I woke up this morning to the murky light of morning. I knew in an instant that I had overslept–for the first time I inadvertently stood up my walking buddy. (Only last week I purposely turned off the alarm and went back to sleep.) Last night, I double-checked my alarm clock to make sure it was still set for 6:15 a.m. It was. Then I neglected to flick the “on” button.

So, I stayed snuggled under the covers until 8:00 a.m.

The Magic Roundabout hd The end of Daylight Savings time has little effect on our family now. No one naps and the 5-year old takes our word for it when we tell her it’s bedtime. She slept a little later than usual today, which was odd. I remember the days when we had babies on schedules, though, and how much I detested the time change.

This afternoon, the children played in the back yard even after darkness fell (between 4:30 and 5:00). They didn’t question the early darkness.

I kind of like the dark evenings. The house feels cozy with its little pools of lamplight here and there.

I’m constantly having to ask myself what month it is. Sometimes I am so disoriented that I can’t quite remember what season it is. The circling of seasons reminds me of that water-park ride where you slide down from pool to pool on an inner-tube, around and around until you drop down the rushing water to the next whirpool. Around and around we go, the seasons coming at us faster and faster until, with a whoosh, we’re circling downstream.

At least that’s how it seems to me.

Last night, I took five teenage boys to the Franklin Graham Festival at the Tacoma Dome.  They appeared to have a great time.  When the band, “Starfield” invited the young and young at heart to come down and stand on the floor in front of the stage, three of the five boys hurried down.

I watched from my plastic seat, ever so grateful for the lyrics that appeared on three screens above the stage.

That is how I knew that I am old.  I did not jump.  I did not dance.  Instead, I was just thrilled that I could understand the words, thanks to the visual cues.

Afterwards, I allowed three teenage boys to spend the night at my house.

That is why I deserve a tiara and a sash.  And, perhaps, a new Volkswagen Beetle.

If I kept a to-do list, here’s what yesterday’s list would include:

1. Walk 3.5 miles at 6:30 a.m.

2. Type 20 minutes’ worth of medical dictation (I think that took an hour and a half).

3. Carve three jack-o-lanterns. (I hate carving pumpkins.)

4. Pick up boys from P.E.

5. Stop by craft store for cardboard cake box.

6. Bake four dozen cupcakes. Frost and sprinkle each one with loving care.

7. Wash several loads of laundry.

8. Cook dinner in Crockpot (rice and bean dish).

9. Work from 3 – 5 p.m. online.

10. Escort children trick-or-treating.

11. Work from 9 p.m. until midnight online.

12. Die from exhaustion.

* * *

My 9-year old wanted to trick-or-treat with his best friend, so we waited almost an hour for said friend to arrive. (His mother was running very late.) My 5-year old and 9-year old spent the hour verbalizing their agony and passing out candy to trick-or-treaters who rang our doorbell.

My 14-year olds went trick-or-treating with their friends (and their friend’s dad). I originally discouraged them from going–I really don’t like seeing uncostumed teenagers begging for candy–but my husband (aka The Voice of Reason) said, “You know, they want to go because even though they aren’t little kids anymore, they want to have fun and be little kids again.”

So, I insisted that my boys wear costumes, at the very least, and stay with a parent. (They borrowed costumes from their friend.) We passed them a few houses down, trick-or-treating with a group of kids (and a dad!) and I was glad I relented. Sometimes I can be so unreasonable.

My daughter ran to each house and punched the doorbell before the boys (I had three 9-year olds with me) even reached the porch. Her cheery, “Trick or treat!” rang out loud enough for me to hear by the road. Once, she received her treat and was halfway down the sidewalk when she remembered that she’d forgotten to say “thank you.” She whirled around and marched right back to the front door to say, “THANK YOU!”

In past Halloweens, I have sewn beautiful costumes. When my twins were three years old, one was Winnie-the-Pooh and one was Tigger. When they were four, they wanted to be pumpkins, so I sewed darling pumpkin costumes. When they were five, I created a horse out of a cardboard box so my son had a “horse” to go with his cowboy costume. (His twin was an Indian in a handsewn costume.) When they were six, I painted costumes made to look like GameBoys.

Then . . . they started asking for those cheap-looking costumes you can buy at Target. They were Power Rangers and Darth Vader and . . . well, nothing memorable. My younger son has come up with his own creations . . . guys named Flame (with yellow and red hair) and Zeke and, oh, nothing memorable, but always including colored hair gel. And usually, a cape.

Last night, my younger son wanted to be Zeke, a “guy with black hair and a sword.” He wore the old Flame cape over his all-black clothing. We sprayed his hair with black stripes which ended up just making his blond hair look brunette. He brandished a long plastic pirate sword. My seamstress’s soul died a little looking at him, even though I did create that cape several years back.

