Sticks and stones

On a few occasions, I’ve received off-putting emails from people who have read this blog. I consider this blog a lot like my living room and those of you who read it like friends who’ve stopped by for an icy glass of Diet Coke. I chatter on about my family or maybe we talk about something in the news. I think of you as friends I haven’t met in real life yet.

But then, an email reminds me that some readers are just standing at the front window peering in and they have no qualms about throwing rocks if they don’t like what they see.

I find that very odd.

I also find it disconcerting when I have unintentionally offended someone and they email me in a big huff. Once, months ago, someone emailed me to scold me and reprimand me because I sent her an email. (I can’t remember what it was about, but it was a long time ago.) I had no idea she was even mad at me . . . we’d previously exchanged a series of emails and I thought that conversation had ended happily. I was wrong. (I’m still puzzled about that, though.)
It’s strange, this blogging business. Sometimes I wonder why I fling open my door and let people come in.

* * *

And now for an awkward juxtaposition: I won the Fruity Cheerios contest and $500, thanks in large part to my blog readers and friends. Thanks so much! I’m shocked and delighted!

We’ll Saturday laugh more than half of the day*

At one point this afternoon, all three of my boys were unconscious, asleep in that drool-on-your-pillow kind of way because they “slept” over last night at their friends’ houses. My 9-year old reportedly went to sleep at 1:00 a.m., while my 14-year old twins stayed up all night long. When they came home at 2:00 p.m., they went straight to bed without even eating a bowl of cereal or dirtying a glass in the kitchen.

They are all awake now-the 9-year old went to a birthday party and the teens roused themselves to play with their neighborhood friends.

My daughter has become the perfect garage sale partner, with one unpleasant side effect: stuffed animals. She bought one at nearly every garage sale . . . finally I said, “NO MORE STUFFED ANIMALS!” and then, wouldn’t you know it, at the very next garage sale she found the cutest CareBear (pink, wearing a diaper) and even I wanted to buy it. She stood for a long minute, staring at it, while I pretended not to notice her. Finally, she asked if she could have it and I said, “Yes,” thus ensuring an ample supply of stuffed animals for the rest of our lives.

I pointed out to her afterwards that I had said “no” and then changed my mind and she thought that was quite funny. I did, too, but after that, really, I didn’t buy another stuffed animal.

She’s been wearing plastic Barbie skates since we returned home. For a year, she’s longed for roller skates and finally, her dream came true. (Only $3, including knee pads, elbow pads and wrist guards.) I wouldn’t be surprised if she wants to sleep in them.

My husband has a cold and spent most of the day in our empty, quiet home. He is a lucky duck . . . well, except for the part about being sick. I have rarely been alone in my home for 14 years. Is it pathetic that I have a little fantasy involving being home alone? And that the fantasy involves cleaning out closets and sorting through boxes of stuff? Yes, it is. I know.

Well, there you go. A whole post without a single mention of the contest. (Go vote. It’s not too late.) (Scroll down, click on the picture labeled Melodee H. and I promise never to ask again.)

*can you sing that song?

Cheap Entertainment

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What I’ve discovered is that a digital camera with a roomy memory card is an excellent way to entertain a four-and-a-half year old child.  She took all these pictures, including the self-portrait.  I love seeing the world through her eyes.

All my boys are gone tonight, sleeping over at their friends’ houses.  This means that the kitchen is still clean.  The floor hasn’t collected cereal in the corners since I swept and mopped after dinner.  No popcorn kernels have been dropped on the family room floor.

And honestly, it’s too quiet.  Having my children away worries me . . . yet, ah, blessed silence.  Sooner or later I’ll have to accept that they will not always be safely ensconced under my roof . . . but I’m kind of glad it will be “later.”  I like knowing they are safely in their rooms, even when they are talking when they should be sleeping.  I miss them when they’re gone.  (I can’t believe I just said that.  Remind me when I complain about THE NOISE, THE MESS, THE NOISE!)
*  *  *

Now, look away if my incessant begging troubles you.  (Are you gone?  Really, look away because–for the last time–I’m going to ask for a favor.)

