The K12 curriculum will not be arriving for another full week. My kids are revolting against my “learn by writing” made-up busy work. They do not use capital letters. They do not put their words into tidy little paragraphs with related thoughts. They do not have a beginning, a middle and an end. And they can’t spell.

But they are gone now. My husband took them with him on an errand to Costco. Upon hearing the news that they could go with him, they frantically asked if they could have an advance on their allowance. “Does Costco sell laser-tag?” they said.

The house is still. The babies are asleep. I have a giant glass of Diet Coke with Lime. And I have no idea what to cook for dinner. I intended to get a frozen chicken out of the big freezer (yes, nestled right next to the lentils), but the morning got away from me and now I have to be creative. I hope I can find something in that freezer besides old oats. The children tend to hate creative dinners (i.e. anything other than crockpot chicken or roast and potatoes).

Last night, I took all the kids to YoungestBoy’s soccer practice. The practice appeared to be complete bedlam. Everytime I glanced over, I saw the boys milling about, kicking their soccer balls and grabbing each other around the throats. Only six boys participate on each team and they were all crazy with cabin fever, I guess. First full week of school and all. My older boys “helped,” although I’m not sure how helpful they really were.

Babygirl had a great time sliding down the school playground slides. I improvised and used a clean disposable diaper to wipe off the rain-drenched slides. I was fairly impressed with my ingenuity, which only proves what a small world I live in at the moment. I could have used napkins, only YoungestBoy spilled an entire chocolate milkshake in the backseat of the car (on the side where the door no longer opens) and I had to use every napkin I could find to sop up the frozen treat.

I spent this morning dunking two cats’ behinds in a sink full of water. We have three mutant cats, all from the same litter. Smokey is a long-haired ball of fluff, with no tail. Chestnut is a short-haired grey striped kitty with half a tail that kinks ninety-degrees at the end. And short-haired Roy is shaped exactly like a white-tail deer. My husband agreed to take the kittens from the neighbor down the street. I would have chosen beautiful kittens, not this homely bunch, but as it turns out, these cats have been shockingly gentle, even though Babygirl slings them around over her arm like a furry purse.

For some reason, Roy and Smokey occasionally have a bit of poop cling to their hind-ends. I cannot believe that it’s my job to dunk them under water and stick my fingers into that matted mess to clean them up. And the cats were not even grateful. They acted as if I were the one who was getting a thrill.

The other day, I was sitting at my computer, minding my own business. Then I smelled poop. What kind of scares me is that I can tell the origin of the poop by the smell alone. I knew it was cat poop, not baby poop. (I can tell by smell which toddler is poopy; the DaycareKid has the most foul smelling diapers ever. Blech.) Anyway, so I smell poop and I peer under my desk. Sure enough, a cat is exiting, but no poop is visible.

I walk across the room to the laundry room, the location of the litter box. No poop. I scan the floor. Nothing. I walk back to the computer, see two spots on the carpet and realize, someone has poop on a shoe! I check my shoes and yes, I have a clump of smooshed poop on the bottom of my newish shoes.

I can’t believe I do this job and get no paycheck. Or hazard-duty pay. Or even a Certification of Completion.

What an unsavory post this was. My apologies.

My husband takes Mondays off. This works out great for him, but not so great for me, because Monday is a school day, a daycare day, a regular work day for me. I woke up to the alarm, greeted Babygirl who was sitting in her crib removing her fuzzy jammies, and went downstairs to make breakfast for YoungestBoy. When he was dressed and fed, he went to play a little Pikmin 2 on his Nintendo Gamecube before school.

Meanwhile, DaycareKid arrived, the twins woke up, the neighbor called to see if we could switch carpooling times, so I had to go upstairs to let my husband know he needed to take the kids to school, rather than pick them up. He was reclining in bed, watching morning news and I really did my best not to feel like a jealous indentured servant. I’m not on a time-clock, but I am certainly on a schedule, a mommy-track if ever there was one.

By 9:00 a.m., I was sitting in the backyard watching the toddlers run back and forth and flit from playhouse to chalkboard to sandbox. The twins were supposed to be writing about their weekend (they went to both a corn-maze with the youth group and the rodeo with their dad).