My daughter chose to be a butterfly. We bought glittery butterfly wings at a garage sale for fifty cents last summer and, while I suggested that she pair them with this plush caterpillar costume we’ve had for years–that no one has ever worn for Halloween–she decided, instead, to wear a short leotard over a long leotard. She looked a little bit crazy, but she felt beautiful. So be it. (No pictures today because my camera refuses to speak to my computer. Apparently they are embroiled in a private feud.)

* * *

A note to Spirit 105.3, the local Christian radio station:

STOP IT! I do NOT want to hear Christmas music on Halloween. In fact, I don’t want to hear Christmas music before Thanksgiving.

Thank you for your attention to this matter. Don’t make me have to switch the station to talk radio.

Today’s drama was brought to us by a handful of dirt flung into the air.  Said dirt landed squarely in the 9-year old’s eye.  I heard keening, the type of sound that drills into a mother’s ears with unmistakable urgency.  I ran into the back yard and found my boy with his hands over his face, his body bowing to the ground.  I pulled his hands from his face, expecting blood and perhaps a handful of broken teeth, but I found an eye full of dirt.

I hurried him to the kitchen sink, directed the cold spray onto his face, yelled at him to OPEN YOUR EYE, and tried not to freak out.

After a lot of water, a moderate amount of yelling (“you HAVE to open your eye–pretend you’re at the pool!” . . . “but at the pool I wear goggles”!) , and some terror, we succeeded in removing all the dirt from his eyeball.

I’d rather have boredom that that sort of excitement.

My daughter, the culprit, was duly chastened and tearful when I gave her a stern lecture.  She threw the dirt with joy, not malice.  All the same, dirt in the eyeball hurts and scares a mother half to death.

The trick is to have something to write about or writing about nothing in such a way that your readers aren’t smitten with a fatal case of boredom.

This morning at 6:15 a.m., my alarm clock startled me awake.  I swatted around until I connected with the snooze button, then spent the next three minutes deciding whether to stand up my walking buddy.  By 6:18 a.m., I had decided to stay under the covers.  This is the first time I’ve purposely not showed up for my morning walk.

The worst thing is that after I made that fateful decision, I never really fell into a deep sleep again.  My daughter showed up, snuggled under the covers next to me for a few minutes, then scurried back to her room to watch television.  I heard my son’s alarm clock ring and listened to him start the shower.  A few minutes before eight, I wrapped my purple bathrobe around myself, wiggled my feet into slippers and went downstairs to make lunch for my boy.  I had to remind him to brush his teeth and put on his shoes.  (Would he go to school in stockings if I didn’t remind him?)  I combed his hair.

When he left, I went back to bed for fifteen minutes.  Okay, maybe thirty.  I am not a morning person.  Ever.

At 9 a.m., the kindergartener from down the street arrived and I was dressed and appeared alert when I opened the door.  My daughter greeted him with great joy and then they ran outside to swing on the tire swing.  She wore socks and shoes–at my insistence–a tank top with a jack-o-lantern on the front and faded pink capri stretch pants.  The yard was damp from last night’s rain.

I roused my teenagers from their unkempt beds–they are messy sleepers–and moments before their dad appeared to take them to P.E. at the YMCA, I handed each of them a piece of toast and off they went.  Blessed no-complaining-quietness.

Now, be thankful that I spare you the details of the rest of the morning . . . laundry, changing lightbulbs, dishes, ironing,  retrieving dirty socks from far-flung corners . . . oh wait, those were the details.  Suffice it to say that I am Boring.  At half-past noon, the teenagers returned, red-cheeked and full of school-related complaints and the kindergartener left.  I began working at 1 p.m. and finished at 5 p.m.  (Mysterious online job that pays money, real cash money, woo-hoo!)

Husband left for meeting.

We had dinner.  (Chicken, quinoa, corn and broccoli.)

Finally . . . bedtime.

Now, more work (same mysterious blog-time-stealing job) until midnight.

The end.

My husband and I are going to a costume party tomorrow night. I think this will be the first costume party we’ve attended in fifteen years, maybe longer. (We hosted that party, so long ago. I was the Tooth Fairy and he was a cowboy.)

We are going as a famous couple. We have chosen a couple that makes me chuckle . . . but what does not make me chuckle are the unclear shipping policies on the two websites I used to order parts of our costumes. GUARANTEED 1 to 5 days shipping actually means . . . oh, I don’t know, ONE TO FIVE DAYS SHIPPING, right?

Apparently not. Apparently you are supposed to understand that if you order past 9 a.m. (Pacific time), then you’re really ordering the next day. And the day they process the order doesn’t count. And five days really means eight days. Just in case you aren’t familiar with New Math. I ordered in plenty of time, according to the shipping chart, but I didn’t realize that five means eight. Silly me.

Tomorrow morning, I will be haunting the local Halloween shops.

