When my twins were in third grade, TwinBoyB lost his school library book. It was about the moon and I looked everywhere for that thing. Eventually, I admitted defeat, and paid for the book. They just finished fifth grade, so it was awhile ago.

Last summer, or maybe two summers ago, YoungestBoy’s Gameboy disappeared from the living room. This was about the same time that my husband’s cell phone vaporized. I truly cannot imagine what happened to these things. Did a thief break in and steal two items? Did the dog literally eat them? If so, why didn’t I find the remains of them in the backyard during Poop Patrol?

We bought a replacement remote control because the kids lost the first two. And then the new one disappeared and the old one–the one that is held together with electrical tape because it was crushed once–surfaced. How does this happen?

I hate misplacing things. Even more, I hate searching fruitlessly for lost things. I’m afraid it’s a genetic flaw. My mother will spend an entire weekend in search of a single, invaluable piece of paper. In search mode, she stays in her pajamas, the make-up from the night before still on because she hasn’t gone to bed. She putters and rearranges and loses vast quantities of time searching for stuff. Entire weekends come and go while she tries in vain to find something.

I spend time searching for stuff, then surrender to the universe and admit defeat. We have a new cell phone now, and a new Gameboy. I bought another spare remote control, just in case. I tell the kids, “it’s not lost, it’s just misplaced.”

TwinBoyA took a disposable camera to school on one of the final days of school. He took half the pictures and then the next day, TwinBoyB took the camera. The camera has now disappeared. TwinBoyB claims he gave it to me, but he did not. The school says there is no sign of a camera with TwinBoyA’s name on it. If you happen to see a small, purple Kodak with his name written in Sharpie marker, will you send it back to me?

Meanwhile, guess what happened while I was sorting through the children’s books recently? The very same books that I have reshelved approximately seven thousand times in the last three years . . . that’s right. I found the moon book.

I was too embarrassed to call the school and ask, but I sure wish I could return that book now and get my fifteen bucks back.

This feels like the World’s Longest Day, or at least The Day The Sun Will Not Set. It is summer solstice, you know, which is why the sky is light here in the Pacific Northwest, despite the fact that it’s 9:20 p.m. Darkness will finally arrive at about 10:00 p.m.

But that’s not why this day feels so long.

Last night, we were at the swimming pool. Yes, when I say “we”, I am referring to me and my Girls. Oh, and my family, too. Anyway, when we got home, there was a phone message for my husband from our friend, Michael, who hails from Portland, Oregon. Michael and his family had been in Maui on vacation and their scheduled flight had been changed or rearranged and they missed it. The next best flight was one whose final destination was Seattle.

For those of you who missed geography class (we didn’t have geography class in my high school), Portland, Oregon, is three hours (or so) from Seattle, Washington. Michael and his clan boarded the plane, hoping that my husband would meet them at the airport and help them get home.

The plane was scheduled to arrive at 11 p.m. Or so he said.

My husband, being a prompt man who hates to be late, arrived at the airport before 10 p.m. He called me. “Did Michael call?” “No,” I said. He figured that Michael’s flight had to be the one arriving at 10:20 p.m.

At 11 p.m.: “Has Michael called?” “No,” I said.

At 11:30 p.m.: “Michael and his family are here. Can you get on-line and check the shuttle service from here to our house?” I checked. Last shuttle left at 10:20 p.m.

At midnight: “Someone will be staying at our house tonight and then tomorrow, they will take the train home. I just wanted you to know.”

So, all seven of them piled into our 1993 Mercury Sable. Their eight suitcases were piled into the trunk. Our little sedan has seat-belts for six. I still cannot imagine where they put seven people–which included one baby and her carseat.

Meanwhile, I come back downstairs, turn on the lights and survey the damage. I hadn’t done the lunch dishes because, well, because I hadn’t. Martha Stewart would be very disappointed in me. I finished my transcription after dinner, then we went to the pool and when we came home it was late and I was tired and I figured it could all wait until the next morning.

I swept the floor.
I unloaded the dishwasher.
I filled the dishwasher.
I washed the remaining dishes.
I scrubbed the stove.
I cleaned the bathroom.
I made a bed on the couch.
I cleaned off the table and stacked the newspapers neatly.

