I outsmarted my daughter. I gave her a choice: “Would you like to nap in your bed or mommy’s bed?” She chose my bed.

I plumped my pillow, curled up, pulled the afghan to my chin and closed my eyes. She said, “I am going to sit up.” I opened one eye to see her sitting like a little princess on a purple pillow. Soon, she stretched out on her back and “read” her book for a few long minutes. I rolled over so I would not be an audience and soon she snuggled against my back and was still. Then I stifled a coughing fit. You know how the more you try to not cough, the more your throat tickles and tortures you until you at least clear your throat? Yeah. That was fun. But still, she slept.

Ha! I tricked her into napping two days in a row!

When she woke up two hours later, she came down the stairs, hair tousled, and stomped one foot and said, “I don’t want to go night-night!”

I know how she feels. I never want to go night-night, either, even if I am dead tired, because when I wake up, the cycle starts all over again.

Our history curriculum arrived, so we did the first lesson today. TwinBoyB did his typically poor-quality work, but unfortunately for him, this is not public school and I noticed and immediately requested that he do the work correctly and completely. He’s been cutting corners and flying under the radar for so long that I’m sure it’s painful for him to do what he is expected to do.

I hope that he soon realizes that doing the work right the first time is easier than half-heartedly doing it, throwing an emotional fit, crying and then having to do it right. I’m growing weary of his dramatics. At this very moment he is shouting, “OH, MY TOE!” as if the toe has been amputated.

I am fairly unflappable, though I do admit to the occasional flailing of arms as I say with gritted teeth, “I am losing my mind!” But I am stoic in the face of exploding diapers and shattered glass and odd noises in the black night.

But add a mere 26 pounds of sugar and spice and everything nice and my sturdy demeanor begins to crack. Babygirl just completed Day Five of a Nap Strike.

If I could find the bargaining table, I’d be there. I’d give her as many paid days off as she needs. “No problem. I’ll throw the books on the floor myself. You don’t need to come in on Mondays. We’ll find someone else to smear food on the high chair tray.”

Money? More money? More benefits? No problem. I’ll double her pay. No! Triple it! Free doctor’s visits! Free toothbrushes! Whatever it takes! You want a better job title? “Crown Princess of Peeing in the Potty”? “Supervisor of All That is Messy”? Flex-time? Just let me know. I will make it happen.

Why? Why, oh why, oh why? Why has she stopped napping, when she very clearly needs a nap? Yesterday, she did fall asleep for an hour in my bed, but unfortunately, so did I, so how did that help me? Today, we “napped” together on my bed, but as I half-hallucinated, half-dreampt, she thrashed and kicked me in the stomach and knocked her cement head into my nose.

I can do a lot of things. I can make pie crust from scratch. I can sew a Halloween costume. I have a ham radio license, which means that at one time I could copy Morse Code at the rate of 13 words per minute.

But I cannot tolerate this lack of naps! Lack of naps means lack of breaks. Lack of breaks means I stay up too late. Staying up too late means I wake up exhausted. Being exhausted means I am crabby. Being crabby means I am an irritable mother. Being an irritable mother means I am a failure as a human being. Being a failure as a human being means I should sign up for Extreme Makeover, but I can’t because as I may have mentioned, Babygirl cannot be away from me for even one moment or her head comes popping off. Imagine six weeks away, getting revamped, coming home with a tummy tuck and a new nose. By then, my entire house would need an Extreme Makeover or a Clean Sweep, and my husband would probably have appeared on A Wedding Story by then with his new bride.

You can see my dilemma, right? Babygirl needs to nap. Babygirl refuses to nap. Tonight at 6:30 p.m., Babygirl was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I said, “Okay, let’s go put on your diaper and jammies,” and she said, “No! No diaper!”

I went to her room anyway and, of course, she followed me because I am the magnet and she is the metal. I sat on the floor, spread out the diaper and invited her to sit down. She stomped her feet in rhythm and cried while I watched with an impassive look on my weary face. I have such dark circles under my eyes these days. She carried on, screaming, marching her displeasure. She threw the diaper. Occasionally, I mentioned how I’d like to put on her diaper and jammies and that there would be “mama milk” when she cooperated. This infuriated her, so she shrieked more.

