On one of those evening entertainment shows (they all look alike to me), the Bravo (the channel) mother of a four-year old beauty pageant contestant said, “The pageants have helped her to, definitely, become a person.”

Just make up your own sarcastic comment here. I’m too tired.

TwinBoyB (left), TwinBoyA (front and center), YoungestBoy (right, trying to get into the picture).  

Earlier this evening, I was sitting in the back yard with Babygirl while she put sand in her hair.

Then TwinBoyB flung open the sliding glass door and announced, “Mom! He called me a jackass!” He actually seemed a little pleased, happy, smug, but he is a tattler-extraordinaire.

“HEY! Come here!”

TwinBoyA came with his hand raised like an attorney approaching the bench. “Mom, I meant donkey! Technically, that means donkey, you know!”

My boy has been reading too much again. Or succumbing to peer pressure.

I practiced “Active Listening,” and then I explained that in 2004, we cannot call people “jackass” because it’s not polite. Teaching children to use polite language is almost an exercise in futility, but I will persist. At least in my house, they will not use crass language.

When I was a child, my dad used the f-word. Once. Only once in my whole life did I hear him use that word . . . and I can remember his face, I remember the sentence, I remember his fury. I had been riding with my mother in her car and we encountered his vehicle coming toward us on the road. We pulled over into a parking lot to talk and then he accused my mother of trying to, shall we say, “ruin” his Christmas by inviting my brother to her house. Now, my brother and father were estranged and we were used to having to shuffle back and forth on the holidays (since my mom and dad divorced).

But he had expected my brother and my sisters and I to be at his house at Christmas. He had not communicated well, though, and a misunderstanding resulted and he was infuriated. I was completely shocked, horrified and devastated. I hated conflict and this, this word stunned me. I can still feel his anger like a heavy stone in my belly.

He taught me that people who use vulgar language do so because they lack a strong vocabulary. I’ve always believed so and even now, even when I read curse words in mainstream magazines (Vanity Fair, for instance), my eyes still feel seared and I kind of cringe.

So, please, go wash out your mouth with soap before you leave comments here. Thank you.

My husband has been working really long days. So have I. And yet, even though I clean my kitchen, it never looks clean. I ran out of dishwasher liquid because he is never home at night so I can get to the store. Yesterday, I rewashed all the dishes in the dishwasher and put them in to dry, then washed all the dishes from the night before. And there were still dirty dishes.

And then we had dinner. I left the mess in the kitchen, supervised the boys because they had to leave at 6:20 p.m. for church. Then I concentrated on playing with the baby and cleaning her and putting her in her pajamas. At 7:30 p.m., she was ready for bed, but I needed to wait and let the boys in and instruct them to get ready for bed because if I did not, they would just play Nintendo until their eyeballs fell out.

At 7:55, the phone rings. It’s TwinBoyA relaying some frivolous information about the movie plans for tonight. But at least I know he’s at church and will be home soon. I put the baby to bed at 8 p.m. Husband returns at 8:02 p.m. and wonders where the boys are. I tell them they will be home very soon and sure enough, they come home moments later.

I say the same things over and over again. Stop playing Nintendo. Put on your pajamas. If you want a snack, it’s now or never. If you want to watch television, it’s time. At 8:30, you are going to bed. Stop yelling. Okay. You can play Nintendo, but you have only fourteen minutes. Stop being annoying. Okay, five minutes. While I’m saying all this, I’m at the computer, biding my time, waiting until they go to bed because I have work to do.

Earlier in the afternoon, in a fit of greed and delusion, I agreed to do a transcription job that had to be finished by morning. Al estimated it would be 24 to 32 pages. That translates to about three hours.

Then while standing in the kitchen, my husband said it.

“Well, I’m glad to see that the kitchen is a mess as usual and that the house is a wreck. Someday, dear, you’ll wear make-up again and a dress and everything, right?”

I didn’t hear everything, though, because at that point I jumped up, hurdled the iron railing between the family room and kitchen and decked him. Then I sat on him until he couldn’t breathe, which, at my current weight, only took a few moments, and pummeled him with my dishwater hands.

Oh. Wait. Maybe I only imagined that part.

