Lately, I’ve heard some people pine for a Pajama Thanksgiving, one where street clothes and obligatory visits to in-laws and relatives are not required. I have a long history of untraditional Thanksgivings, though I’ve never spent Thanksgiving Day in my pajamas.

I have no memory of a single Thanksgiving with both of my parents in attendance. But I do vaguely remember shuttling from household to household in the post-divorce era. I also remember one particularly horrific Thanksgiving Day spent at my stepmother’s sister’s home. The sister had a three or four-year old son who spoke with careful, slow earnestness. This boy was a nasally, preternaturally curious, annoying kid with a penchant for big words. I was a self-conscious teenager, which is why I wished for death when he said to me (in front of God and everybody) in his loud voice, “WHY DO YOU HAVE SUCH LARGE *BREASTS?” (Okay. Maybe that’s too much information, but I’m telling you, I was mortified.)

In college, once I went to Wichita, Kansas, for Thanksgiving with a friend. Her parents were out of town and the heat was off in the house. She didn’t know how to get the furnace to kick on–it must have been malfunctioning–and we couldn’t get a fire lighted. We froze. We ate dinner at her friends’ home. I have no idea who they were. Our return trip to Springfield, Missouri, was a nightmare. What should have taken five hours took ten because the roads were covered with a shiny layer of slick ice. I thought for sure we would die.

When our twins were three and we lived far from family, we went to a buffet restaurant for Thanksgiving. I remember that day with fondness. All the wonder of a big feast with no dishes to do! And the boys ate like birds in those days and their meals were free. What’s not to love?

Usually, though, I cook. I like the smell of turkey cooking. I like leftovers. I like to relax in my own home with my own family. We don’t stay in our pajamas, but our attitude is pajama-like. Sit down, relax, we aren’t trying to impress anyone. We have nowhere to go, nothing to do but eat and digest.

And for you skeptics, that’s okay if you don’t want a helping of my stuffing with sliced green olives and raisins. That just means there’s more for me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

My mother had four kids, just like me. So when she says on the phone, “I don’t know how you do it,” I have no ready reply. What do you mean, you don’t know how? YOU HAD FOUR KIDS! Just like me.

But when my mother’s youngest child was three and her oldest child was eleven, her marriage crumbled and she lost custody of us. So, I guess she really doesn’t know. I can’t imagine what that would be like, to go from sticky Cheerio bowls and bickering in the backyard to visit once or twice a month. After the initial relief, does deep, dark depression set in?

So often, I feel like I am doing nothing, just refolding the same laundry, sweeping the same floor, cooking the same meals, wearing the same jeans, picking up the same toys–and it feels like nothing. I know, of course, that I’m doing everything, what with raising human beings from cradle to adulthood, but the progress is slow and I’m not even sure if we’re heading in the right direction some days.

And then my mother exclaims, “You do the work of four people!”

I laughed. Maybe four extremely lazy, unambitious people.

She said, “You homeschool.” (I mentally correct her and say school-at-home in my head and then I think of how many times in the past week I have yelled at my Reluctant Student who drags his feet.)

She said, “You take care of other people’s kids.” (Well, true, but only for the money. And they nap.)

She said, “You have your own children and you’re the chief cook and bottle washer.” (I think of my inadequate housekeeping, my pitiful meals, my disgusting toilets. I think of the board games I don’t play, the times I am desperate to get away from these kids, how insane it makes me to hear them chew.)

She said, “Then you volunteer at the church.” (But I know that really, all I do is teach a Sunday School class for preschoolers and direct Vacation Bible School, and compared to other pastor’s wives, compared to other Church Ladies, even, I do practically nothing. I am a sorry excuse for a pastor’s wife.)

I wonder if it feels like I’m doing nothing because I do what I do simultaneously? I am hardly ever focused on a single task. Even at this moment, I am half-watching the American Music Awards. Can I just say that I thought Mariah Carey’s opening song was dreadful? And I think Mariah Carey is one of the most amazing singers ever. I also practically blushed with embarrassment on behalf of Hilary Duff–how can she not be mortified at herself, bopping around on the stage, singing a silly song about heart beats? What ridiculous lyrics and crazy dancing and what a truly ugly dress she wore.

