Because I am a glutton for punishment, I allowed the boys’ twin-friends spend the night. All five boys sat up and watched the television showing of a Harry Potter movie. They ate an entire half-gallon of ice cream. Then they asked for popcorn. And my boys dispensed pop to everyone.

YoungestBoy spent a great deal of time rolling on the floor and annoying the bigger boys. The visiting boys are loud, so LOUD that my boys seem sedate in comparison. First one visiting boy, then the other stuck his thumb in his mouth and then popped it out, making a suction sound. Pop! Slurp! Pop! Slurp! If my boys had been doing that, I would have ordered them to stop using my most irritated voice.

Then from my desk where I sat for three solid hours bringing Quicken up to date (I have ignored it since September), I heard, “Hey! You spilled it!” In a single bound, I leapt across the room to find a spilled glass of pop on my carpet. Granted, my carpet is in dire need of shampooing, but still!

The visiting twin sat placidly as a cow chewing cud as I stomped away for a towel to soak it up. I said to my boys, “Spring into action! Come on! Clean this up!” and they seemed to suffer from hearing loss and said only, “It’s not my pop.”

While I finished mopping up the spill, I said, “Would your mother let you put a glass of pop on your floor?” I was thinking of her brand-new gleaming hardwood floors, her expensive leather furniture, her antiques. He said, “Well, if there is no table.”

And then, I saw that the twin brother had also spilled his glass and was also sitting mutely, catatonically, perfectly still, except for the hand bringing popcorn to his mouth while the pop became one with the carpet.

ARRGH! That’s my pirate sound, saved for especially aggravating moments. I couldn’t believe that the boys just sat and let their pop soak into the carpet.

Well.

I finished balancing my checkbook at 11 p.m. and sent the kids to bed. It’s past 12:30 a.m. now and I still hear whispering and giggling and movement. And in the morning, somehow I have to get us all to church by 9:45 a.m.

I’m going to pretend that they are all sleeping and go upstairs. If I’m lucky, they won’t get up at 6:00 a.m. like they did last time they stayed over.

Last night, in a fit of annoyance, I shook my finger at my three boys and said in a threatening voice, “If ANY of you get up before NINE O’CLOCK or make any noise or WAKE ME UP . . . YOU WILL BE SORRY.” And then I stomped upstairs while they stayed downstairs and finished watching a video.

I knew, of course, that they would all be up before 9:00 a.m., so I’m not even sure why I said that, other than my being peevish and fed up with kids. This morning, Babygirl woke at about 7:20 a.m., a mere six hours after I finished The Secret Life of Bees. I wearily stumbled into her room, took off her wet diaper, rocked her awhile and turned on her newly rented “Elmo’s World” video. Then I told her I was going to lay down.

I dozed off and on as she interrupted my sleep every few minutes, but I did stay in bed for another hour, until 9:00 a.m. Then I cleaned the shower stall and eventually, showered. I moved slowly, the luxury of not having a deadline or an appointment. I came downstairs with a towel on my head, shifted laundry from machine to machine, watered the cats, and finally went back upstairs to dry my hair and put on my make-up.

My hair is naturally curly and almost half-way down my back. The turban on my head half-dried it, so the curls were a little frizzy, so I pulled the curls out a little more, thinking I’d get a wavy effect, but instead, I ended up looking like Roseanne Rosannadanna. This was not a good thing.

So, then I pulled on my hair with a flat iron and a curling iron and generally spent a lot of time trying to look normal. Whatever that means.

I finished playing with my hair and came downstairs. I folded laundry, picked up a few things, washed some dishes and sat at the computer. Then I glanced at the clock. Eleven twenty. Eleven twenty?! Eleven twenty? How’d it get to be 11:20 a.m.? I realized that I needed to speed up a bit. (11:20?!) YoungestBoy would be picked up for his soccer game at 12:30 p.m. No one had even eaten breakfast, except for Babygirl.

I went into the kitchen and popped waffles into the toaster. The stove clock said 10:15 a.m. The microwave clock said 10:17 a.m. I said, “Hey, did someone mess with that clock?” and I guestured to the battery-run kitchen clock hanging high on a cabinet.

