The Cinnamon Raisin Bagel Incident

Long ago, when our marriage could be measured in months easier than years, we were broke. Not in a wow this really needs fixed way, more like a can groceries be considered optional this week? way. Broke enough that fancy bagels, or even regular bagels for that matter, were a delicacy. My sweet new husband decided to treat me and picked up beautiful cinnamon raisin bagels after an early morning shift at UPS. Unfortunately I despise raisins; from the texture to the taste to the thought of poor grapes losing all their god-given moisture to become shriveled shells of themselves. Yuck!

They may actually be my least favorite food, but somehow the subject had yet to come up.

We've laughed about the cinnamon raisin bagel incident for years. It represented everything we still had to learn about each other and the surprises still left to find in our relationship.

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Peter still likes to bring home small surprises for me. He often picks something up when he's out, although after the cinnamon raisin bagel incident, he buys things he already knows I like. Which is why he was struck last week when he passed a case of Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper. Knowing my preference for DDP and my love of vanilla flavoring, he immediately picked it up to surprise me. But there was a major flaw, however, as this gift was Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. Pepper.

You see, three days before I was messing around with my "about me" section on this very blog. Trying to be silly, I had started with the most trivial information I could think up about myself. This is what I'd written:

"The most important thing you could know about me is that I hate the taste of cherries. Not cherries themselves, just the taste of them as a flavoring. This is due to years of cherry flavored medicine, which eventually led to my association of the flavor with nastiness. "

His timing was perfect, it was the cinnamon bagel incident all over again.

(Although I found the vanilla flavoring mellows the cherry taste, allowing me to enjoy my treat. Still I couldn't get over the rather hilarious timing.)

Have you ever inadvertently given your loved ones a failure of a gift?

Our Super Adapting Skills

I’ve noticed my family adapts extremely well. It’s amazing really. I mean, Darwin might as well have studied us when he developed his theory.

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For instance…

Our entire married life, my husband has probably averaged 55-70 hours per week working (and/or studying). I bet close to 99% of it was weekends and evenings, too. Or at least it felt that way. When we moved here, his work dropped closer to 30.

The first month, I was thrilled contemplating his new schedule. After so many years, the thought of him home more often made me giddy. The idea of regular family time blew my mind.

The second month, I couldn’t believe how many family activities he attended. No longer did I need to drag the kids out on my own.

The third month, I frowned a little when he worked on the same night as a church activity. What a pain!

The fourth month, I caught myself irritated -even slamming a car door- because he worked on a Tuesday; I had to drive the Suburban on my regular errands instead of borrowing his more fuel-efficient car! I mean how unlucky is that?

Then I had a reality check. Hello. My super-adapting skills caused me to go from ecstatic to whiny in four short months, way too soon take his new schedule for granted. Months 5 and 6, I kicked myself whenever I thought to complain. (I’ll not embarrass myself by telling you how often I had to do it.)

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Of course my kids have adapted, too. They’d probably seen their cousins, at most, 5 times their entire lives. Less than six months after moving closer, they think I’m inflicting cruel punishment if they go longer than 4 days without contact.

I won’t talk about my husband’s adapted need to be on the golf course 3 times a week.

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Perhaps our adapting talent is only surpassed by our whining one. Hopefully we get to continue adapting to more positive things instead of testing our ability in the other direction!

Learning to balance the teenager line

It must have been quite late, that night several months ago, when the creeping footsteps woke me. I could feel her in the room, hesitating by my bedside, hoping to not startle me awake.

"What do you need?" I mumbled, still half asleep.

"Matthew just threw up. I've started a bath for him and stripped the sheets. I'll wash him off, remake the bed and clean it all up. I just remembered running water in the middle of the night often wakes you, and I didn't want you to worry when you heard it."

I felt instant relief as I sank back into dreamland. My teenager seemed to grasp what needed done and had it under control. My precious sleep time could be preserved.

Just as I hit the brink of oblivion, a thought jolted me back; I suddenly remembered that I am the mother. She was a good-hearted teenage girl who still needed sleep before facing a full day of middle school. Just because she is willing to take on responsibility doesn't mean I should make her. So I sighed as I forced my body fully awake. I thanked her for being so kind to her youngest sibling, and sent her off to bed while I headed down to take care of a sick preschooler.

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I know I lucked out with my teenagers. So far, they still like my husband and me. In fact, they still model their behavior on us. I guarantee you if I'd heard how she comforted her brother that night, it would've been exactly what I'd say. They crave responsibility and often thrive on it.

My struggle is finding the balance. Where is the line between teaching them to be a grown up and letting them be a kid a while longer?

The hard thing is I suspect that darn line is moving around. Not only is it vastly different for every child and age, it is different from day to day. Sometimes it's movement can be measured in minutes. At times, I realize I've heaped too much responsibility on and other times I've let the load become too light. Tracking our proximity to this child-teenager-adult line is often near impossible.

But even I knew midnight sick duty for a four-year-old jumped far over the line. Despite what my sleep addled mind whispered in the moment.

Dinner tonight, however, will be up for you-should-know-how-to-do-this grabs.

Not my finest trait- The Reluctant Baseball Mom

A Baseball Mom by protest. That is what I am. My kids asked passionately, I relented. I wish it were my favorite thing to do: go to three 1 1/2 hour practices a week and two 2-3 hour games a week, almost all right over dinner time, all so I can watch, if I'm lucky, 1 minute of performance by my child. But try as I might, it just isn't MY thing.