Please, will you vote one last time for me in the Fruity Cheerios contest?  Click here, scroll down and click on my picture (Melodee H.).  The deadline is Saturday night at 11:00 p.m.  Thank you!  (You know I’d do the same for you.)

Haphazard

1) My feet got bigger when I got fatter. Go figure. Usually, even when you’re fat, you can still shop for shoes, right? My feet went from a svelte size 8 to a hefty size 9.5. I can’t figure out which Clearance rack to browse these days when I go to Famous Footwear, the shoe store I love. (They shrunk and now I’m back in an 8.)
2) My 4-year old has swimmer’s ear, which I diagnosed myself. (I remember last summer.) I know that a few drops of vinegar dripped into her ear will cure her, but she acts as if I am dripping hydrochloric acid into her head. Even after I prove to her that she will not die from vinegar, she still cries because the drops are “very cold.”

3) My husband has a cold. He insisted that it was “allergies” for the first twenty-four hours. He’s never had an allergy a day in his life.

4) My 9-year old burst into tears this morning. Upon questioning, he admitted that he lost library books and owed “thirty dollars, probably!” I realize now that he has suffered from his secret knowledge of this mistake and subsequent guilty conscience for the past two weeks and that explains his somber face that I wondered about from time to time. He will receive only mercy, no punishment–his regret is punishment enough.

5) A few years ago, one of my other sons lost a library book about the moon. I searched relentlessly for that book. Three years later, it turned up. On the bookshelf.

6) Speaking of books, I finished Anne Tyler’s Earthly Possessions tonight. That woman is master novelist. I want to be Anne Tyler when I grow up.

7) The race for $500 is neck-and-neck . . . won’t you please click here and vote for me (Melodee H.) again? And, if you really love me, will you ask your friends to vote and put a link on your blog (if you have one)? Oh, you don’t even have to love me . . . just take pity on me . . . next month, we’re going to California with the kids and it would be so nice to drive our van rather than hitchhike.

8) Did you watch Tarzan when you were growing up? Remember the giant spider web? (1939 Tarzan Finds a Son!) Some days I am struggling in a giant spiderweb, just stuck while a pizza-sized spider heads my way. Oh, if you’ve ever seen that movie, you understand my dismay.
9) Five more days of school until summer vacation. But who’s counting?

10) Your turn. Tell me one haphazard fact about yourself. (And don’t forget to vote for me. Yes, shameless, pathetic, groveling . . . I know, I am.)

Help!

Now, here’s the thing.  Another blogger with a lot of readers is asking people to vote for her in the Fruity Cheerios contest.  Clearly, she doesn’t realize how much I need this $500.  If you haven’t already voted today, won’t you vote for me?  Click here and then click on my picture (M. Helms).  And feel free to ask everyone you know and everyone you have ever known and your mailman to vote for me, too.

Thanks!

Dream a little dream

Hi.  Wouldn’t it be nice if I put up a post that wasn’t begging for votes or indulging in self-pity over a bunch of nothing?  (Teenage angst is so 1980s.)

Well, huh, too bad I have nothing to say.  My biggest accomplishment of the day was putting away seven baskets of folded laundry, including socks.  I actually matched up the socks that languished in the Sock Basket . . . no matter how much laundry I wash, I always have several dozen unmatched socks, leading me to question the symmetry of the universe.

Also, you should know that I inadvertently trained my crooked-tail cat to race to the front door at the sound of the doorbell.  Talk about a stupid pet trick.  Our cats are indoors-only cats, but this one sneaks out the front door at every opportunity, then immediately panics and begins to bang at the screen to be let back in.  But, ding-dong, the doorbell rings and the cat runs to the front door.  I’m forever nudging that cat away from the door with my foot while standing in the doorway talking to a neighbor.

What is distressing about my life at the moment (oh dear, more angst popping up) is how the universe continually collapses on itself.  Nothing stays as it should . . . at the moment, I see five pairs of shoes scattered on the floor (only one pair belongs to me) and a bicycle helmet.  I didn’t get the dishes from dinner washed because I had to rush out of the house to a meeting (of sorts, a sort-of-meeting).  Tomorrow, I’ll start the day with my house in some disarray, which will drive me crazy, but that alone does not motivate me to want to deal with anything tonight.  Why can’t things just stay where I put them?  Why can’t clean things stay clean?  Why, for the love of Pluto, can’t the couch cushions stay arranged on the couch instead of in a haphazard pile?

