I have a cousin named Cindy who is five years older than me, almost exactly. So, when I was 6 years old (as I am in this picture), she was 11. My Aunt Martha used to give my mother hand-me-down clothes from Cindy for me. We were always very grateful because we never had enough money. My father had spent the first five years of his marriage to my mother informing her that they were moving. He didn’t like his job, he could do better, so pack up, we’re hitting the road! On one of those occasions, they left in such a hurry that what couldn’t fit into the car–including my mother’s wedding gown–was left behind. My mother cried when the car broke down miles away and they ended up having to rent a U-Haul truck after all. They did not return for the left-behind stuff, though.

In their first five years of marriage, they brought three babies into the world–I was smack in the center, sixteen months older and sixteen months younger. Do you suppose I got enough attention? I still remember how frustrated and sad I was when I told my mom, “It’s not fair! I never get to hold the popcorn!” But phooey on my emotional needs. My dad was busy trying to find a better job, a job that deserved him. That’s why my parents moved us twenty-five times in their first five years together. And when I say “moved,” I mean from Wisconsin to Missouri to Montana back to Wisconsin with a U-Haul truck hooked to the back of our decrepit car. No down-the-block moves for us. I still remember during one move I could actually watch the street through the rust-eaten floorboards of the car.

When we finally settled into our house at Whispering Firs, I was in kindergarten and that’s when the bags of hand-me-down clothes began to arrive. My cousin’s daddy was a minister and consequently, she had lots of pretty dresses. For some reason, many of them were orange, so my school pictures from first grade, second grade, and third grade featured lovely orange attire. I thought I looked pretty hot at the time. I also nursed a fierce jealousy of Cindy with her fancy duds and her preacher daddy. My daddy slept all day and worked all night and had rough, calloused hands and a stern face. Her daddy’s hands were soft when he shook mine and his hair was smoothed perfectly into place and he always said, “Hi, Beautiful!”

The main problem with Cindy’s clothes, though, was the size. Cindy was a petite bird of a person. I’m more of the sturdy, frontier-girl type. Some of the beautiful clothes just wouldn’t fit around my normal sized waist. Which explains why I thought I was fat as a child. I was normal, but I was trying to fit into a Barbie doll’s clothes.

Today, Cindy lives not so far from me. I see her occasionally and she might weigh 90 pounds on a particularly “fat day.” I’m just thankful that I don’t have to try to fit into any more of her hand-me-downs. My grown-up self-image is wobbly enough as it is.

And here’s a tip for all mothers of girls: When your normal-sized girl says, “Mommy, am I fat?” please, please, please, just say, “No, of course not. You look perfect to me.”

You are sitting in the middle of an auditorium before a concert starts. Around you, the cacophony of voices simmers and boils and eventually makes you want to scream “SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!” and then plug your ears and run screaming from the irritating, never-ending noise. And then, afterwards, you walk into the cool night and the silence envelopes you. Blessed, blessed quietness.

For the past hour, I have been answering emails, reading a message board, instant-messaging while submerged in the endless chatter that spews forth from my children. For background noise, they have a Pokemon movie playing. Periodically, I look over and say, “PLEASE! Be quiet! Sit still! Stop talking! You! Get out of this room!” It doesn’t matter. They just never stop making noise, these children that God gave me. Me, the one who loves silence, the one who prefers solitude to crowds, the one who avoids parties, the one who’d rather read than make small-talk.

Real funny.

I used to torture myself when I was a child by trying to figure out which I’d rather be: deaf or blind. I would miss music, I decided, but blindness would be intolerable, because then I couldn’t read. Now, I know for sure, that deafness would be the way to go. Peace and quiet.

(I also used to try to figure out the best death. I settled on drowning or freezing to death. I think drowning quickly would be the better of the two. I was a quirky child, with entirely too much thinking time on my hands!)