At 1:00 a.m., I crawled into bed. I was watching Bravo network’s “Insdie the Actors Studio” when I heard the front door open. Someone came upstairs to use the bathroom (I was so glad I’d cleaned it). Then my husband cracked open the door and saw that I was still awake, so he told me that they were just going to take the car home and he’d take the train down tomorrow and drive it home.

Then, he said, “Someone’s coming through to use our bathroom now.” I pulled the covers to my chin and said “hello” to Debbie as she walked through my laundry-strewn bedroom. How awkward.

I made small talk from under the covers. How odd. Even stranger still was a few minutes later after she’d left. My bedroom door opened again and Rachel (Debbie’s grown daughter) popped her head in and said, “Hi!” Again, more small talk about their vacation and adventure. I am gracious, even when tucked into bed for the night.

They left fairly quickly and then my alarm was ringing and it was morning. I showered and finished dressing before the phone rang. It was DaycareKid’s mom telling me she wasn’t going to bring him today because she was taking him to the doctor for his worsening eczema.

Hooray! A day off!
Bummer. No car.

My husband intended to take Amtrak down to Portland to retrieve the car. Until he remembered that his driver’s license was in the car. And you can’t get a ticket to ride on Amtrak without a picture identification card. So, Mike and Debbie had to turn around and drive our car back to us. He drove our car, she followed in their car.

Since he couldn’t go anywhere, my husband took the baby for a long walk in the stroller and while he was gone, I mowed the lawn and trimmed the ridiculously long boxwood hedge and sprayed the driveway weeds with Roundup. The sun was hot and soon, I was, too.

Our friends arrived an hour early at 3:00 p.m. I was in the front yard, sweating and pulling stupid grass from my ugly little flower bed by the driveway. My husband has suggested weed-whacking it to the ground. He was serious. He said, “Just tell me how to pull the weeds,” which, when translated into plain English means, “Go outside and pull those weeds.” I’ll admit that I was pouting a bit, because I didn’t want to do more yardwork. He was clipping ivy and a wasp stung him, leading me to remind him that if we had not done the yardwork, that never would have happened. Serves him right.

The rest of the day just dragged on and on. Babygirl never went to sleep–until she was in the car with her daddy, going for a ride. My husband is sweet–he takes her away so I can get things done. Today, I worked on letters for my volunteers for Vacation Bible School, which is approaching too quickly. Later, he took the boys to the video game store, while I played with Babygirl in the backyard. Then, still later, I took Babygirl shopping with me at Target. We sang “la la la la, la la la la, Elmo’s World . . . ” as we shopped. The theme from Elmo’s World–sometimes I wake up in the night and that song is playing on auto-pilot in my head.

Finally, finally, finally, the kids went to bed. The sky is now fading to black. Each day will now be subsequently darker and darker until I am complaining about the early nightfall. And so it goes.

We belong to a private swim and tennis club. We pay $400 a summer for this privilege and my children adore going to the pool. Even Babygirl says “pool” and wears her tiny little swimming suit and jumps into the one-foot pool over and over again (while I catch her, of course).

On Friday night, I was standing in the pool, catching Babygirl over and over again. My mother sat near the edge of the pool, taking pictures. My twins were over in the big pool, out of my sight. My 6 year old was playing with two other little boys, skinny, scrawny, tan little kids. I had noticed them eating Nerds and joking around.

I guess I heard a noise. I looked up and saw the three boys sitting on a tall table under the covered area. YoungestBoy’s face was contorted and he was yelling “Stop! Stop!” The other two boys were laughing while YoungestBoy cried.

Without even a hesitation, I took a giant step out of the pool, wrapped Babygirl in a towel and strode over to YoungestBoy. The boy with glasses scurried away, but the very tan, skinny boy couldn’t duck under the table before I caught his arm. I said, “You! Stay there!”

YoungestBoy was incoherent. I heard something about a game that went awry. I gave Tan-Boy the evil eye and said, “If this happens again, I will tell your parents. Do you understand me?” Meanwhile, another mom had collared the Glasses-Boy. Then I said, “Son, tell me what happened.” To Tan-Boy, I said, “Don’t move!”