Then she hit me.

So, I picked her up and plopped her into her crib and walked out.

I sat on my bed for exactly two minutes while she exploded like they tell us Mt. St. Helens will do any second. (Those harmonic tremors? That was my daughter, not the mountain.) When I returned to her, she was compliant and allowed me to diaper her and zip on her lavender pajamas. She was in bed by 7 p.m.

Yes, boys and girls, that means I was with my darling daughter for twelve solid hours. This is my 26-pound problem.

And in only eight hours, it begins again. Oh joy.

Before my twins were old enough for school, I figured I would homeschool. I’m a homebody, a crafty soul, an excellent student who rarely missed a spelling word and was the first person in my third-grade class to memorize the times tables. How hard could it be, really?

But as my twins grew, I realized that they are not me. They hated to color. They rebuffed my attempts to teach them to write their names. They displayed complete apathy where art projects were concerned–unless it was paint, and then they painted their arms and occasionally their faces.

I might have homeschooled them from the very beginning if we’d stayed in rural northern Michigan, in a town with a horrible school district. But we moved just in time for them to start kindergarten in our new local public school, a place with an excellent reputation. I was happy to send them to school because by that point, I had a 7 month old baby. I couldn’t imagine teaching them at home. Just the logistics made me dizzy.

They are boys, rowdy boys, with no interest in scholarly things. Did I mention that they are very different from me?

Anyway, TwinBoyA has always been a competent student, though he suffers from seriously bad handwriting. He is a voracious reader and has a shockingly complex vocabulary. He never stops talking and he is particular about everything. He’s bossy.

TwinBoyB has always hated school. When I picked him up from school when he was in first grade, he’d chant all the way home, “I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.” His handwriting was spidery and illegible and often backwards. He never caused trouble in his classroom, though. He qualified for additional help in reading one year and in math another. He slid by, doing as little as possible, and for quite a while, the teacher wouldn’t even really notice that he was essentially failing the class. As he got older, he’d “forget” about projects and assignments and at the last minute, I’d be involved in his desperate attempts to do a two-week school project in one night.

He’s bright, but he’s distracted. He loses stuff, he loses his train of thought, he loses track. It’s as if his brain is a shelf which can only hold one item at a time. You put a second item on the shelf and the first item falls off. This is a problem when you ask him to remember concurrent things. He just can’t. School has been a challenge he hasn’t been able to master.

So, he’s grown to feel like a failure. He has no confidence in his intellectual ability. And somewhere along the line, he’s become a target for bullies, and so has TwinBoyA, though I can’t figure out why. They are just ordinary boys.

Last year, on the last day of school, TwinBoyA wanted to wear his hair “spiked.” So, he used gel and fixed his hair until he thought it was cool. When he came home, I said, “So, did anyone say anything about your hair?” He smiled, sort of, and said with a shrug, “Well, let’s just put it this way. Sticks and stones can break my bones . . . ”

Last fall, I eavesdropped on a kickball game, and my heart broke to hear how the other boys treated TwinBoyB. He never did confide in me about that situation, and I’ve come to realize that there have been many other similar situations in which he is mocked, ridiculed, and left out. He never lets on. Neither does his brother. But there have been very few birthday party invitations over the years, and few playdates.

I don’t know why.

We have done our best not to make them The Pastor’s Weird Kids. They play Nintendo and sometimes they wear sweatpants to church. We let them play with Pokemon cards and Yu-Gi-Oh cards and we do our best to make sure they experience a normal childhood without the added pressure of worrying that they are making their dad, The Pastor, look bad. We try to be normal, whatever that means. We are normal. (What am I saying?)

And yet, they haven’t been very successful making and keeping friends in their school classrooms. Oh, they do have some friends, but as time has passed, it seems that the bullies outnumber the friends. Couple that with TwinBoyB’s difficulty achieving academically, and we felt that middle school might be a catastrophe for him. Middle school years can be so cruel–the cool kids get meaner and the kids on the fringe become more marginalized. We didn’t want him to become that kid smoking in the parking lot, skipping class, wasting his life.

