dairy Queen which gave us plenty of time to talk about what happened and I HOPE smooth over his distress and put this Birthday Disaster into some sort of perspective.

Though I may have been a little melodramatic when I pointed out that when I turned eleven my parents were getting a divorce.  (Hey kid, quit crying.  It could be worse.  You could have no feet.)

Really, I felt awful about the whole situation.  He’s such a soft-hearted boy and thought that he was somehow in trouble or that his dad disapproved since he didn’t like the shrimp.  If anything, I said, Dad would be mad at me because I suggested the shrimp.

When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?  Me and my helpful suggestions!

Anyway for next year, I know this:  Cupcakes.  Lots of cupcakes, distributed in lots of places.

And then?  Barbecue at Famous Dave’s and I promise to just zip my lips when it comes to menu suggestions.

Also?  I suddenly thought tonight, “Pre-adolescent hormones?”  NO NO NO.  Not ready.

Up next?  Twins turn sixteen in April.  Stop this bus!  I want to get off.

Well, leaving behind the drama of the birth photographs and heading back to the hum-drum craziness of regular life with four kids . . .

I’m fighting a battle with the slugs–they are trying to mow down my newly growing bulbs.  I sprayed some kind of poison on them, but have had to resort to daily sprinklings of salt.  While I do appreciate all God’s creatures, I draw the line at letting them munch on my flowers.  When the choice is tulips or slugs, the tulips win.

I took one of my teenagers to the eye doctor on Monday.  The whole appointment took 102 minutes–I was counting.  That was long enough for me to read a whole “People” magazine (about Jessica Simpson’s unfortunate choice of jeans and her *gasp* weight gain), read two chapters of Daisy Chain, Mary DeMuth’s new novel (which, by the way, I ended up hating),  download two songs onto my iPhone, and fiddle with said iPhone.  Still.  It was a long appointment-at one point the waiting room was so full that I prodded my teenager to give up his chair for an elderly person.  I hope that’s a lesson that sticks.

Oh!  I am reminded that my daughter is expecting the Tooth Fairy tonight!  Don’t let me forget!  She keeps her little tooth in a white plastic tooth-shaped container that she calls a “Tooth Cabinet.”  She was snooping in my top dresser drawer and found the “tooth cabinet” and so I gave it back to her to use with her newest lost tooth.  I think she still believes in the Tooth Fairy, though she might be just humoring me.  She’s at that age where she wants to believe but is catching on, I’m afraid.

Um, what else?  Oh, my husband gave away our extra van today.  He’s nice like that.  The man he gave it to definitely needs it more than we do.  I have always admired my husband’s generosity and figured it boded well when I married him.  He’s always giving stuff away while I am always trying to hold on to stuff.  I need to let more stuff go and, in fact, do get a thrill when I shove things into black trash bags to donate to charity.  It’s so freeing.  We’ve lived here so long–over 11 years–the longest I have ever lived anywhere–that I need to be more deliberate about ridding myself of the flotsam, jetsam and detritus of life.

Okay, well, that’s all for now.  If I hurry I can slip some money under her pillow and rest my head on my own pillow before 1 a.m.!   I always feel so alert at night and so regretful in the morning.

* * *

I intend to respond to those of you who left comments on my previous post.  Most of you left such wise, insightful comments!  You are the best part of this blog and I am so grateful for you all.  Be patient–this week is super, ridiculously busy, but I will respond to you all eventually.

Please.  I need to know your viewpoint.

Imagine you are going to give birth.  You invite your sister to attend your birth and take photographs for you.  She agrees.  You offer to reimburse her for the film and developing and she declines.

Who owns the photographs and negatives?

Please, if you read this blog, leave a comment and let me know your opinion.  Ask your friends, ask your neighbors.   I need as much input as possible.

I will explain after you comment.   Thanks.

* * *

Thank you for sharing your information and opinions.  You all rock.