YoungestBoy told me that Tan-Boy and Glasses-Boy had been pinching him “here” (he pointed to his chubby little boy boobs) and slapping him, even though he was telling them to stop.

What?! I said to Tan-Boy and Glasses-Boy, “WHAT? That is not all right. We are going to talk to your parents. Take me to your mom or dad right now.”

Reluctantly, Tan-Boy took me to his dad. I said, “Our sons were playing together and your son was slapping and pinching my son, even though he told him to stop. I already yelled at him and I thought you’d like to talk with him, too.” Dad seemed unconcerned, unsurprised.

By now, tears were running down the face of Glasses-Boy. His mother was at the far corner of the area. When we reached her, I gave her the same little speech. She seemed shocked.

Then I returned to YoungestBoy who was back near the covered area, trying to figure out how to retrieve a wayward beach ball. I noticed a five-fingered slap mark on his back. I asked him again what happened, but he didn’t want to talk about it. I told him the boys were in trouble.

Just then, my husband walks up. He’d just arrived. I said, “Oh, you just missed an incident.” He wanted to know all about it, but I didn’t want to tell him in front of YoungestBoy, so I tried to abbreviate the story. He was confused, but furious and said, “Son, if that ever happens again, you should smack that kid as hard as you can!”

Gotta love testosterone.

My husband was concerned about the whole thing and after talking to a friend of ours, asked me to repeat exactly what happened several times. It seemed like he thought I had overreacted, but once he understood exactly what happened, he agreed with my response. The boys had previously been playing a game of “Duck, Duck, Slap” and he feared that YoungestBoy could give, but not take . . . (I know. Duck, Duck, Slap? Only boys would make up such a game.)

But this went far beyond a game. He was crying and they ganged up on him, the little skinny brats.

Both moms made their kids apologize. Before we left, the boys started playing together again. Both moms came to me to make sure everything was all right. I made sure to point out the hand-shaped slap mark which was still red on YoungestBoy’s back, just in case anyone thought I was an overprotective, insane mother.

Tan-Boy and Glasses-Boy won’t be messing around with me or my YoungestBoy again. Of that I am one hundred percent sure.

Don’t mess with me or my kids. That’s the number one rule this week.

We belong to a private swim and tennis club. We pay $400 a summer for this privilege and my children adore going to the pool. Even Babygirl says “pool” and wears her tiny little swimming suit and jumps into the one-foot pool over and over again (while I catch her, of course).

On Friday night, I was standing in the pool, catching Babygirl over and over again. My mother sat near the edge of the pool, taking pictures. My twins were over in the big pool, out of my sight. My 6 year old was playing with two other little boys, skinny, scrawny, tan little kids. I had noticed them eating Nerds and joking around.

I guess I heard a noise. I looked up and saw the three boys sitting on a tall table under the covered area. YoungestBoy’s face was contorted and he was yelling “Stop! Stop!” The other two boys were laughing while YoungestBoy cried.

Without even a hesitation, I took a giant step out of the pool, wrapped Babygirl in a towel and strode over to YoungestBoy. The boy with glasses scurried away, but the very tan, skinny boy couldn’t duck under the table before I caught his arm. I said, “You! Stay there!”

YoungestBoy was incoherent. I heard something about a game that went awry. I gave Tan-Boy the evil eye and said, “If this happens again, I will tell your parents. Do you understand me?” Meanwhile, another mom had collared the Glasses-Boy. Then I said, “Son, tell me what happened.” To Tan-Boy, I said, “Don’t move!”

YoungestBoy told me that Tan-Boy and Glasses-Boy had been pinching him “here” (he pointed to his chubby little boy boobs) and slapping him, even though he was telling them to stop.

What?! I said to Tan-Boy and Glasses-Boy, “WHAT? That is not all right. We are going to talk to your parents. Take me to your mom or dad right now.”

Reluctantly, Tan-Boy took me to his dad. I said, “Our sons were playing together and your son was slapping and pinching my son, even though he told him to stop. I already yelled at him and I thought you’d like to talk with him, too.” Dad seemed unconcerned, unsurprised.

By now, tears were running down the face of Glasses-Boy. His mother was at the far corner of the area. When we reached her, I gave her the same little speech. She seemed shocked.

