Yesterday, YoungestBoy comes home from school with a flushed face. He hurries off, dropping his backpack, barely saying “hello.” Not much later, one of his brothers reports to me that YoungestBoy broke our family rules and took some Valuable Items to school. Another boy (let’s call him “Liar Liar Pants on Fire” for short) asked if he could show YoungestBoy’s Valuable Items to another boy. Liar Liar Pants on Fire told my trusting (gullible?) son that he’d bring back the Valuable Items, plus additional Items. My son thought that sounded like a good deal, so with Liar Liar Pants on Fire’s assurance that he’d give YoungestBoy the Items at pick-up time, YoungestBoy handed over the Valuable Items.

(“Valuable Items” could be any small item that a boy likes to collect. In this case, I purchased said “Valuable Items” at Christmas time because “Valuable Items” were all my son wanted. These “Items” cost more than any of his other gifts. They cost a lot of money, so not only are they valuable to my son because they are unusual, but they are valuable to me because I paid good money for them.)

Back to the story.

Liar Liar Pants on Fire immediately turns over the Valuable Items to two other boys, “Fence One” and “Fence Two.” At pick up time, my son says to Liar Liar Pants on Fire, “Where are my [Valuable Items]?” Liar Liar Pants on Fire says, “Oh, I gave them to [Fence One] and [Fence Two.]” My son says, “Why did you do that?” And Liar Liar Pants on Fire has no good reason.

I called Liar Liar Pants on Fire’s mom. She said her darling son would never have just taken my son’s Valuable Items. Her son must have thought my son gave him the Valuable Items and since her son knows he is not allowed to have said items, he gave them to someone else.

Well, pardon me for being logical, but what kid in his right mind would knowingly, willingly give his Valuable Items to another kid FOR KEEPS? Where would be the payoff in giving away his most prized possession?

After our conversation, she spoke with her son, who insisted that he thought my son gave him the Valuable Items. He confirmed that he gave the Valuable Items to Fence One and Fence Two. She said she’d talk to those children today and get back to me. She explained that her son is not even allowed to touch the Items in question and does not personally own any of the Items and yet, kids give him Items every day, which he then gives to other kids, because he is obeying his mother’s rules not to own the Items.

Today, YoungestBoy comes home from school, teling me that Liar Liar Pants on Fire gave him two Items. Not the Valuable Items, but two lesser Items. Liar Liar Pants on Fire is not even supposed to touch Items, according to his mother. Liar Liar Pants on Fire also reported today that he gave the Valuable Items to another kid, Fence Three, but not Fence One and Fence Two.

At 8:00 p.m., I called Liar Liar Pants on Fire’s mother again. I reported that Liar Liar Pants on Fire gave my son two Items today. I informed her I’d be bringing over those two Items so she could confront her son with them (she said, no thanks, you keep them). She said, “He doesn’t have any Items. I don’t know where he gets the Items.” I said, “Well, he’s obviously taking them from one kid and giving them to another. These Items my son brought home today belong to another kid who is at home this very moment crying to his mother because his Items were given to someone else today.”

Liar Liar Pants on Fire’s mother said, “I know he is not stealing the Items.” I hastened to assure her that I wasn’t accusing him of stealing . . . yet part of my brain is saying, “Hellooooo? Taking from one kid–lying about it–and giving to another kid. If that is not stealing, what is it? Communism? Robin Hood-ism?”

She assured me that both Fence One and Fence Two admitted they had the Valuable Items. She said they agreed to bring the Valuable Items to school tomorrow.

We’ll see.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking dark thoughts like, “That’s it! I’m going to People’s Court! I’m suing this little Liar Liar Pants on Fire for everything he’s got!” Or “Just give me a second alone with Liar Liar Pants on Fire and I’ll get to the bottom of this, the little lying thief!” And “I am SO writing a note to the principal and copying all the staff!”

Where is justice?

(Oh, and believe me, my son will suffer consequences for taking Valuable Items to school. If he loses Valuable Items for good, that will be his consequence. If they are returned, we will think up something equally devastating. He broke our house rules, he broke school rules and he knew better. None of this would have happened if he’d left Valuable Items at home where they belong. And none of this would have happened if my son had already developed a jaded sense of the world, along with the idea that other people cannot be trusted.)

UPDATE: Two of the three items were returned yesterday. Good thing I didn’t slap anyone.

My husband’s day off is today. And he’s sick with yet another cold. He showered early, went to work to prepare for the wedding he conducted today, then went to the dedication ceremony (and luncheon) for the local Rescue Mission. Then he stopped by our house while I was grimacing as I corrected the boys’ math assessments to bring me a red vase of purple and red tulips.

