This morning, when Babygirl finished eating her second syrupy waffle, I said, “Let me wash your sticky hands, okay?” She is an unusually compliant two-year old. But not today.

Today, Babygirl said, “No!”

She’s two. She says “no” a lot, and usually I can cajole her into changing her mind. I said, “Please? You don’t want to have sticky hands. Let mama wash them.”

She said, “NO!”

So, I quickly wiped her face and hands anyway.

She shrieked and with a look of defiant resolve, swished her hands into the remaining syrup on her plate. They were stickier, much stickier than before.

I think she was sorry she had such goopy hands, but she tipped her chin up in victory. I laughingly said, “Okay, well, have sticky hands then.” I put her on the floor and off she ran while I trailed behind saying, “Don’t touch anything!”

Then I tricked her by filling a bowl with warm water and soap bubbles. “Do you want to put your hands in my soapy water?”

She did, of course. She’s two and she can’t resist soapy water.

So, I win. Take that!

“Mel, how’s it going, watching all those kids while you’re schooling two pre-teens at home?”

I’m glad you asked.

First, let me say that Babygirl is me, only smaller. She is not a morning person. On Monday morning, she kept shrieking at DaycareKid, “STOP LOOKIN’ AT ME!” She is a crab-apple and she remains irritable until after her noon-time nap. Seeing my own worst-self reflected in her is unpleasant, at best.

And then, Monday morning found me sitting on the floor with a howling baby. I realized I needed baby-wipes, so I interrupted my pre-teen boys’ who were busily avoiding composition by making loud mouth noises. “Hey! Can you bring me the wipes? They’re in that diaper bag right there.”

Time passed. Slowly. CuteBaby still howled.

“Please! Hurry!”

“Mom, I can’t find them.”

Arg! I said, “Hey, can you hand me those wipes on the couch?” to DaycareKid. He ambled over to the couch, blinded to the bright-green wipe box in plain sight. I was trying to avoid standing up and getting the wipes myself, which was obviously a mistake. Slothfulness leads to trouble.

CuteBaby arched his back and screamed louder.

And then he peed. On my leg. Actually, on my ankle. I screamed and he stopped peeing and joined me in a scream-fest.

You haven’t lived until you’ve been peed on first thing on a Monday morning while being bombarded by the cacophony of a bunch of grouchy kids. Trust me on that.

So, to answer your question (“How’s it going?”), it’s going swell! Swimmingly, even. Just peachy-keen. Actually, Babygirl adores CuteBaby and today all three little ones took long naps and my husband took the twins to get haircuts and it was quiet in my house.

And that, my friends, is better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Oh, and best of all, today Babygirl saw her first-ever rainbow outside. It’s the small things that make me smile.

This is my second week of getting up at 5:15 a.m. to walk. My shins don’t hurt anymore. Besides that, I’ve realized there are hidden benefits to walking before the sun even rises.

1) It’s dark. No one can see exactly how scary I look. If you are embarrassed to be seen walking around town, I recommend walking in the dark.
2) By 7:00 a.m., you’re finished. No bargaining with yourself all day, saying to yourself, Tonight, I will exercise. When the day ends, you can collapse without guilt.
3) You feel virtuous and can casually mention your pre-dawn walks and people will be impressed.

Those are just the benefits of walking at 5:30 a.m.–these are in addition to the well-known health benefits of walking. And if I can do it, so can you. I am not a morning person, but having a walking buddy gives me a reason to get out of bed. She is waiting for me. I have to get up and get moving. Even in the rain. Even when it’s frosty out.

I just know for sure that I don’t want to grow up and be my mother, who at age 62 has a handicapped parking tag on her car because she can’t get around very well anymore. After all, my grandmother is turning 99 next week and I could very well have another fifty years to live.

So, in eight hours, I’ll be heading for the hills–quite literally.

My son’s birthday is tomorrow. He’s turning 7. He’s been sick since Wednesday afternoon, but seems to feel better.

He invited nineteen of his closest friends to party with him. Here. At our house. In the house where I take care of two daycare kids, my own four kids and often, the neighbors. In the house where I school at home my twins. In the house where everything seems dusty.