I loved when the children were babies, because despite the occasional crying, babies are pretty quiet. Well, when they aren’t screeching and babbling. At least they didn’t talk back, or as my twins said when they were kindergarteners, “back-sass.” Nowadays, these kids are just plain loud. They don’t nap like babies do. They just keep polluting the air with noise. Can something be done about this? Aren’t there organizations that deal with the problem of noise pollution?

Well, now I hear the baby crying, so my break time has ended. Boy, do I feel refreshed.

I am an idiot.

I took my youngest son (he’s six) to the library way back when and let him check out some books. And videos. I personally hate it when the kids want to check out videos, because I want them to browse in the book section and fall in googly-eyed love with books, not get all blank-eyed while they stare at the videos. Anyway, I let him get four videos and five books.

They were due the day after school was out. I thought that would be perfect. I’d take the kids to the library–while we sang “doe-a-deer-a-female-deer. . . ” and held hands and skipped–and they would check out books for summertime fun. Only, my husband used the car that day and we didn’t get to the library.

Everything was overdue, but somehow (I blame my husband), I have not had a chance to take the kids to the library. Now it’s July. Watching a daycare baby really cramps my style. I literally cannot go anywhere with all five kids because my car cannot accommodate them all–and even if it could, do I really want to take five kids to the library?

My husband mentioned a time or two that the books were overdue. Yeah, yeah, whatever. A nickel per book fine, who cares? Then. Well, then I realized with a start that the fine for videos is $1.00. A day. Oh good grief. We had four videos ten days late.

That is why I’m an idiot. And the kids didn’t even watch one of them.

But, here is proof that I’m raising a great, amazing kid.

The other night, the doorbell rang at about 6:00 p.m. It was the neighbor boy, a just-finished-third-grader, who greeted my “hello” with an outburst that sounded something like this: “. . . and he gave me a game, but the case was empty and I gave him two games and it’s not fairrrrrrr!” My youngest son came rushing in and claimed that he had no idea that the game case was empty and that it wasn’t his fault and that his brother  said he couldn’t trade that game. By that point, we were standing in front of the Nintendo GameCube, where the brother was actually playing the game in question. He was not about to loan it to the neighbor kid, as my youngest son had promised.

Neighbor kid was crying and carrying on.

It seems that my youngest son and neighbor kid had agreed on a trade. Neighbor kid loaned him two games and he was to loan one in return. Only, when he attempted to loan the game, his older brother vetoed the plan and the youngest boy, thinking quickly and deviously, gave neighbor kid an empty case, which he discovered upon his arrival at home.

Finally, the boys agreed to give neighbor kid a substitute game. He left, but shouted, “I’ll never trust you again!”

Much later in the evening, my youngest son came to me and said, “Mom, I want to give the neighbors something to make up for trying to gyp them out.” I gave him permission. When it was all said and done, he’d picked out two of his own Gameboy games, two stuffed Neopet toys and a little stack of Yu-gi-oh cards. He dictated a note to me that apologized for “gypping” them. The next day, we walked down to their house and he handed over a little gold gift bag with these items.

My sweet boy still has a soft heart and when he hurts someone, he feels the sting. I hope he stays this way for a long, long time. He’s a great kid, despite me.

So, I took the kids swimming after dinner. Even Fat Kid. Which was challenging because I drive a small 1993 Mercury Sable. I was squished in the driver’s seat because TwinBoyA sat in the middle and Fat Kid hogged the passenger seat. We stayed from 6:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. and then I bought everyone McDonald’s ice cream cones on the way home. The baby did not go to bed early and my mom stopped by just after I put her to bed at 8:30 p.m., which explains why I didn’t leave my house for the grocery store until 9:00 p.m., which further explains why I didn’t return home from the grocery store until 10:30 p.m., which explains why I am now going to bed at 11:35 p.m.

And did I mention that I babysat an extra 18 month old for three hours this morning?

I need a trophy. I’ll settle for a pat on the head.

The boys have a friend from school, who shall remain nameless to protect his privacy. Let’s just call him Fat Kid. Is that mean? Well, he’s anonymous, so I don’t care. And he’s fat. Really fat. Fat Albert fat. With dreadlocks.