After he commented about the condition of my house–the house I haven’t left for 72 stinking hours–I stood up and told the boys it was bedtime. I allowed them to finish “just one more thing.” Then I picked up a few things in the family room, mouth in a tight, grim line and tried not to stomp.

My husband asked what time Shrek starts today. (He’s taking YoungestBoy. And furthermore, we’re letting YoungestBoy skip school to go to a movie. Boy, I wish I was my own kid.) I answered in an even voice, not making eye contact. I said, “Let me look,” and went into the kitchen to check out the listing in the paper.

Now, my husband, being brighter than the average bear, says, “Hey, are you mad? If I can’t joke around with you, then I just won’t say anything again.”

I said, choking back tears, “It’s fine. I just have PMS.”

Then I told him the movie times.

Then I typed.

While I was typing, I heard him in the kitchen rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. Of course, I should have told him that I have no dishwasher liquid, but I was too angry that he was doing the dishes because doing the dishes is my job and his actions commented silently to me, “YOU ARE A HORRIBLE FAILURE AS A HOUSEWIFE! WHY, OH, WHY, DIDN’T I STAY IN TEXAS WHERE WOMEN KNOW HOW TO TREAT THEIR MEN?” When he finished loading the dishwasher, he said, “Where’s the dishwasher liquid?” I said, “I’m out.” He said, “Well, I just loaded the dishwasher.” (Which, by the way, took him at least three times longer than it takes me.) I said, “Yeah, well, I guess I’ll have to rewash them by hand as I need them.” Before he went upstairs, he brought me a big, cold glass of water and pretzels for a snack.

I finally finished typing at 11:35 p.m. I would have finished earlier, but my stupid word-processor gave me an error message and warned me, ever so sweetly, that I might lose the unsaved material I had. That was five pages, gone in a poof!

So.

Today, I am $68 richer and my house is still a wreck. I’ve just baked and eaten chocolate chip cookies, though, with the last half-bag of chocolate chips that I own. Only two hours until naptime. I’m pretty sure I can make it until then, unless, of course, someone comments on my housekeeping skills or washes dishes for me.

Monday, my husband’s day off, he was gone from 9:30 a.m. until 7 p.m. J_____ had a heart attack and died around noon. The funeral will be on Saturday.

Tuesday, my husband worked from 8 a.m. until 9 p.m. He spent the afternoon and evening at the home of a middle-aged woman who was dying of cancer. Five minutes after he left, she died. He figured she was waiting to die until she was alone with her family. That seemed to be the case. She leaves behind a husband and two teenagers. The funeral will be on Sunday.

Tonight, he will head back to assist the family with funeral arrangements. He’ll probably be home at 8 p.m.

This means that I have been on full-time duty for . . . well, it seems like forever. He takes the kids to school, but I’ve been doing everything else. I am so weary. And there really is no end is sight, which makes the journey seem even more grueling.

And then, I think how grateful I should be for my health and the health of my family and all that. So, I am grateful. Weary, but grateful.

When I was in college, I knew a boy named Ron. Well, I knew several boys named Ron and when I say “knew,” I do not mean in the biblical sense. Anyway, I remember first seeing Ron in the cafeteria when he was a brand new student. He was blond and attractive and he was collecting old baked potatoes from people’s trays. He found this wildly funny and I found it wildly weird. But he was cute.

As time went on, we connected somehow. I was “taken” already–having committed to a relationship with my now-husband–so I was a safe partner to just hang out with. (My boyfriend lived in another town, three hours away.) He knew I wouldn’t get any ideas about dating him since I was off the market. I was happy to just laugh at this wacky boy.

I remember mostly riding in his red car, going to the ice cream parlor. I remember how amazed he was that I was a virgin.

And I remember very clearly the conversation we had one day in the cafeteria. At one point, he said something like this:

Ron: I just wish I could find a girl who is really smart and really funny. Someone who can make me laugh and who likes to have fun.
Me: (Half-joking) Oh, you mean someone like me? Only prettier?
Ron: Yes! (Relieved that I understand.)

Before we were married, my husband once said to me, “So, I was trying to decide between you and Kim. And I said to myself, ‘Would I want my daughter to grow up to be beautiful, like Kim, or to have personality and character, like Mel?’ And I chose you!”