I, being the gracious type, said, “Hey! You broke the rules!”

Fortunately, I had a Valetine’s Day card stashed away because even though we always agree to not celebrate Valentine’s Day in any way, he always does anyway. I heart my husband.

The boys made their first-ever cake today from a mix. I showed them two boxes and said, “What kind do you want to make? This is plain yellow cake, like vanilla, and this is chocolate.” TwinBoyA said, “Chocolate!” And I said, “Chocolate? Even though it’s Valentine’s Day?” And he said, “Yes! Nothing says I love you like chocolate.”

I guess I was worried about my shortcomings as a mother for nothing. I’ve taught him the most important thing: Nothing says I love you like chocolate.

Two nights ago, I finished reading The Shipping News by Annie Proulx. Now I’m at a loss. What to read next? I have literally an entire six-foot bookshelf of unread books, but how can I choose? I think that I might read The Perfect Storm, since my brain is already hanging out in the Atlantic Ocean, smelling the reek of fish carcasses and feeling the sting of salt water.

When I’m between books, I feel suddenly unlashed from reality, which is completely the opposite of reality, isn’t it? I reluctantly close the back cover of a book and flip closed my book light and look around at my regular life, my kids, my husband watching Fox News, the folded laundry ready to be put away, the dirty clothes tangled on the bathroom floor near a trail of wet footpuddles and I think, what? How’d I get here? Just one second ago I was in Newfoundland and it was winter. Where did Quoyle and Wavey go?

If I wait too long and don’t jump into the pages of another book immediately, I might find myself drifting for weeks, bobbing along on a pathetic sea of the newspaper and The Reader’s Digest . . . I need to dive deep, to submerge into the world of books. Otherwise, little pieces of my brain break off like chunks of driftwood and float away. I’m not kidding.

(By the way, last night, I noticed a rather goopy wet spot on the kitchen floor near the fridge. I sopped it up, sniffed it, looked for the source. I followed the slime trail back up to the top of the fridge and shuddered for a second, imagining all kinds of rotted stuff up there. Have I mentioned that I am not Martha Stewart? Anyway, it turned out to be, well, a leaking “brain.” Guess that zip-lock bag wasn’t sealed very well.)

My mother taught me how to bake potatoes when I was but a young girl with hair that always looked like it needed brushing. Scrub, poke with a fork, wrap in foil and bake. I skip the foil part now, but I always stab the potatoes because I’ve heard they will explode if you don’t.

I dutifully explained the explosion risk to my son when I taught him to bake potatoes Friday night. I didn’t really believe it, but I passed along this wisdom because that’s what we do. We teach our children what we have heard, right? Well, guess what? My mother was right. A potato will explode if it is not poked. I have the proof in my smoky oven.

My fingertips are cracked and bleeding, which is probably because I cleaned a toilet recently. Tonight I finished typing 110 pages of transcription (that’s about 8-10 hours of work), so tomorrow I will avoid cleaning supplies in the interest of skin regeneration. As we learned in science class last Friday, our fingertips have a great many nerve receptors and so I say OUCH, especially when I type an “L.”

Last night, I went to see “Finding Neverland.” As usual, I went alone and arrived just before the movie began. I went rather reluctantly because Johnny Depp has never really interested me, but I found myself weeping intermittently through the movie. I also thought the following things:

1) My children would be so much cuter if they spoke in English accents;
2) My children would be so much cuter if they wore linen suits with Peter Pan collars;
3) The dog in the movie, a Newfoundland, reminded me of my own Newfoundland, Greta, who lived with us for two years. I missed her, even while I reminded myself of the shed hair and the itchy skin and the baby gates we had to step over to get into the kitchen;
4) I want an English cottage to summer in.

I loved the movie, even though I had to walk out with my eyes averted because I’d been crying so hard I was embarrassed.

I’m going to bed tonight with my house in disarray. Last night, I scurried around at 11:00 p.m., picking up dishes with spoons stuck to dried milk and bowls filled with popcorn kernels. I picked up trash and clothes and toys and videos and Legos. I cleaned off the kitchen counter and put a roast into the crockpot.

Tonight? None of that. I’m leaving it as is. It’ll be here tomorrow morning. And so will I.

The whole world looks better when the sun shines. Except for my living room windows, which are in dire need of Windex. And my face, which is in dire need of cosmetics. But other than that, sun cheers me up.