Then I returned to YoungestBoy who was back near the covered area, trying to figure out how to retrieve a wayward beach ball. I noticed a five-fingered slap mark on his back. I asked him again what happened, but he didn’t want to talk about it. I told him the boys were in trouble.

Just then, my husband walks up. He’d just arrived. I said, “Oh, you just missed an incident.” He wanted to know all about it, but I didn’t want to tell him in front of YoungestBoy, so I tried to abbreviate the story. He was confused, but furious and said, “Son, if that ever happens again, you should smack that kid as hard as you can!”

Gotta love testosterone.

My husband was concerned about the whole thing and after talking to a friend of ours, asked me to repeat exactly what happened several times. It seemed like he thought I had overreacted, but once he understood exactly what happened, he agreed with my response. The boys had previously been playing a game of “Duck, Duck, Slap” and he feared that YoungestBoy could give, but not take . . . (I know. Duck, Duck, Slap? Only boys would make up such a game.)

But this went far beyond a game. He was crying and they ganged up on him, the little skinny boys.

Both moms made their kids apologize. Before we left, the boys started playing together again. Both moms came to me to make sure everything was all right. I made sure to point out the hand-shaped slap mark which was still red on YoungestBoy’s back, just in case anyone thought I was an overprotective, insane mother.

Tan-Boy and Glasses-Boy won’t be messing around with me or my YoungestBoy again. Of that I am one hundred percent sure.

Don’t mess with me or my kids. That’s the number one rule this week.

Saturday Night
Last Saturday, my husband and I went on a date. We ate at Mongolian Grill, which reminded me of the last time I ate a similar place. As I reminisced, my husband said, “Um, I’m sensing a little negativity here.” He went on and on, which made me laugh, which is good because it could have easily gone the other way if I’d been married to a lesser man. If I was married to me, I definitely would have left myself years ago.

We saw Stepford Wives, which actually made me laugh out loud a couple of times. My friend, Lisa, said she saw it and it was a complete waste of time, except for Bette Midler, but I enjoyed watching Nicole Kidman act up a storm.

I laughed, too, in the lobby when we ordered popcorn. The round-faced teenage boy handed my husband his change and said, “Do you like my singing?” At least that’s what it sounded like to me. For one moment, I looked at him quizzically, then realized he actually said, “Would you like a receipt?”

Enormous Bosoms on Display
Yesterday was Kindergarten Parent Day. My husband came home from work so I could go and spend the time with YoungestBoy. They had activities from A to Z (airplanes to zoo) set up throughout two classrooms and the multi-purpose room. YoungestBoy and I did nearly all the activities, even jump-roping, which, as a rule, I avoid.

While YoungestBoy was playing with Gak (a clammy concoction made of glue and Borax, sort of play-doh-like), a pair of oversized knockers at the next table over caught my attention. A mom was sitting on a kindergartener-sized chair, leaning over, putting her “girls” on display. She wore a fire-engine red shirt, with undone criss-cross ties highlighting her cleavage. Those ties probably would have not sufficiently laced up her assets anyway, even if she’d attempted to corral them. Even though I have my own pair of larger-than-average milk producers, I couldn’t take my eyes off this woman’s boobage. I wonder how the dads managed.

Near the end of the day, the children were sitting on the floor in the multi-purpose room, eating ice cream. I was taking pictures of YoungestBoy and his buddies when I glanced up and noticed the tatt00. Then I realized: Tattoo Mom and Abundant Bust Mom was the same mom!

The Slug Race
Every kindergarten year ends with the traditional slug race. Children hunt for slugs in their gardens and yards and bring them to school. YoungestBoy found a medium sized slug. His slug was the first in the starting circle on the round butcher-paper covered table. Four other slugs joined and then Mrs. Hopkins said, “On your mark, get set, GO!” The slugs didn’t even blink.

On your mark, get set, GO! 

Then one smallish slug stretched out its slimy feelers and headed for the edge of the table. YoungestBoy’s slug sat like a lump. He looked at me with genuine concern, then back to his slug. Forty kindergarten children crowded around the small table, shouting. Four slugs sat. One slug slid. YoungestBoy scowled at me again and said, “Mom! My slug is going to lose this contest!”