Still, I go. I try to watch when it is my kids' turns. I try to notice things to talk about on the way home. I try to smile and appear like I am enjoying myself. I'm pretty sure my kids know better, though.

It would help if things went a little easier.

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First some definitions:

Scrimmage: A mean trick where they turn a drop-off-and-leave-the-child practice into a game-you-must-stay-to-watch, at least part of, even though it isn't a REAL game.

Scrimmage BONUS: Peter is working so I get the job of being the parent who stays. For some unknown reason I decided to bring my youngest two children with me. Extra fun that he worked every night this week which meant I got to run all three kids in baseball to their practices all week.

Scrimmage DOUBLE DOWN BONUS: Is there some Law of Baseball that the temperature, hovering near 70 all day, must DROP and the wind must PICK UP during games or scrimmages?

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So we are at the scrimmage. My six-year-old, Joseph, wants to know if we can go to the Concussion Stand. Well, it does feel like you've been hit in the head when you see the prices. It is another unwritten Law of Baseball that you buy food at the Concussion Stand, so I buy nachos and a pretzel. I also get two cups of hot chocolate to counteract the falling temperature. My 4-year-old, Matthew, proceeds to dump half of one cup on my jacket, while I am wearing it. Joseph manages to dump half the other cup on the ground. Maybe we were all hit in the head.

Actually last week I WAS hit in the head at a game. Luckily it was after the ball hit the ground and bounced.  But still, getting hit in the head did not foster an appreciation of the game.

After some time at the nearby playground with the younger kids, we head over to watch some of the (not really a) game. My son stands in out field. He stands at second base. I'm 90% sure he never touches the ball. You see, a lot of the kids are just learning to play in the kid-pitched league. That means many of the pitchers are new. That means almost every kid on base is there for a walk and almost every run is the result of stealing to 2nd, 3rd, and home plate. I think there's an average of 3 actual hits a game.

My son has taken note and decided that his chances are higher of getting to base if he stands there and never swings. The pitcher will get to 4 balls before he gets to 3 strikes. It would be easier to correct him if he weren't correct. (I asked him and I am right. He did the math and liked his chances.)

After 5 1/2 innings (rules are flexible since it isn't a real game) and an extra 30 minutes past the scheduled time, it is over. I am cold, hot-chocolate-ed, tired, and hungry. As we head toward the car, Ethan chatters excitedly about his scrimmage, his two runs, and all the nuances in the game that I seem unable to pick up.  When I look at his face, lit up with excitement, I think maybe I could learn to love the game a little more.

Have you learned to support your children in things you have no interest in? Does it get easier? Any clues on how I can be a better sport? I've done baseball for at least 3 seasons and can't seem to enjoy it. I can tolerate other sports, but baseball is SO BORING.

That time I gave my eyes an accidental overdose

I'm rather fond of my eyeballs. Sure, they require super strong lenses to see past the end of my nose. And they did once got a serious tissue-destroying infection that caused me severe light sensitivity and pirate looking eye patches. Oh, and allergies once caused the white part to swell like a blister. But I can't complain about what my eyes have done to me, as I once almost killed them.

What? I never told you how I almost accidentally murdered my own two eyeballs? Well, I can fix that right now.

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It's all the fault of the TSA. Or is it the terrorists? Whomever you choose to blame for the "only 3 ounce liquids on an airplane" rule. We were travelling to Texas for my brothers wedding. (Maybe it is his fault for getting married and making me travel by plane?) Wanting to see more than the end of my nose, I brought my travel-sized contact solution and case. At the time we lived in North Carolina and by the time we traveled to the airport 2.5 hours away and then flew to El Paso with all six kids, we were a little tired. I dug through the luggage, took out my now-glued-to-my-eyes contacts, washed my face, and went to bed.

Something I've done a thousand times, right? Not the travel to El Paso part. The take out my contacts after a long day part. In the morning I completed the ritual by reinstalling my contacts. There was the not-unusual burning the first blink or two, and then... and then ...

The burning seemed to intensify? Ouch! It hurt so badly! When I ran back to the bathroom to take out the trecherous contacts I realized what I had done.

You see, ever since the allergic eyeball swelling incident, I have been very good at using allergy eye drops. Nothing like Frankenstein eyes to learn that lesson. But, the normal small bottle of eye drops was almost the exact size and shape as the contact solution bottle. In my exhaustion the night before, I had grabbed the wrong bottle. I had soaked my sight-giving, water absorbent pieces of plastic in allergy eye drops all night. And then worn them on my equally absorbent eyeballs for 5 minutes. (What can I say, I'm a little slow to respond. I kept thinking the burn would just go away. If I'd realized what was causing it earlier, I would have acted sooner.)

I had just given my eyeballs a major overdose, and they were MAD at me.

You might be asking what three months worth of eye drops absorbed in 5 minutes feels like? Well, my pupils completely overtook my irises. If I didn't know better, I would think it went past my irises. My eyes went from hazel to pure black for over a day. Light became my enemy.

The next day or so, I was the idiot rocking sunglasses indoors. Over my normal glasses (which were held together with tape and wire). It was a beautiful way to meet everyone coming in for the wedding. Luckily, by the time the actual wedding came, I was able to put contacts back in, but I still couldn't handle bright light. Good thing we weren't in the middle of the desert. Oh yeah, we were. I could at least pull off my sunglasses for short amounts of time, long enough to not look dorky in the wedding photos. More dorky than normal that is. It's been a few years for my overworked mind to forget, but I think I did okay in the temple without the sunglasses, too. That would be something I'd remember, right?

