In a moment, when the clock reads 5:00 p.m. (PST), I ask that you turn to your friend or foe and offer a “high five” in honor of the fifth day of the fifth month of the fifth year . . . and then, either eat five cookies or drink a fifth of something, because, after all, this won’t happen again for approximately one thousand years.

And then, if you are really on the ball, you can repeat this in fifty-five minutes, to commemorate 5:55 p.m. (PST) on 5/5/05. Eat five more cookies. Who’s counting?

That’s all.

The only thing worse than your own kid mouthing off to you is the neighbor kid sassing you. And what’s terrible is when you raise your hand in a “STOP” gesture during a heated conversation with the neighbor kid and he flinches.

Two brothers in our neighborhood want to play over here all the time. My boys sometimes welcome them enthusiastically, but often reluctantly because these brothers, age 7 and 9, fight, argue, cry, whine, and call my boys names. Constantly. They can not play nice. And they probably also run with scissors.

I was in the kitchen at about 5:30 p.m., working on dinner. DaycareKid and CuteBaby had gone home and I was sweating over a gourmet meal of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and fishsticks when I heard the 9 year old boy screaming, “MY MOM CAN SUE YOU!” I went to check and found TwinBoyA holding YoungestBoy’s arms behind his back while the neighbor kid stood shouting at them.

I stood between them and asked what was going on–but neighbor kid kept interrupting. “I WANT MY MEMORY CARD BACK!” (Now, this was a Nintendo dispute and the key information is that memory cards store information for games and furthermore, last week, the neighbor kids returned my boys’ game–Animal Crossing–with a lot of their progress and data messed up. YoungestBoy cried all night about being turned into a virtual piece of wood and having their town deserted and full of weeds because of what the neighbor kids did to the game.)

Every time I started to get answers, neighbor kid would interrupt and shout. HE SHOUTED AT ME. Uh, hello? I’m the grown-up here. (Would you have ever dreamed of shouting at a neighborhood mom when you were a kid?) This kid shows no respect for adults and, in fact, I’ve caught him stealing and then lying about it in my house. (He stole my husband’s lollipop and then lied to me about it.) Neighbor kid shouted, “He’s trying to wreck our game!” I said, “Well, you wrecked his game when you had his memory card last week!” He said, “We did NOT!” Which is a lie. Meanwhile, YoungestBoy is crying.

Then, neighbor kid grabbed for the memory card–but I stopped him by reaching out and holding his arm. (I couldn’t believe I reached out and touched him because everyone knows you should never touch a child who does not belong to you. Even in your own home. Even if said kid is making your own kid cry. I immediately let go.) I still didn’t know what had happened because neighbor kid wouldn’t stop talking. I turned to him, looked him right in the face, raised my hand in a “STOP” sign and said, “Stop talking! I’m trying to figure out what happened here!”

At last, I was able to ask YoungestBoy if he was finished with the memory card. He was, so I took it out and gave it to neighbor kid. YoungestBoy didn’t do anything to sabotage neighbor kid’s game–he just wanted to send a letter to someone in the neighbor kid’s town and then get back to his own town.

Such drama.

So, neighbor kid left with a red face and tears in his eyes. I’d be happy if he never came back again.

Later, I asked each of my boys separately what happened before I came into the room. TwinBoyA informed me that YoungestBoy hit the neighbor kid. I called in YoungestBoy. “Did you hit the neighbor kid?” He said, “Yes, because he called me an idiot! Twice!” I asked why and he explained that neighbor kid was mad because he thought YoungestBoy was ruining his game.

“Next time you have a problem, don’t hit, okay? Call for help, all right?” Hitting is extremely out of character for YoungestBoy. I was surprised.

So now, I’m going to have to call the neighbor kids’ mom and explain to her what happened. Neighbor kid is a liar, so who knows what tale he told? I know it’s horrible, but I am sick to death of dealing with this bratty kid!

I marked the calendar for two weeks. We are taking a two-week break from the neighbor kids. I don’t need the pain of dealing with someone else’s undisciplined kids, especially when I’m not getting paid for it!

Okay. Rant over.