YoungestBoy (in yellow) is unhappy with his slug’s performance.  

His slug did lose the race, though I had to leave before it ended. Apparently some girl took home his slug, but as a consolation prize, Mrs. Hopkins gave me him other slugs. He brought them home in the Kerr jar, and they now sit in my kitchen windowsill, the newest family pets.

Kindergarten Graduation
This morning I was still snuggled in bed, trying to stay asleep, when I heard footsteps and a gentle knock at my door. “Yes?” I said. “Mom,” YoungestBoy said as he opened the door, “Can I go down to the laundry room to play with the kittens?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And mom?” he said. “Don’t forget. Today is my kindergarten graduation.”

My husband, being the amazing man that he is, came home yet again today during Babygirl and DaycareKid’s nap, so I could go to the school to see YoungestBoy graduate. I was surprisingly dry-eyed, though the teacher nearly cried when she mentioned this was her first class ever and how she’d miss the children. The kids were just ready to go! I took lots of pictures and wondered how my boy’s kindergarten year could possibly be over already.

While sitting in the room crowded with parents and grandparents and siblings, I saw a baby with the biggest head. Seriously. He seemed to be about a year old, but he looked exactly like Charlie Brown, except for the striped shirt and saddle shoes.

When the festivities ended, I took YoungestBoy down to our little town’s ice cream shop. I noticed that the barbershop across the street was empty, so on the spur of the moment, I said, “Hey, want to get your summer buzz cut today?” He agreed, so we went to the barbershop first, where the barber buzzed off YoungestBoy’s blond hair. Weirdly, the barber’s right arm was fractured in two places, but after only 12 days the doctor removed his cast and said he didn’t have to wear it again. So, he cuts hair now with a broken arm.

The End
At one point this afternoon, I had eight children in my house. I called my husband to point out that I had eight children in my house and he said, “Oh, just what you always wanted. You used to watch Eight is Enough and dream of having eight children.” Which is not true.

He says I will miss the children when they are gone, but on days like today when I am so tired (I just finished typing a 100-page statement last night), I would like the opportunity to see if I miss them. Could someone please take them away for a week?

Another week ends and here I sit, sore back, squinty eyes, stiff fingers. I accepted another transcription job, due Wednesday morning, which unfortunately, will dominate my spare time (also known as Nap-time and Bed-time). On one hand . . . ick. On the other hand . . . cash!

Yesterday, my dear husband worked from morning to night. After Babygirl’s afternoon nap, the children and I walked down to the nearby elementary school. I just wanted to get them out of the house. Babygirl had a fine time playing on the preschool play structure. She appears to love slides as much as YoungestBoy loved swings when he was her age. I sure hope she prefers slides to swings, because I hate pushing swings. I know. No Mother of the Year Award for me.

Today, my dear husband had to work most of the day again. The boys went to a birthday party at the pool and my husband came home just as they were leaving. He volunteered to stay home while Babygirl napped, so I could go to the party. I would have rather stayed home myself and enjoyed the nice quiet house, but I think he was even more tired than I was. I had a great time at the pool, despite my initial reluctance. A few of the other mothers and I chatted, I took a lot of photographs of the kids and the topic of scrapbooking came up. The other moms all admitted they were behind on their scrapbooks, too, and I suggested we all scrapbook together. Now I have email addresses and I’m going to set up a little “scrapbooking bee.”

The boys were exhausted after the party. They woke up this morning before 6:00 a.m. because they wanted to play the video games I’d rented for them Saturday night. SLAM! Stomp, stomp, stomp, yell. SLAM! The rain and the slamming of the door disturbed my beauty sleep and I was none too pleased about that. I can’t wait until they children are teenagers and they want to sleep until noon. I intend to vacuum very loudly outside their door and then I’ll follow that up with loud banging of the pots and pans. Revenge will be sweet.

Finally. I saw a law firm building with the name of the firm displayed in large letters: “Small, Snell, Weiss and Comfort.” I thought how fortunte Small and Comfort were to have Snell and Weiss join them, because really, would you hire a law firm called “Small, Comfort, Attorneys at Law”?