Um, what was I saying? I seem to be a little sidetracked.

Well, tomorrow is a half-day of school, then Thursday is Turkey Day. I’ll be staying home, cooking everything myself because I am just that stupid fabulous. And because I turned down an invitation to my mother’s tiny apartment because my children annoy her (let’s just be honest) and there isn’t enough room in her abode for us to spread out, especially in light of the fact that my brother (The Prodigal Son) and his wife and my grandmother (almost 100 years old, be impressed) and my cousin and her new boyfriend and her same old daughter will also be there, taking up square footage.

Seriously, there isn’t enough room for us. We’ll probably go over for dessert. Maybe. Well, probably. It’s only three minutes away. How can we not?

One final note. In my family, we put green olives and raisins in our stuffing. What else would you expect from someone who grew up thinking pickles and ketchup belong on tacos?

My daughter is three years and three months old. She is a delicate child with long fingers and short reluctant-to-grow blond curls. For three years now, since her first Thanksgiving, she has been markedly reticent around people she doesn’t know well. (On that first Thanksgiving at Grandma’s house, she screamed her head off until I brought her home.) She is sensitive and a big fan of fingernail polish and pretty dresses.

This morning, she climbed onto her kid-sized table in the kitchen and proclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen!” She noticed me watching and shot a shy, sly glance my way. She paused dramatically. I waited for a song, a dance, a recitation of the alphabet.

Then she announced, “I am going to kick your butt!”

I can remember the combination lock to my junior high locker (14-36-24), but I can’t remember if I’m living in a “red” or “blue” state. During the election last year, I figured it was a short-lived media catch phrase, not worth committing to memory. Who cares if my state is red or blue–all I know is that my vote doesn’t really “count,” because my state always vote along liberal Democratic lines and I don’t. (Yes, I know–“every vote counts”–but surely you understand what I mean.)

But a year later, the media keeps referring to us as “red” and “blue” and I am puzzled each time. I miss the entire point of the report because I can’t remember what color I am. Or what color my state is. Am I red? Or blue? Or really purple, as some have suggested?

I propose that “red” and “blue” labels be eliminated immediately.

* * *

In other news, a 20-year old man shot six people at my local mall. Luckily, no one was seriously injured. My neighbor and I were discussing this shocking event and she confided, “I don’t think I’ll ever go back.” And I said, “You know, I think there must be something wrong with me, because it won’t stop me at all.”

After a crazy incident like that, what are the chances it will happen again soon?

* * *

Last week, I wept as I finished reading My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult. A couple of nights ago, I picked up Anne Lamott’s Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith and although I love her writing, I am weary of her constant bashing of George W. Bush and all Republicans. I’m starting to take it personally, because how else can I take it? But I will persevere. I am loyal to a fault.

Even if I do live in a red blue red blue red blue state. Or red state.

Never mind. I’m colorblind, as only a white Republican from Washington state can be.

I’ve been tagged by Sallyrogers at Picture Fool. I never do these things, but for Sallyrogers, anything.

Instructions:

1) Call the meme “Regrets – I’ve Had A Few”
2) Always refer (and link back) to the blogger who tagged you
3) Always tag (and link to) at least two new bloggers
4) List as many regrets as you like, but list a minimum of one (even if you have to re-interpret the term ‘regret’ because you feel strongly that you don’t have any)
5) Include these five rules in each post as the meme instructions.

All right then.