So, we decided that TwinBoyB needed more attention academically and protection socially during these especially difficult years. TwinBoyA decided he’d like to school at home, too. Then our school district decided to implement http://www.k12.com and start a virtual academy. We were delighted to be able to participate in this pilot program.

So, how’s it going, you ask?

The materials, the curriculum, the organization of K12 is fabulous. As the teacher, I love how everything is prepared for me. All I have to do is consult the schedule and follow the plan.

TwinBoyA performs extremely well. He’s cooperative and eager to learn. TwinBoyB gets easily distracted, makes careless mistakes and then gets angry with me when I attempt to help him figure out the correct answers. He spends a great deal of time and emotion goofing off and I sometimes find myself yelling at him in frustration, to my dismay.

Last week was particularly bad. I was sick with a cold, Babygirl was still feeling the symptoms of her cold, as was DaycareKid. So the toddlers were more demanding than usual, and the boys dragged their feet. Babygirl is newly potty-trained and at one point, I was in the kitchen, working on lunch for the toddlers, while my twins were working on schoolwork at the table. They were both speaking at once and then Babygirl cried out, “I peed in the potty!” My head was about to explode from too much input at once.

Peeing in the potty still requires a great deal of pomp and circumstance. She peers right into the pot, nose practically wet, and unassembles the potty-chair and sloshes to the bathroom with the pot. I have to run to her to make sure the carpet stays pee-free, plus she is tiny and needs help flushing and washing her hands. It’s quite an ordeal.

So this particular day, I was sweaty and DaycareKid was fussing and Babygirl needed me for the Potty Ritual and the boys were talking and I was sick and the phone kept ringing and it was just too much.

Some days are like that.

But, the routine of schooling is getting easier. The boys are learning what to expect and they are complying fairly easily. I love the materials. I am so thankful that my boys aren’t being called names and feeling icky about themselves because some cruel seventh grader senses fear and pokes at an easy target. The toddlers do complicate my mornings, but fortunately there is always Sesame Street (on twice in our area) to distract them.

We are still waiting for the History curriculum, and we haven’t started Art and Music, yet, but everything else is going well.

I don’t think of myself as a homeschooling parent. (Even though I have friends who homeschool, I still have a stereotype of a homeschooling mom in my head and frankly, I’m just not her.) My kids are still enrolled in public school. My first grader is an excellent, happy student in public school. I believe in public school. I know many of the teachers in my district. I hope my boys will be competent and confident enough to return to public high school.

But in the meantime, this is the right choice for us, even though selfishly I wish I could send them out the door to be educated in a regular classroom. It would be way easier for me if that worked for us. But it wasn’t working well enough and my kids only have one childhood.

My kids are not isolated. For instance, tonight, they are having their twin friends (from church) sleep over. They go to youth group once a week. The neighbor kids come over almost every day to play. They have siblings to play with and cousins, too.

I wish there were a guarantee that if you did X,Y and Z, your kids would turn out and go to college, get a good job, meet a great spouse and live happily ever after. But it’s so much more complicated than that and sometimes the uncertainty almost undoes me.

I dream of a life someday without children constantly stepping on my feet and interrupting my thoughts. My thoughts are like little ants, stepping in orderly lines, heading for their destination–and my kids are like kids who interfere with the progression of the tidy little ant-line. My thoughts get scrambled and regroup, and the line resumes, but a few of the little ants get smooshed in the process and sometimes it takes a long time to say in my head, “Now, where was I? What was I thinking?”

I like to think.
No. I love to think.

But these kids! They just want to talk, talk, talk, wrestle, wrestle, wrestle, holler, holler, holler. I’m told I will miss this, but I’m not so sure.

Anyway, that’s how it’s going. It’s hard work to school two reluctant pupils every day while meeting the needs of an irrational Babygirl and DaycareKid. Especially since Babygirl is on Day Four of a Nap Boycott.

Send chocolate.