The thing is, those kind of back-handed compliments used to really hurt my feelings. But the older I get and the saggier my eyelids become, the more grateful I am that I always treated myself first as a really smart, funny girl. I always felt I had a secret when male eyes would flit over my unremarkable face, overlooking me in favor of my Beauty Queen friends.

The secret is this–if you could actually read, you wouldn’t judge this book by its cover, you idiot!

(p.s. My husband has repeatedly assured me that he does think I’m beautiful. Just thought I should include that disclaimer.)

Husband returns home at 7 p.m. and is ambushed by YoungestBoy asking, “Can we go down and see our kittens?”

The kittens that we promised the neighbor we would adopt.

They return twenty minutes later and YoungestBoy says, “We are going to get the mama cat and two kittens.” Husband looks at me and says, “Mom and I have to talk about it.”

Later, YoungestBoy says, “We have to get the mama cat and the kittens so that the kittens don’t run away back to find their mama.”

Husband raises eyebrows at me. Apparently, we are soon to be the proud owners of three cats. Yes, count them. One. Two. Three. One for each of the boys, I guess.

(Remember, husband said “no more cats.” Of course, that same night he got the Chinese fortune cookie that said, “Someone will give you something.” Who said fortunes don’t come true?)

My husband came home for a short time and told me that J____ had stabilized. Unfortunately, not for long and my husband returned to the hospital. He just called me to say that the man died.

I think of his wife, now a widow. She did CPR on him this morning to keep him alive until the ambulance came.

They were married a long, long time. They liked to square-dance until she hurt her back. They raised children and doted on their grandchildren. For fun, they took their huge R.V. on vacations, when they weren’t going on cruises. He served in World War II. None of this will be a comfort to her right now, but I hope that as the days pass, the memories of their happy life together will surround her like a soft hug.

(DaycareKid went down for his nap at 1 p.m. as usual. Babygirl is awake. It’s going to be a long time until 8 p.m.!)

My husband is a pastor. So, he takes off Mondays. I think he feels guilty about taking a day off when I don’t ever have a day off, so between naps, he tries to do things to help me. Before he started his Superdad/Superhusband Day, he decided to go have a nice quiet breakfast in a restaurant and read.

Here at the homefront, the phone rings and a crying, hysterical voice says, “I’m trying to reach Pastor. This is C____ W_________. J_______ just had a heart attack and they are taking him to the hospital.” I tell her all right, I’ll give him the message. Call his cell phone. No answer. Call the restaurant and the woman checked with every solitary man there (“does he have an earring?” Uh, no!). He wasn’t there. He arrived home shortly and I gave him the message and off he went.

So, he will not be taking YoungestBoy to play at the park and hit some balls.
He will not be taking Babygirl for a walk.
He probably will not be mailing that package for me at the post office.

And this day just keeps getting stranger. I ran YoungestBoy some bathwater and when I returned downstairs, I found Babygirl asleep on the floor. At 11 a.m. Then I went into the boys’ room to sweep and when I returned to the family room, DaycareKid was all curled up facing Babygirl. Asleep.

They did not have lunch yet. Their naptime isn’t until 1 p.m.

Apparently, today is a test of my flexibility. I may not be able to do a backbend anymore, but I sure can swing with the punches!

Will someone please tell the idiots who put up the sign that read “7-Family Garage Sale” that I did three u-turns trying to find the garage sale?

It helps if the signs actually direct people (with money in their purse, ready to spend) to your garage sale.

I did find have success at one garage sale, though. I bought a Playskool “Sit’n Spin” which is 30 years old, though it looks brand new. Babygirl can’t quite figure out how to spin around, but she does swing from side to side and say “wheeeeee!”

YoungestBoy had a baseball game schedule for 10 a.m. and when he arrived at 9:40 a.m., it was just ending. The coach called my husband’s work number, late, after he left work yesterday to notify him on the time change.

Are people trying to annoy me?

By the way, Babygirl has started yelling “Mom!” at me, usually from another room. It’s lovely how advanced the youngest child of the family is.

And now, only fifteen minutes until bedtime, thank heavens, or I might actually bash my head into my brick fireplace until I fall unconscious.