Today, no DaycareKid because it’s his dad’s day off. I always feel like Fridays are a special holiday because I can actually leave my house and run errands. Except today the banks are closed. I think. Because it’s a National Day of Mourning. I saw bits of the ceremony on television and I was reminded again that ceremony is kind of what glues us together on days like today. And not just “us”, the public, but “us”, those who mourn.

Way back, before we had children, we started a church. My husband did the pastor-stuff and I did the teenager/kid stuff. We had a very small youth group, but one blond girl in particular was helpful and sweet and popular at school. Her name was Andrea, and I used to feel so sorry for her, even while I admired her spunk. Her dad, you see, had been a pastor when she was a young girl. And then he screwed up. Literally. If you know what I mean.

That’s why Andrea and her brother, Jordan, ended up living with their newly single-mother. Their father sold cars for a living and was largely absent from their lives.

We didn’t stay at that church all that long and a few years later, when Andrea was seventeen, we received a phone call from a member of our former church. Andrea had been sitting with a friend on the side of the rural road where she lived and a car struck her. The car had been passing a slower vehicle and never saw the girls.

Andrea lived for a short time, but her brain stem had been severed and she died. My husband and I drove hours to be at the funeral. I spoke at the podium about Andrea during the funeral and when I finished, I stumbled off the stage and then wept.

But later, I found myself dry-eyed, setting up chairs and arranging food and making small talk. And (finally), here’s my point. Setting up chairs is just what you do. It gives you something to do so that you don’t just curl into a ball in a corner and sob until your eyes swell shut. You just do the regular, mundane stuff. You sing Amazing Grace, you sit in a pew, you set up chairs, you shake hands. There is more pomp and circumstance, of course, if you are a former president, but even when you bury a seventeen year old girl, you embrace the protocol and the ceremony and the structure because without it, you might just fall apart forever. You need the glue of ceremony.

The other thing that struck me about President Reagan’s funeral was that Patti Davis seriously needs a makeover. Please, cut your hair, Patti! If my hair gets too long and unruly, will someone please tell me? Please, I am begging you.

So, Day of Mourning or not, we went and as I drove toward the freeway with Babygirl and YoungestBoy buckled into the backseat, I had the radio tuned to the funeral. Ave Maria and then Amazing Grace filled my car and served as background music to the most mundane things: YoungestBoy chattering on about Yu-Gi-Oh cards, Babygirl shouting “bus!”, workers digging by the side of the road, a woman waiting for the bus, car lights blinking and slowing down ahead of me. The moment was surreal and reminded me of a movie, when the music swells and the images change in lieu of narration and time marches on. And then the music fades and the storyline picks up.

As I pulled off the freeway, I saw an odd sight. There was a goose, a Canadian goose, walking around on the shoulder of the freeway. Uh, hello, Mr. Goose? Did you lose something? I wanted to see if a car would hit it, but that would have involved me losing conrol of my vehicle and hurtling over the overpass, which would have made my husband really annoyed, so I just drove on.

Our first stop was Krispie Kreme donuts. I’d never been to the bakery before. Babygirl toddled along behind us. She refuses to hold hands. YoungestBoy was excited to watch the donuts being fried and going under the waterfall of glaze. He ate three donuts, while Babygirl ate half.

Then we went to the nearby mall. I thought we’d kill some time while waiting for Costco to open (at 11 a.m.!). I didn’t realize that Babygirl would refuse to sit in her stroller, though, so our meandering path through the main corridor of the mall took forever. We went into the Gap for kids and I bought two shirts ($3.99 each!) and a pair of pink Mary Janes for Babygirl ($8.99 on sale). I tried the shoe on Babygirl’s foot. She was very cooperative, but when I tried to put her original shoe back on, she cried and yelled “no!” and refused. I showed her the little shoe and I explained that we had to pay first and then she could wear it, but she cried “no” more.

Until then, she was a happy little shopper. I paid for the items and asked her if she wanted the shoe on. No. I put her regular shoe back on and we headed back outside. Which took forever, because she still wouldn’t sit in the stroller. YoungestBoy pushed the stroller and kept swerving it into me. Oh yeah, now I remember why I never take the kids anywhere.