YoungestBoy said, “I did!”

I said, “Why?”

He said, “Well, when I came downstairs, I thought it was 9:00 o’clock, so I changed it.”

In other words, “Mom, you said not to come downstairs before 9:00 o’clock, so I changed the clock so it would say 9:00 o’clock, even though it was really 8:00 o’clock.”

He had to climb on a chair, take the clock down and change the time.

Later in the day, he went to soccer with a family friend. The twins went to their twin-friends’ house. Then after soccer, YoungestBoy went to his friend’s house. While they were all gone, I put Babygirl down for her nap and my mother came over to sit with her while I went to a big school rummage sale. (Books, glorious books, at cheap prices.) When I came home and my mom left, the doorbell rang. There stood the neighbor boy.

I said, “Hey, the boys aren’t home.”

He said, “Where are they?”

I said, “They went to play at their friends’ houses.”

He held up a Gamecube game, twirled it around and said, “Can I come in and play anyway?”

I said, “No.”

He said, “That’s not fair! My Gamecube is broken!”

I said, “Bummer for you. Buh-bye!” and kind of eased the door closed with him still facing me.

Now. YoungestBoy is home. The neighbor boys must have been watching out the window because they came over moments later. The twins called to ask if their twin friends can spend the night. I said, “Well. Hmmm. What do you plan to do?” and they said, “Watch a movie on television,” and I couldn’t think of a single reason why I should say “no,” so I said, “Fine.”

Their mother called to ask me one question: “Have you lost your mind? Are you on drugs?” Wait. That’s two questions. At any rate, I said, “Hey, what’s two more when I’m stuck here anyway?”

And she said, “Well, I figured since your husband is gone you have one less pair of adult hands.”

And I said (God forgive me), “Do you actually think he helps out when he’s here?” Then I blurted, “WHO SAID THAT?” leaving my friend silent and puzzled for a moment before she laughed.

Well, that’s not true, of course. My husband is helpful. It is good to have a partner. I am thankful for him. And I’m saying that even though he never reads this blog.

So, the house will soon be full of kids again, but at least I had a mini-break in the middle of this day. Otherwise, I might be out of my mind. Or taking drugs. Or making jokes at my husband’s expense.

Well, I decided not to paint tonight. Why am I so surprised? I am a slothful excuse for a human being.

YoungestBoy had to go to school today, so I took the other kids with me to run a few errands. The twins did their lessons haphazardly before and after our excursion and while I was putting Babygirl to sleep (and falling asleep myself), TwinBoyA did TwinBoyB’s work–both math and vocabulary. I guess they didn’t think I’d be able to tell the difference between their handwriting. What’s a mom to do?

Tonight YoungestBoy went to his third (or fourth?) birthday party of the school year. My big boys went to that many birthday parties in their whole lives, just about. When I went to pick him up tonight from the party, I spotted him across the room, face flushed, his friend’s dad standing nearby. I said, “Is he all right?” and the dad told me that he’d fallen and hit his head while being wheeled around in a giant tire-thing. He was so sweaty his hair was drenched.

He seemed fine, though, but he cried some on the way home, mentioning to me that he couldn’t get his shoes off so he could jump in the bounce-house thing. (Yes, that’s the technical term for the inflatable jump-thing.) I said, “Why didn’t you ask for help?” and he said, “I did!” and I said, “And no one would help you?” and he said, “I’m just crying because my head hurts.”

Poor kid. He had fun, despite his last-minute injury. And once I gave him some Advil and a drink of water, he forgot his pain.

And now, thirty more minutes until the children are in bed. Not that I’m counting.

Remember this show that ran from 1977 to 1981? Well, me neither, because I wasn’t really watching much television in those days, but I did manage to see enough of that show to wonder why those kids all looked so dissimilar. And boy, I wished I had that long sheet of butt-length hair that one of the daughters had. In my youth, long hair was everything. I dreamed of long hair and then Farrah came along and I was all about wings. But Eight is Enough.