Sometimes, you just want to remember a moment. If you are lucky, you’ll have a snapshot as a souvenir. I have these words, which I line up here, neat and tidy, to remind me of life this week.

First, you must know that my husband believes in treating a cough with something, anything. (I don’t treat coughs as I’ve read repeatedly that there is no point and coughs are good, productive, etc., etc.) He heard not long ago that honey works as well as cough syrup. We’ve had another cold here which features a lot of phlegmy coughing. My husband was so proud of himself the other day–(“I could totally be a stay-at-home dad,” he said to me when I walked into the kitchen. I responded as a good, wise wife and I didn’t even roll my eyes at him, because he would be a good stay-at-home dad, but he underestimates the rigors of a solitary life taking care of miniature human beings)–anyway, he’d given Babygirl a spoonful of honey to combat her cough. He felt triumphant, giddy with his achievement.

Later in the day, Babygirl sat on the couch. Cough cough cough cough cough cough cough. Then she said, to no one in particular: “I don’t need honey.”

One morning this week, Babygirl stood on my bathroom counter, harassing watching me get ready. Her pink long-john style pajamas kept slipping over her shoulder and I had a flashback to Flashdance.

YoungestBoy has announced that when he grows up, he will have two children. They will be named “Ray-Ray” and “Yo,” because those are “cool names,” he says. This is a boy who named his (girl) cat “Roy.”

That’s all. I told you . . . it wasn’t a carefully composed shot, sharply focused, telling a story. Just a few blurry pictures, but enough to help me remember.

Smoov Someone just brought a grave error to my attention. All this time, you have been unable to go, meet and greet my friend, Smoov of (surprisingly enough) Smoov because she has been missing from my blogroll. How can that be? I adore her! She’s a grad student, a devoted mother of twin 2-year old boys and a brilliant 9-year old girl, wife to a great guy and a full-time employee who works nights doing something which involves dissecting human body parts. She’s hilarious, straightforward, witty and passionate about mountain-climbing, traveling and vodka. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

I added her to my blogroll, which I thought I had done long ago. Go check out Smoov. Tell her I said “hi.”

Recently, Dale (from Tales From the Wayside) emailed me, asking me how I managed to get people to read my blog. I told him a few things (like the importance of blogrolls, commenting, even using Blogexplosion occasionally). I don’t have 40,000 readers day like some people. And a lot of people find me accidentally because I have the word “photo” in my title. But Gina over at Just Another Day called me her Fairy Blog Mother, and Dale thought maybe I had a magic wand, I guess.

Alas, no such luck.

But I love how some of you found others of you through my blog (you know who you are). For instance, finding comments from Cuppa on Wash Lady’s blog delights me. So, knowing how kind and supportive you are, I’m asking that you go and visit Dale’s blog. Give yourself some time, though, because Dale is not just a blogger, but a short-story writer.

Here’s how Dale describes himself: “I am a 42 year old child of Minnesota who has spent the last 27 years living in the deserts of Phoenix, AZ. I have been married for 17 years (last March) to a woman who is playful as a kitten, possesses exceptional intelligence and so much a part of me I don?t know where I leave off and she begins. I have two dogs, one of which is an intense, serious and dedicated border collie-mix who attempts to herd flocks of pigeons and an Australian Shepard-mix who licks anything that can?t run away fast enough. I am a very large man who lives in a small house and drives a black miniature pickup (perfect color for the desert!).”

Go. Read. Greet.

Thanks.

Will someone please explain this to me? I don’t really want to know your theories about why Mrs. Federline isn’t wearing a brassiere. What I want to know, what I need to know is why Mr. Federline is wearing the cap meant for the newborn baby right after its birth?

Last week, when it became apparent that my husband wouldn’t be able to go away for his four-day weekend trip, I suggested he go to Portland to visit a friend after the funeral. We used to live near Portland and retain a few friends, a taste for Buster’s Bar-B-Q and a love for Portland bookstores (Powell’s and Pilgrim Books–I think that’s what it’s called).