I’ve cleaned tonight, so tomorrow I’ll decorate. At 10:30 a.m., then fun begins. I plan short parties, so by noon, the festivities will end. The main party fun will be a backyard scavenger/treasure hunt. I have to hide 160 items in the morning.

Clearly, I am insane.

But in twelve hours, it’ll be almost over. And he’s going to have such a great time. I can’t believe my baby boy is turning seven. Seven years ago, I was in labor–I labored 43 hours with him before he finally made his appearance. He’s been a joy to me ever since.

I have a plan to combat terrorism. First, the training. Here is a report of a typical day of field training.

FIELD TRAINING REPORT: DAY ONE
Combatants involved:

1) 3-month old baby, slightly crabby;
2) 2 and a half year old girl, extremely crabby;
3) 2 and a half year old boy, full of energy;
4) 11-year old twin boys.

Trainee must be sleep-deprived, functioning on no more than 6 hours of sleep. Wake trainee at 5:20 a.m. Training walk begins at 5:30 a.m. and ends at 6:35 a.m. Include hills at the end for endurance. External temperatures hover around 25 degrees fahrenheit.

At approximately 9:00 a.m., training exercise begins.

Twin boys sit at table, complain over irregular verbs, puzzle over present and past participles. Boys make continuous noise. Chants and pencil-stabbing and hollering are noted. Boys well-suited to generating chaos for training exercise.

Simultaneously, television is tuned to Sesame Street.

Trainee sits on floor with crabby baby, two-year olds prancing nearby. All at once, two-year olds shout, scream, stomp and fight over the same toy. On cue, baby commences crying, scrunching up tiny face in outrage, as directed.

Telephone rings. Trainee rushes to telephone, but in transit, kicks potty-chair located in the family room. Unemptied pot sloshes and urine drips on floor. Trainee grabs towel from folded laundry on couch, sops up spill and carries pot to bathroom. Upon arrival in bathroom, trainee discovers unflushed waste in bowl. Flushes, notes rising water level and plunges toilet while baby screams.

All indicators record high levels of stress. Trainee clenching jaw and perspiring. Baby maintains high level of intensity while trainee returns pot to potty chair, changes diaper, negotiates with two-year olds, instructs twins to return to task, and warms bottle for baby. Training exercise continues until 5:30 p.m.

This training exercise should be repeated nationwide until Trainees appear to decompensate or beg to quit. Do not push them beyond their endurance; however, maintain high level of sleep deprivation and lack of privacy at all times. Last Trainee standing will receive the Golden Tiara Pin.

A million years ago, in another universe called College, I became friends with a girl I’ll call Raven-Haired Beauty. I can’t quite remember the moment we met, but I do remember the night we convinced Gerard and two of his friends to join in our dramatic performance of “The Three Billy Goats Gruff” near the front of campus. We had them doing pirouettes and everything. She dubbed me The Queen Mother and I called her The Court Jester. She introduced me to Dan Fogelberg’s music. We sang, we giggled, we wore matching neon hot-pink sweatshirts that announced “Airhead Alert!” and when college ended, she was a bridesmaid in my wedding and I was a bridesmaid in hers.

When her second baby was three weeks old, I flew out to see her and slept on her couch. I was in the midst of the black cloud of infertility at the time, but I had hope that our adoption would happen soon. Our visit was hectic, of course, but it was lovely to see her in her new role as wife and mother. That was in 1992, I think. I haven’t seen her since because she lives in the Midwest and I live in the Pacific Northwest.

She’s never been particularly good at staying in touch–some people just can’t manage to maintain a long-distance friendship and I totally understand that–but when her third child was born and I didn’t get a baby announcement, I was a little miffed. By then, I was a mother myself and I knew exactly how busy life can get, so I overlooked it.

But she never returned my letters. She seldom even returned an email. Yet, I still did my best to maintain a connection–Christmas letters, occasional phone calls, snail mail, email. Then, one night I called to see how she’d been and she said, rather off-handedly, “Oh, I’m expecting again.” I was surprised that she hadn’t told me previously–after all, as an infertile, I considered pregnancy news worth a telephone call. She was five months pregnant. Five months and she hadn’t bothered to tell me. I began to understand that our friendship was slipping away.