On the plus side, I had no itching or redness in my eyes the entire time. My eyes may have never been so black, but they had never been so white, either.

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So the next time your packing all your 3-ounce-or-less liquids for a trip on the airplane, remember to be careful. All those bottles may  look alike, but they are definitely not the same thing.

Strangle enough I also learned about under/over exposure on my camera this trip, too
Carlsbad Caverns and White Sands.

Next time I'll just stay in bed and read all day.

I like Mondays. There I said it and you can think I'm nutty all you want. For me they are a new beginning; a chance to start things off right. One I get every single week!  Unless in the process you start the week out by ripping your favorite jeans, of course.

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That being said, Tuesday could be considered my stereotypical dreaded Monday. It is shopping day, and recently became gym day, too. This week I met my goal on distance during my elliptical workout. It felt wonderful! And by wonderful, I mean I felt like my legs were going to fall off. Then I walked around the grocery store and took Matthew to lunch with his cousins and Grandma (who is in town watching some of his cousins).

As if that weren't exhausting enough, because, trust me, it was, I also finished my laundry and mopped my floors three times (in an attempt to find a system that didn't leave streaks on my floors and/or instant footprints afterwards).

And I cleaned my pantry. Emptied, wiped down, organized, and labeled. By that time I was really ready for the day to be over.

Then dinner and running my older half of children to church activities. Anyway, it wasn't until I got back home that I realized the slight headache and scratchy throat I'd felt all day was quickly descending into a full blown cold. I put the kids to bed and then took some Flonase for the building mucas, IBprofin for the headache and Melatonin for its- possibly placebo- sleep producing abilities. 'Cause I don't care why it works if it works and I figured that was the only way I was going to sleep when I felt so awful.

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On my way up the stairs to bed, exhausted and drugged, I thought I heard the washing machine over flowing. As I ran the rest of the way, I realized the sound was coming not from the laundry room, but from the hall where Joseph was stumbling around half-asleep.

Was he walking through celaphane, my denial asked? The hallway light quickly dissipated those hopes. He was christening our new carpet with his stomach contents.

After my husband and I cleaned him and the floor up we went to tuck him and a barf bowl into bed. There we realized we'd only found the secondary explosion, his bedroom received the initial shock. So did several toys and clothes. More cleaning up. Joy.

Another load of laundry and I was finally able to stumble to bed myself.

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 Wednesday was a needed Tuesday-recovery day, but...

•  my cold hit full force,
•  I found out the laundry I tossed in half asleep somehow contained a bottle of nail polish,
•  and, in his own words, Joseph "farted throw up." 
• I cleaned it up.

At least I found, after another 3 mopping attempts, that Windex works best on my wood floors. And Peter bought Joseph and me Powerade with an additional dose of Peanut Butter M&M's for me. Also by nightfall Joseph was well enough for us to grab some Mexican food for dinner.

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Still, I think next Tuesday I'll just stay in bed and read all day.

Some thoughts on my cleaning day

Once upon a time, I had a preschooler.

 Whenever I cleaned, she would follow behind me and make a mess. Then I had two preschoolers. They could mess up as quickly as I cleaned. Then I had three preschoolers. Cleaning actually left the house messier. Then I had four preschoolers. Some things are too terrifying to speak.

Anyway, I am back to one preschooler at home. What was once so hard is now the easy cleaning time. Because as difficult as preschoolers are to the cleaning process, at least I didn't have to deal with magical backpacks spewing never-ending supplies of schoolwork, newsletters, and notes I should have responded to 3 weeks ago.

Plus, I'm pretty sure the socks and shoes in my house are reproducing- parthenogenetically of course, as it is impossible to ever find them mated. Did I mention that I threw away all lone socks when we moved 2 months ago and my pile is now large enough to make sock puppets of every Dr Seuss character ever created?

In other news,my kitchen is able to explode in 5 seconds. But I think it's trying to beat this record.  Daily. The family room is also in the running for the record, but is impeded by the closet capable of being stuffed with sundry stuff.

Today is cleaning day at my house; I ripped my favorite pair of jeans.  Not that I'm bitter about it or anything...

Limping Through Life

Limping through life- and I almost wish I was speaking figuratively.

You see, a couple months before we moved out here, my siblings all joined a gym. Since the point of moving here was to be close to family, we decided we should join the same gym. There may have been some motivation from the extra stress pounds our recent move provided.

I could go buy pants one size larger or try exercising.

The first day I went,I joined my sister and in-law on the elliptical runners. After a half hour, I thought I was going to die. Then a couple days later I tried out their dance aerobics class. And realized the "going to die" of two days before was nothing compared to how I was really going to die. It mostly felt like my legs were wanting to fall off but wouldn't as a punishment for what I put them through. My arms and shoulders staged their own protests. Not that being able to lift my arms above me waist is important or anything.

After three weeks I was still sore after working out, but I was only slightly limping the next day. I thought I was ready to push myself a little more.

And then I tried Zumba.