You should know several things:

1)  All of the negatives and photos are in my possession.  I gave her copies of about 80% of the photographs and retained the ones I was not comfortable with the general public viewing.  (For instance, that shot she took of my vulva while my midwife was stitching me–I had no idea she did that until I saw it–and the ten shots of me breastfeeding my baby–also, shots I did not authorize.  After six hours of hard labor I looked like a prize-fighter after a fight–and my breasts were exposed–I refused to let her have those unflattering pictures, either.  I’m so vain.)  I wouldn’t have withheld these photographs except that she told me she wanted to show the photos to my uncle and my brother.  If I wanted them to see those photographs of my naked butt with a baby’s head sticking out of it or of me walking across my bedroom with no underpants on,  I would have invited them to the birth.)

2)  This happened pre-digital camera and was all about film and developing.

3)  The incident happened over six years ago.  She told me yesterday that she believes she is the legal owner of the photos and negatives and that I “refused to give them back”–though she never asked for them back.  In fact, until yesterday I had no idea that she believes herself the rightful owner of my birth photographs.  It never occurred to me, in fact, that I was posing for her benefit.  I thought I had graciously invited her to view my birth–I didn’t know I needed to sign a legal contract so she wouldn’t have rights to the photographs.

4)  She is not a professional photographer and to my knowledge, has never been paid by anyone to take photographs. She does not have a portfolio.  She does not have a website.  She does not have clients.

5)  The photos didn’t even turn out well.  Alas.

6)  I offered to pay her repeatedly and she refused, but now says that I did not pay her, even though I promised to.  (I did not originally offer payment–I offered the experience of being at my homebirth.  I offered to pay for the film and developing once she started acting weird after the birth and was pushing me to “choose” which photographs I wanted to have reprints of.)

Apparently, she is the legal owner of the negatives and photographs.  Judge Judy says ignorance of the law is no excuse.  So, I am clearly withholding her personal property.  I say that I will turn over the photographs and negatives, including the image of my bloody vagina just as soon as I hear a compelling reason to do so, other than, “I took those pictures!  They are mine!”  I daresay you would do the same if it were your private parts exposed on film.

So there.  (More opinions welcome, of course.  This issue is not closed until I’m finished haranguing.  That may take days.)

Oh, and for the record, I took photographs at someone’s home birth years ago at their request.  I didn’t keep even one photograph because they did not belong to me.  At my home birth in Michigan, a friend took photographs and video–and SURPRISE SURPRISE, didn’t keep them or even ask OR demand payment.  I live in a universe where people are considerate and kind and reasonable and rational and empathetic and moral.  In my world, I take photos at birthday parties and turn over all the images because I’m nice like that.

I clearly made a big mistake here and I regret it deeply.  Although, sometimes something like this exposes someone like her for what she really is.  And that is the kindest way I can put it.

So, I did the math.  If there are 306,000,000 of us in this country and the government is spending $800,000,000,000 on “The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009,”  that works out to $2,600 per person, or about $15,000 and change for my family of six.  That’s a whole lot of money.

Did the government have this money sitting around somewhere in a piggy bank or an offshore account?  Or is that sort of an IOU and we’ll end up coughing up the cash one way or another?  My family already pays an extraordinary amount of taxes (we never get a refund back, ever and until recently, we paid quarterly taxes–nothing will make you feel the pain of taxes like writing out a large check to the government four times a year).  The idea of spending $800,000,000,000 kind of freaks me out.  And I mean that in a completely non-partisan way, of course.  I would be freaked out no matter who decided to spend that kind of cash.

(I just had to look it up again.  Surely it can’t be Billion with a B, right?  Oh, but it is.)

I have voted since I was 18 and paid taxes my whole adult life.  I’ve never really felt well-represented by my representatives, though, since it seems like they will do whatever they want just because they can.

I am alarmed at this gigantic, basically unread Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009.  I am alarmed by the free-fall of the stock market.