So, I emailed The Pastor and said, “Look, I need to get away. Friday night is a “purse party” at 7 p.m. Does that work out for you?”

Of course it did, him being a superior husband and all, so at 7 p.m., I picked up my purse-loving mother and went to said purse party. Although I adored seeing my friend’s house (I know her from church) and I loved checking out her bookshelf (we seem to like the same books), I’m not much of a purse girl.

I have a purse that I picked out for myself last December as a gift from my husband. “My husband” did an excellent job of finding this Liz Claiborne purse on sale (original price $54.00, sale price $16.00). “He” knew that I needed something with a long strap for slinging across my body, a place for my cell phone and sunglasses, a zippered compartment for important stuff, and side pockets for stashing things (babies need a lot of crazy stuff when they travel). So, I have this black purse. Why would I need another?

The purse party featured tables covered with extremely expensive purses with designed names (Prada, Tod, Coach, etc.) and inflated prices. I would never in my wildest dreams pay $75.00 for a purse. Never. So, we milled around with a bunch of strangers (oddly featuring similar blond highlighted hair, making me think of “The Stepford Wives”) and peeked into the kitchen and chatted with the hostess and after half an hour, we left.

What a strange “party” that was.

Anyway, I took my mom home, checked out her garbage disposal, determined I could not fix it and then left as quickly as I could. It was only 8:22 p.m., so I called my husband and told him I was going to a movie.

I saw the most ridiculous, yet surprisingly entertaining movie: Cellular. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be afraid or if I was supposed to laugh. Mostly, I laughed in short bursts at improbable lines and situations. And I wondered what kind of lipstick Kim Basinger wears because her lips managed to look defined and plumply burgundy through the whole movie, despite weeping, being smacked around and facing certain death.

It’s midnight now and I have way too much caffeine in my system (could those drinks be any larger?), but I need to sleep so that tomorrow I can handle going to a surprise dinner party for my 41-year old brother, followed by my twins’ long-awaited and much anticipated sleepover with their twin friends at our house. They prepared for this exciting occasion today–the bought lots of sour candy and Cheese Puffs and movie-theater buttered microwave popcorn. They rented a video game and a movie. Oh joy. My husband, The Pastor, wisely has chosen to go to the church to study tomorrow night.

Now, if only the children will sleep past eight tomorrow morning, I will be the happiest woman on earth. Even if my lipstick does wear off in one hour.

I feel so much better today. I’m post-scratchy throat and I finished reading a novel (The Secret History). No more headache and I didn’t even cry once today, this despite the fact that my daughter did not take a nap–again. She stomps her foot once while saying, “I don’t want to go night-night!” That’s what she says in the mornings, too, when I open her bedroom door to find her standing in her crib with her denim Old Navy baseball cap sitting backwards on her blond head.

She’s a cute one, that girl.

Tomorrow is my Friday with no DaycareKid and I have hatched a plan to go to the consignment store to pick up my loot–cash and clothes they won’t take. I’ll bribe the boys to “do” school efficiently and whisk us away from our house on a little outing. Boring for them, change of scenery for me.

And we all know I need a change of scenery, coupled with a change in attitude. And more change in my pockets wouldn’t hurt, either.

My husband took YoungestSon to his soccer game at 5:10 p.m. Earlier in the afternoon, I had searched fruitlessly for a soccer sock. Last week, I’d discovered one between the sections of the sectional and it smelled all musty, sour actually. I figured that sooner or later, the match to this poor, unfortunate sock would show up.

How wrong I was. At 4:00 p.m., I searched through the dirty laundry. I picked through the sock basket. I looked through the sock drawer. No matching soccer sock. So I called my husband on his cell phone.

“I just want you to know that YoungestBoy will be wearing green soccer socks tonight because I can’t find one of his white ones.” The boys wear blue shirts and black shorts.

My husband took this in stride, then suggested he could buy a pair of black socks, which is really what he should have had in the first place. “Okay,” I said, “and since you are out and about, will you please bring home Papa Murphy’s pizza?”

He brought pizza and soccer socks and soccer shorts and then whisked away YoungestSon to his game.