I went past thinking I was going to die to wondering if I actually had. Afterwards I crawled into bed and stayed there the rest of the night. I'm talking 7:00 at night. The next day all attempts at walking were with tender care, and kept to absolute minimum The stairs in my house? They were taken toddler style: step down one step- bring the other foot to meet it- take another ginger step down- bring the other foot to meet it- repeat all the way down- keep grimace to minimum. Not to mention my stomach muscles.  I thought they went into permanent hibernation after my sixth child was born.  Well they woke up with fierceness and let me know they were not happy to be awakened so cruelly.

I think I might be a little out of shape.

(Getting out of breath walking to the pantry to eat more chocolate should of clued me into that fact long ago.)

The funny thing is, after limping around for three weeks, I love going to the gym.  I've tried lots of exercise before: running, walking, pilates, wii fit (that counts, right?), but never really looked forward to doing any of it. But I look forward to going to the gym.  I like the elliptical runners and treadmills and bikes. I like those evil muscle-wrenching classes. For the hour or so before the limp sets in, I feel great! Already I notice the limping is letting up and I can run farther and harder than I could at first. Plus, Matthew enjoys the babysitting room with his cousins.

I plan on hitting the zumba class again this Friday night. Maybe this time the limping will only last one day instead of three. Or maybe my legs will actually fall off? I'm think I'll be good, either way.

A Zombie in my Graveyard of Mothering Theories

I've written before about my Graveyard of Mothering Theories where all unwanted good ideas go after their short-lived and spectacularly failed lives. Ideas like never feeding kids preservatives or letting them watch TV. Or the theory that I would never yell. Then there are the sundry ideas guaranteed to make chores desirable, homework doable before due, or washing with soap standard. Most of these theories are killed so thoroughly they sensibly stay buried in their graves.

But there is one idea that just won't die!  No matter how often it's veracity is destroyed and it is sent again to the Graveyard, it comes back in rotten, zombified form to try again. Obviously it has already eaten away at my brain.  Why else would I listen to it over and over and over again?  After nearly FOURTEEN years of failure, I still think it will work this time.

What is this zomberific, evil idea that refuses to die?  If my kids stay up late the night before, they will sleep in the next morning.  It never, ever works, and yet . . .

Every weekend, school holiday, or snow day as bedtime approaches, I think to myself, "I'll just let them stay up late now so they'll sleep in late tomorrow."

The problem is it makes sense! Logically, when one stays up late they'll want to, need to, try to sleep in the next morning. The law of conservation of sleep. Of course, if logic mixed with kids they wouldn't whine when their mother is already irritable or try to wear sandals in knee-deep snow.

The worst part is that the kids are then grouchy the entire next day. And, since it isn't a school day, I'm the one stuck with them and their cantankerousness! I'm telling you this zombified mothering theory is downright SCARY.

This is why last week, on a Monday without school, I could be found with 6 ornery children at the McDonald's playland. (Thinking taking them out of the house would make them magically less grouchy- another theory that just won't die.) If I looked like I was ignoring my children please don't judge too harshly. I had, after all, just become a little more brain dead from attack of the undead parenting theories.

What about you? Have a great parenting idea that just won't die, no matter how often it is disproved?

Stress free moving? (And pictures of the house)

I am moving.

You would think this would be stress inducing, but you forget that I am the sort of woman who can handle stress and glides through life without any trouble. After all, I am the same person who showed up at church dressed like this:

Remember that post? Good times.

Anyway, Peter and I have done everything we can to ensure our move across the continent is as stress-free as possible. That is why we decided to move in the middle of the school year. In fact, to ensure as little stress as possible, we will be arriving in our new hometown two days before Christmas.


We are geniuses.

I know, I know, you want me to plan your next move. I seem to be so good at it. Let me tell you, we must be allergic to adrenaline, the way we avoid stress at all costs.

That is why we decided, when moving two days before Christmas in the middle of the school year across the Northern portion of the country in winter snow season, to build a new house. And my husband is picking all the finishes.**

**You see, when I chose the place I wanted to live I sold my soul made a deal with my husband that he got to pick the house we lived in. For some of you that may mean agreeing to live in a shack, but for me it meant living in a golf course neighborhood and spending 50% more on a house. After Peter started talking about the finishes of his dream home, I decided he better chose them and leave me in the dark about the cost of the upgrades. Which would have worked, if I wasn't required to sign all the work order changes. So anyway, I know we have the same taste and he has picked great finishes so far, and so this hasn't added to the stress at all ...um, not really, but it makes me feel better to say it hasn't .**

To summarize:

• I am moving into a house that my husband has chosen everything for and is still under construction a month from our move.
  
  
• I have not seen said house since it was an undeveloped piece of land.
  
  
• My life, it is like a calming stroll on the beach.

Did I mention that we will be living closer to family than we have lived in 12 years, since my oldest was a toddler? And that, to make it even easier, we are moving ourselves instead of using movers?

So, anyway...

I'm dealing with the stress really well.

• As long as you ignore the eye twitching.
  
  
• And the nightmares about living in a house that is just made of sticks.
  
  
• Oh, and the 3 pounds of chocolate I'm eating everyday. It goes well with the 100 books a week I check out of the library to supplement the 100 I've bought.
  
  
• Not to mention the fast food we're consuming at 50% of our meals.

See, I handle stress well. Twitch, twitch, twitch ....

 

Special thanks to my sister, who lives in town and takes pictures of my house so I have something to look at and calm myself when the stress gets to be a bit much.

It was the best place to run out of gas. Also the most humiliating,

It would be humiliating, if it weren't so ridiculous.