We went to Costco finally and I dropped off my film. Alas, we stayed less than an hour, so I’ll have to pick it up later. I put Babygirl in the seat of the shopping cart and YoungestBoy decided to climb under the bottom of the cart and ride on his stomach. I warned him several times to keep his hands off the floor and away from the wheels. And then, two Asian women blocked the aisle and I paused. When they finally moved, I pushed my cart and it did that skidding thing–you know, when a rock or something catches under the wheel? Only, of course, it wasn’t a rock. It was YoungestBoy’s left ring finger.

He didn’t even make a sound because it hurt so much. He crawled out with his little bloody ring-finger with its tiny little bitten fingernail and his filthy, dirty hands and tears on his face. I knew the pain was worse than any “I told you not to put your hands on the ground” lecture, but there was still a moment when I wanted to throttle him and yell at him for not listening to me when I was trying to prevent this from happening in the first place! Upon closer examination, the injury wasn’t that serious. Just a little blood. I added a huge box of Band-aids to our cart and we paid and then went to the bathroom to wash up and do a little Mom first-aid.

He’s fine, but he calls it “my injury.” “Mom, I’m just lucky that my injury was not on my strong hand.” I said, “Yes, you are very lucky.” In an unlucky sort of way, of course, because do lucky boys get their ring-fingers run over by enormous Costco shopping carts?

I just have to make note of a very important moment. Babygirl peed in her little potty today for the first time. (She’ll be two on September 2.) She wasn’t wearing a diaper, but she was wearing a little pair of shorts and the pee ended up mostly in the potty anyway.

She was so surprised.

So was I. I applauded and we talked about it over and over again. I wonder if it will mean anything? The twins weren’t potty-trained until they were three and a half and YoungestBoy was somewhere between two and three years old.

Another milestone, but the Diaper Era is not one I will miss. At all. Ever.

I like to think I’m an easy-going person. When Al called today to let me know that he may or may not have the transcription for me to type this weekend, I say, “Hey, no problem. Just let me know.” When Della told me she could not coordinate the preschool area of Vacation Bible School, I said, “I completely understand. It’s okay.” When DaycareMom telephones to say she’ll be half an hour late picking up DaycareKid, I say, “Don’t worry about it. We’re fine.” See? Easy-going. Laid-back. Calm.

I just have a few rules I’d like everyone to follow.

1) The bathroom trashcan. This trash can is not for magazines, dry-cleaning plastic and giant manila envelopes that came in the mail. This trashcan is for tiny, delicate bits of trash, like dental floss and q-tips and wadded up tissues. Nothing more. So quit putting over-sized trash in it!

2) The remote control. When you are finished watching television, please turn it off and then return the remote control to its rightful home. As you know, the correct location for this item is in the green recliner, tucked between the seat and the arm rest. Please. As a courtesy to me, put the remote control down and slowly back away from the chair.

3) The kitchen sink. Dirty dishes are to be rinsed and then placed neatly in the left hand side of the sink. Food is never to be placed in the left hand side of the sink because the garbage disposal is in the right hand side of the sink. This may come as a surprise, but it’s always been that way. Your Raisin Bran must be disposed of properly. Oh, and just so you know, the plates should be standing on edge, the bowls stacked according to size and the silverware lined up, all facing the same direction. I’ll take it from there. The correct loading of the dishwasher has a complicated set of rules of its own. Trust me. I’ll take care of it.

4) The bed. Make it when you get out of it. And then place the pillows (yes, all of them) across the head of the bed. Body pillow on bottom, feather pillow on top, large purple pillows next, then two small pillows. The remote control belongs on the table next to my side of the bed. And stop leaving your popsicle sticks there.

5) Trash. This one is simple. Put the trash in the proper receptable. In other words, use the trash can–but not the bathroom trash can. Use the other trash cans. Unless, of course, you can see that the kitchen trash can is full, in which case, please use common courtesy and take your big old piece of trash to the large trash can in the laundry room.

Now, if everyone would just follow these simple guidelines, life would be perfect. See how easy-going I am? And my husband says I have hundreds of rules. Ridiculous. Dozens, at the most. Dozens. Of categories. But they all make sense and have good, sound reasoning and solid scientific back-up.

Why? Because I said so.