Category: Kids, kids, kids

. . . and I’m not talking about baby goats.

Hodge-podge

Thick fog greeted us Friday morning when I took the children–my own four, plus two extras, to the pumpkin patch again.  My 8-year old missed our first outing and wanted to pick out a pumpkin.  And I knew all the kids would love seeing the baby animals again.  The farm has six kittens, a lamb, two baby goats (kids?), two piglets, a calf, ducklings and two ponies.  The children are allowed to enter each enclosure and pet the animals. 

So, off we went, leaving at 9:30 a.m. and arriving before the farm even opened.  The sun shone at the farm but the ground was damp and moisture hung in the air.  We sneaked in anyway, blending in with a preschool co-op that arrived before we did.  My 8-year old picked out a 57 pound pumpkin and one of my twins picked out a 31 pound pumpkin.  I picked out half a dozen Granny Smith apples and the 2-year old picked out a baby pumpkin.  My daughter begged for a bag of potato chips.

We returned home at about 11:00 a.m. and I launched into full panic-attack cleaning mode because at 11:45 a.m., a local (very small) newspaper reporter was due to arrive.  She’d already interviewed my husband about our participation in our state’s virtual academy (Washington Virtual Academy) and she wanted to ask me a few questions, talk to the boys and take their pictures.

The boys were not happy about three things:

1)  I ordered them around, like hired help.

2)  I insisted that they comb their hair.

3)  I requested that they change into decent shirts.

I was shoving dishes into the dishwasher and relocating the paper-piles from my desk and sweating lightly when I asked one of my 13-year old boys to sweep.  He did so, but with an exasperated sigh.  “Why do we have to do this?”

I said, “Because that lady is coming.”

He squinted at me, held the broom aloft and said, “This is just like dad’s sermon.  You know, where he talked about people cleaning up before they have people over . . . how they pretend, you know.  This is just like that.  This is just a big charade!  No one lives like this!”

(I thought he was talking about hypocrisy, pure and simple, but my husband told me he’d been talking about hospitality in his sermon and about how people shouldn’t feel that they couldn’t invite guests over unless their homes were perfect.)

I told my son that some people do indeed have clean houses, but he was unconvinced.

My house looked pretty good by the time they lady arrived.  Unfortunately, I was only halfway through a hurried make-up routine and had to appear downstairs (where she sat on the sagging couch in the living room where I hadn’t intended to invite her) without eyeliner or mascara.  Hello, no eyes! 

She was very friendly, though, and I had flashbacks of the long-ago interview gone awry that I gave once to a reporter at the Charlotte Observer while I worked as a college intern at Heritage USA.  I mention this only because on that particular occasion, I was chosen as an interviewee by my bosses at Heritage USA . . . and during the interview with the reporter, I yapped on and on, saying things that made Heritage USA look bad, in an era when the Charlotte Observer was intent on finding dirt in Jim Bakker’s ministry.  (Within two years, the whole empire collapsed, but I promise, it was not me who started the dominoes falling.)  I was told my by boss later (when I was gently reprimanded) that upon reading the article, Jim Bakker said, “Who is that intern?!” 

The only other time in my life that I had been as full of mortification and horror was in seventh grade when my homeroom teacher sent me to the principal’s office because of my impudence.  Me!  Saucy, indolent, mouthy!  Imagine! 

(I had mentioned to the reporter how I worked 70 hours my first week at Heritage–I’d been on the grounds crew until I wised up and unwittingly used my family connections to get a transfer to a different department.  The focus of the interview was their college intern program and it didn’t look so good for me to talk about the overtime, blah-blah-blah.  Oops.)

Anyway, so I worried I would say something stupid, but I thought she seemed very favorable to the virtual academy, so I’m sure the slant will be positive.  And it’s an extremely small newspaper.

And as soon as she left, I returned the three-level desk organizer to my desk, along with the pile of stuff that needs my attention and my tower of Post-It notes.  The dust will take longer to reappear.  

*  *  * 

Saturday, my dear husband opened the gates and let me out into the world.  I had a glorious time, saw a very violent but well-done movie (any guesses?) and returned home to so many dirty dishes that I had to run two full dishwasher loads to clean them all.

*  *  *

My husband woke me at 6:42 a.m. to ask me to look at something in the bathroom.  The bathroom light blinded me, but when I could finally open my eyes enough to look, I peered into the grossest bloody eyeball I’ve ever seen.  Too bad it’s not Halloween yet.  He could scare a lot of people!  He said it didn’t hurt, so I said maybe he burst a blood vessel coughing or sneezing (his cold lasted almost two weeks) and I went back to bed where I fretted until I had to get up.