It all started when Peter's friend had an emergency and asked him to take over a pick up at the Bishops' Storehouse. Peter, quite fond of his friend, readily agreed. I, quite fond of my husband sleeping instead of driving after an all night shift, volunteered to do it instead.

Luckily, a friend had already requested a playdate with 3 of my children and, hearing the two left in the car crying, volunteered to take them, too. So, with my oldest left at home, I was driving my brand new and improved* Suburban alone for the 75 minute drive to the storehouse.

*Did I mention we took it to get a tune up after the drive shaft was repaired? On this first substantial drive after picking it up, I realized they somehow broke my speedometer; now it jerks back and forth in a 5 mph swing. Also, the brakes aren't working properly anymore. So "brand new and improved" really means "I can't believe I'm stuck with you until after we close on the house."

The drive there went without a glitch and the car was loaded with the needed food. On the way home, however, I found myself thinking, "Do not fall asleep. You are not tired. Do not ..." Chanting, by the way, is not the best way to keep awake. Instead I decided to stop at a gas station/rest stop to get a soda. As an afterthought, I picked up a candy bar and as an after-afterthought upgraded it to kingsize.

Walking back to the car, I noticed a wild rooster eating crumbs from the parking lot. He eyed my candy bar, I think, with jealousy. I jumped into the Suburban and started the engine.

It started and instantly died. No amount of revving would get it to turn over again.

My first thought is that the battery somehow died so I unplugged my phone, the GPS, and the XM radio (wonder why I was worried about the battery), but it did no good. Then I remembered how the last time the battery died it was really out of gas.*

*You see the gas gauge has been broken since we bought that car. At 1/4 tank it either has 1/4 tank or it is running on fumes. It was not until that moment that I remembered the gauge had been on 1/4 full when I left the house that day. Something you think should make a bigger impression on me, distracted and tired or not.

I sat in the car for a moment to savor the ridiculous fact that I had run out of gas, at a gas station, where I stopped not to buy gas, but to buy a soda. Silently praying the fumes would expand just enough to take me to the pump, I tried about 10 more times. Because surely trying over and over will fix the problem.

It did not.

So I walked back to the front of the station and bought myself one of those gas containers. The cashier regarded me curiously. After all, why would I be buying an I-ran-out-of-gas container when I am obviously already at the gas station? And if I walked here, why would I purchase a soda and candy bar before taking care of business? "My gas gauge is broken," I mutter as explanation, my eyes properly lowered in shame.

Speaking of shame, there is nothing quite like the walk of shame to the gas pump. Standing there carless while customers filling their car-attached tanks try not to notice. Their own gas pumps suddenly become far too interesting to look my direction, but I can almost hear them thinking, "There but for the grace of God (and attention to the gas gauge)..."

The rooster who taunted me.

I had plenty of time to ponder the inner thoughts of my fellow gas buyers as my first gas container was broken. After a couple minute trying to fish out the spout, I went back to the cashier and begged leniency. She replaced the offending container and I took the walk of shame again, buying my 2 gallons and taking it back to the Suburban. My only break was that the parking lot I choose was in back and had no witnesses expect the wild rooster, who I know was laughing at me the whole time. I should have shared my chocolate the first time.

Finally, the gas added to the tank, I was able to start the car and pull up to the pump.

My credit card was denied. "Please see cashier inside"

Something about using my card 4 times in a half hour triggered suspicion. I had to see that cashier one more time and explain again. Luckily, as a participant in nearly every step of my story, she understood what happened and let me use my card. "Gas gauge," I squeaked one last time as I left the store.

Finally I was on my way. I guess I'm lucky I stopped for that soda. Although the chocolate is what really calmed my smarting ego. At least I no longer felt tired at all; I recommend humiliating yourself if you ever feel sleepy at the wheel.

How Friday Ended

"We're just picking up the kids and you're not getting out of the car," I impatiently snapped at the kids, "Just leave your shoes and jackets at home. The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll get home and into bed."

My fate was sealed...

Here are the quick facts from the last post:

• Elise is not home
• Peter is at work until eleven
• Ryan and a 16-year-old boy are waiting to be picked up 25 minutes away
• 3/4 kids jacketless, 1/2 shoeless
• Skunk issues in the yard
• 2 hours past kids bedtime, approaching mine

1 0 : 3 0 P M

Like all good parents, or at least experienced ones, I cranked on the heat during the drive to help facilitate sleeping kids.  As I pulled into the roundabout driveway, I realized it was blocked by another car and backed out, slightly grazing a bush as I went.  What can I say? It was dark, I was tired, I'm driving a Suburban double the height of the bush, and backing up is not my strong suit anyway. So I pulled in the other side of the driveway and left the car running while I picked up the other kids.

As we walked back to the car, I jokingly told the 16-year-old my brain and patience shut off at 10:00 so he'd better be an angel for the ride home. (Jokingly because he really is an angel; the brain and patience part is cold hard fact.)

As we pulled from the side road onto the main country road, my car tire went flat- or so it seemed.  I pulled over to the side of the road and checked: the tires seemed fine. Being that there is no real light on New England roads, I couldn't see that well and assumed a piece of the grazed bush had gotten caught in my wheel well. Of course the obvious solution was to drive faster until whatever was caught knocked loose. (Remember the part where my brain is shut off and my helper in the passenger seat has no real driving experience yet?)

Despite the intelligence of my idea, it worked!  As soon as I hit 60 mph the bumping stopped.  Satisfied with my car fixing skills, I slowed back down to 55. And then the fun really began.