Fat Kid is the youngest kid in a family of teenagers. He’s bossy, he’s mean and he invites himself over to play with my kids periodically. He constantly tells my kids, “No, YoungestBoy. No, TwinBoyA!” if they deviate from his rules. For some reason, TwinBoyA always says, “okay” when Fat Kid asks if he can come over. I cannot understand why my boys would agree to play with Fat Kid, but they always do.

So, today, just after I put the baby to bed, the phone rings. It’s Fat Kid. “Can I come over?” he asks my son. TwinBoyA asks me and I say, “When?” He asks Fat Kid and tells me “Two-fifty.” I think, well, nap-time will almost be over, so that will be all right because I know they’ll make noise, but not until the babies have already slept a good long while.

I agree.

At 1:15 p.m., I am informed that Fat Kid is on his way over. Uh, hello, Fat Kid? Can you tell time? Two-fifty is an hour later than one-fifty.

Now, at 2:30 p.m., what do I hear? That’s right. My baby is crying. She normally sleeps until 3:00 p.m. at least, sometimes 3:30 p.m. And when she wakes up, she wakes up happy, not crying. I have repeatedly told Fat Kid to keep it down, to not talk so loudly.

Stupid Fat Kid.

Oh, and guess what Fat Kid wanted to come over and play? Playmobil people. Playmobil people are like Barbies for boys–all the little accessories and everything. I can’t figure out exactly what they are doing, though. Fat Kid just keeps saying, “No! YoungestBoy, stop! Put that back! TwinboyA, okay, stop! Okay, it’s going to look stupid. Stop, YoungestBoy. No!”

Now, looking on the positive side (how uncharacteristic of me), maybe the baby will go to bed a little early and I can finish grocery shopping before 9:30 p.m. tonight.

Time to get Miss Priss from her crib. And I haven’t even finished my Diet Coke yet. I am annoyed.

For you visual learners, I added pictures to the following posts:

YoungestBoy falls asleep in wacky position,

The boys at the beach,

and Kindergarten Slug Race.

And just because she’s so cute, despite her hair-deficiency, here is Babygirl:  

Call Me “Director”
I am coordinating our church’s Vacation Bible School. This is my third consecutive year to direct this program, and consequently, I have a fairly solid staff of repeat volunteers. However, working with volunteers is almost amusing and sometimes frustrating. I called a volunteer from last year and asked if she’d be available to assist this year. She said, “Yes, I would, but I really don’t want to work with a group of children.” Well, hello!? That’s kind of what we do.

I did understand what she meant, though. She wanted to teach, not interact on a one-on-one as a crew leader. I suggested she be the preschool craft director and voila! A happy volunteer.

I do find I move through stages of organizing in a fairly predictable steps. The first step is: “Oh no, why did I agree to do this?” That’s quickly followed by: “This is going to be a disaster! No one is going to participate! No one is going to help!” Then, my final step: “Only three weeks and this will all be over, no matter what!”

I’m on the final step. Three weeks and this whole thing will be just a memory. We’ll probably have 100 children participate and 30+ volunteers when it’s all said and done.

The Pool
This afternoon, we went to the pool. Some family friends joined us–mom, dad and two boys, ages 4 and 2 and a half. I got into the pool with Babygirl and watched as they plopped their littlest boy into the pool, too. Both mom and dad sat near the pool, chatting and half-heartedly watching.

Then, mom says, “Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello, NOLAN!” When she first started hello-ing, I looked around toward her, then when she yelled Nolan’s name, I looked back to the pool and saw him floating, face down, about six feet from me. I scrambled to get my feet under me so I could reach him, but before I could, his dad crashed into the water and snatched him up. Nolan was fine, but cautious and after that, his mom put his life-jacket on him. I thought, I would never have put him in this pool alone. I am a much better mother, even though she looks so much better in a swimsuit than I do.