Tomorrow night, I’d better be in my chosen costume or I will have to go dressed as The Very Angry Pastor’s Wife.

(And yes, either way, I’ll post a picture. Want to guess what famous couple we’ll be dressing as?)

I like to keep my thumb on the pulse of pop-culture. I always have. I adore People magazine, though I am too cheap to spring for a subscription. I read movie reviews and watch movies (only in theaters because I am allergic to being interrupted while watching a movie . . . and my life at home is one big interruption after the next). I admit to a fascination with reality television (it’s okay, you can confess that you watch “Gene Simmons Family Jewels” and “The Real World”–I won’t sneer because I watch them, too).

But I cannot abide the following:

1. Kimora. While I do watch her show (while working late at night), I would never consider buying any of her clothing line (Baby Phat, in particular) because I find her so annoying, so self-consumed and so unable to spell. (I can’t stand “cute” spellings and slang spellings of words. Yes, I’m talking about you, Ludacris.) Seriously, when I’m in my favorite store (Marshall’s!) looking for bargains on the clearance racks, I recoil from anything that has a Baby Phat label. I am a Baby Phat snob and it’s all Kimora’s fault. Which brings me to . . .

2. Sean John Puff Daddy P. Diddy Diddy Combs. The problem I have with Sean John Puff Daddy P. Diddy Diddy Combs is his smug attitude, his pompous, insolent demeanor and his misplaced self-confidence. Oh, that and the fact that he failed Marriage 101 and is not married to any of his four children’s mothers. (Nice touch, cheating on your girlfried with whom you have twin babies.) I cannot tolerate him . . . not his music, not his reality shows, not his behavior, not the expression on his face, certainly not his music or his music videos, vodka, or perfume.  And, when I find a piece of his clothing line in Marshall’s, I reject it, no matter how much it has been marked down. I would not want the Sean John clothing label on any of my children. I don’t want to give one penny to Sean Jean Puff Daddy P. Diddy Diddy Combs. Ever.

3.  Joel and Victoria Olsteen.  My dislike for them is irrational, perhaps, and unwarranted, but I cannot stand the fake smiles plastered on their faces.  I want him to cut off his mullet.  I want her to stop speaking in platitudes and cliches.  I am a Yankee, I admit it, and even their accents irritate me.  (But not your accent.  No.  I love your accent.)  Why must these sorts of people be on television when I find them so dreadful?
*  *  *

And that concludes this week’s edition of The Annoyed and Judgmental.  (Yes, that’s me.  Annoyed and judgmental.)

So, last weekend at this time, the skies were blue and I was nearly at the top of Mt. Baker with my friend, Cari. The last few winding curves on the mountain caused Cari to steer her mini-van into the lane away from the cliff . . . she was afraid we’d simply fall off the edge of the road, never to be seen again. I, on the other hand, was unafraid. Probably because of the snow-plowing in the winter, the roads had no guardrails at all. Cari told me that the roads were normally bounded on each side by high walls of snow–which was clear from the 8-foot bamboo stakes lining the roads.

We arrived at the Chalet at about 4 p.m. and set up our scrapbooking supplies. Outside the window to our backs was Mt. Shuksan. I stood and stared awhile, then got to work. My goal was to affix my pictures from 2003 into a scrapbook by the end of the weekend.

Looking back four years over the course of two days reminded me of how much my kids have grown. My life is so much different now, yet so much the same. Four years ago, I had two 9-year olds (who turned 10 during the course of the year). Right now, I have a 9-year old who will be 10 in a few months. Four years ago, I had a 4-year old who turned 5. Right now, I have a new 5-year old.

Things are different now, though. Back then, I had a baby. Now, I do not. Back then, I had all boys. Now I have a daughter who says things like, “What are you wearing today?” and “Isn’t this shirt cute?” Back then, I weighed over 225. Now I’m 55 pounds lighter. I’d gone back to my natural color back then; now I’m blond again.

When I looked at those pictures, I thought of how quickly children grow up. I wonder if I hugged them enough, if I screamed too often, if my children have any awareness of my devotion to them. I wonder what life will be like when four years have passed. My twins will be 18 then. My 9-year old will be a teenager. My daughter will be 9-years old.

My husband, I have no doubt, will look exactly the same. I married him because he is so consistent, after all.

Anyway, the weekend at Mt. Baker flew by in a haze of sore shoulders, stacks of photographs and walks up the mile-loop to the ski-lodge parking lot. We stayed up until 2 a.m. and I slept until 9 a.m. At the end of forty-eight hours, my scrapbook was complete. We drove an hour and a half down the mountain, then I drove three hours home to my family. I arrived after my daughter was in bed.

Then Monday dawned and my real life started all over again. It’s taken me the whole week to regain some momentum.

What a lovely weekend it was, though, worth the lack of sleep and sluggish re-entry into my family.

Here Cari and I are, hiking trails the last day.