Head Aches

Those of you who have never had the responsibility of planning a church event don’t know what you’re missing.  I’m at that stage where my head aches and I’m immobilized by the weight of details tangled together like the world’s largest rubber band ball.  Only fifty-three children are signed up, which can mean two things:  1)  Our event will be smaller this year than normal (to which I would say YA-HOO!) or 2) Forty children plan to sign up at the last minute on Monday morning (to which I would say NO!  JUST NO!).

And, just for the fun of it, I’ve agreed to let my boys have two friends “sleep” over tonight . . . and I do use the word “sleep” very loosely since they fully intend to stay up all night long giggling and playing games.

. . . so much time passed since I wrote that last sentence that I realized I have nothing more to say tonight, other than this simple declaration:  I HATE SLEEPOVERS.

Also?  I HATE SLEEPOVERS.  Oh wait.  I already said that.

July 5th

I was just about to make my escape, head to Costco with half my kids (I love being able to leave the teenagers at home!) when the doorbell rang.  Oh, hello, neighborhood brothers.  Then, I thought, okay, another hour and I’ll leave.  Ding-dong.  Hello, neighborhood kid and his friend.

So, now all my kids are playing with all these kids and I’m going to read the newspaper and eat lunch and enjoy the semi-quiet while kids are all making noise outside.

Yesterday, I forgot the sunscreen and so today, I have a sunburn on my right knee and my left forehead.  Everything else is pink but doesn’t hurt.  My kids have pink cheeks but seem otherwise unscathed.  Never before in my memory have we watched a Fourth of July parade in such heat and bright sun.  I failed as a mother and brought no cold water.  Alas.
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After the parade, a little synchronized swimming at the pool.

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And then, much later, waiting for fireworks to begin.

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When we got home?  The air conditioner (heat pump, actually) was lagging and I knew that meant it had frozen which meant the filters were disgusting which meant I stood at the kitchen sink cleaning them for an hour, maybe more.

And just now?  The doorbell rings.  But at least the air is working again.

(What do you know?  It’s another neighborhood boy.)

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe . . .

Sum-sum-summertime

Today was the first day it felt like summertime.  It even smelled like summertime, a mixture of cut grass and dirt and chlorine.  I sat by the edge of the pool, curled into a plastic chair, holding my book open, but my eyes were fastened on the sleek body of my almost 5-year old daughter as she jumped into the pool.  She’d bob out of the water, wipe her eyes, smooth back her hair and pull her ears, then climb from the pool without using the stairs.

She’s beautiful but completely unselfconscious, at that perfect age when competence and achievement have not yet met with self-doubt and failure.  She pinches her nose closed, dunks her head and kicks her legs in perfect rhythm, reaches with one arm for the edge of the pool.  When she clears the water from her face, she looks to me for approval and says, “Did you see that?”  She is proud of herself.  She is entirely in the moment.

I wonder if song lyrics dance in her head or if she hears just the rush of water and the patter of the other children?  She has no soundtrack in her head that says, “Be careful!” or “Do I look fat in this outfit?”  The sun warms her tan shoulders and the only thing she worries about if whether she might jump on someone.  So, she stands and watches and waits patiently for her turn and then:  SPLASH!  “Did you see that?” she says.

I grin and give her the thumbs-up signal.

This is the last summer of her fourth year.  The only summer of her fourth year.  She is so beautiful and she has no idea.  And I am trying not to forget.

The home repairs continue

And today, because I am just that fascinating, I went crazy with Liquid Nails and fixed a gliding footrest, a door, a drawer, and a piano bench. (I even used my staple gun on the piano bench. Bam! Bam! Bam!)

I drilled a hole in the ceiling and installed one of those fancy, heavy-duty hooks.

Then I drove to Lowe’s where I bought a new doorknob for the screen door. I used my drill again and installed the new doorknob. We’ve been sticking one finger into the empty doorknob hole for about, oh, two months, to open it up. And only one of us got a gaping, bleeding wound in all that time. Still. I replaced it. (Cost: eight bucks.)

Just call me Mrs. Fix-It.

(I know. How much more boring can I be? Could I just slap some wet paint up here so you could watch it dry?)

And in other news

I caulked my bathtub.  I took my four year old with me to Home Depot, bought the necessary supplies, returned home, stripped off old caulk, washed the tub, wiped down the edges with bleach, wiped down the edges with rubbing alcohol and caulked.

This chore has been urgent for about two years.  Maybe more.

And now it’s done.

Please buy me a treat.

Inappropriate questions I wish I could ask

1) So, how do you like your new boobs?

2) Why is your wife leaving you?

3) Do you know that your pants are falling down?

4) How much do you weigh?

5) What size are those pants?

6) How much money do you make?

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And that’s just for starters. I am curious to a rude degree.

What about you? What questions do you wish you could ask (but never would because you have manners)?

Books I Can’t Forget

When I was a child, I read voraciously–the backs of cereal boxes, Reader’s Digest in the bathroom, any book my parents left on a table, and books from the library that caught my eye.
Here are a few I can’t believe I read as a child, but I did, and I still remember them vividly.