And tonight, as the sun went down, I clenched my jaw at the dirty carpet and the scattered Legos and the dirty dishes and then, instead of beginning a lecture to my boys which starts, “How can you stand this disgusting mess?” I heard a smart, little voice in my head say, Hey, everyone is happy! Look! Babygirl is painting! YoungestBoy has a table full of Lego rockets he created. The twins are all cudddled on the couch. The only person bothered by this mess is you. So I said to myself, Self, relax! You’re doing fine. Your kids had a great day–see those Valentine’s made with glitter glue covering the kitchen table? The kids are fine. Your children are having a happy childhood. The floors will wash and later, you are going to a movie, so take a deep breathe.

I love it when the voice in my head is so wise.

Not that we’d need this around here, but click here if you have or know anyone who has PMS. Consider this a public service announcement.

This afternoon, I was cleaning up and I heard a little thump, bump, tumble as Babygirl came down the stairs. I said, “Hey, are you all right?” and she said, “Yes,” but then I heard a little gaspy cry. I went over to check on her and found her face completely obscured by underpants. She looked as if she was prepared to hold up the local 7-11, only she miscalculated and didn’t rotate the underpants so the leg-holes corresponded with her eyeballs.

I picked her up and laughed under my breath, while I patted her back and mentioned, oh-so-casually, that if you are going to go down the stairs, you shouldn’t pull underpants completely over your head.

Remember that. If you are going down the stairs, make sure the underpants on your head don’t block your vision completely. Free advice.

Many years ago, when I still cried over my infertility, I had a friend named Julie who had a three year old son. And a husband, too, for that matter. While I was taking my morning temperature and scheduling my intimate encounters around my fertile days, Julie was busy accidentally getting pregnant. Twice in a year. She’d call me, crying, overwhelmed, despairing over her messy house and her sink full of dishes and I’d say, “I’ll be right over. I’ll help you.”

And I would. I’d drive to her house and find her disheveled and sniffly. Her couch would be covered with mostly unfolded laundry and her bed would be a tangle of sheets and her floor would be strewn with toys and clothes and shoes and stuff. Her sink would be piled so high I’d have to empty it before I could start rinsing and washing. I’d reassure her and tidy up and put all the clothes back into her closet and run a few loads of wash and fold the jumble of clothes on the couch. I created order out of that disorder.

Secretly, I thought she was sweet, but incompetent. What did she do all day? How long did it take for a house to fall into such disrepair? How could she let this happen? I did my good works with a great deal of smugness.

And then I had twin boys. That event alone set the stage for my current low standards. TwinBoyB used to spit up a lot. If I didn’t reach him quickly enough, I’d hear a slurping sound and catch him sucking the half-curdled formula out of the Berber carpet. So is it any wonder that I didn’t care if the pacifier was rinsed if it happened to drop to the ground? My kids licked the floor. How could a grimy pacifier matter?

When the twins were toddlers, I couldn’t keep them from throwing sand at each other. They loved sand–I didn’t have a box, though. I just had some guy with a pick-up dump a big mound of sand by the side of our driveway. We lived on ten acres then and this pile of sand blended right into the landscape. So, they’d sit in the center of this mountain of sand and throw it. At each other. Despite me.

One long Michigan winter left me desperate to entertain them. My friend, MaryKay, said she had a rice pool for her kids. I said, “How do you keep rice from getting all over the house?” She said she just vacuumed around the pool and didn’t let her kids carry it around.

That sounded easy. So I tried it. I bought a big, rectanglar Rubbermaid container. I filled it with twenty-five pounds of rice. I supplied shovels and cups and implements for play. My boys flung that rice into the far corners of the rooms. Repeatedly. Some of you (mothers of girls, probably) canNOT imagine such a thing. I never thought I’d turn a blind eye, either, but I did. I figured, hey, it will keep them entertained and it will vacuum up. Maybe I can actually have a moment.

I think they are probably still finding errant grains of rice in odd spots in that house. They probably blame mice.

I used to let the boys sit on the kitchen floor with giant bowls of soapy water. They’d play with it and inevitably spill it all. I’d use a billion bathtowels to clean it up. That made up for my infrequent mopping.

Wouldn’t it be reasonable to expect improvement? Learning, even gradual? Yeah, I thought so, too, but as it turns out, the mud-flinging and spillage persists. Instead of fighting them, I surrendered. I don’t bother picking up all the stuff scattered on the floor. At least not right away. I have a laundry folding system on my couch, but sometimes it just looks like piles of unfolded clothes. I will leave dishes in the kitchen sink so I can stretch out and read a novel.