But what can a stay-at-home mom do about all that?  Nothing, really, but sweep the floor and cook dinner and wonder if a more thorough search under the couch cushions might net me $800,000,000,000.   (Yeah, that’s about as likely as the government actually having an $800,000,000,000 reserve.)

And that is my political post for the year.  (I was just about to rant–the site of Arianna Huffington on Jay Leno makes me feel argumentative, but I decided against it.  You’re welcome.)

This is yet another week dotted with “half-days,” those portions of school days that leave moms everywhere wanting more.  Since my daughter is enrolled in kindergarten for half-days to start with, the half-day schedule results in kindergarteners coming only on every other half-day.  Except this week, which was conference week and therefore, for some reason, no school for half-day kindergarten students.  Are you confused yet?

The bottom line is that she had no school on Wednesday or Thursday, and so today I was happy that she’d be going back to school so I could use those two and a half hours to run some quick errands before the weekend.  However, yesterday she had a cough and complained of a mild sore throat.  (I canceled a playdate because of it.)  She didn’t sleep well last night–fell asleep right after her bath at 7:15 p.m., then woke up half an hour later, slept at 9 p.m., woke up half an hour later, then finally slept at 10 p.m.  She woke up before 6 a.m., then crawled into bed with me at 7 a.m.

I considered not waking her up for school, but today they’d be exchanging Valentine’s cards.  When she woke at 8 a.m., I was relieved.  She seemed fine–no more sore throat–but still had the cough.  However, she took a shower, got dressed in her purple “heart” shirt, and was ready for school.  I tucked my cell phone number into her backpack, just in case.

I dropped her off at almost 9 a.m. and just as I approached the grocery store at 10:30 a.m., my very cool iPhone rang.  Grace wasn’t feeling very well (no temperature, however) and wanted me to pick her up.

So, no errands.  I turned the car around and picked her up.  That is why we have no bread.

She spent most of the day snuggled in bed.  At some point, she seemed a little feverish, but by tonight her skin was no longer radiating heat.  She wanted to call her friend and invite him over . . . but I said no.  When he called, I told him she was sick and couldn’t play.  (She has no idea so don’t tell her.)

This afternoon, she came downstairs to cry in my arms.  “I just want you,” she said.  I was working so I suggested that she lay on the couch under a blanket and watch a show so we could be in the same room.  Instead, she wanted me to carry her upstairs, so I cradled my 50-pound girl in my arms and lugged her upstairs, thinking that one of these times will be the last time I carry her.

I have no idea the last time I lifted my 10-year old son or my 15-year old twins.  It’s so strange that a milestone passes without any notice whatsoever and then you realize that you never ever do something that you used to do all the time.  I used to lay down with my twins to get them to sleep, every single night . . . and then one night was the last night I ever did that.  I used to wrestle around with my youngest son on the floor, but then one night was the last time.

One day, I imagine my baby girl won’t want me like she wants me now.  Carrying her up the stairs like I did tonight will be a memory.  But at least I didn’t bump her head on the wall because then it would be a bad memory.

1)  Children who are awake between the hours of 9 p.m. and 7 a.m.

2)  Dust.

3)  The kitty-litter box.

5)  Running out of fat-free popcorn.

6)  Indecisive drivers.

7)  Trash not deposited in the trash can.

It SNOWED today.  That’s just wrong.  This is the Pacific Northwest where daffodils are beginning to appear and where the scent of freshly cut grass wafted into my van the other day.  Snow is just wrong, even if it is February.  If I wanted snow in February I might still live in Michigan. Also?  The fish still lives, though it lists a little to the right.  Poor fishy.

Tomorrow my daughter has no kindergarten again because it’s time for conferences.  The other kids have half-days.

That explains why I am answering email and writing a blog at 1:25 a.m.  I can sleep in tomorrow morning.  (My ten year old is so self-sufficient, it’s amazing.)

I half expect school to be canceled entirely because the roads will freeze tonight, thus paralyzing our entire town.