Wouldn’t you know it, just awhile later, right in front of me, as I watched, Babygirl suddenly capsized and sank like a rock. I plucked her out of the water and she sputtered, wide-eyed, like she’d seen a mermaid in those twelve inches of water. I said, “You went underwater. Are you okay?” And she coughed a bit, and said, “Unner, wa-wa.” And then touched her head. “Hair. Wet.” She was nonplussed. Later in the afternoon, she lost her footing again while she was hopping and she dunked herself entirely again. I stood her on her feet and she choked and did that barky kind of seal-cough and then she was fine.

The only thing worse than a child being terrified of the water is a child who is not at all terrified of the water. They are both in danger of drowning without a sound if you look away for one second.

For that matter, that’s how I feel about coordinating VBS . . . in danger of drowning without a sound. In three weeks it will be all over. I can do this. I can. I can.

I have a friend who has twin boys. I have twin boys. Her twin boys are identical and athletic. Mine are not. But they play together anyway, because even though my twins are two years older than her twins, mine are immature.

My friend’s twin boys came over to play a few afternoons ago. They stomped around in the backyard and yelled while they played Nintendo and drank pop. After three hours, my friend finished work and arrived to pick them up.

She’d worked all day. So had I. Only she went to an office, while I took care of my kids. And hers.

I opened the door to my friend and her beauty and vitality slapped me in the face. She’s tall. I’m tall. Yet, at that moment, all I could see were the diffences between us.

She probably spends thirty minutes a day styling that long, high-lighted hair. She keeps it long because her husband likes it that way. I cut mine very short in a fit of post-partum psychosis, so now I’m at the awkward, growing-out stage of hair length. And I quit highlighting my locks and accepted that I–formerly naturally blond–have dull brown hair. I spend approximately three minutes every morning dealing with my mop because I’d rather sleep than blow-dry and primp.

My friend wears business suits because she goes to an office where she makes lot of money. I wear blue jeans with a hole in a knee or capri pants and a t-shirt most days. With socks and slippers because I can’t stand to feel crumbs on my feet and I hate it when I step into a wet spot. And believe me, there are mysterious wet spots when you have four kids.

My friend’s skin glows because she’s tan. I avoid the sun because my dad died from skin cancer. I’ve actually wondered if she has a secret tanning bed stashed away in her house because she is so unnaturally tan.

One Mother’s Day a few years back, my friend and I were in church, each with our own families. A woman was preaching the sermon that day, directing her comments to mothers. I sat in the front row. My friend sat on the other side, further back. The speaker, a grandmotherly woman who led the church choir, said, “[My friend] is a great example of a busy mother.” Then she looked straight at me and said, “No offense, Mel.” Then she continued to extol the virtues of my friend.

My friend and I used to be walking buddies. We walked every morning at 6:00 a.m. and chatted and laughed as we exercised and sweated. Then school started and I agreed to watch a daycare baby and I had to stop walking because there just wasn’t time. My friend found a new work-out buddy and trained for a marathon. She ran it in May. My new exercise bike substitutes for an exercise buddy. That’s where I keep my ironing pile. My friend takes her ironing pile to the dry-cleaner.

My friend has a maid. And a nanny. And a summer house. She takes her nanny with her when the family goes on vacation so she and her husband can have some time alone. My husband and I last vacationed in 1991.

So, I opened the door to my friend and she gathered her children and then drove off in her shiny, black Lexus. I have never felt more like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister in my life. Except maybe when I was in high school and spent my lunch hours in the library because I had no one to eat with in the cafeteria.

Off she drove to her house with its new $200,000 addition that has spectacular views of the Puget Sound and I closed my door to my built-in-1973 house with its sparkling popcorn ceilings and carpeted bathrooms.

The Bird
I hate birds. Not birds in trees, but birds in captivity and that one bird which flew into the side of my head through my open car door window when I was seventeen. That stupid bird which perched in the back seat of my car fueled my disdain for birds and their little bird-brains. Then, a few years back, at the zoo, I went into the Lorikeet exhibit–against my will, but for the sake of my children–and a bird-brain-damaged bird flew into my hair. I did not want to alarm the children, so I did not scream, but I did say in a grim voice to the nearest adult, “Um, excuse me? Would you please help me remove this bird from my hair?”