I realized at that point that I needed to pee.

I said to Babygirl, “Hey, I’m going to pee. I’ll be right back.” She began to cry and scurried to follow me. “I pee, too,” she said.

So, we raced upstairs and she had to sit on the toilet first. She finished, got herself a wad of toilet paper and flushed and I said, “Okay, now it’s my turn.” She said “NO!” I really, really, really needed to pee. Normally, I need to pee for an hour before I actually find myself in a bathroom.

For a moment, I argued with her, but then I remembered she’d had no nap. She’s not reasonable when she hasn’t napped. So, I said, “Fine,” and I strode to the other bathroom where I took care of business without delay, despite the ruckus coming from the pants-around-her-ankles Babygirl.

She was outraged to find me sitting on the toilet, finishing up. I said, “Okay, shall we pull up your pants now? Are you done?” But she just screamed and cried and stomped. I attempted to find out what her problem was, attempted to be loving and rational and reasonable and all, and then I said, “All right. I’m going downstairs.”

I went and cut the pizza. I cut one piece into small squares for Babygirl, while she stood at the top of the staircase shouting and crying with her pants still down. When I finished my task, I went back upstairs and said, “Hey, are you ready to come downstairs?” She said, “Zes.” And I said, “Can I pull up your pants?” and she said, “No!” So I carried her downstairs and plopped her down on the couch and sat down next to her.

Doesn’t sound like much, does it? But after a day full of small people talking all at once, and small people complaining and whining and fussing at me, and small people needing, needing, needing me, I’d just had enough.

So I stared at “Zoom” on the television with my arms folded across my chest. When “Zoom” ended, without moving a muscle or taking my eyes off the television screen, I mentioned to the boys that they had exactly forty-five minutes before their ride to youth group would pick them up and that they’d better eat and brush their teeth and get ready. They bolted off the couch and tromped into the kitchen while I still sat, arms crossed, not speaking to Babygirl.

She leaned closer and closer to me. “Teletubbies” came on and still I stared at the television set. Finally, she got off the couch and pulled up her pants. She looked at me and I looked at the television. She crawled to the other side of me and the first tears rolled down my cheeks. I let them fall and pretty soon, I was crying and thinking how easy it would be to fake a catatonic state. As I sat, a weeping statue, exhausted from all the neediness around me, wondering if I would ever feel refreshed and if I could run away without anyone noticing, I heard a buzzer.

The dryer buzzer. And like some Pavlovian dog, I abruptly stood and took the load from the dryer out and replaced it with the wet clothes from the dryer.

I gave Babygirl pizza for dinner.
I asked the boys if they brushed their teeth.

It’s normal to cry while you watch “Teletubbies” because you are so overwhelmed by the demands of all the people around you. Right? And it’s okay to think that if I had a do-over, that I probably wouldn’t have chosen this day, today, this life, this moment, this family. And it’s all right that when my son said (over Language Skills school work) “I wish I was dead” that my immediate gut instinct response was “I do, too.” I didn’t say it, if that counts for anything. And I didn’t mean it, either, but goodness gracious, great balls of fire, it was one of those mornings. Followed by the lack of naptime. Coupled with this cold that has given me a headache and a continuous scratchy throat.

It’s over for tonight.

Do you ever feel like complaining when technically you have no right to complain? I’m sitting here with all my limbs in working order in my sturdy house with its newly painted living room in my historic town with its good public schools while the sun is shining on a fine autumn day and I feel whiny and fat and irritable.

At 4:00 p.m., my fabulous husband took our healthy twin boys to an honest-to-God Boeing flight simulator where a friend of ours teaches pilots how to fly airplanes. But my house is still filled with the bickering of small boys because the neighbor boys are here and they are poor sports and big whiners. Kind of like me.

There is really only one cure for this attitude problem of mine. I must go straighten up the living room, tidy up the kitchen, pick up all these toys in the family room, fold a load of laundry, change the kitty litter and snort some cocaine.

Okay, only kidding about that last part.

Methamphetamines are really the way to go.