I learned in these past 11 years that the messes will always be here. Even if I clean up today, it will be a mess tomorrow. Why sweat it? At this moment, the following items sit on my desk, here in the family room: a naked Ragged Ann (circa 1960 or 1970), a bucket of chalk, pipe-cleaners from last weeks Pipe-Cleaner Extravaganza, Babygirl’s sunglasses, my transcribing machine, my camera, assorted pens, CDs for school music, Land Before Time coloring book, car, bar of soap, old carrot, used tissue. And I could either spend time cleaning it up, or I could write. I choose to write. I need a break from the manual labor that is my life. I no longer have standards, I have substandards. As I told my husband the other night, I am a half-assed housewife. (Wait. Can a Pastor’s Wife say that? Let me check my manual and get back to you.)

That explains why today, when Babygirl walked up to me with her underpants on her head, I wasn’t alarmed–until I saw the skidmarks. Then, I said, “Hey, go get her some clean underpants, please! She needs clean underpants to wear on her head! Hurry!”

I have to draw the line somewhere. And wearing stinky flowered underpants upon one’s blond curls is that line. I just didn’t expect the line to be one of . . . well. You get the idea.

(And to Julie? I apologize. Now I realize that the household can fall apart in a matter of hours. I really had no idea.)

Here’s what I don’t want, never will want and think is completely stupid. Please do not name a star in my honor. If you want to give me something with “star” in its name, please give me the current issue of the National Enquirer, which features a story (and pictures!) called “Cellulite of the Stars.” I feel compelled to rifle through this issue every time I see it while I wait to buy my fat-free milk, bananas, salad and chocolate.

But I have resisted.

Doesn’t the idea that Britney Spears and Paris Hilton and even the stick figure known as Lara Flynn Boyle have cellulite give you a little thrill?

Well, maybe it’s just me.

Thank you, everyone, for the comments about my previous post. Some of you shared pictures of snowflakes and additional insight. Some of you emailed. I am thrilled that my words resonate with some of you.

Tonight, however, is just going to be boring, personal journal stuff. So feel free to click away.

My son just came out of his room (it’s almost 11 p.m.) and said, “First of all, mom,” as if we were about to have a full-fledged conversation. He and his brother are outraged–OUTRAGED–that I have instituted a charge for picking up clothes off their floor. Twenty-five cents an item. So, far, in two days, I’ve picked up twenty-five items. They are also alarmed that I have yet to pay them their $10 allowance for this two-week period. I am so cruel.

I told him, “Go to bed. I’m not discussing anything with you tonight. Go to bed.”

Do they not realize I am Off-Duty at 9 p.m.? No exceptions?

We watched the Superbowl today as a family. Well, I baked cookies, then folded laundry, then helped Babygirl get on her boots so she could go and stand in the muddy backyard and look at worms gasping for oxygen while rain fell on her head. She danced on the couch during half-time, making us all laugh. She swings her arms around and bops to the beat. Funny kid.

Early today, during church, Babygirl and I wandered into my husband’s office while he was preaching. She ate chocolate kisses out of his candy bowl on his desk, then asked me to push the button on his Billy Bass. She likes to dance to it, but when she pushes the button herself and the fish begins to flop and sing, it scares her. So I handled the button and she danced. Trust me, it was amusing.

I whirled through my house yesterday cleaning, vacuuming, changing sheets, decluttering, picking up . . . and then went shopping all afternoon alone. I have never seen so many pregnant women in one place as I did at Wal-Mart yesterday. I never shop at Wal-Mart because the nearest one is not very near, but I had gift cards to use. Besides pregnant women, the store seemed to be teeming with mother/daughter teams on weekly outings–and when I say “mother” I mean old, slow-moving women and when I say “daughter”, I mean slightly less old, slow-moving women. I was in a hurry, what can I say? So much shopping to do, so little time.

Later, at Marshall’s (I love that store) I bought three coats for my boys for next year for a grand total of $30.00. Now that is a bargain!

The sad thing is, when I returned home last night, my house showed no signs of my cleaning spree, other than my clean, flannel sheets on my neatly made bed and the de-mildewed shower. My husband said, “What do you expect? You have a family of six!”

What I really want to know is: Where is my Alice? (Of Brady Bunch fame.)

Finally, I must say that although I am enjoying reading The Shipping News by Annie Proulx, I cannot get over her constant use of sentence fragments. For instance, she’ll write, “”Fingers ochre from chain-smoking.” Or “The candle on its side.” Or “Warren gliding away.” Each fragment stops me cold. Maybe that’s her point? Anyway, I tried to read this book about fifteen years ago, but got bogged down. I saw the movie a few years back, so ventured another time into the pages. It won a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award and it makes me want to travel to Newfoundland.

And now, it’s officially so late that I will want to destroy my alarm clock when it rings in the morning.

You just have to read Judy’s blog. Judy always make me laugh.

And while you’re at it, check out my friend, Brandie, at her blog, Cute & Crafty. You, too, will be inspired to be cute and crafty!

I heartily recommend them.