I realized that I was one who put our friendshp on life-support. I initiated every contact. When we talked, everything was about her. I said to myself, “Self, that’s it. No more. You’ve done your part.”

But then the day came when I realized suddenly, hey, I think her baby was due last week. Curiosity prompted me to telephone her and she answered the phone, sort of out of breath. I said, “Hey, what’s up?” and she said, “I just got back from my baby’s funeral.”

Gulp.

So, I listened to her heartbreaking story of her baby boy (her first son) and how his cord strangled him nine days before his due date. Her labor was induced so she could deliver her stillborn son and the day I called happened to be the day of his funeral. Having already experienced the loss of my father when I was 24, I listened and asked gentle questions. She cried and I cried.

I decided that I would call her every month, around the date she lost her precious baby boy. I did so, for the next year, even though I had vowed to myself that I was done with this friendship. I sent cards. I sent notes. I did what you do when someone has experienced great loss.

After that year passed and my phone calls weren’t as regular, she got pregnant again. She didn’t even tell me. She didn’t send a birth announcement. I was bewildered. Our friendship felt more one-sided than ever. Then, a year or so ago, I telephoned her. She didn’t return my call.

Listen. I understand being busy. I do. I also know that people make time for things and people that matter to them.

Last time I heard from her, she was pregnant again. I never heard when the baby was born. So, a few weeks ago, I found her number and telephoned, more out of curiosity than anything. Did she have a boy or girl? That’s what I wanted to know. She had four daughters, had lost a son and I wondered if she had another son or another daughter.

She didn’t return my call. Over the next week, I called at random times, always getting her answering machine. Finally, a few days ago, she picked up the telephone. My questions were answered. She’d had a son fifteen months ago. And she’s busy, so busy, really, really busy. She got my phone call, but she’s just been so busy, too busy to answer it . . . she babysits now, a 2 year old and an infant (sound familiar?) and her 15-month old is a handful and her preschooler is busy and her school-aged daughters are busy.

Yes. So? I said, “Are you homeschooling?” Oh no, she said, but her oldest daughter is a freshman in high school and she gets straight A’s and she plays basketball and they are just so busy. “Well,” I said, “At least you have older children to help you with the little ones.” And she said, Oh no, they are just so busy with their own lives. “How’s your husband’s job?” I asked. And she said, Oh, he’s busy, so busy, really, really busy. Everyone, they are all so busy.

I’m busy, too, but I make time for people who matter to me. I’m not asking for a weekly telephone call, but how about a baby announcement? Or an email? How much time does it take to write an email? How much time does it take to scrawl a line on the bottom of a Christmas card? Honestly, it’s pretty easy to make me happy.

So, I’m letting this friendship die the natural death it’s been limping toward for the past ten years. No more phone calls from me. I’m done trying.

The thing that she must not realize is that I am a true-blue, forever kind of friend. When I become your friend, I am a friend for life. I am loyal. I am faithful. I value friends as much as I value family. As the saying goes, “Friends are family you pick out yourself.”

Too bad she doesn’t feel the same. Her loss. I kind of wished I’d realized that before, though, a long time before, so I hadn’t wasted any time watering and nurturing a plant that turned out to be plastic.

(And, in response to the comments I’ve already received on this topic: I do not intend to tell her what I’ve just told you. I believe this friendship has been so one-sided that she can’t imagine why I might feel neglected. She’s moved on. She won’t even notice that she doesn’t hear from me anymore. Sad, huh?)

What I want to write about tonight is my old friendship with a girl I’ll call Raven Haired Beauty, but alas, my fingertips are so dry that one is bleeding and I have to save my fingers for yet another transcription job.

But I will talk about the nature of friendship and how it is that some people can be so rude that they fail to return a long-distance telephone call, which is merely a symptom of the actual issue–the value of a friendship.

Why is it worth more to me than to her?
Should I extend mercy?
Or should I just let the friendship die?

(I’ll let you know my choice later. When I’m not half-asleep and bleeding.)