The http://www.k12.com curriculum has not yet arrived, much to my chagrin. I would be a rotten homeschooler if I were doing this all myself–finding curriculum, implementing it, teaching them, etc. Their learning styles are polar opposite to mine, as are their personalities, genders, food preferences–pretty much eveything. I’m not sure if it’s because they are almost 12 or because they are boys or because they are twins or because they are not genetically mine, but they are a puzzle to me. They hate to write. TwinBoyB took two hours to write three dismal, poorly-spelled, sloppy paragraphs.

The curriculum must come this week! Or pretty soon they’ll be watching SpongeBob for their “literature” class. Right now they are watching the Narnia chronicles, which I’m pretending is actually educational. They have to finish their writing assignment before dinner. I better think of what dinner will be or they won’t have much incentive.

Babygirl is two years old now. I probably have just forgotten how brilliant my other children were at this age, but she seems to me to be a remarkable toddler. She can describe her feelings with words. She counts to twelve. She has a great memory, and of course, she can spell pool. The other day, she said, “Go to the pool?” and I just looked at her, wishing I didn’t have to explain that we couldn’t go because it’s closed and she apparently thought I didn’t understand her because she peered into my eyes and said helpfully, “P-O-O?”

She insists on being unclothed or half-clothed most of the time. Yesterday, I was reading in the living room while she frolicked (minus her clothing) in the family room where the twins were watching television. Then I heard her: “I peed in the potty!” A quick check confirmed that she did, indeed, pee in the potty. I applauded and we carried the liquid treasure to the bathroom to dump it. This morning, she peed on the floor, but awhile later, said, “I need to pee,” and went to the potty where she made a little deposit. She was a little confused, so reached in with a pointer finger to touch it while I yelled “YUCKY! YUCKY!” I know the specialists say not to make a big deal about how disgusting fecal matter is, but ewwwwwww. I can’t help myself. We washed and flushed it away.

My baby is growing up. Just like that. Before you know it, she’ll be picking out ugly bridesmaid dresses for her friends to wear in her wedding. I just hope her hair grows in before then. And I hope she wears underpants, too, especially when she plays in the sandbox.

As I mentioned, my husband took the boys to the rodeo yesterday at the Western Washington Fair (also known in these parts as The Puyallup–that’s “pew-al-up.”) Being male, no one really gave me any details, but I gather they had fun and that the rodeo clown was the best part. Unfortunately, no one took a camera, so ultimately, it will be a forgotten trip, I’m afraid, without proper documentation.

Today, my husband is back at the fair–it’s not fair!–manning a Habitat for Humanity booth. He’s volunteering from 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., so yes, that does mean that I will enjoy the rest of the day taking care of everything here alone. On his day off. Which is not a day off for me. Ever.

He called to say it’s raining, and I said, “Hey, better a rainy day at the fair than an unrainy day stuck at home!”

However, here’s a ray of sunshine: my living room. Not only are the walls vivid orange-yellow, but as of a few hours ago, we have new carpet. A thousand words could not begin to give you an adequate picture of the yucky the old dingy white shag carpet from 1973. Now, I will only be embarrassed by my not-quite-chic shabby furniture. I will also hope that some of my well-to-do friends decide they need a newer couch than the one they purchased three years ago so I can update my interior design.

Time to vacuum, so I can rearrange the unchic-shabby furniture, a motley assortment donated to our cause by my mother (her dad gave her the tan swivel rocker), a church couple (brown recliner, also used a scratching post by our cats), gold couch (traded from the parsonage in Michigan), and coffee tables (from the neighbor when she moved). The coffee tables are the exact kind my husband grew up with, which seems appropriate. Of course, that also means they are 30 years behind the times, but then again, so is our house. Trading Spaces, are you listening?

I say to my husband, “You know, my friend is so depressed. I think I should take her out to dinner at Olive Garden. We still have that gift card with $18 on it.”

He says to me, “Great idea. Her husband is planning to watch the Miami game tonight, so tonight would be a perfect time.”

I say, “But they don’t have a television. How is he going to watch the game?”

He says, “I don’t know. I’ll call him.”