Our friend at church who is a practicing family doctor assured him that, indeed, it looks like a blood vessel burst probably from coughing or sneezing.  (I’m telling you.  I should have gone to medical school.  I have excellent instincts.)

*  *  * 

Our church is having an All Saints’ Harvest Party . . . we all have to dress as a character (or animal) from the Bible.  I was thinking about going as Eve, dressed in a big leaf, or maybe as Jael, holding a tent peg and a hammer.  Or maybe as Gomer or Jezebel . . . high heels, fishnet stockings, red lipstick, big hair, small skirt . . .

Okay, just kidding!  The party is for kids, after all, and these things would be tough to explain.  (I’m going as Deborah who was a judge in the Bible.)  My husband and I keep coming up with implausible Bible characters we could portray . . . this is funny to me because the party planners insist on Bible characters because they want to keep the party wholesome.  But Bible characters, so many of them, were involved directly in an epic struggle between good and evil . . . if anything, they are way scarier than a vampire ever could be. 

And that’s how my weekend was.  How was yours?

A Fine Day for Field Trip

This morning, I took six children (three of my own; three borrowed) to Tumwater Falls Park where we saw a presentation about the life-cycle of salmon.  The man would pick up a salmon by its tail from the holding pond to use as a visual aid.  The children were enthralled and exclaimed loudly each time a salmon jumped into the air.  (I couldn’t get a picture of a the guy and his salmon up close, though, because of the crowding children.  Alas.)

At one point, the man picked up a female salmon and squeezed some of her eggs onto the concrete wall.  Then, he picked up a male and squeezed milt from it.  The milt looked like milk and I’m sure all the children wonder why their mothers make them drink this white stuff squeezed from salmon.  (This link shows all about the reproductive cycle of salmon.) 

My little kids grew bored by the questions and so did I.  Why do people insist on asking dumb questions?  I have always hated those who raise their hands when a speaker says, “Any questions?” and asks questions.  As far as I’m concerned, “Are there any questions?” is a purely rhetorical question, needing no response.

We wandered away and saw this sign:  P1010071_1.JPG Then we walked down the path by the river and waterfalls and no one fell in or died.  Hooray for me. 

P1010072.JPG  At the very bottom of the walkway, we saw salmon swimming upstream, waiting in a watery traffic jam to get up the fish ladder.  The bumpy surface on the stream are wriggling salmon as big as your arm.  P1010076.JPG  Here’s a shot of a portion of the fish ladder. P1010078.JPG

Then, as if that wasn’t enough excitement, I spotted this slug, which can only be a Banana Slug, in my slug non-expert opinion.  P1010080.JPG 

We had a little picnic afterward and the kids all played on two cement play structures shaped like boats.  The two-year old was covered in grime.  A fine time was had by all and I even met a few other school-at-home mothers, which was dandy, indeed.

Now, all the kids are crabby and tired and my house is in disarray, but meatloaf is in the oven and it’s only three and a half hours until the four-year old goes to bed.  Not that I’m counting.

Rain, Rain, Go Away!

Yesterday, on an afternoon filled with autumn blue sky, I decided I’d take the kids to the pumpkin patch today.  The boys have finished up their school work early because a friend is coming over to play this afternoon.  Because my husband is out of town, I have the Disco Van at my disposal.  And going anywhere on a weekday is better than a weekend.

I slept with the window open last night and woke to the sound of rain this morning.  However, the weather guys on television say that the “showers” will stop and so, we’re going anyway.  Plus, we aren’t made of brown sugar–we won’t melt. 

I’m trying to work up the energy to pick up the scattered detritus that this week produced.  And I need to think about dinner and laundry and paying bills and going out into the driveway to pick up the newspaper in its saoked plastic bag.

My husband returns this afternoon at 3:30 p.m., but by the time he gets his luggage and deals with traffic, it could be hours before he arrives home.  Tonight, I have to take my son to the weigh-in for Judo so he and my husband can spend tomorrow at the YMCA for the Judo tournament.  What joy.

I really loathe when the weekend is already full and I can’t see a single opening in which I can escape.  Maybe tomorrow night.  Maybe Sunday?  Maybe never.

Meanwhile, I have to clean off this desk so I can think straight.  I bet I can get a lot done before we trudge through the pumpkin patch mud.  If I get up.  Now.  Yes, I’m going.  Okay.

Now.

Really.

All right.

I’m gone.

Bye.

See you.

Later. 

OKAY!