What brings this to mind today, you ask? This afternoon, I did a head-count and found that eight certainly is enough. DaycareKid didn’t even come today, yet I managed to spend an afternoon with eight children in my house. And eight is enough.

I feel like a terrible American citizen and schooling-at-home mother because not only did I not observe Veteran’s Day, I only gave it passing thought–once when I thought what a terrible American citizen I am and then again when I realized there would be no mail delivery today. It’s awfully strange not to have school on a Thursday and then send the kids back to school on Friday.

My twins were peeved that I expected them to do lessons today. But since we lost our internet connection earlier this week, they fell a little behind. I really had no choice but to make them do school. They’ll thank me when they are grown. Or not.

Despite the siren song of The Secret Life of Bees (which I heartily recommend and, yes, Beth, the library should have it), I rose above and beyond my usual standard of mediocrity (keeping the kids alive, basically) and cleaned up the backyard, even mowing the lawn and gathering trash and sweeping up giant piles of Douglas fir needles. The trees are in our neighbor’s yard and dump an endless, prickly supply of rusty needles. The visiting twins came outside and I said, “Hey, what are your plans?” and they blinked and said, “We’re going to work on the moat.” I said, “Fine, but no water, okay?”

So, they continued to dig near the back fence. They have quite a tributary system happening there.

I did not paint.
I did not do much laundry.

Tonight, I sat in Babygirl’s room and while she watched her Barney video, I read by the light of a small book-light. She sat on her knees right in front of the small television with its built-in VCR, mesmerized. She asked for a banana. Finished that and asked for an apple. Then, she turned around and said, “I dance?” I said, “Sure, you can dance.”

First, she held onto the wire television stand as if it were a ballet barre, and danced. Then she swung her arms and did a little step from side to side. The room was dark, lit only by the television and my book-light, so her silhouette glowed with the flickering light of Barney. I looked up from my book and saw her sparse blond hair forming a halo around her bobbing head and the image brought tears to my eyes and a smile to my face. She looked around to see if I were watching, then danced on.

I know she won’t dance to Barney forever, but I hope she’ll always have moments when she can only respond by jumping to her feet and swaying to the music. And I hope I won’t be too busy to notice.

Well, he’s leaving, but he’ll be back. He’s just going to Minnesota on business for four days. He leaves early in the morning, so on one hand, I’m a little frantic about making preparations. I need to get to Target for laundry detergent and meringue cookies. I’d like to go to the video store to rent DVDs. We probably need more milk.

And I hate to take the children shopping. I can’t think while they are careening around the store and bombarding me with questions. And it always costs me more when they come along because I am a pushover in the grocery store.

Anyway.

The irrational thing is that I always imagine I will start and finish some type of enormous project while my husband’s away. This time, I’ve settled on painting. My entryway and hallway need to be painted. Why not paint while I am outnumbered four-to-one by children? Why not paint while I am the sole adult in charge? Why not, indeed?

The only thing standing between me and progress is this little book, The Secret Life of Bees. I’m not sure I can let latex paint and my green, soon-to-be orange-gold, entryway come between me and this fiction.

As for my husband, he’ll miss us, about as much as he’d miss having a rock in his shoe.

When I was older than eleven and younger than fifteen, I fell in love with veterinary medicine, a al James Herriot, author of All Creatures Great and Small . Even the description of plunging a hand deep into the innards of a pregnant cow did not dull my dreams of becoming a veterinarian myself, preferably one who lived in Scotland.

My parents, in a strange bid to force me face-to-face with reality, arranged for me to work on weekends for a goat farmer. This job required me to ride my bicycle a good twenty miles up and down rolling hills to the goat farm.

The goat farmer was a portly woman with stick-straight, frizzy, gray hair, which hung down her fat back. I can’t remember her name, but I remember very clearly being introduced to a pen of small goats. I was given a knife and some clippers. She demonstrated how I was to trim the hooves of these smelly creatures. Then she left.

She left me with her son, a teenager or a young man who made me acutely aware of being with him, and not in a cozy, comfortable way. But I didn’t have time to worry because I had goats to fix.