Okay, joking again. I’d better get busy so when my husband returns, he’ll think I’m a better housekeeper than I really am.

Monday is the Pastor’s Day Off.

Today, the Pastor dug a ditch all day. Well, not exactly, but he assisted a man who dug a drainage ditch on the church property. When he dropped off YoungestBoy after school, he came inside for a second and said, “Come and see my big truck.” I followed him outside and there in my driveway idled a very large, manly truck, borrowed from the Chief Ditch Digger (who is a fire fighter in his real life).

My sweaty, suddenly blue-collar husband thought he was quite the stud, driving this testosterone-fueled vehicle.

He came home more exhausted than ever at about 5:00 p.m. and by 5:30 p.m., he was gone again, this time to sit in an overly long board meeting for a Rescue Mission. He came home at 9:30 p.m.

Now, on the Pastor’s Day Off, what did the Pastor’s Wife do?

Today, I agreed to watch another toddler while her mother had a job interview. So, while three toddlers careened around the house and twirled, yelped and watched Sesame Street, I guided my eleven year old twins through their school courses. Babygirl was particulary needy and kept begging for Momma Milk and I kept offering her pretzels instead.

The extra toddler was supposed to be picked up at 1:00 p.m. (otherwise known as Naptime), but at 1:53 p.m., her father called to say that her mother wouldn’t be here until 3:30 p.m. No problem, I said, and I promptly put her down for a nap, too, where she shrieked for half an hour and then slept for half an hour.

Her mother finally arrived at nearly 4:00 p.m., and then at 4:30 p.m., DaycareKid’s mom arrived and by 5:30 p.m., my children and I were sitting around the table having dinner (thank God for my crockpot and chicken on sale for 59 cents a pound). The kids all went outdoors to play in the waning light and by 7:00 p.m. I called them in to shower and bathe. How can it be getting dark so early now? So soon?

Finally, at 8:10 p.m., I put Babygirl down for the night. I read until 9:00 p.m., then put YoungestBoy to bed after reading him a story. My husband arrived home to find me in the recliner, reading in front of the television and he probably thinks I had such an easy day–compared to digging a ditch, maybe I did.

All the same, I caught a cold from the babies. Babygirl still sounds like she’s been smoking cigarettes for twenty years and DaycareKid’s nose is goopy. So, far, my throat is just scratchy and I’m keeping a tissue box close by for my overly active nose.

But aren’t we refreshed, now that we’ve had a Day Off?

(p.s. Suzanne asked “why the three hour delay?” in picking up the extra toddler. Well, the mother of said toddler had a marathon job interview, lasting from 9:00 a.m. to 3:15 p.m. . . . and it was forty-five minutes away. She didn’t realize how extensive the interview would be. The mother’s due date was yesterday, too, and she plans to start her new job on November 1. And I thought I was busy! She’ll soon have an almost-2 year old, a newborn and a full-time dull job.)

Saturday

Husband took YoungestBoy to soccer game at 10:00 a.m.

Husband went on an outing with church volunteers to dump old furniture. Why, please tell me, why do people donate their ugly 1970s couches to church youth groups? Those couches are now at Goodwill.

Husband returns home at 2:00 p.m., exhausted. I leave, saying, “When do you want to see my cute face again?” He says, “It’s up to you. Whatever you think.”

As I drive off, I think, well, I’ll aim for 4:00 p.m., though if I get home by 5:00 p.m., that’d be okay.

I drop off film to be developed at Costco, then head over to the children’s consignment shop where I drop off a huge, black trash bag full of clothes to sell. Then I browse the racks and find new clothes for Babygirl. Since she’s decided to be potty-trained, I cannot dress her in overalls and shirts that snap. Oops. That’s what I get for shopping in advance.

I return to Costco to pick up film, then drive toward home, stopping at the spur of the moment at Bargain Street Liquidators, which is going out of business. By the time I get home, it’s 4:45 p.m., and when I walk through the door, husband says, “Why didn’t you have your cell phone on?”