I am getting up. 

Now.

I mean it.

Bye.

Judo Tonight

My son takes Judo at the YMCA.  He runs off to his class while I head upstairs to lift weights and run (run!) around the track and follow that up with a cardio machine to keep my heart-rate in the not-quite-dying zone for another twenty minutes.

Tonight, when I finished sweating, I walked down the hallway to the gym where Judo takes place.  My son, a white-yellow belt, was fighting (grappling?  wrestling?  practicing?  I have no idea what to call it) with a girl, a yellow belted girl who was taller and faster and more aggressive than him.

She kept tripping him, which is practically the whole point of Judo.  I wanted to march right over to her, grab her by her ponytail and fling her to the ground myself.  However, I exhibited my extreme self-control and only watched from a distance.

I think I might have been good at Judo in my youth, for beneath my calm exterior, I am a tenacious, easily annoyed person who could use an outlet for my irritation.  And throwing people to the ground and holding them in place with a choke-hold seems like mighty fine therapy to me.  My son, though, is an even-tempered, kind person who doesn’t have a killer instinct. 

My son’s first tournament is Saturday.  He confessed that he is nervous because some of the other children have led him to believe that a generous amount of pain will be involved in the matches.  I wanted to say, “Honey, you don’t have to do it, you know,” but I held my tongue.

I consoled myself with the thought that at least it’s a double-elimination match, so after he loses twice (hopefully without snapping his spinal cord in two), he’ll be out.

(Can you see why I never played sports as a child?  And why I hate board games?  And why you should never, ever mess with my sweet 8-year old?)

Random

The sliding door opens.  My 4-year old daughter plops down and begins taking off her shoes. 

“What are you doing?  Are you staying in?” I ask.

“I’m a dog.”

“Oh.  Why are you taking off your clothes?”

“Dogs don’t wear clothes.”

She stripped off her jeans and her shirt, adjusted her pink underpants and went back outside wearing only socks on her feet.

*  *  *

Guess what showed up on my living room floor two nights ago?  The remote control.  And it didn’t even bring me back a t-shirt as a souvenir!

Slow Down

Life is not a race.  So, why are so many mothers I know in such a hurry to enroll their three and four-year old children in school?  Why does a four-year old need to write his name?  What is the big rush?

For the typical pregnant woman, the starting flag begins waving the second the doctor insists on an ultrasound to “date” the pregnancy because God forbid a baby should just arrive on its own terms.  It’s all about shaving off the final weeks of pregnancy and inducing the baby to be born for the convenience of the doctor so he can be home before the sun sets on the splendor that is his home.  Who cares that a normal pregnancy can last up to forty-two weeks and that some babies take even longer to gestate . . . let’s hurry and get that baby born!  Stat!

Don’t even get me started on how few mothers bother to breastfeed their babies for the optimum length of time, because surely, someone will be offended and that is not my intent.  But honestly, how many babies are shortchanged because of mom’s rush to just move on to another stage? 

Babies are little for about twenty minutes, it seems, and then they are stinky teenagers, but we are in a headlong rush to get them through each stage as quickly as possible.  Finish up breastfeeding so we can potty-train so we can enroll them in full-time preschool so they are ready to read and write before they get to kindergarten so they can what?  Apply to an Ivy League college before they get out of second grade?

Speaking of second grade, I must again describe my dismay at observing second-grade girls at a Veteran’s Day assembly a few years back.  Those seven year olds had highlights in their hair and pantyhose on their legs and high-heels on their feet.  And to think that I wasn’t even allowed to wear earrings before I was ten back in the old days.  These girls looked ready for an office romance.

This all ties in with my pet peeve:  parents who take children to inappropriate movies or allow them to watch inappriate DVDs at home.  (The latter happens more often than the former because parents apparently don’t realize that the images are the same–only smaller–on both screens.  Duh.) 

Why are we in a foolhardy hurry to expose our children to adult themes and images?  What three-year old needs to view a rated PG-13 Superman giving his main squeeze an upside down kiss?  What child needs to see violence on screen or hear wildly inappropriate language in surround sound?  If a preschooler watches PG-13 movies, what will he be accustomed to watching by the time he’s fourteen?  What is the rush?

My job as a mother is to protect my children’s innocence for as long as possible.  My job as a mother is to protect my children’s childhoods for as long as possible. 

When moms and dads worry more about whether their kid can write a word at age four than they worry about images that child sees, people that child meets and influences that child experiences, something is wrong.  Not that any of you are like that, of course.  But some theoretical parents are, you know.  Rush, rush, rush, hurry, hurry, hurry, without regard for a child’s internal timetable or needs.

