Because Jody asked, I am doing a “Weird Meme.” Apparently, I am supposed to unveil my soul and tell you six weird things about me. And then I am supposed to trust that you will all still like me in the morning.

So, here goes:

1) I was a college sophomore before I realized that basketball had strategy and game plans. I thought it was a free-for-all, even on a professional level. I never heard the term “March Madness” until I was twenty-three.

2) I didn’t have my first date and my first kiss until I was in college.

3) I’ve never been hospitalized, except when I was a baby and had an umbilical hernia repair. My mother had another baby by then, so she dropped me off and left me during the surgery and overnight because she had no choice. I was a year old.

4) I hate watching DVDs/videos at home. I even joined Netflix, thinking that would be convenient, but no, I haven’t even watched the first movie they sent three or four weeks ago because I hate watching movies at home.

5) I read the newspaper and magazines in sequence, front to back. I fold over the page to keep my place in magazines. I never skip around.

6) I rarely listen to music at home. It’s too loud here and I can’t stand competing sounds.

That was surprisingly difficult to do . . . and I have decided I’m not all that weird, because I even bored myself writing that. My apologies to the blogosphere.

And because I am lame, I’m not tagging anyone . . . but feel free to tag yourself and let us know in the comments and I’ll put a link to your blog right here:

Stephanie plays along at her blog, Adventures in Babywearing;

So does Kris over at Kris’s Korner of the World;

And here’s Robin at her blog, A Little Bit of Me.

Look! Mary at Mary on a Mission posted about her weirdness, too.

Sue at Susie’s Space adds her six cents, too.

[ space reserved for links to blogs playing along ]

My daughter is still not entirely well. She woke up crying at 1:30 a.m. last night and followed a trip to the toilet with a bath. A BATH at 1:30 a.m. Today was a hodge-podge of happy-happy and sad-very-very-sad.

So, this was a long day. I’m terribly behind on my blog-reading and my head aches with that lack-of-sleep pain.

But tomorrow, I’ll be back and better than ever. Or at least, better than today. Or, truthfully, at least back, if not better.

(Oh, and the van? The 1987 Chevy Astro van . . . died today in an intersection while my husband was driving home from the YMCA with my son. He managed to restart it, but ack!)

The news reported that 20,000 people marched the streets of Seattle today, demanding their rights as illegal immigrants. What a great country we live in when you can be in violation of the law, yet demand your rights. From the U.S. Constitution: “All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like the privileges and immunities we enjoy in this country are extended to its citizens. Yet, isn’t it remarkable that thousands upon thousands of people who have no legal right to be here take advantage of our magnificent freedom of speech? I love this.

Well, enough of that. What follows is a discussion of bodily fluids and if you are squeamish, you may want to look away.

Last night, 10:45 p.m., cries from my daughter’s room. I hurry upstairs–she’s had a cold, remember, a mild one, but lately, bad dreams have plagued her. One involved a spider eating a bumblebee, which was traumatic for all concerned. I expected to pat her on the head, offer a trip to the potty and sleep tight.

Alas, it was not to be. I opened the door to find her distressed and gooky because her tummy ache had turned into a vomit-fest. I ran bathwater, stripped her crib, remade the crib, dried off the girl, dressed her in fresh pajamas, rocked her and put her to bed.

Then I repeated the process an hour later.

And an hour later.

And two hours later.

And two hours after that.

And an hour later.

After the second set of soiled sheets, I wised up and put a thick bath towel over the sheets and covered that with a king-sized flannel pillowcase, so the next time she woke up and threw up, I only had to remove the towel, not the sheets. Unfortunately, by that time, she was having involuntary diarrhea, so I still had to run bathwater and change her pajamas.

At 7:00 a.m., I telephoned parents to ask them not to bring their children. This is the second time in three years of childcare that I’ve had to do so, but I still felt terrible giving such late notice. I was so happy that Spring Break was over and that my sons would all be gone–either to school or homeschool P.E. at the YMCA.