1 0 : 5 0 P M

Clunk, clunk, clunkity, chuggity clunk. I thought all 4 tires must have exploded at once! I knew I hadn't hit anything, but it felt like I was running over a ditch, or more like several ditches in a row. Luckily I had JUST COME to a part of the road with a wide shoulder.  I pulled over and put the car in park to jump out and check those tires again.  When I lifted my foot from the brake, the car began to roll down the hill. Checked again, and I was still in park. So I engaged the emergency brake. Still rolled down the hill. It is the middle of the night, on a country road without lights, and I can't take my foot off the brake without the car rolling. Oh, and as it rolled it made a nice crunching noise. Extra fun.

This is where having an angelic 16-year-old with me became important.  We took turns pressing the brake while checking the tires. Nothing. Finally, after the person with a still-awake brain asked, I remembered I had a flashlight in the back of the Suburban. It was with the flashlight that I saw the car's blood spilled all over the road. Streaking and puddling down the 3 feet the car had rolled since we stopped, it was reddish enough for me to briefly wonder if I'd hit an animal.

1 1 : 0 0 P M
I'm stuck with my foot on the brake of a bleeding car- with good tires, by the way- but, in the 10 minutes it took to figure this out, Peter's shift at work had ended.  "Ended" is arbitrary as he usually doesn't leave the hospital until an hour or so after the official end of shift. Not tonight. I called the Emergency Room and waited to be connected.

Our conversation is a little hazy.

• I told him what happened ...
• he reminded me we have road side assistance on our insurance ...
• I told him I didn't have the most recent card- just as 16-year-old handed me said card from the glove box ...

I know Peter later chided me. Something about calling in the middle of the night, highly excited/upset, and rambling about car trouble. Apparently not answering the question, "is anyone hurt?" until the 5th time it's asked is not appreciated. Picky, picky.

He was on his way, I was calling insurance.

1 1 : 3 0 P M
Do you know the best time to find out your insurance has bad customer service? Well I know it isn't the middle of the night, with my foot stuck on a brake pedal, 6 mostly asleep kids in the car (many without jackets).

"We need to know where you want to take the car, then we'll give you a list of tow trucks that you will pay for and we might reimburse you for. You have to look all that up on your own."

After calling Peter to decide where to take the car, I called back insurance. After explaining that I didn't know what town I was in (there being about 300 choices on any given point of a New England country road), they transferred me and then hung up. I'd been explaining myself for ten minutes and they hang up on me?

I don't do well with idiots confrontations, so I decided I would rather apply the brake forever before calling again. (Remember that whole statement about patience evaporating at ten?) Luckily Peter arrived and checked the tires, checked the pool of car blood, and proclaimed it must be the transmission.  He called the insurance again and tried to give them directions for where we were located. After being told the roads of the intersection he gave didn't exist and giving them 50 alternate names for the roads (Thanks for that, too, New England), they finally put him on hold to find a tow truck.

1 2 : 0 0 - 1 2 : 3 0 A M 
Meanwhile I decided to take Peter's car to bring the kids home in batches. 16-year-old offered to stay behind and I loaded the oldest 4 kids into the car, leaving my 4-year-old asleep in the back of the Suburban. Arriving home, Ryan asked if he had to stay up since he was in charge.  "No," I replied, "just make sure you lock the door behind me." As I walked out the door to get the other load of kids I pointed at him and said, "Come lock this door RIGHT NOW." I walked away, pulling the door shut behind me. It was now half past 12, and I was starting to drag.

1 : 0 0 - 1: 3 0 A M

On the way back, I stopped to get Peter some food, since he hadn't eaten that day and had been planning to make a stop on the way home.  I also needed some caffeine if I was going to make the 30 minute drive to the broken car and back a couple more times. This is where I learned that Burger King is a happening place at one in the morning. Stupid lack of patience.

Back at the car, it turns out our customer oriented insurance had informed Peter that absolutely no tow trucks existed in our area that could take care of us- after a run around of 45 minutes on the phone.

It also turns out AAA will let you join in the middle of the night while currently in need of a tow truck.  One was on it's way to tow us to a shop AAA recommended instead of one pulled from a quick, random google search.

Peter had backed the car into bank on the side of the road so he no longer needed to brake.

"Why didn't you do that?" he asked.

"Remember how I am when I get tired?"
"Yes," he replied, with a sigh of resignation.

I grabbed our teenage helper -sidenote: his mom was out of town, so we couldn't call her to help us. On a plus side, that means she wasn't at home freaking out that her child was stranded in the middle of the night- and my youngest. After dropping off the 16-year-old, I headed home.

1 : 3 0 - 2 : 3 0 A M
It wasn't until I tried to open the front door and felt the resistance of the locked doorknob that I realized I had the set of keys that was missing a house key.  You see, I had Peter's set of keys and he had never put the key back after taking it off before our vacation last August. Despite my reminders every time he woke me up in the middle of the night to let him in.  I knew it would come back to bite some day, but I always thought it would be him that got bit.

At one-thirty in the morning, with a jacketless four-year-old shivering in my arms, I took a deep breath. Surely one of the four kids asleep inside will hear me knock and open the door. After all, how much more irritation could I have on this night? After a couple minutes, I decided to just go in through the garage.  Someone (who may be the same person who hadn't replaced his keys) had locked the garage-to-kitchen door. I tucked Matthew back into the warm car and went back to knocking and ringing the doorbell.  Now I started calling, too.  Leaving loud messages informing the kids to WAKE UP AND LET ME IN NOW.