I hate birds.

Guess what I see at the pool every time we go? Birds, yes. Cute little sparrow-like birds that flit through the chainlink fence in search of Cheeto crumbs. And then, there is a parrot that a woman carries on her shoulder. Okay, maybe it’s not a parrot, but it’s some kind of tropical bird.

The first time I saw it, I thought, “Geez, that must really suck when that bird poops down her back.” The woman’s back was broad (bringing “Silence of the Lambs” to mind) and exposed by her swimsuit. I kept shooting glances at this bird. Who brings a bird to a swimming pool? I didn’t notice that the bird wore a diaper until I overheard her mention it to some bird admirers.

Bird diapers. Who knew?

Where’s Babygirl?
I was in the pool with Babygirl yesterday. Another baby was frolicking in the pool, too. The mother and I exchanged pleasantries about our girls. Her daughter, Isabelle, is less than a month older than Babygirl, but she was dunking the back of her head underwater and climbing in and out by herself. The look in her sky-blue eyes was that of a maniac–wide-eyed and shocked–but she seemed happy.

Babygirl, on the other hand, walks carefully in the pool and tries to keep her hair dry. She likes to jump in, but she does make sure I’m going to catch her. She can’t climb the sides of the pool.

While I sat on the very edge of the pool, Babygirl was practicing hopping. She cannot manage a two-footed hop on dry land, but she can in the pool. So, she was hopping and I looked up at Isabelle’s mother and said, “Has she taken swimming lessons?” The mother said, “No,” and I said, “Well, she seems so comfortable in the water!” Then I looked at Babygirl. She was completely underwater, victim of a wild hop gone wrong, I suppose. I plucked her from the pool and stood her on the edge. She coughed and coughed, but never cried. She did get back into the pool, but she began to shiver because her head was wet and a cool breeze had kicked up.

“And You’re Ugly, Too”
This morning, while my husband was getting ready for work, he told me that yesterday he’d called a church lady. Rumor has it that Church Lady and her husband plan to leave our church. This grandparent-aged couple has been extremely involved in volunteer efforts. They have belonged to this church longer than we have, maybe by ten years.

But they are leaving. They never bothered to talk to my husband, who has been their pastor for the past six years. So, he called Church Lady yesterday to find out what’s going on.

He said, “Is there anything I’ve personally done that has offended you?” Church Lady said, “No.” He prodded a little more, trying to figure out the reason they would be leaving. She finally said, “Well, your sermons are too long and I don’t like your sense of humor.”

Well, then. Glad she figured this out after six years. My husband is a funny guy and he said, “Why didn’t she just tell me, ‘and you’re ugly, too’?”

I told him that God apparently needed Church Lady and her husband’s place on the pews for someone else. They will find some other pastor to complain about.

One of the most frustrating things about working with people in a church setting is that the people feel so free to criticize and discuss the pastor and his family–behind their backs, of course. And that’s all I’m saying about that, lest I sound as uncharitable as I feel at the moment.

This is the first Tuesday of summer vacation. It’s 2:48 p.m. and already, TwinBoyB sat on the couch and said “I’m bored.”

Then it’s working.

My strategy this week is to let them do whatever they want to do. To not interfere in the endless hours of Nintendo and Gameboy and television. By next week, they will be so bored from it all that they will be putty in my hands.

Next week I will impose a little more structure. I have no grand schemes and dreams as in summers gone by when I thought I’d make them read a book a week and do a book report and practice their handwriting and learn the times tables. No. I have learned.

Summer flies by in approximately twenty minutes. I’m waiting until August to make them do the academic stuff the teachers sent home. We’ll get to the library this week, because they read every night. They will be starting journals next week.

Other than that, I’m playing it by ear.

Meanwhile, I told the boys that it will cost them a quarter for each time they say “I’m bored.” Be bored, but don’t irritate me by telling me so.