11:45 p.m.
Turn off light. Drift to sleep to sound of husband’s snores.

12:20 a.m.
Wake to husband’s voice, “Dear! I think I hear TwinBoyB throwing up!” Stumble around, find robe, trudge downstairs to find TwinBoyB crying in his bed. He tells me he vomited in the toilet and “Mom, I don’t want to have the stomach virus again!” I assure him he’s not going to be that sick and say with a distinct lack of compassion, “Now, please don’t wake up the whole house! If you are sick, go to the bathroom. Otherwise, sleep!”

1:00 a.m.
Finally return to dreamland.

3:20 a.m.
Realize I am awake and hearing Babygirl’s pitiful cries, “Mom! Mom!” I snatch the robe and weave my way to her room, where I smell the stink of a full diaper. This can only mean the attack of the stomach virus continues. I change her and we sit and watch her favorite video together (“Shrek”) for twenty minutes. Then I return her to bed. I also check on TwinBoyB. He is peacefully sleeping.

5:06 a.m.
I wake from a terrible dream in which our family was in Chicago. Babygirl began bleeding from all orifices and I was about to rush her to the dream world emergency room, when I realize she’s calling me again. She was awake for the day.

I changed her again, gave her a drink, turned on the video and tried to doze in the chair. Every ten minutes she woke me to attempt to use the potty.

7:00 a.m.
We headed downstairs. The day officially began. Who needs sleep anyway?

I don’t recommend going to a movie on a Friday night at 7:00 p.m., mainly because everyone else in town goes to movies on Friday night at 7:00 p.m. I prefer Tuesday nights, which is when I’ll have to see “Million Dollar Baby” or “Hotel Rawanda,” which were my first choice movies for tonight. Instead, I saw “Hitch,” which was passably amusing. I am trying to see all the movies nominated for “Best Picture.” I still have three to go before February 27.

I noticed three teenagers at the movie theater tonight wearing flip-flops, ankle bracelets and capri pants. Spring has sprung, apparently, even though I didn’t get the memo and wore my fleece pull-over and sneakers to the movies. The crocuses might be in full bloom, but frost covers the grass each morning lately. (I did notice that blossoms are about to burst forth on the trees, however–but I’m still not baring my ankles in public quite yet.)

I have to say I am now obsessed with checking out the web-cam in Hawaii (link a few posts down). Just in case you were wondering.

All my kids have some kind of low-grade virus–headaches, upset tummies. Nothing serious–just cranky kids. Babygirl was better today than yesterday, though, so I think she’ll be completely well tomorrow. She asked to go to bed tonight at 7:30 p.m. I highly recommend having your challenging kids first and then wrapping up your parenting with an easy, compliant child.

Yesterday, I had a grand total of nine children in my house at one time. And I wasn’t throwing a party, either! I was babysitting three, two were neighbors and four were my own. The six boys played in the backyard. They set up forts and grabbed sticks for swords and Nerf guns with no ammunition and whooped and hollered and squinted in the sunshine and shivered in the shade.

Spring is good. Even if we can’t figure out whether flip-flops or fleece is appropriate. Maybe flip-flops and fleece? Maybe flip-flops made from fleece?

Do you ever wonder what it’s like somewhere else? Say, perhaps on Mt. Rainier? Go ahead. Click. You’ll thank me.

Although, today, I’m thinking it would be more fun to go to Waikiki Beach, in Hawaii. Check it out.

But here I am. DaycareKid running in circles, Babygirl yelling at him to stop, almost three-month old CuteBaby in my arms while I type this. CuteBaby’s mom is coming in about ten minutes to pick him up. She is lucky enough to be able to come home and spend an hour with him, then she brings him back and he naps.

Today are half-days of school, so YoungestBoy will be home in less than an hour. We’re finished with school at home for the day, too, so we’ll have lunch as soon as CuteBaby leaves, then have naps when he returns . . . although, what do you think the chances are that the three boys will be quiet during nap-time?

I am thankful for a tri-level house today, with enough rooms for us all. Yet, I still wish I could click myself into a tropical place with swaying palm trees and aquamarine waves.