So, my day (a lovely, spring day full of breezes and blue skies) was spent holding my girl as she gazed at the television, interrupting the stupor only to occasionally heave into a Rubbermaid bowl. She faked me out, though, at one point and vomited all over my shirt while proclaiming, “I AM DONE! I AM DONE!” She wasn’t. We went upstairs, then, and she curled up in my bed and watched television while I showered. By the time I finished, she was asleep and so, when the boys got home from P.E., I was able to march them through adding and subtracting decimals. When she woke up, she was fairly cheerful, though not entirely well.

Demonstrating my superior abilities and endurance as a mother, I cleaned out the refrigerator during her later afternoon snooze in the recliner. And I made a healthy dinner featuring broccoli and brown rice.

At this point, I am just hoping to sleep all night long.

And I do apologize for this lengthy discourse about vomit. Turn in tomorrow for our next installment of As The Stomach Turns. Or more scintillating, uninformed political commentary. Look out, Eschaton and Instapundit, or I’ll be stealing your readers and usurping your place in the Ecosystem!

I also want to talk about secret things women keep in their purses. Soon, I hope.

Update: Last night, we slept all night! This morning, the stomach ache is gone, but now she has a persistent headache.

We have a new phone next to our king-sized bed. And so, that’s why I didn’t realize it was ringing at first. I murmured, “Telephone,” to my husband, forgetting that I’ve had the telephone next to my side of the bed for years. Then I rolled over, peered at the red digital numbers of the clock and realized that a telephone call at 3:11 a.m. can only mean very bad news.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Robert Brittingham*. I’m looking for Dan. Is he with with Julie tonight?” The man was a member of our church, calling our house by mistake in his quest to find the location of his 18 year old son. I told him he reached us by mistake and I’m sure he was horrified (he apologized today and told me that his son showed up half an hour after the phone call, seemingly sober, in his right mind, aside from the fact that he lost track of time).

My husband didn’t remember that odd interlude in the morning.

I’ve harbored a terrible sense of guilt these past weeks because I failed to donate candy to the Easter Egg Hunt. The event is put on by our private pool club and all the members are supposed to donate candy. I bought candy . . . but the person I thought was collecting the candy was on a cruise (!) and I didn’t know who the real contact person was. Despite my insufficiency, however, the egg hunt featured eggs galore and many happy children, despite the light rain that fell and the presence of the teenage girl dressed as a frightening Easter bunny. My daughter wanted to go back into the van rather than stand within twenty feet of this ominous creature. I even called out, “Please, will you hide so we can go by?”

I took the kids home and then left as soon as possible for my weekly I’m-not-with-kids-for-four-hours-alone-time. And look! Daring Young Mom is not the only one with Superpowers. Observe, if you will, my perfect parking space:

Please note the location: Fred Meyer. There will be a quiz later.

So, after shopping a bit while waiting for my digital prints to be developed (I had a coupon for free developing), I headed for my favorite thrift store, Value Village, where I wandered, meandered and generally wasted time, although you will be happy to know that I purchased my very own copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, which I have never read. *Gasp* I promise to read it next, as soon as I finish the Jane Smiley book which I am nearly halfway through and figure I’ll finish sometime in the next decade. Or month.

I found new-looking Dockers and Gap khakis for my boys for Easter, dresses for my daughter (from Nordstroms, Laura Ashley, the Gap), more books (as if I needed them!), jump ropes for Vacation Bible School (we use them to tie up keep preschoolers in line–they all grab the rope and walk), and believe me, MUCH, MUCH MORE! I kept looking at my watch and marveling at how much time I had to myself. Glory be! Time alone, no one asking me for a snack or calling “MOM!” from the next room.

Then I got back into the van and noted the clock in the van read 3:57 p.m., while my watch declared it was 2:57 p.m. Uh, hello? Daylight Savings Time anyone? I hadn’t worn that watch in a week . . . and so, I lost an hour of time in the vast black hole that is Value Village. (But I got thirty-percent off my whole order, except for those coveted orange-tag items which were half-off.)

And so then I sped to Fred Meyer to do some grocery shopping before returning home at 5:00 p.m. My superior shopping skills allowed me to finish the job by 4:50 p.m., but alas, other people were s-l-o-w-i-n-g me down, getting in line before me, insisting that their groceries be scanned and that they be allowed to pay before me. I telephoned my husband and reported my progress.

Feeling satisfied with my bargain-hunting skills and my ability to remember to buy dried apricots for the bran muffins I planned to bake, I climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key and . . . the engine died.