Before I know it, my husband has invited this couple and their two year old over to watch the game at 5:00 p.m. At 7:30 p.m., after I put Grace to bed, my friend and I are supposed to leave the guys with the kids and go to dinner.

Only, my friend calls at 1:20 p.m. and mentions that she’d really like to watch the whole game (she and her husband met at the University of Miami–she was his calculus tutor).

So, my innocent remark about going to dinner with my friend turned into a three hour sweaty frenzy of house-cleaning and frantic de-cluttering and even a little bit of ironing. Oh, and I still have kids to take care of in the midst of all that. I was vacuuming–actually pausing in my vacuuming–when my DaycareMom quietly entered the house (she usually comes through the house without knocking because we’re often in the backyard playing when she arrives) and I’m terrified that she overheard me muttering to myself about my husband’s brilliant plan in inviting people over to our home at 5:00 p.m. with practically no warning.

I said to her, “Oh hi!” And thought, Please someone, just shoot me now.

When she left, I continued my crazed cleaning spree. I scrubbed two bathrooms, top to bottom, vacuumed, picked up loads of stuff and relocated it to its proper location, did dishes (again!), swept and mopped, picked up toys, dusted the television and my computer, found batteries for the remote control, took out trash, put newspapers in the recycling bin. Fortunately, my husband picked up take-and-bake pizza, so I didn’t have to worry about dinner, but still. I was a glistening, stressed-out mess by 5:00 p.m.

I stood in front of our new oscillating fan in the bedroom to try to cool down, put on some make-up, calmed my bangs, changed into a clean shirt and greeted my guests. The evening went surprisingly well–sometimes Babygirl is less than friendly, but she and our friend’s almost-2-year-old had a blast, running–literally–in circles and screaming with laughter. My twins watched the game, mostly. TwinBoyA talks non-stop. He would be a great commentator. There would never be any dead air with this kid behind the microphone.

Before the game ended, I took Babygirl up to bed. She was outraged that I insisted she wear a diaper and pajamas to bed. She’s become devoted to being unclothed at all times. When I stood her up to zip up the jammies, with tears still wet on her cheeks, she said, “I am so sad.” I love how she can express her feelings verbally. She says “mad,” “sad,” “scared” and “happy.”

I thought I might go to Target when the game ended, but wouldn’t you know, it went into overtime and then Miami won! Our friends did a great deal of hollering, which my boys joined in on.

I decided it was too late to shop.

But it’s not too late to comment about a couple of names. Check out Craphonso. Now seriously. What mother names her child CRAPhonso? I understand it’s pronounced “Crafonzo”, but honestly, what’s next? A kid named Shitella (pronounced SHY-tella, of course)?

I thought of some other funny names, too. Remember awhile back when I posted about unfortunate names? Well, here is a perfect name: the janitor at my son’s primary school is named Mr. Broom. No kidding! Oh, and my husband once went to a chiropractor named Dr. Looney.

My sixth grade art teacher was named Mr. Wise, but he had a hair growing directly out of the tip of his nose. In his class, we had to create a clay sculpture of an animal. I made the ugliest penguin that has ever existed, primarly because I couldn’t figure out how to make an animal with actual legs, like a deer or a dog. My mother probably still has that wretched figurine somewhere. We also spent a great deal of time copying comic strips in that classroom. And that was the class in which I slapped Jeff H across the face for making a lewd comment about my assets, which were unfortunately clothed in a t-shirt featuring a large picture of two cherries.

After that, I wore my down coat during school, even though Jeff H never tortured me again.

My posts are out of order due to a glitch, so be sure to scroll down a tiny bit and see my blog about blogging.

Today is the third day that Babygirl protested her naptime. She was quiet for ten minutes, hollered my name for twenty minutes, screamed and cried for ten minutes, then became silent again. I hope she’s sleeping and not dead.

She talks all day now. I love how she says “fall off,” when she means “fall down” or even just “fall.” She adores her big brothers, especially when they push her really fast in the rocking chair or when they let her ride around on their backs as they crawl.

Yesterday, after I said I was going to read the newspaper, instead I had mercy on Babygirl and sent up one of my sons to get her out of her crib. She came walking into the kitchen, then, without a diaper or any clothing and when I said, “Did you have a good sleep?” she said, “Zes.”