I never turn it on when I go out for a few hours. I have it set so my home telephone is forwarded to my cell phone and my husband hates that I get those calls instead of him. So, he usually tells me not to turn it on. He was annoyed because apparently he’d had appointments set up–one for 5:00 p.m. with a young couple who is joining the church, and one for 6:00 p.m. for a hospital visit.

Well, uh, hello? Why didn’t you say so when I left? He was unhappy that he hadn’t taken a shower yet, but uh, hello? When I’m home, I take a shower while the baby sleeps or while she watches television. It’s not exactly a Fear Factor stunt to shower while you have a house full of kids.

I could tell he was annoyed, so I just went about my business, feeding kids, cleaning messes, showering kids, putting stuff away. There was a bit of confusion about whether or not we were going swimming–the pool was opened for two final days, a sort of bonus this year–and I asked the kids, “Do you want to swim?” and they said, “Yes!” and then husband said, “I need the car,” and then he said we could drop him off.

I did not want to go to the pool with all four kids. Although the temperature might have reached seventy degrees and the pool is heated to eighty-six degrees, Babygirl is a slender thing without any body fat to keep her warm. I worried that she’d get chilled. But we went.

We only stayed an hour and a half or so, and most of that time, we were the only people at the pool. The boys had a great time, swimming, putting each other in headlocks, fighting over rules in their made-up games. Babygirl spent the whole time in the wading pool, so I didn’t have to actually immerse myself in water, which made me very happy.

I found being at the pool at this late date an odd experience. At one point, a “V” of ducks flew overhead, migrating south, I suppose and the dichotomy of this autumn ritual combined with the smell of chlorine gave me the sense of being in a time warp. I felt sad for what’s behind us, melancholy about the chill in the air and the darkness of the early evening.

But the kids frolicked and spent all their money on goodies from the vending machines–all items were twenty-five cents off, so they thought they had scored. The left with a renewed stash of candy.

So that’s that. No more summer. No more swimming. Ahead of us: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas–which will be here before we know it–and my 40th birthday. I can hardly stand this sensation of time rushing past my head in such a loud roar.

Sigh.

Today, I almost played hooky from church, but at the last minute, decided to hurry and go. Babygirl went in her underpants–the first time in public without a diaper. How odd that my baby has decided to be so grown up. She threw a huge fit on the way home. She did not want to get into her carseat, so after I gave her a choice (get in your seat or I’ll put you in your seat), she cried pitifully all the way home. She’s hoarse from the cold she’s getting over, so she sounded especially sad. Then, when we got home, she wanted to go for a walk and hung on the doorknob and wailed at the injustice of life until I said, “Well, I’m going upstairs,” and then she followed me and eventually–after more tears and foot stomps–consented to let me rock her and put her to bed.

My husband had returned home from church by then, so I left to go buy flowers for my porch and entryway. The summer Gerber daisies and petunias have died. I ended up at the grocery store which has an attached nursery where I purchased a few groceries and enough flowers to repot everything. When I returned home, Babygirl was awake, so I brought her and YoungestBoy into the front yard with me while I worked. (The twins had gone to their twin-friends’house.) YoungestBoy pushed Babygirl in the stroller–up the driveway and then down, really fast. Then they rode bikes up and down, Babygirl demonstrating courage I didn’t realize she possessed.

I mowed the lawn, planted the flowers, trimmed the ivy, swept the walkway, cleaned the porch, rearranged everything and by then, my husband was awake from his nap and he ended up finishing the driveway sweeping. Babygirl needed some attention by then.

So, the day flew by. The weekend whizzed past. The summer went by in a blink. And now my evening’s almost gone, too, and I haven’t even had a chance to read. But at least my porch is full of purple mums and lively pansies and yellow flowers. Hidden deep in the pots is the promise of spring–mini-daffodils which will cheer me on the cold, damp, dark days of March, which should be arriving in approximately 23 minutes.

“I’m cute and my hands are sticky. Back off.” 

Here is my youngest son, at the fair. Cute, huh?

And how about this baby girl, dancing in the newly painted living room.

Babygirl 

And last, but not least, here are the boys at the fair:

The boys