I regret not attending a secular college and earning a “real” degree when I had the chance.
I regret not having enough confidence in my intelligence to apply to Ivy League schools.
I regret that it didn’t occur to me that serving God could mean more than just going to Bible College and entering “the ministry.”
I regret selling that house we used to own.
I regret not going to nursing school before we had children.
I regret selling our townhouse in Portland.
I regret asking my sister to photograph my last homebirth .
I regret taking an Amtrak train from Houston to Orlando last summer.
I regret putting my twins into public school.
I regret not flossing every day.
I regret using our Chevy Blazer to pull a U-Haul trailer to New Haven, Connecticut because we had to replace the head gasket as a result.
I regret not buying two gallons of milk the last time I was at the grocery store.
I regret staying up so late last night.
I regret leaving the carseat in the driveway where a cat peed on it.
I regret not going to the ocean last summer.
I regret not taking more photographs.
I regret burning my childhood diaries.
I regret selling my piano.
I regret all the times I’ve cut off my hair.
I regret sending back those letters to their original writer without making photocopies first.
I regret not picking up the toys last night because now they are scattered.

Now. I’m supposed to tag two of you . . . but go ahead and tag yourself if you want to play along. Let me know if you do play, and I’ll put a link to your blog here.

Why is it that when I stay up too late–way, way, way too late–one of my children wakes up in the middle of the night?

I was snoring my brains out at 4:30 a.m. when I came to my senses and heard my daughter calling my name. I hurried to her room and found her standing in her crib. All her stuffed animals and dollies had been unceremoniously tossed out and she was doing the Potty Dance.

“I have to pee in the potty!” she said.

Afterward, she told me solemnly, “I had a bad dream about robots. They scared me.” And then she insisted she wanted to watch a video.

And I let her. I placed her Piglet-fleece covered pillow in front of her small tv/vcr combo and put in “Finding Nemo.” I covered her up and went back to bed.

But that was not the end of that. Soon, she crawled into bed with me–in my king-sized bed–and cuddled right next to me. Please explain to me why a three-year old gets six feet of bed-space and I get six inches? Why do kids push adults right to the edge of sanity the bed? She kicked me for an hour before we both feel asleep again. At some point she got up again and went to her room, but honestly, things are hazy. I have no idea what happened in those pre-dawn hours.

All I know is that at 8:08 a.m., I woke with a start and struggled from bed as quickly as I could. She was sleeping. I don’t set an alarm clock because she wakes up every morning by 7:00 a.m., so now I was late, really, really late. I teach the preschool Sunday School class at church and I have to be there by 8:45 a.m.

We made it to church by 8:55 a.m.

And home by 11:55 a.m. In another hour, I will load up the kids in the car and we’ll go to my 7-year old’s end-of-the-season soccer lunch at a pizza place. I suppose it will be loud, but I have taken two Advils and consumed some Diet Coke in preparation.

. . . you are still at “Actual Unretouched Photo.” I just decided it was time for a change.

This morning, I took my four children in my small sedan on an hour-long bundle of errands, in this order:

1) Bank;
2) Take’n’Bake pizza shop;
3) Video game store;
4) Donut shop.

Four kids in one car grate on my nerves. Why can’t they just gaze out the window and ponder the universe and the meaning of life?

We were home in time for my sister and her family to stop by. They will be borrowing our old van (The Deathtrap, we like to call it) for a week while my husband’s away. My sister and her husband have had a run of bad luck (oh, lasting about ten years) and their only car has broken down, possibly irretrievably.

The problem with being the working poor is that you are living so close to the edge that you have no margin for error. If your car breaks down, how can you get to work? And if you don’t get to work, how can you keep your job? And if you don’t keep your job, how can you pay to fix your car? And if you don’t fix your car, how will you get to work? It’s a vicious cycle, familiar to too many people.

So, we do what we can to help.

They were here for an hour or two and we ate pizza together. When they left, I put my 3-year old down for a nap (“I want to sleep all by myself!”) and spent the remaining bit of the afternoon doing my grocery shopping online for the first time.

The evening hours have flown by in a bleary haze of html code. Time flies when you have no idea what you’re doing.

Dear Blog Readers,

I am alone. Sort of. Two of my four children are nestled all snug in their beds. Two are out at a movie, due home at any moment. My husband is in Texas. Please keep this in mind when you consider whether or not to comment on my riveting (and dull) posts over the next week. When in doubt, comment. It’s been so quiet around here. (Quiet is relative, of course, but I meant in the cyber-sense of the word.)