Funny kid. She refused to get diapered or clothed the rest of the afternoon, though she did consent to wear a pair of Barney training pants when we went outside in the backyard for a bit.

The pool is closed now, so summer has officially ended as far as I’m concerned. In a way, I feel relieved because I don’t feel guilty that we aren’t taking the kids to the pool to swim every day. The last day at the pool my neice and nephew came, too, along with my sister and her husband. The kids all had a great time taking underwater pictures of each other with some waterproof disposable cameras I found on clearance at Target. I can’t wait to see the results.

Babygirl totally cracked me up when I realized she was calling my younger sister, “Big Old Mama,” and my brother-in-law “Big Daddy.” I haven’t laughed so hard in a long time. Perhaps I need to get out more.

Babygirl did not nap yesterday. You may recall that we had a Nap Drought last year at about this time. Babygirl skipped her nap approximately 120 days in a row, leading me to teeter perilously close to the edge of a nervous breakdown. I adore Babygirl. Really, I do. I just don’t want to adore her for twelve straight hours.

So I’m not getting the Mother of the Year award.

Today, with great hopes, I put her down at the usual time with her dollies (Dolly and Boy). I tried not to let her see my fear, because it’s well-known that babies can smell fear and will then take advantage of that weakness. She snuggled under her blankets and then ten minutes later, began calling out, “MOM!” Pause. “MOM!” Pause. “MOM!”

I’ve been ignoring her for twenty minutes now. She’s probably untaped her diaper and peed in her crib by now. She’s obsessed with taking off and putting on her diaper–mostly taking it off. And she’s newly in love with toenail polish. Just before her nap, I had to paint the toes of two of her dollies. (We painted Boy’s toenails the other night. He’s an old cabbage patch doll that’s been hanging around in the stuffed animal basket for many years now. Babygirl found him and christened him “Boy.”)

I just don’t want her to be awake now, mostly because I don’t want to share my Diet Vanilla Pepsi. And because I need a moment to be a solitary, isolated, individual person. I seriously had no idea how taxing it would be for me to be with people–even my own children–twenty-four hours a day.

I haven’t even read the newspaper yet today. But I think I will. Babygirl can wait.

Why did I start a blog? All thanks goes to Brandie, author of I Am Mom! Hear Me Roar! I met Brandie on-line on a message board for mothers of babies due in September 2002. One day last fall, Brandie suggested to the board members that it might be fun to start personal journals and share them with each other.

I thought, yeah, fun, but not for me! Once long, long ago, I started a diary on OpenDiary.com. I’d only posted a few entries when along came my first reader who commented, “Your diary sure is boring.” Or something to that effect.

I quit soon thereafter. Those first entries probably were boring and the fact that someone out there in the shadows was reading and judging my boring life scared me.

Yet, a few weeks after Brandie’s suggestion, I decided to go ahead and start a journal. My first journal was here. Then, in January, I moved to my present home here at Blogger.com, just in time for all the improvements unveiled by Blogger.

Most of the women from that board who started journals quit soon thereafter. But Brandie and I have continued our grand experiment in blogging, as have a few of my other board friends.

I’ve always kept a pen and paper journal, ever since I was in second grade. I hardly ever read those spiral notebooks, but I have them neatly stacked in my closet. I’ll have plenty of material to laugh and cry over when I am old woman.

During my early twenties, my journals were the support system I longed for in the real world. When I was 22 and a new bride, I moved across the country from Seattle to New Haven, Connecticut, where my husband attended Yale Divinity School. I left my circle of college friends for a job in a law office and oh, the loneliness of being in a new city with a new husband who was stressed out by his rigorous studies! I wrote and wrote and wrote, whined and complained and dreamed of having babies.

Then my husband finished grad school and we moved “home” to Seattle (his homeland is near Houston), just in time for my dad to be diagnosed with terminal cancer and die. My journals from those days are filled with anguish and blotches where tears fell. After he died, my journal entries grew even more morose and dark as we entered the overcast Land of Infertility and then trod the uncertain, windy paths of Adoption Attempts.