After several minutes I decided to take a more drastic approach and sneak into the back side yard to knock on the boys' bedroom window.  They have bunk beds, so I would be knocking directly above my 12-year-old's head. As I walked around the house in complete darkness, I was relieved to see a light on in the back of the house. I was relieved, until the light revealed that darn skunk slinking around back there.

What to do? Risk getting sprayed or risk being stuck outside forever? You know what I did?  I knocked.  I was desperate and tired and ready to be done.  I then ran as fast as I could back to the front of the house.

It made no difference.  Not a single kids woke up to my risky knocking and I was too chicken to try again.

An hour after beginning I was still banging on the door, ringing the doorbell and calling the house. I just was doing it a little more desperately by then. And then when Peter called to inform me the tow truck had finally arrived, I gave up and went to join him at the repair shop.

Luckily he had my set of keys with a house key and we were able to get inside and end this awful night.  All told, we were stranded on the side of the road 3 1/2 hours:

• I had my foot on that brake for over an hour of it, 
• drove back and forth about 1 1/2 hours, 
• and knocked on the door almost an hour.

For those interested, it was the drive shaft that broke, knocking and breaking the transmission casing (maybe?)  The mechanic was amazed at the damage to the shaft and said they'd never seen anything like it.  He wondered how I was able to do anything with the car after it broke loose. On a positive note, the car is fixed and back in the driveway.  I have the rental minivan until Saturday, though, and intend to use it.  I'm not ready to forgive my Suburban yet. Also, I am think we'll be switching insurance companies when we move.  And I am getting Peter a new key as he has admitted his is lost, not forgotten.

Drive Shaft

Some part of transmission

Tuesdays, shopping, and forgetting to buy food.

To understand the full content of this post, I must first introduce you to Tuesday. I know that Monday is the traditional dread sibling, but Tuesdays most often kicks my trash.

~ You see Tuesday is shopping day (no small feat when providing nutrition for 8 people).

~ Tuesday is also a music class for my preschooler.

~ Tuesday is also church activities night, and with Peter's schedule that often entails me bringing 3 extra kids to wait while the other 3 attend activities.

~ Tuesday is also the day (while I am already out) that I usually hit the library, craft store, consignment shop, post office, and any other random errands when they're needed.

~  Tuesday is a day when at least one of my kids stays after school for something and needs me to swing by and pick them up, too.

~ Finally, Tuesday is the day I realize maybe half my kids have practiced the piano maybe half the time and piano lessons are the next afternoon, so they must, must practice NOW.

Like I said, Tuesday kicks my trash quite regularly.


And now for This Tuesday:

Yesterday I decided to wear my Shape Up shoes so I could count my crazy Tuesday as workout time. I also decided to start buying supplies for Halloween costumes.  This meant constant meandering back and forth between departments, multiple times, a process I normally eschew. Extra walking + shoes designed to make walking extra arduous; I know, my brilliance is blinding sometimes.

By the time I arrived home, my legs were killing me! But despite this exhaustion, immediately after picking my son up five minutes late from after school football (I'm supposed to remember I'm a kid short in time to be on time?) and heading upstairs to use the restroom (AKA hiding in my room and reading for 45 minutes), I began dinner.

This is no small victory. Dinner has to be early on Tuesdays which usually means tacos or corndogs or fast food picked up on the way.  But today I was cooking Chicken Carbonara, a fancy family favorite. (Fancy being defined as something that take more than 30 minutes of effort on my part).

I baked and chopped the bacon and then chopped and baked the chicken.  I simmered the sauce.  With 12 minutes left before GO TIME for church, I was ready to add the pasta noodles to boiling water, reveling in my togetherness and homemaking skills.

It was not till that moment that I realized we were out of spaghetti noodles. Gone. Unless I wanted to used lasagna or manicotti noodles, there weren't even substitutes.

Wait, you might ask, didn't you say today was shopping day?  How could you be out of food?

To which I hypothetically reply, Thanks for rubbing it in, did I mention my out of shape legs are about to collapse and I've only been home for 2 hours today, most of which was spent unloading groceries with my worn out legs?

So that is why we had delivery pizza for dinner last night, ordered by Peter while I was on my way to church.* On a positive note, I have dinner ready for tonight, as long as I make it to the store again to buy spaghetti noodles.

This post would be a whole lot funnier if I didn't miss some key ingredient for one of my planned dinners every single week. Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this.


 

*Peter would normally be the one driving to church, but Young Men's was canceled so he didn't have to go and I thought sitting in the foyer without any kids around would be quite relaxing. I was right. It was the saving grace of a hectic day.

The story of my birth

I decided to make my debut in this world a year or so after my parents met, nine months after they married, and precisely on my due date.

Labor began while my parents and my dad's best friend were in the middle of watching Charlie's Angels, which is extremely rude behavior before the age of DVR's or even VCR's.  How much more polite to come earlier, when my mother ran around the house several times vainly hoping to entice me? Obviously, my vague distaste for exercise existed even in the womb.

Despite her earlier attempts to jump-start labor, after only one major contraction my mother changed her mind entirely about that whole "delivering a child" thing. It obviously was not for her and she simply was not going to do it. My father, despite knowledge of my mother's fierce determination in most things, still realized the flaw in her argument and persuaded her to go to the hospital anyway; his persuasion taking the form of enlisting his friend's help in carrying her to the car.