Wouldn’t that be lovely?  We’ll all be stuck at home and the only ones who will suffer are the three cats who need new kitty litter in a desperate way.

One of our four Beta Fish is swimming erratically.  It swims as if it has helium in its tiny belly, flapping its lacy fins, trying not to turn sideways.

I am alarmed and I would do CPR or offer oxygen to this little creature, but of course, it’s a $3.59 fish from Wal-Mart and I have no magical powers of healing for fish.  Poor thing.  The other fish in the container (divided by an opaque blue plastic panel) seemed near death a few weeks ago and recovered, so perhaps I am overly pessimistic.

* * *

I read and watched two particularly depressing things this weekend.  First, I saw “The Wrestler,” the film that Mickey Rourke stars in.  It’s his “comeback” and he was nominated for Best Actor.  As expected, the story was grim and gritty.  Very sad.

I finished reading The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.  It’s a memoir of the year following her husband’s sudden death.  (They’d been married forty years.)  While I appreciated the writing, I found her disbelief in any sort of afterlife very depressing.  I cannot imagine grieving as one who has no hope in life beyond this life. When my 47-year old dad died, he was there one moment, and only his body remained the next.  His soul went somewhere.  I do not believe that our souls are extinguished at the moment of death.  I am absolutely convinced that this is not all there is to life.

On a somewhat related note, can I just mention how odd it is that my husband is now the same age my dad was when he died?  My dad will never be older than 47 and soon I will be older than my dad.  Very strange.

And abruptly, that’s it for now.

1)  Until I was in college, I had no idea that basketball players had any sort of strategy.  I thought each game was basically a free-for-all.  Even professional games.

2)  I hate parties.  I hate to mingle and make small talk, especially with other introverts.

3)  While my husband was out of town, I purchased and consumed a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream for lunch.

4)  I’m a lackadaisical housekeeper.

5)  I had to look up “lackadaisical” in the red dictionary I keep by my desk.

6)  I have some unread magazines from 2002 that I am convinced I will read some day.

7)  My storage room is a disaster.  Again.

8)  I have been meaning to look up information about lilacs for about three years.  I need to know how to prune my big old bush in the front yard and I wonder why my little bush in the backyard won’t bloom.  I never remember to do the research.

9)  My desk is covered in dust.

10)  I can’t wait until the new season of “Survivor” starts.  I have watched every season.  I think I would be an excellent “survivor” except that I despise camping and sleeping on the ground.  And if I don’t shower every day I get cranky.

I was minding my own business, working at the computer when I heard the unmistakable cry of my daughter in pain.  She ran downstairs, hand clamped over her mouth, drooling and crying real tears.

“Uh-oh, did you hurt yourself?”

Nodding.

“Did you bump your tooth?”

Nodding.

“Are you okay?”

Shaking head.

“Let me look.”  She pulled her hand away to reveal a bloody tooth.  It kind of looked scary.  I went to find a red colored washcloth I could wrap ice in.  When in doubt, get out a wet washcloth.  I offered it to her and she took it, tried it, rejected it and clamped her hand over her mouth again.  Tears ran down her face.

“Does it hurt?”

Shaking head.

“Oh.  Are you just freaked out?”

Vigorous nodding.

“You want to lay down and watch a show?”

Nodding.

So, that’s what she did until she was ready to stop freaking out.  She came down a little later.  The blood had stopped,  The tooth was very wiggly but still hanging in there.

She was so worried about that loose tooth.  What if it falls out and she didn’t notice?  What if she ate it?  What if it never fell out and she could never eat again?  Would it hurt if it was pulled?  What if it falls out?  What is if doesn’t?  She traveled this circular path of anxiety around and around again.

Then, “Mom!  It fell out!”

And the tooth fairy remembered to put a gold dollar coin under her pillow.

It was a day well lived.  (She just woke up to use the bathroom.  When I tucked her into bed, she remembered and checked under her pillow.  “Hey, now I have another gold coin.”   I don’t know if she will ever be cuter than she is at this moment.)