I caught the uncooperative goats and I trimmed and clipped and shaved their hooves, only drawing a bit of blood.

I can only remember one other incident at the goat farm in which the goat farmer woman had me help her shear the goats. I guess they were angora goats.

We brought the goat into the dim kitchen where the goat farmer prepared to shear the goats by stripping down to her underpants. They were giant, white, granny-pants, for which I give thanks. If thongs had been the fashion back in the seventies, I might have seen much more of the goat farmer than I desired. As it was, my adolescent self was horrified to view a grown woman in her underpants, especially a woman with a generously protruding stomach filling out her cotton panties.

I can’t imagine I was much help. I remember nothing, other than the fact that the goat woman sheared the goats in her kitchen, while wearing underpants. Sometimes I think I must have dreamed that part, or maybe I dreamed the whole thing–the job, the bicycle ride, the bleeding goat hooves. I think I was paid in goat milk.

I didn’t work at that farm for long. Soon after, I worked at a health food store and then graduated to Taco Time, where I learned how to properly roll a bean burrito or a soft taco.

I gave up my dreams to be a veterinarian somewhere along the line. The idea of reaching up a cow vagina didn’t bother me, but the vision of that goat farmer woman in her gigantic white underpants frightened me forever.

And that’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. Strange jobs. Paths not taken. Seeing people in their underpants.

Today is my husband’s day off. He asked what my plans were for the day and I fell to the floor, laughing my fool head off. Plans! Who makes plan? I have kids who school at home and a two year old.

Actually, I said, “Well, I really need to write my Student Academic Plans and if you could take Babygirl out of here for a couple of hours, that would be so helpful.”

He, being a Superior Husband and all, agreed. Off they went.

I sat at the computer and clicked on K12.com to gather the list of assignments for today for the boys. My internet connection kept wavering though, jiggling and swaying like a suspension bridge, and then BOOM. I was off-line.

I rebooted. And clicked. And switched to the other computer. And rebooted it. And briefly found myself connected again before plunging into the dark world of disconnection.

How did we survive without our high-speed internet connection?

I called Comcast to ask if there were some type of outage, found out nothing, unplugged everything, rebooted and found myself linked to the on-line world yet again.

By this time, though, the day had flown by and my husband and Babygirl were back from their adventure to Kristy Kreme. I had achieved nothing, but my boys completed most of their lessons before we lost our connection yet again.

I haven’t caught on my daily-read blogs. I haven’t answered email. I didn’t finish my record-keeping for K12.com.

You’d think that my house should be spic-n-span and that the laundry would all be put away since I spent so much of my day flapping in the wind without my internet anchor. Alas, not true. Between my meeting at school this afternoon, a meeting tonight and grocery-shopping, I feel farther behind tonight than I did when I woke up this morning.

By the way, Babygirl (who was 2 in September) can play on the internet. I set her up with pbskids.org and she plays games. She knows how to click the red “X” at the upper right hand corner. She can manipulate the mouse. She knows how to put in a CD and play her toddler game. I am pretty impressed.

Next time my computer loses its internet connection, I know who I’m calling.

That’s right. Babygirl, Computer Whiz-Girl, Age 2. I’m having business cards made up right away.

Slept in. Avoided traditional Saturday morning donuts. Took Babygirl to bank, shoe store, church bazaar, grocery store. Babygirl looked at “girl” in mirror at shoe store, apparently not recognizing herself. Sometimes I feel the same way. Where did my baby go? And who is that wrinkly-eyed, doughy-chinned woman holding my Babygirl in the mirror? (Oh, what an unpleasant mental image! I apologize. Please erase that and continue to think of me as, oh, say Julia Roberts. No, someone more my age. Yes, that’s it–Brooke Shields.)

While waiting for shoe store to open, Babygirl ran up and down the sidewalk four times. A two year old can be so easy to entertain.

This afternoon, YoungestBoy went to yet another birthday party. He’s quite the popular party guest. Next Friday he has another party to attend.

TwinBoyA read two books in two days. He’s insatiable and wanted to know if we could go to the library tomorrow. (It’s closed.)