I know.  I know.  Kids.  I’ll miss these kids when they’re gone.  Yeah, whatever.  If so, I’ll just go over to their homes and drink out of three different glasses, leave them stuck in a sticky ring on the coffee table, take off my socks, roll them into balls and toss them in corners and lose the remote control.  Then I will put an empty milk carton in the refrigerator, smear my fingerprints all over the patio door and pee on the toilet seat.

*  *  *

Now, time to vote.  Go, click on my picture (M. Helms, scroll down a little) and voila!  I’m a little closer to winning $500!  Thanks!  (You can vote once a day.)

The Problem

Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest movie

This morning while pondering my bloodshot right eye (infection? sign of the apocalypse? old age?), I realized what my problem is. My problem is that I have unrealistic expectations. Like, totally. (Suddenly, I am a Valley Girl, but that is not my Problem.)

Here is what I think a woman of my social class and slightly above-average intellect ought to be able to show for her time each day:

1) Sparkling clean house, including floors acceptable for picnicking upon and even licking should an errant drop of barbecue sauce splash near one’s toes;

2) All laundry washed, dried, folded, put away, ironed and mended every day.

3) Healthy dinner, complete with colorful vegetables and whole grains created by me and consumed by every member of my family, every day.

4) Children, fresh-faced and sweet-smelling, curled around the living room, enraptured by their novels. While three are reading one ought to be fingering Chopin on the piano. The cats should be purring at our feet.

5) Weed-free yard, flowerbeds abloom with perennials, lawn plush with emerald green grass and no dandelions.

6) Clutter-free surfaces, including the staircase landing, the kitchen counter (be gone, junk mail!), the end-table (where I keep the laundry baskets) and the dressers (hello, clothes, why aren’t you in the drawer?). Closets reflecting the well-ordered discipline of a woman who knows exactly where everything is, a woman who doesn’t keep clothes her kids outgrew and shoes she hates.
Now, in addition to these minimum standards (which I never, ever meet), I think a woman like me ought to also be able to:

1) Break into the world of magazine publishing;

2) Read a novel a week;

3) Write a novel within a year;

4) Organize an event without breaking a sweat or whining;

5) Teach all of the children to play the piano;

6) Create hand-crafted items with my grandmother’s sewing machine;

7) Lose the last twenty pounds in five months;

8) Organize all the drawers, cupboards, files, shelves and storage-room.

Here is reality. Here is what I manage:

1) Daily exercise, one hour.

2) Dinner of some sort, tonight quite possibly Hebrew National fat-free hotdogs for the kids (they’ll complain) and a bag of vegetables for me.

3) Wash, fold, put away three or four loads of laundry. (If by “put away” you mean stacking items on my dresser because my daughter’s drawers are full of clothes she has outgrown or doesn’t wear and so the clean clothes have no place to go. Alas.)

4) Fret about church event. (Vacation Bible School, coming July 9, SAVE ME!) Worry about volunteers. Consider deadline for t-shirt order. Wonder why sizes most preschoolers will wear. Think about going to Home Depot to scout out supplies and price PVC piping.
5) Drink 2 liters of Diet Coke.

6) Take kids to swimming pool for one hour.

7) Get hair cut. (First time since October.)

8) Read newspaper. Read Anne Tyler’s Earthly Possessions.

9) Beat up self for being unable to accomplish much of anything and lament inexcusable laziness.

10) Drag kids through two lessons of pre-algebra and a bunch of literature lessons.

* * *

My expectations for myself have always been unreasonable. I pass out slack as if were free to other people, but to myself, I offer no mercy, only judgment. I want to be normal, to live in a house free of crazed rules and impossible standards . . . but on the other hand, I want to achieve extraordinary things and I’m not just talking about getting the kids to eat vegetables. I want to be perfect, I want to be acclaimed, I want to have something to show for my life besides a stack of journals filled with the embarrassing record of a life lived with excessive angst.  But I don’t want to give up anything . . . what can I give up, anyway?  Cooking?  Cleaning?  Fretting?
Pardon me while I tuck my angst back under the bed where it belongs.
Do you have any unrealistic expectations for yourself? Or am I alone in my craziness?