My four year can write a “M” and can recognize her name in print.  It hasn’t even occurred to me to teach her to write her alphabet, nor do I ship her off to preschool.  I haven’t tried to teach her to read nor have I shown her how to wear eye shadow.  She doesn’t have a lunchbox or take any classes or own a Dayplanner.

She’ll know how to write in cursive and recite her multiplication tables soon enough.  In the  meantime, you can find her in the sandbox, digging.

We’re in no hurry around here.   

Season’s Pass

We have a season’s pass to the Point Defiance Zoo in Tacoma because a day’s visit for a family of six costs almost as much as a family membership.  The 13-year old boys find the whole ordeal of visiting the zoo taxing and they always complain before going.  The 8-year old rejoices because he adores animals.  The 4-year old dances around with glee because she remembers feeding the goats and riding the merry-go-round.

The zoo is small, but perched on a hill overlooking the Puget Sound.  The paths between exhibits curve over gentle hills.  You never really have to push through crowds.  The peacocks roam freely, occasionally puffing up their tail-feathers in a beautiful show of intimidation which always reminds me of the peacock feather I once picked up from a zoo when I was a kid.

At the zoo, you can always see the elephants up close.  Once, we watched a polar bear swim in circles only inches from our faces–on the other side of the glass.  The walruses swim in lazy circles, brushing up against the window. 

But you can never really see the tigers.  The tigers doze in the shade, camouflaged by tall grass.  A gully and a pond and a wall and some stairs separate us from the tigers.  So, the tigers are sort of boring.  You can’t really see them and they don’t really do much.

I feel like a yawning tiger in the zoo.  I wonder why anyone comes here to peer at me since my life is a big snooze-fest.  I ought to give refunds to anyone who stumbles by because there is nothing to see here. 

At least not today.  Check back, though, and maybe I’ll be chasing small prey and slashing the couch with my razor-sharp claws.  Or not.

I am Sneezy, Mother to Crybaby

I can’t stop sneezing.  My daughter won’t stop crying.  But, hey, the weather is beautiful out today, predicted to reach 80 degrees, some optimistic meteorologists proclaim.  (Whatever happened to just calling them “forecasters” anyway?)

My husband would like you to know that he is one terrific guy.  Saturday, he set me loose from 10:30 a.m. until 5:30 p.m.  I saw a movie (“The Illusionist” which I can wholeheartedly recommend) and shopped at my favorite thrift store and at Marshall’s.  As usual, being alone out in the world refreshed me and almost made me ready to face the sink full of dishes at home.  In fact, when I got home, I cleaned out my closet. 

My daughter is still crying.  She’s crying for two reasons.  1)  She went to bed last night an hour late because I had to take her to my son’s Judo class last night because my husband went to a meeting; 2)  I just snapped at her when she kept repeating the same sentence over and over and over.  Why people in this family don’t realize I CAN HEAR THEM the first time, even if I don’t immediately respond is beyond my comprehension.  Just because I am not speaking, people I live with appear to believe that I am also NOT THINKING and not IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING. 

Now, she’s gone into the other room to play the other computer.  Finally, she stopped crying.  I have also temporarily stopped sneezing.  I have fall allergies sometimes and this year, I sneeze all morning long.  My nose itches.  Really, it’s quite a delight to be me.

Have you ever heard of Pickleball?  It’s like playing tennis with wiffle balls and giant ping-pong paddles.  I’d never seen it played before this weekend when we visited friends who have a court in their driveway.  I tried to not be jealous of those people . . . and not just because they have at least $100,000 worth of vehicles parked in their garage, but because their pantry is bigger than my whole kitchen. 

My besetting sin:  jealousy.

And so my day begins with my sober assessment of my shortcomings (snappish, jealous, prone to sneezing, unable to keep kitchen floor clean, impatient) and a pile of used tissues.

My husband, though . . . he rocks.  And I’m not just saying that because he told me to.

Hold Your Nose

Why do teenage boys smell like feet?

And why don’t they want to brush their teeth?

Why are they opposed to deodorant and combing their hair?

Just wondering.  I came home tonight at 11:30 p.m. (from cleaning up and decorating my Sunday School classroom) and when I walked into the Boy Cave, the smell of feet assailed my delicate nasal passages.  Are the boys hard of smelling? 

Anyway, they have a friend spending the night and I predict that they will not sleep most of the night and that furthermore, they may be dead from inhaling foot odor in the morning, which is known to be a deadly killer.