Charles Colson’s Born Again. Published in 1976. I was 11. I had no idea what “Watergate” even meant, but I plowed through this book, developing an interest in the lives of prisoners even then. (Colson went on to start a ministry to prisoners called Prison Fellowship.)

Helter Skelter, by Vincent Bugliosi. Published in 1969, when I was four, but obviously, I read it later. But while still young. I could never forget the women that committed the grisly crimes, nor could I begin to understand. I also read Susan Atkin’s book, Child of Satan, Child of God, (published in 1977 when I was 12) and continue my interest in her story. (Every once in awhile, she’s in the news because she comes up for parole. Frankly, I think she should be paroled.)
Rebecca, by Daphne Du Maurier (published in 1948) still has a place on my bookshelf, though I’ve only read it twice. The first time, as a mere girl I was sucked into the other world of that book and drowned in the emotion.

The Cross and the Switchblade by David Wilkerson, John Sherrill and Elizabeth Sherrill (published in 1963) barged right into my suburban childhood, scaring me to death. From the back cover:

The tortured face of a young killer, one of seven boys on trial for a brutal murder, started country preacher David Wilkerson on his lonely crusade to the most dangerous streets in the world. Violent gangs ruled by warlords, drug pushers and pimps held the streets of New York’s ghettoes in an iron grip. It was into this world that David Wilkerson stepped, armed only with the simple message of God’s love and the promise of the Holy Spirit’s power. Then the miracles began to happen. The Cross and the Switchblade is one of the most inspiring and challenging true stories of all time. It has sold millions of copies throughout the world and has been made into a feature film.

(And the film starred Erik Estrada, before he was a famous motorcycle police officer.)

Corrie ten Boom’s The Hiding Place (co-written, or maybe ghost-written by John Sherrill and Elizabeth Sherrill), published in 1971 (when I was 6), was my first introduction to the Holocaust. Corrie’s true story tells about her family’s suffering at the hands of the Nazis, first while in hiding and resisting, and then in concentration camps. I have never, ever forgotten details about this story, even though I only read it once when I was a child.

Legend of the Seventh Virgin by Victoria Holt (published 1965, the year I was born) is one of the first romance novels I ever read. I remember it for its impression on me (loved it intensely), but can’t remember a thing about the story. Nevertheless, when I found a used copy, I bought it for my bookshelf, though I’ve never read it again. (And I rarely read romance novels these days.)
From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, published in 1977, when I was twelve . . . look! I read an actual children’s book when I was a child. I loved this book and still think about collecting coins from fountains, inspired by this book. (I never read it again, but I ought to.)

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott and Little House on the Prairie (Laura Ingalls Wilder) (and the subsequent books by each author) made me long for a childhood in a sod house or in a house lit entirely by lanterns and candles. I also thought I’d be more like the mother in each of those books than the mother I actually turned out to be.

Some childhood books I never read, but intend to read:

All the Anne of Green Gable books. I even have them on my shelf.

Books I never plan to read:

All the Nancy Drew books.

And this concludes my jaunt down library lane. What wildly inappropriate book did you read as a child? (Or were my parents the only ones who paid no attention to what I read?)

[Oh, and I am one of those people who always reads magazines cover to cover, front to back.  Although, I’m busier now and skip some things, but I always flip through in order, no skipping around.  Then, when I’m finished, I fold over the front corner of the magazine to remind myself I finished reading it.  I have a lot of these Rules for Living, but no one else abides by them!]

Loud

I’ve turned into your great-grandmother, you know, the one who lives alone in a tidy house who can’t stand sudden noises or even the general loudness of children at play? (Oh, wait, maybe that’s just my grandmother–she’s 101 now.)

Anyway, I am her and when my 14-year old moves all the kitchen chairs so he can sweep (not of his own initiative, no, his dad directed him), he bangs and drags them and then I hear the unmistakable crunch-crunch-crunch of someone chewing and some little circuit in my brain immediately went haywire and I said, “WHAT ARE YOU EATING?” and he, the other 14-year old, looked startled and said, “Nothing?” and I raised my eyebrows and he said, “Popcorn. What?”

The television was on and my husband was clanging silverware in the sink (doing dishes, good husband, good boy!) and the loudness soaked into my brain like radioactivity.

All I want is peace and quiet. Although, I would settle for just quiet. Peace is overrated, anyway, but quietness? I can never get enough.

There was a day when all I wanted was a baby with pudgy cheeks and downy hair. There was a day that I lamented the childless rooms in my house, when I only wanted someone in the back yard who’d run through the sprinkler and pat together mud pies. There was a day when I took for granted tidiness, and never, ever removed an empty milk carton from the refrigerator.

Today, though, was full of life and kids. I slept in (as much as one can sleep in with a four year old in the house) and then when a phone call alerted me that my obligations for the day were canceled, I rounded up the kids and took them on an adventure, which was not much of an adventure but that’s only because the U-Pick strawberry farms had no U-Pick berries to pick. So, instead, we drove out to a working farm and bought some fresh strawberries, cherries, rhubarb, beans, and onions.