I snapped to attention, turned the key with determination and attention this time and the engine started. And died.

I telephoned my husband for advice. Pump the gas? Or hold it down? He advised me to hold it down (he’d had success with that technique earlier) and as I talked, I tried again and it started! And died!

I turned off the phone and tried again. For, oh, fifteen minutes. Finally, I called again and he came to pick me up. I transferred the groceries to our car while he attempted to raise the dead. Then we went home and called AAA. The lady on the phone said the tow-truck driver would be there no earlier than 7:30 p.m. and possibly as late as 8:30 p.m.

At 7:00 p.m., the tow-truck driver called, wondering where my husband was. He grabbed the car keys and hurried out the door.

At 7:03 p.m., my husband called and asked me to call AAA to make sure they’d have the tow-truck wait. I did and the AAA man said the truck had left, but it would turn around and to stay with the vehicle.

At 7:15 p.m., my husband realized he didn’t have the van keys. He turned back and AAA said they’d have to cancel the call and start over. He picked up the keys and a friend of his drove him to the dead van.

So, he and a buddy waited in the Fred Meyer parking lot, forlorn and abandoned by AAA. At 8:30 p.m. on a lark, he turned the key and stomped on the gas and the van started. So, he cancelled the call and drove the now-resurrected van home.

This morning he drove it to church.

So let’s review. We now own a van which may or may not start. And a car which will always start, but may or may not stop randomly as you drive down the road. Fun, isn’t it? The element of surprise, the not-knowing?

And now, I must watch Grey’s Anatomy.

(*not his actual name, obviously)

  

Today, I figured out how to use an Olympus D-380 that I bought on Clearance at Target several years ago. I bought it without a manual, USB cable or software and after an initial flurry of desperate attempts (including an unhelpful response from Olympus Customer Service), I abandoned the camera.

I am unable to recreate the sequence of thoughts that led me to hook the camera to a USB cable (that came with a digital recorder), but I did. (Wait! It had to do with me fiddling around in Picasa 2, that lovely free program. Oh! And before that, I noticed my slideshow screensaver included pictures I didn’t download onto my computer. And during my investigations [Google-Talk downloaded them, apparently. Huh? Did I agree to that?] I saw the “Import” button on Picasa and wondered . . . )

Anyway, here is one of the five photographs that was on the media card in the digital camera. I’m posting it here as a test. (This is my now-8 year old son who was about five when the picture was taken.)

My three and a half year old daughter was the sort of baby that nodded “yes” before she shook her head “no.” If she started to touch something off-limits, I would murmur “uh-uh” and she’d never try it again. When she was a year old, I started babysitting a baby who was six weeks younger than she was and I thought he might be the dumbest baby of all time.

He would climb onto the deck–with its dangerous railing–and I’d say, “No, no!” and move him back down.

And he’d do it again. And I’d say, “No, no!” and move him.

He’d climb up again. And I’d say, “No, no!” and move him and he’d GO RIGHT BACK.

Rinse, repeat about ten times, which felt like ten thousand times because I was used to my sweet, compliant, sensitive, bright, timid girl baby. I’d already forgotten the agony of my now-12 year old son who had pushed me every day of my life, attempting to wrest control from me and also, trying to drive me stark raving mad when he was a baby, a toddler and a preschooler. (Now he is a delight and I mean that.)

But this girl child, oh, sweet relief! She learned to chat early, she never sprinkled an entire container of baby powder all over the whole house while I was distracted in another room, she never slathered herself head to toe with mud, she never slammed toy hammers into the walls just to watch the drywall crumble. She never tried to strangle her brother, she never peed in the heating vent, she never threw dry rice all over the living room carpet.

Lately, our regimented bedtime routine has become somewhat lax. She used to have a bath and watch a particular video before bedtime. (The video would change from time to time. For weeks, she only watched “Shrek.” Then, for weeks, only “Bug’s Life.” For awhile, it was “Max & Ruby.”) But then her father introduced Pooh Bear Candyland into her life tearing a rift in the time-space continuum and messing up the routine. Her evenings have expanded to include a game or two or six of Candyland, which pushes her video-watching time later. Sometimes, it’ll be 7:30 p.m. when she decides she wants a long video before bed and occasionally I just surrender and let her stay up past her bedtime of 8:00 p.m.