I went to a movie tonight: Shall We Dance, with Richard Gere, Jennifer Lopez and Susan Sarandon. It was an amusing film, made more so by the woman behind me with the hearty, joyful laugh.

Babygirl sang all afternoon. Apparently, a song was stuck in her head because she kept singing, “I. Love. You. You. Love. Me. We’re. A. Hap-py. Fal-i-my.” (Barney theme-song.) I laughed at how she sang “family.”

Have you ever noticed how some people’s lives seem so portable? In the six years we’ve lived here, we’ve seen people come and go. A military family I know has moved from here to Hawaii and then to North Carolina. My mom has moved three times in these six years. One close friend moved from Kansas to Vermont and then Missouri. What is it with these people who just carry around their lives like a potted plant? They can just up and go and then plunk down in a new sunny spot at a moment’s notice.

And here I am, growing roots deep into the soil, growing impossibly tangled with the neighboring perennials, stuck in one spot. Stuck?

I’m planted in a lovely spot. We stayed in a pot for so long, growing slightly root-bound until we had to choose, decide, break the pot and stay awhile. But I am slightly wistful for the portable days of the past, although I am really loving my golden hued living room. That color looks fabulous with my autumn decorations.

And now, I’ll end this tortured analogy. Feel free to throw clay pots and daffodil bulbs for dragging you through the mud.

p.s. After more thought, I realized that the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere is six years, even in my childhood. No wonder I’m worrying about getting stuck in the mud here.

Funny Girl
Friday! The twins went to their friends’ house to play, so dinnertime found me in the car, heading for Wendy’s with the two youngest kids in the backseat. “What do you want tonight?” I asked YoungestBoy and he recited his order: “Chicken tenders, fries and a chocolate shake-thing.”

Then Babygirl piped up: “I want a cheeseburger and a doll.”

I laughed and she said, “I am so funny!”

Two year olds make you laugh so hard that it makes up for the times you grit your teeth and cover your ears to drown out their screams. This morning, she was playing her computer game–she clicks the mouse and everything–when she clicked on the letter “K” which brought up a picture of a kangaroo.

She climbed down and came into the family room where I was folding laundry. “I want a kangaroo!” I said, “We don’t have a kangaroo.” She stomped prettily and whined, “I want a kangaroo on the t.v.!” I said, “There are no kangaroos on the t.v.”

Then she burst into flames.

Inattentive Mothering or Are You Talking to Me?
I can’t tell you how many times I realize that someone, somewhere is talking to me. I say, “Are you talking to me?” which reminds me of Robert Deniro in Taxi Driver: “You talking to me? You talking to me? You talking to me? Then who the hell else are you talking to? You talking to me? Well, I’m the only one here.” . . . even though I never even saw that movie.

I wonder if my children will ever realize that I have thoughts and that many times I’m actually in the middle of talking to myself–or listening to myself, rather. If I don’t answer, they up the volume or simply chant, “MOM! Mom! MOM!” until I vaguely look around and say, “Are you talking to me?” and I’ve turned into Robert Deniro again.

I’m not sure if they talk to me because I am inattentive or if I am inattentive because they are always talking to me. At any rate, on one hand, I think children do best if they are left on their own–within certain boundaries, of course. I don’t want to hover and wipe their chins when they are 11 years old. On the other hand, am I missing their childhoods because I am so distracted by my internal dialogue and external noise? Am I paying enough attention? Can you ever pay enough attention? And if you pay enough attention, will you spontaneously combust from the effort?

On Being Judgmental
I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to be judgmental. It takes no effort to look out from the safety of our front doors and judge each other. I do it in big and small ways all the time–judging people who wear slippers in public, for instance, or wondering at those in the movie-theater who have such bad taste in movies.

If you say you are not judgmental, you are probably deceiving yourself. That includes me, of course. But with awareness comes–hopefully–understanding and change. This insight courtesy of Hillary, who pointed out that I do the very thing I criticize others for doing.

And now, I promise not to call Michael Moore an idiot again. At least in print.

Babygirl cheers for treats!