My husband could only stand so much of my dismal outlook on life–cruel life, how dare you pick on me! what did I ever do to deserve this!–and my fertile friends could not understand. So I wrote and wrote and cried and cried some more.

In the middle of all that agony, I thought, You know, this would make a great book. Then infertile women like me wouldn’t feel so alone. I typed it up all nice and pretty and waited until an end to my “story” appeared, wrote up a book proposal and sent it off.

I was rejected repeatedly and I could hear the hoots and howls of the editors all the way back at my childless home. You think infertility is depressing? Try having your book proposal about infertility rejected. That’s really depressing, along the lines of, God hates you and we hated hearing about it. Grow up you big baby!

Obviously, my idea was absolutely right on target, because lo and behold, along comes internet blogs and what do I come across? Amazing infertility blogs and a warm, gentle, understanding circle of supportive infertile women all reading and commenting and blogging and getting through those gloomy days together. My absolute favorite blog about infertility at the moment is by Getupgrrl who authors
Chez Miscarriage, a blog which makes me weep and snort with laughter and smile with recognition. What did those dumb editors know anyway? The truth is that people are interested in reading about other people’s lives, in viewing the interior of those lives, the mundane and the absurd and the heart-wrenching minutiae of daily life.

In another decade, I might have been the author of a college blog (“I’m so tired, I’m not sure I can make it through English Lit today and do you think that he will ask me out and what, oh what will I be when I grow up?”) or an infertility blog (“Everyone I know lives in a world of velvet toys and tiny fingers and strained carrots and I have no baby to call my own.”).

My blog reflects my thoughts and serves as a record of the monotonous and the silly and the boring, because these small things are the blocks that make up Life. These details add up to everything that matters and one day I will want to remember how Babygirl refused her nap and instead hollered down the stairs, “MOM!” while a man stood on my roof and power-washed it. I write to think, I write to remember, and I write to entertain myself. That other people find my writing entertaining or thought-provoking is a lovely bonus and reading comments is the frosting on my cake. Even those “anonymous” comments by people who do not appreciate my view of Michael Moore’s movie.

I have a blog-addiction now. Blogs give me a view into lives that probably would never intersect with my life, whether for geographical, philosophical, or practical reasons. I might never have crossed paths with Suzanne, the witty, warm and funny author of Suburban Lesbian. I woulnd’t think to seek out a blog for “suburban lesbians”, but when Suzanne first commented on my blog, I followed the links back to her hang-out and discovered we have a lot in common. For instance, we both value the snooze feature on our alarm clocks. She’s a great writer and I feel lucky to have a glimpse into her life.

One of my closest friends is MaryKay. We met back in 1985 when we worked at Heritage U.S.A., Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker’s extravaganza. She was a lifeguard and I was a children’s ministry intern. And we’ve been writing letters and email ever since. She started a blog recently called Much Ado About Nothing. Now, we can keep up with each other even though I’m near Seattle and she’s in North Carolina. MaryKay tells funny stories of working in a funeral home and raising her four kids. She’s terrific and creative and insightful.

Stacy is one of my board buddies who is a fabulous writer with a wry and humorous viewpoint. She authors Gray Matter. I can’t figure out when she writes because she is the mother of twin 2-year-old boys, a brilliant 9-year-old daughter, attends grad school, works full-time (at nights on the weekends) and is married to a man who travels. She also reads a lot and frankly, she’s amazing.

Then there is Jen, author of SissyFit, a beautifully written, often hilarious account of her life as the mother of three small children and wife of a police officer. And she’s tall, really tall, and beautiful, extremely witty and best of all, she sent my gnome-deprived, gnome-obsessed daughter her very own gnome. Jen is a Gnome Benefactor.

I include a few blogs that I randomly found. These girls make me laugh and sometimes make me wish I were young and single and living in Los Angeles or New York City, and sometimes make me thank God I’m not. A Girl Named Bob belongs to a career-girl in New York City. Wendy, author of Magic Short Bus, is an animator and good friend of Bob, as in the girl named Bob. Another young, single-with-boyfriend author is Deb of smitten. She makes finding a mouse in the house (okay, apartment) and frosting cupcakes amusing and even laugh-out-loud funny.