Today was a long day because I babysat the baby boy at 6 p.m. tonight rather than at 8:30 this morning. So, I had a half-hour between my regular day-shift and this night shift. Really, I didn’t mind. I intended to stay home with my kids anyway since my husband’s out of town, so what did it matter, really? He is the cutest baby ever (except for your cute baby, of course).

Oh! And guess what happened today? My other baby, the 6-month old, was on her tummy on the floor. She is fairly immobile because she is built like a sausage, but twice, she’s rolled from tummy to back, but I haven’t seen her do it. Today, I noticed her stretching her neck and reaching her arm and sure enough, as I watched, she rolled over.

She hasn’t done this trick for anyone but me. Seeing this baby reach a milestone was kind of cool. I went over and applauded and she giggled and we clapped and clapped at her brilliance.

Oh! And guess what happened last night at the science fair? I had carefully poked holes in each end of an egg and emptied it by blowing the insides out. This empty egg shell was part of our simple display about making eggs rubbery. Well, as we sat on the bench in front of our display, waiting for a grown-up to come and query my son about the project, a small kid, probably about four years old, wiggled next to me at the adjoining display. I kind of scooted over and then this little kid reached behind my back and GRABBED THE EGG. With a crunch, it broke.

I let out a very undignified yelp, followed by a “HEY! DON’T TOUCH!” He broke my empty eggshell! The nerve of some kids. Where were his parents?

Well. That’s it, I guess. Don’t leave me sitting here in silence. Really.

Thanks!

Love and kisses,
Mel

I must have slept last night with the house pressing upon my left shoulder blade (a la the Wicked Witch of the East with those natty striped stockings), because when I woke up at 7:00 a.m., I could barely roll over. I’ve spent my day with rigid good posture to compensate for the unrelenting pain in my shoulder and back. How does one become injured while sleeping?

And then the day marched on. I’ve been pushing my boys along, insisting that the complete the required number of school lessons for the week. My usual daycare babies were in attendance today and my own 3-year old was a whiner all day. I so often feel like I’m doing nothing at all, and yet, it is so exhausting.

As soon as we finished dinner (cooked by one of my 12-year olds), I went to the school science fair with my second-grader. We did a poster and experiment showing how you can make eggs rubbery. And not by cooking them too long . . . no. You soak an egg overnight in vinegar and the calcium in the egg reacts with the acid in the vinegar and forms carbon dioxide . . . and the bubbles carry off the calium until the egg is naked. It’s pretty cool.

And it’s a very simple experiment, which is essential to me, the Hater of Science Experiments.

At the science fair, I counted six volcanoes, powered by vinegar and baking soda. I saw an assortment of colorwheels and a few displays of carnations dyed different colors. The coolest project was a giant (four-feet across?) hot air balloon created from tissue paper and filled by a hair dryer.

My son was enamored by the Stomp Rockets similar to the ones described here. We are definitely going to make our own this summer. They are really, really cool! What cheap fun!

Now, I must go upstairs and iron pants. Some of you more enlightened feminists don’t iron your husband’s pants, but I am old-fashioned in some ways, plus I realize when I am up against an implacable situation. My husband is leaving in the morning to spend a week in Texas where he’s going to a family wedding on Saturday, then to a family birthday party (on Thanksgiving Day).

I think I’ll just stay home and take care of the kids.

I received an email today asking me to answer a survey about toys. Larissa Wojciechowski wrote:

Hi,
I am conducting a survey for a UC Berkeley student market
research project on children’s toys. I found your blog and
was very impressed by the content. If you have a few
minutes, I would appreciate your help in filling out this
survey. It should take less than 15 minutes. Please feel
free to forward to your spouse, family, or any of your
friends with children.

I appreciate your time and effort. Thanks for your help!!!

Larissa Wojciechowski
2008 MBA Candidate
UC Berkeley, Haas School of Business

I corresponded with Larissa a bit to make sure she wasn’t sending me a crazy link which would cause my computer to explode . . . then I did her survey. Sometimes I feel like helping out a fellow human being. Don’t you?

If you like to take the survey, click the link. It took me less than fifteen minutes. Thanks!