The kids didn’t care a whit about the produce, though. Four year old Grace asked the lady behind the counter, “Do you have any more animals?” (Two donkeys and two turkeys were fenced in by the parking lot. A dog wandered out of the produce stand.) The lady directed us back to see two goats, who eagerly ate feed we purchased for a quarter. Then, “Do you have any more animals?” and she said, “There’s a horse out at the end of the driveway.” So, we walked the other direction. A most hilarious donkey trotted over to us, wiggled his lips into a grin and then hee-hawed in cartoon fashion at us. We all burst into laughter. Then we admired the chickens before returning to buy produce.

After that, we headed back to civilization and Costco where my plan was to let each child pick out a snack food to take to the pool. This is preemptive shopping on my part. The kids always want to feed the vending machines at the pool and at 85 cents a snack, I cringe. So, now we have our own private stash of junk that I can dole out, saving money in the long run.

(We will have Jolly Ranchers until we die. The bag is huge.)

We sort of got lost on the way back and I have to confess that I have an admirable internal map, an innate sense of direction. And also, I realized once we hit a main drag again that our new van has a directional display, which is mighty cool.

At Costco, we had lunch, after spending way too much money. (That is so easy to do at Costco.) The kids each had pizza and I had a salad, but I had eaten only four bites of my salad and my 14-year old son was done eating his pizza. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had actually chewed or if he merely wadded it into balls and shoved it down his throat. I will never cease being amazed at how fast a teenage boy can eat.

We were home long enough to change into swimming suits. We were among the few, the brave, the crazy at the pool. I sat under a beach umbrella at a table and read a magazine as the children swam despite a light smattering of rain. That’s right. I sat by the pool in the rain. Welcome to summertime in the Pacific Northwest. They swam for two hours and Grace protested when I said it was time to go, but she realizes she has no power and so she reluctantly swathed herself in her giant pink towel and followed me to the van.

Then dinner.

Then exercise.

Then bedtime for Grace.

And then the kids finished their chores, my husband finished the dishes, and the kids went to their rooms.

The only sound now is the occasional cough of my 9-year old and the gurgle of the dishwasher. I hear the murmur of teenagers somewhere, but this is what passes for silence in my house.
Tomorrow, I’m taking the day off. I can’t wait to spend eight straight hours without once being called “mom” or having someone argue with me about whether I will or will not allow a particular computer game to be purchased or have someone debate with me the merits of having sleepovers on Tuesday nights because otherwise, “What is the point of summer if you can only have sleepovers on Fridays?”

I have small dreams and none of them has a soundtrack or dialog.

Introducing . . .

I’d like you to meet a new friend of mine, Linda. I call her “Linda from California” because that’s where she’s from. Linda and I met at Mt. Hermon’s Christian Writer’s Conference last spring when she sat down at my table at lunch. Later, we realized that we have some things in common: four kids, for starters. And we’re both aspiring writers, knocking on doors and hoping someone will buy something we’ve written.
Anyway, Linda started a blog . . . and now, all she needs are some readers. So, won’t you go over and say hello to Linda? Tell her I sent you. Her blog is called Spilt Milk.

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I have a reciprocal blogroll . . . that means if you link to me, I am happy to link to you. If you are already linking to me and I haven’t returned the favor, please let me know so I can fix that as soon as possible! Thanks!

Hair yesterday, gone today

Last night, I ventured to Home Depot and Lowe’s and Joann’s Fabrics to buy supplies to decorate the church for Vacation Bible School. (Avalanche Ranch!) I waited in line to have 2x4s cut into 6 foot lengths. I wrestled giant sheets of styrofoam (four feet by eight feet!) into my van. I pondered mis-tinted paint, hunting for the shades I needed.

I returned home, utterly exhausted at 9:30 p.m. As I stood in my bedroom doorway, talking to my husband, a pile of beautiful blond curls caught my eye. I scooped up this handful of golden hair and said, “She didn’t!” and he said, “Oh. She did. She shouldn’t have scissors.” And I said, “The scissors were on the dresser. I took them out of her room.”

“Where did she cut it?” I said.

“In her bedroom,” he said.

“No, I mean where on her head?”

“Oh,” he said, “I couldn’t tell.”

This morning, I said to her, “Where did you cut your hair?” and she said, “Here, and here on the side and here and in the back.”

Why? “Because it was in my eyes.”

She is just lucky that her hair is curly and that her curls will hide this wretched haircut. It’s only hair. It’s only hair. It’s only hair.

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The other morning, she came clanging into our room, sounding exactly like the Ghost of Jacob Marley, that ghost in “A Christmas Carol” which drags heavy chains around. She did not have chains, but rather, Barbie roller skates and matching elbow and knee pads.

Fortunately, the three-day roller-skating craze has ended, thus proving my wisdom in paying only $3.00 for said roller skates. (A dollar a day, what a bargain.)