The absence of a baby in my house is never more obvious than on holiday mornings when I fall back to sleep after being rustled awake by the five-year old. She has become self-sufficient and can toast her own waffle and glob enough butter on it to clog her arteries before she starts kindergarten.

The teenagers would sleep through a hurricane and the 9-year old is so responsible that he creeps out of bed without waking anyone. (On school days, he sets his alarm and settles at the kitchen table to do homework–I find him there on the days I am up early to walk at 6:30 a.m. After he finishes his homework, he takes a shower and then welcomes his best friend who arrives by 7:15 a.m. for “before-school care.” All without any adult direction.)

Thus it was that I muddled through a fuzzy dream and woke with bleary shock at 8:52 a.m. I was scheduled to work for an hour beginning at 9 a.m. . . . and my turkey was scheduled to be shoved into the oven at 9:00 a.m. So I stood in the kitchen wearing slippers and a sloppy purple robe smearing butter on my turkey . . . I was signed onto the computer to work by 9:00 a.m., but finished up my shift at 10:15 a.m. since I was still washing butter off my hands at 9:10 a.m.

I cooked the entire Thanksgiving feast and had it on the table by 1:30 p.m. One of my twins prepared the green-bean casserole. My 5-year old ate a couple of fistfuls of black olives, two crescent rolls and some turkey. My teenagers ate all the green bean casserole, turned up their noses at the dressing and sweet potatoes and corn souffle and guzzled their sparkling cider. My 9-year old ate only crescent rolls (“Mom, these rolls are fantastic!”), turkey and mashed potatoes.

By 2:00 p.m., I was consolidating leftovers into containers, washing serving bowls, throwing away paper plates (PAPER PLATES!) and picking meat from the turkey carcass. By 2:30 p.m., I was reading the newspaper, trying to ignore the children. At 4:30 p.m., I took the two younger children over to my mom’s where we said hello to her and great-grandma (who is closing in on her 102nd birthday in March), my brother and his wife.

Angels in the Outfield movie My husband fulfilled his Thanksgiving responsibilities by napping and watching at least two football games. It’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it.

Two of my boys are playing chess, which ought to delight me, but irritates me. Do not ask me why because I have no rational reason, other than the fact that their arguments about the rules never end. My other son is playing a computer game, frantically typing with his index fingers, listening to music and cracking his knuckles.

And thus another Thanksgiving comes to a somewhat quiet end. We ended up not having company but my husband–oh, he did have a job today–vacuumed anyway.

I am thankful for my electric appliances: oven, fridge, washing machine, dishwasher, dryer.

I am thankful for my children, even on days when they won’t stop bickering and on days when they insist they know more than me.

I am thankful for my husband, aka the Calmest Man Alive.

I am thankful for my family, those who’ve known me the longest.

I am thankful for my friends, both those in real life and those on the Internet.

I am thankful, even on days when I complain as if I am determined to win a Complaining Contest.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I had a brief flicker of an idea today.  But, alas, it’s gone.  *POOF*

I wonder what it was . . . and if it will reappear?

The only homeless person I know personally chose to be homeless. He reveled in his freedom, slept in parks, joined the carnival, showered occasionally when he came to visit. This has colored my perception of homeless people. Perhaps I was less sympathetic than I ought to have been.

When I was a teenager, a couple of my friends and I used to go to the local Rescue Mission to sing. I don’t think the Tacoma Rescue Mission does this, but back in the day, that Rescue Mission insisted that the guests sit through a church service before they were fed. My girlfriends and I provided the music while the unkempt men stared. I was grateful to be sitting on the piano bench, hands on the keyboard, face to the wall. Those homeless men scared me.

Today, I went with my husband to a luncheon presented by the Tacoma Rescue Mission. Various politicians stood as we applauded. A local radio host gave a keynote address. (Mercifully short, not that it wasn’t interesting, but I find listening to speakers rather agonizing. I am a squirmer.)

Then, the director of the mission introduced a woman who read her story from a prepared piece of paper. I noticed her long blue fingernails. She described a life lived on the fringes, of twenty years of drug addiction, of a murder conviction and a 56-month sentence in the women’s prison at Purdy. She told of her phone call to the Rescue Mission, of how her life and the lives of her children were turned around. She spoke of her job at the Mission, of her promotion.

Tears sprung to my eyes.

Last year, the Mission provided shelter and services to families. But they could only help one of out every four that asked. Tonight, eighty children are sleeping at the Rescue Mission. Tragically, the majority of homeless people in this county are children.

The great news is that the Mission will soon begin building a Family Shelter which will allow them to meet the needs of so many more families. The sad news is that so many families need their assistance.

The good news is that we can do even small things to help. Here is what we can do locally. What can you do?

I found this sentence I wrote a few years back:

“Taking a toddler anywhere is like plopping a live grenade in your purse and hoping no one jostles you.”

Oh, so funny!  I am hilarious, if I do say so myself!

Fahrenheit 9/11

Last week, 5-year old Grace came rushing into the house from the back yard, clutching a stick. She thrust it into my face and asked, “Mommy! What is this?”

Clinging to the end of the stick was a small slug.

“That’s a slug,” I said.

“Oh! I love it! I’m going to keep it for a pet! Can I have a container?”

She kept the slug for approximately seven minutes, then shook it out of the Tupperware and said, “Mom. When can I get a hamster?”

Now, don’t tell her, but I have always had a soft spot for hamsters in my heart. When I was a schoolgirl, my friends all seemed to have hamsters in clear plastic Habitrail cages. I, too, wanted a fluffy hamster to play with and watch as it crawled through the tunnels of its hamster-playground.