So this afternoon, after he took YoungestBoy to his first baseball game of the season, off he went, driving a borrowed Lexus. (Our regular cars are unreliable to drive so far, he thinks. He is Mr. Caution.) He told me his cell phone battery was low, so he’d have it off, but that he’d call me when he arrived. It’s only a two or three hour drive. I hugged him and sent him off, told him to take his time, stay as long as he wanted. He needs a break, even a short one.

An hour or so after he left, I relented and agreed to take my kids to Target so they could spend the money that has sizzled holes right through their pockets. Because my husband had borrowed the Lexus, he’d parked our old Mercury Sable behind our old Chevy Astro van.

And then, he took the set of Mercury Sable car keys with him.

I often accuse him of forgetting to hang up the keys on the fridge, but I almost always have to apologize later when I find the keys in my purse or my pocket. This time, I said to YoungestBoy, “Hey, what car did you and Dad ride in when you went to your game?” He said, “The blue car.”

So I had not driven it last. That meant he did not hang up the keys on the fridge.

For one dismal moment, I imagined myself in my house with my four kids for thirty-six straight hours. It’s not the imprisonment that scares me, but the idea of it. There are many days I don’t leave the house, but I could if I wanted.

I called his cell phone, but it was off. Then I remembered the second Mercury Sable car key we have, the one which can’t hang because the black plastic part that encased it broke off. I ran upstairs to check his dresser drawer. Ten thousand pennies, but no key. I returned to the kitchen, dumped the striped junk jar I keep on the kitchen windowsill and there, amidst the nails and Barbie shoes and marbles and chains, I found the key.

So, we went to Target and GameCrazy, too. The boys are all happy. Babygirl picked out bathtub toys and cookies. We bought a take-and-bake pizza and returned home.

When he called, I told him I was cursing his name earlier and he confessed that he had the key. No harm done, I said. Have fun!

The twins are watching television, Babygirl is playing on the computer and YoungestBoy is playing Nintendo. The Brio train tracks are scattered on the floor, the laundry basket holds now-wrinkled clothes, and the leftover pizza is cold on the counter. Tomorrow, we are playing hooky from church (my husband suggested it).

And that’s my rainy Saturday report.

I never watch Oprah anymore because I have lost control of my life. Furthermore, I have lost control of the remote control, better known as the “Clicker” in my house. But today, Babygirl only wanted to rock in the big green recliner after her nap because she has another (!) cold. In DaycareKid’s absence, we did just that. And I watched daytime television while CuteBaby rolled on the floor and sucked his socks.

Today, lo and behold, a former blogger, and current novelist/columnist and wife to Pulitzer-prize winning novelist (Michael Chabon)was the guest. I’d even read the New York Times article the show focused on, the one where she talks about how she is “in love” with her husband, but not her four children. She mentions, in fact, that she loves her husband more than her children. This admission has caused quite a stir. I wasn’t shocked when I read it because I am so used to people saying things that don’t resonate with me at all.

Ayelet doesn’t speak for me, even though I am a 40-year old mother of four children, too. That’s because I’m not “in love” with my husband at all. I think all the talk of being “in love” is silly, as a matter of fact, and frankly, irrelevant.

I don’t believe in being “in love.” Love is a decision you make, not a feeling you feel. What is the point of declaring who you are “in love” with as opposed to who you merely “love”?

The whole quibble (of semantics, if you ask me) reminds me a lot of the puzzlement I felt when my dad explained to me that he still loved me, it was just that he no longer loved my mother. Those were hollow words. Is love so capricious? Love just flits away, like a shy bird? Or it melts away like an ice cream cone left in the car on a hot day? I always thought that if my parents could stop loving one another, they could certainly stop loving me. And that was before I understood that love is an action, not a description.

Oh, I’m familiar with the distinctions between the different types of love. C. S. Lewis talks about the four types of love in his book “The Four Loves.” [The four Greek words for our word love are “storge” (affection), “philia” (friendship), “eros” (sexual or romantic love) and “agape” (selfless love).–from the Amazon.com link.] And I think Ayelet was probably trying to communicate that she loves her children differently–not more, not less–than her husband.

But then, no one asked me, even though I, too, am 40 and have four children and one husband.

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.

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.