A new member of my blogroll is Michelle, writer of Demented Delusions of a Wannabe Writer. Take a stroll over there and see why I like her, aside from the fact that she’s a good writer. Also, it turns out she’s a Pastor’s Kid, so we have a little connection there.

Dooce is practically in a category by herself. She’s on almost more blogrolls than, well, than anyone–go ahead, check the official registers on Blogrolling.com and you’ll see I tell no lies. Read her tales of parenting her now-7-month-old baby, Leta, and giggle at her list of reasons she feels guilty. You can thank me later.

For pure inspiration and a kick in the pants, read my high-school friend, Tory’s blog. She’s a teacher, so obviously her site is called MsTeechur: From Flabulous to Fabulous. She is not only a fantastic teacher, but she also lost over 100 pounds doing Weight Watchers on-line and just recently, she ran a half-marathon and completed her first triathlon. She’s remarkable and a cheerful, bring-smiles-to-your-face writer.

So, there you have it. The reasons I blog and the reasons I list the blogs I do.

Now, it’s your turn. Why do you blog? How’d you get started? And while you’re at it, tell me I’m beautiful and that you definitely think I could win a Pulitzer Prize. Or just send cash. And a tiara.

I wrote about going to the movie Open Water last night before collapsing into bed, but when it was all said and done, my clever, witty post disappeared into thin air.

So let me just summarize.

Saturday night.
Movie with husband.
Choice: “Open Water” or “Bourne Supremacy.”
Check reviews, accidentally learn ending of “Open Water.”
Hate stupid people, especially unprofessional, amateur movie reviewers.
See “Open Water,” start time 9:30 p.m.
10:00 p.m.: Three generation Asian family walks in, chattering.
Small children do not belong in rated “R” movies. Ever.
Wonder at stupidity of people yet again.
10:30 p.m.: Hear amazing sound effects.
Realize sound is actually snoring man in back row, not sound effects.
Movie rating: Two thumbs up. Hooray for independent, low-budget film.

Now, moving on. My now 2-year old Babygirl has become clingy and skittish and Sunday morning, I actually had to leave church to bring her home due to her hysterics in the church nursery. I can never actually leave her in the nursery because she screams as if she’s being attacked by bees, but last Sunday, I left her for ten minutes anyway because I had to sing. This Sunday, she remembered that and freaked out in advance of possible abandonment.

Then, at 3 p.m., she attended her first birthday party for her little friend named Ruby who was born a week after Babygirl. Despite the promise of birthday cake, Babygirl took one look at the decorations, saw darling little Ruby, burst into tears and begged “Go home.” I attempted to distract, to calm, to bribe. Then I took her straight home.

I guess this week “off” from watching our DaycareKid has been unsettling for her . . . especially since I dragged her to the photographer and to the doctor. My poor girl needs routine, a quiet, sedate schedule. I can only imagine if I’d had her first. I would have assumed that children are gentle, fragile creatures who must be sheltered and protected and who cling to my knees when a strange adult enters the room. I’d have thought I had something to do with creating this timid personality, this creature of habit.

If I’d had her first before YoungestBoy who was so friendly as a two year old that he once decided to eat with the family one booth over at Burger King instead of us, I would have been shocked at the typical behavior of children. Babygirl is not the norm. She is ultra-sensitive and obedient, even at this age. I can gaze at her and she will change her mind and decide to comply with my wishes.

My boys don’t even notice if I’m looking their direction.

She mimimics me in the bathroom, brushes her teeth in the same order I do (brush, brush, brush, scrub tongue, rinse toothbrush, spit, rinse mouth with water cupped in hands), puts on eye shadow, showers, picks up dirty clothes, washes dirty spots on the kitchen floor, reads books, shadows me constantly.

So far, she has not purposely played in mud or used a stick as a sword.

So, I’m glad I had her last. I can enjoy this “easier” baby, even though I have to be on the look-out for bees at all times, lest she go completely berserk. Bees are bad, very bad, worse than the church nursery.

Isn’t it amazing that all the kids in one family can be so different? That’s clear if I look back at my own family of origin. I could not possibly be more different from my siblings. But that, my friends, is a story for another day.