[Don’t forget to vote for me . . . details in the post below this one.]

Vote for me!

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Won’t you go to the Modern Mom website and vote for me?  You can vote once a day.  The one with the most votes wins $500!  It’s really easy to vote–no registration required or anything . . . just click on the picture.  Please, pretty please?  (This post will appear at the top of my page until voting ends in a week . . . but I will be back–today–with a regular post.)

Where I’ve been, what I’ve done and Paris

“Hello. I’m calling to report a student absence.”

“Teacher’s name?”

“Wood.”

“Student’s name?”

“John Smith*.” (*not actual name)

“Reason for absence? Is your student ill?”

“Uh . . . . uh . . . . uh . . . ”

“It’s all right if he’s not ill. I’ll just write parent permission.”

Thus, I was saved from lying before 8:00 in the morning. Today, our older boys had a school-at-home end-of-the-year picnic and the local waterpark had a homeschool day (tickets only $11 compared to the normal $35 price) and so we pulled our younger son out of school, took the day off work and frolicked all day.

However, so did about a kajillion other families, so the waterpark was really crowded. And the pool meant for the younger set was as cold as the ocean water off the coast of Washington, no exaggeration. My 4-year old did cavort in the chilly water and slide down the crowded slide and even dip her face into the water–just because she can–but she had more fun riding rides (an ancient carousel and an assortment of old carnival rides). We slid down one of those giant slides on black carpet–she on my lap–but at the tippy-top, she decided that she didn’t want to do it, but I said, “Oh, too late, we’re sliding,” and we did and when we reached the bottom, she immediately turned to me for a hug with a crumpled chin and an accusatory look. “That scared me!” she said.

We set our 14-year old twin boys free with instructions to meet us at 3:30 p.m. and they eventually found some friends they knew from homeschool P.E. class. I still have no idea if they went on a single waterslide or if they merely savored their freedom by wandering around, bumping into people.

My husband spent the afternoon with our 9-year old, standing in long lines to ride 3-minute waterslides. They also rode a rollercoaster twice. Oh, and my 9-year old went into the wave pool . . . my husband reported that he immediately lost sight of him in the chaos of the crowded waves. My son swam to the very far end of the wave-pool where the waves are of Perfect Storm dimension and, as he reports, “I almost drowned.” He realized he couldn’t tread the rough water for long and wisely swam to safety. My husband relayed this story to me with some shame, as he is the reigning Mr. Safety.
And, as if all that adventure weren’t enough, I spent an hour and a half at our own pool when we returned to town so my daughter could swim even longer. She is practicing underwater somersaults, but she calls them “underdogs.” That child has enough energy to power a small city.

The original point of this dissertation was to explain my dismay this morning when I realized that a domestic bomb of some sort had exploded, leaving mounds of laundry and stacks of dirty dishes everywhere. I was puzzled until I remember yesterday:

School, followed by work on VBS (Vacation Bible School), followed by a lengthy visit with a friend (whom I’ve been begging to come over . . . she came to pick up some VBS materials, but also to chat which was awesome). She left and I took the kids to the pool . . . came home in time for dinner (thank God for Crock-Pots) . . . then my mother stopped by, then I left for a meeting (VBS!) at church at 8:00 p.m., returning home by 10:00 p.m. I don’t think I washed a single load of laundry yesterday and so today, the molehills have turned into mountains.

But, happy day, Paris Hilton went back to jail and I can’t help but feel opposing emotions: pity for her because she is so clearly distraught, but pleasure because justice is served. If only Paris had been forced to have temper tantrums when she was three and didn’t get her way, she might not be having temper tantrums at age 26 when she doesn’t get her way. I hope that she is in jail thinking about how she messed up and not wondering why this bad thing is happening to her. I suspect she feels like a victim and not like a criminal, though.
You might find it odd that I have an opinion about Paris Hilton, but, of course, I have an opinion about everything. Or almost everything.