I asked my mother and to my great shock, she acquired not one hamster, but two. The problem was that instead of a trendy plastic Habitrail, my hamsters came in a giant sturdy, homemade wooden box with a wire front. The box was divided into two sections because my hamsters–mother and son–hated one another.

The bigger problem was that the seafoam-green box was stinky and difficult to clean. Hamster urine soaked into the unfinished wood. (What were those grown-ups thinking?) Cleaning it was my job, of course, but I was just a child, probably eight or nine years old, and I couldn’t manage it.

I never did bond with my two hamsters. They were a source of anxiety to me and a distressing disappointment. My mother never quite understood my desires. Once, I asked for roller skates–my friends and I liked to go to the roller rink on weekends and skate. And my friend had her own skates. My mother gave me skates for Christmas, but my new skates did not have rubber wheels, but steel ones. They were just wrong, all wrong.

One fall, I needed a new winter coat. At a garage sale, my mother handed me a dark brown corduroy coat. The sleeves were too short and it was hideous. I refused it and felt my mother’s anger. She was probably not angry with me, but angry at a life that forced her to buy winter coats for her children at garage sales. (I am a bargain-shopper, myself, but I like the thrill of finding a good deal.) Still, I felt the sting of her fury.

These things I remember have no file in my mother’s memory. She can’t even remember the puppy, Midnight, that was given to me as a Christmas gift one year. Although we lived in the same home, we lived lives that only barely intersected from time to time. She’s can’t remember most of my childhood.

I hope that jotting things down here will help me remember not only my own life, but the slugs that make an occasional appearance in our home. My life as a middle-aged woman is about grasping the small moments, examining them and imprinting them on my memory. Later, I will say, “Yes! I remember that day with the slug!” and we will exult in our shared memories.

(What I will not save for later is the memory of my teenage son who is intent on driving me crazy with his lazy insolence. And he was so cute when he was little.)

I am so tired. I used to say that so much in college that I was mocked by my friends. I have learned to not express aloud every thought that floats through my head, so I don’t say it all the time. (I also stopped habitually saying, “Well. . . ” when my friend Lisa started following that up with, “Well, hell, Mel,” although I do find the rhymes satisfying.)

But today? Really, I am so tired. Yesterday I woke up early to walk, then did not go back to bed, but instead did my morning transcription work, supervised the 5-year olds, badgered my teenagers to do their school work, worked online from three to five and then eight to midnight . . . and then, looky here! A new day dawns.

You know what cures this, right? A long trip to Tahiti, no Moorea. (Click here and check out the what we’d see if we were there right this second.) Barring that, Diet Coke. Guess which I get today?

Fahrenheit 9/11 dvdrip

Last night was my 9-year old’s football banquet, also known as two hours of chaos and a plate full of cold spaghetti.  The most curious moment of the night happened after I had been distracted from the introduction of each football player.  I regained my focus and turned back to the makeshift stage.  At that very moment, a mother in front of me turned around and said, “HEY, WE CLAPPED FOR YOUR KIDS!  NOW CLAP FOR OURS!”

I obediently put my hands together and resumed my mindless clapping for kids I didn’t know.  Noise already filled the room to capacity and I can’t believe the elimination of my clapping made any difference to that mother, but it did.

Her assertiveness, however weird and misplaced, reminded me of the movie theater last weekend.  I went to see “Gone Baby Gone” (good movie, but not quite as good as the hype), and one seat away from me sat a talkative couple.  They chatted through previews and I hoped that they’d stop during the movie.  She swiveled in her seat and thrust her high-heeled feet across his lap, a clear indication that they were on a date, if you ask me.  I wouldn’t dream of putting my feet across my husband’s lap at a movie theater.

They continued to murmur and talk during the movie.  I kept turning to glare at him, but he apparently had no peripheral vision.  I seriously considered tossing popcorn at them, but then remembered I am not eleven years old.  Finally, to my great relief, a woman on the other side of the Talkative Couple stood up, marched audibly over to them and said in an indignant voice, “Will you please stop talking?  It is hard to watch a movie while you’re making so much noise!”

And, what do you know, the Talkative Couple shut up.

I was able to eat all my popcorn and not waste a single kernel by pelting the inconsiderate idiots who should rent a DVD if they cannot watch a movie in silence.

My husband is leaving Thursday morning for a three day business trip.  The very thought of his absence feels like someone has swallowed the key, locking me in here forever.  The reality of being home with my kids (and random neighborhood kids) through the weekend is not horrible.  I can sort of sleep in on Saturday (minus the twenty-minute check-ins from my daughter–it’s like the warden is legally obligated to make sure I’m still alive).  I can drive in my mini-van wherever I want, as long as I have it full of underage passengers.  I can cook whatever suits my fancy.
But I cannot be alone.  And being alone is what I crave, even more than Diet Coke with Lime.

Furthermore, I am faced with a stretch of days with no solitude in sight, for when Saturday ends, the hustle-bustle of another week begins . . . and the following Saturday I have a social obligation . . . and the following Saturday, I have another social obligation.  Then it will be December.

I am in uncharted territory, this vast land of childhood where sippy cups are no longer required and children can buckle and unbuckle their seatbelts with no help from me.  My youngest child refuses to hold my hand in parking lots, reminding me, “I am a big girl now.”  I peer ahead and see signs:  “Driving Permits Here” and “College Applications Here” and the very idea offers simultaneous hope and terror.

Evan Almighty movie

I wonder if my parents were as freaked out by the uncertain future as I am?  Did they worry?  Or did they focus all their worry on my other siblings since I was so responsible?

I’d ponder more, but my son needs help with algebra now and I hear the distinct sound of trouble in their room.