But! Sometimes, 8:30 p.m. turns into 8:45 p.m., and frankly, we can’t have that. I hate to make her cry, though. My husband says I’m a push-over and a softy and maybe that’s true. But last night, he wasn’t home and I was desperate to have her in bed at 8:00 p.m. I gave her plenty of warning, those incremental warnings the experts suggest(“In ten minutes, it’ll be bedtime” and “Now you have five minutes”) and yet, when I went to her room, she’d just turned on a Rugrats video (running time? 82 minutes). It was 8:03 p.m.

I gave her the choice. “Would you like Mommy to turn it off or would you like to turn it off?” She covered the button with her hand and began to cry.

I repeated the choice. When she did not choose, I chose for her and pushed off the button with my toe.

She turned it back on and I turned it back off. Then I said in my best Love and Logic voice, “Would you like to brush your teeth or would you like Mommy to brush your teeth?” She writhed like she was on fire and screamed. I repeated the choice again and said, “Okay, fine.” and plopped her into her crib. (Yes, crib. Wanna make something of it?)

She was in the midst of the kind of tantrum you occasionally see at a retail store, the kind that causes you to fall to your knees and begin thanking God that it isn’t your child frothing at the mouth and kicking, but some stranger’s brat instead. I retrieved her toothbrush and said in a placid voice, “Would you like to brush your teeth in bed or in the bathroom where you can blow out candles?” (Every night, she gets to blow out the bathroom candles as a treat.) I offered the choice twice.

Her head started spinning around in circles–okay, not really, but boy, was she furious. She kept shrieking and so I said, “All right. No teeth. Good night.” Then I said, “Would you like to have covers or no covers?”

She answered with weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth.

So I turned off the light, said, “Night-night!” and closed the door. Her fury increased and she flipped on the light and from the sanctuary of my room, I could hear her voice suddenly louder, which was strange because she has never once attempted to climb out of her crib. (Scared of heights? I don’t know. She hates to swing, too.)

I opened my bedroom door and saw her door opened. She’d been able to reach the doorknob from her crib. (First time she’s done that.) She had one leg flung over the end of the crib and was screaming, “I WANT TO WATCH MY VIDEO!” I said, “No. Good-night,” and turned off the light and closed the door again.

We did that twice. Then I said, “Child, you are NOT going to watch a video. No! Now, stop!” and she stopped. Then she said in broken sobs, “I . . . want . . . to . . . blow . . . out . . . candles!” I plucked her out of the bed, carried her to the bathroom, asked again about tooth-brushing (“NO!”).

Her wracked sobs and ragged breath actually put the candles out before she could gather enough breath to blow. Then she clung to my neck and I rocked her for two minutes–okay, four minutes–while she hiccuped and shook and then I put her in bed. She fussed a bit, but when I told her to lay down, she did. I covered her up, bade her farewell and closed the door.

Don’t mess with Mama. I’ve been through these battles before and I will not crumble. I am invincible in the face of preschooler snot and outrage.

And tonight? Daddy turned off her DVD player–while she protested–and offered her the choice of Mommy or Daddy putting her to bed. She chose me, she brushed her teeth, she blew out the candles, I deposited her in bed, I covered her up, I said good-night and closed the door.

Never let them see you sweat.

Tonight, I thought with sudden clarity: I cannot stand pretentious people who are impressed by their own intelligence. They start to talk and I have to force my eyes not to roll up with a snap like old-fashioned window shades. I click onto a blog and find a bunch of big words strung together without any sense of rhythm or style or talent and I wonder why I keep that blog on my Bloglines list. I turn the channel and a talking head is talk-talk-talking and I just can’t listen for more than a second before I fondle my remote control with desperation.

Perhaps my attention span is permanently broken by the incessant interruptions of my daily life. Maybe it’s just me and my mommy brain which has shrunk to fit into this 2000 square foot house with its odd little backyard. I might be have lost my ability to understand politics and theological matters to a satisfactory degree. And I don’t care.

At any rate, all the super-big-name political and religious bloggers bore me silly. (And I’m sure it’s mutual.)