I was born in rural, rural Arkansas in 1976 which  meant a few things. First of all, I would never like to wear shoes (true story) and would feel compelled to shop at WalMart (who shares its beginning in rural Arkansas).  Also, they didn't go into all those new-fangled things like epidurals or allowing the father's presence in the birth room. No, they still used laughing gas and made the father pace outside. As they wheeled my mother away, she grabbed my father's hand and left him with immortal words of wisdom: "Honey, I forgot to iron your shirts." I think they still used laughing gas just to give the husband teasing ammunition for the rest of eternity.

The rest of my birth is sort of unreliable as my mother was a little bit high and my father was not there.  I can assume that it actually happened. Pretty sure I wasn't dropped, even if that would explain a lot. It couldn't have been too horrid, either, as my mother did it 5 more times without any medication or epidural.  My siblings can thank me for their existence later.


Now anyone who has ever said, "What's in a name?" has never been through child naming negotiations. Sorry Shakespeare, but apparently there is a lot in a name. My parents were no different. My father, the driving force behind "Charlotte", made solemn vows to never abbreviate my name to "Char", a nickname my mother did not appreciate. I can't be certain what threats were made, but they must have been severe as the nickname was never used. On rare occasions when people insist my name needs shortening, I have gone by Charlie. I'm sure this is some cosmic commentary on interrupting Charlie's Angels with my birth.



I would like to preemptively apologize to my mother for the preceding story. Obviously I can only go on what I've been told about my birth and, re-reading it, it must be my father who told me. Why else the knowledge of what was on TV and the good-humored teasing of my mother? Any inaccuracies can be blamed on waiting until late to write this so I couldn't call and double check facts and/or my own faulty memory . I was born under the influence of laughing gas, after all.

Guest Post and Welcome to my Blog!

Today I am guest posting during the month long celebration of the Proclamation to the Family over at Chocolate on my Cranium. I posted some thoughts on prayers role in nurturing our children,  

"I do not ask for the easy path, I ask for the necessary one". 

I'd love you you to head on over and check it out.

There have been some other fantastic guest posts about family written this month at the two host blogs: Chocolate on my Cranium and We Talk of Christ.  Thanks for asking my participate Cocoa!

If you are a new visitor stopping by from my guest post, welcome!  Here are some posts of mine to get to know my blog:

I Run So You Can Fly
Sometimes I am a Fairytale

A Tale of Horror: Frankenmom  

On Miracle Whip and Mayonnaise

Wrestling a Tornado

 The Skunk Who Came for Dinner

The Keeper of Bad Days 

The only thing to fear is fear itself ... and escalators

I've managed to keep it a secret for many years, but a couple weeks ago I was forced to reveal a phobia I've held onto since childhood. After 15 years together, I finally admitted to my husband my deep and abounding fear . . . of escalators.

Don't judge me. Can't you see the evil emanating from escalators with their mechanized movement and unnaturally quick and effort free ability to move from floor to floor? I'll show you pictorial proof.



Can't you see it now?

I'm pretty sure the whole thing started from the horror stories my parents told me a child. "If you wait 1/4 second too long to step off, the escalator will suck you down and eat your leg, then you will be sent directly to hell where you will be forced to balance on erratically height shifting surfaces for the rest of eternity" *  At least I think that is what they taught me; I'm sure my mind didn't escalate the warning over time.

But really, someone coordinationally challenged like myself has a lot to fear from that moving staircase of terror. Step on the line and suddenly you're stuck with only half a footing. Let's be honest, I struggle to keep balance with all of a footing on a stationary stairway. I mean I have never on my life been able to catch the timing of double dutch ropes and I'm expected to step with both feet between two evenly spaced lines?

As a grown up I've learned to live with my eccentric fears, I ride escalators all the time with only a momentary pause to gather my strength, double check the speed of the escalator, take a deep breath, and take the leap of faith. My stomach only slightly lurches every time that flat pathway pops up into stairs beneath my feat. After years of practice, I can now step off at the end with only a slight exaggeration.

Watching my kids ride sans my help, however, has intensified my deepest escalator related fears. Lately, for some odd reason, my 13 and 12-year-olds have decided they don't want to hold my hand on the mall escalator. Who am I kidding? Even my 3-year-old insists he doesn't need my help.  As I call out to remember to step off before the belt attempts to eat their toes, they often pretend I'm some crazy stranger. 

They are going to give me a heart attack, stepping on those things without so much as "one, two, three, STEP."

By the way, my husband found this heartfelt confession hilarious. Complete with chuckle and eye roll.  He found it nearly as funny as when I told him I'm afraid of getting prostate cancer or looking like a tourist (while touring someplace on vacation) or that I fear a serial killer might one day sneak in, wait in our closet, then kill us while we're sleeping.

Strangely enough he's scared of having cold water dumped on him in the middle of a shower. Of course, his fears are grounded in reality...






*Technically as a child I remember hearing about a man at the store where my father worked did have his legs amputated (or were they crushed?) while fixing an escalator.  Or something like that.  So my parents did tell me some form of terror story about escalators.

Plan to Distract Kids as Chronicled by my Phone's Camera

Back in the depths of winter when I was wracking my brain for the perfect Christmas present for my husband, the greatest idea came to me.  Every summer a PGA golf tournament plays not far from us; why not buy tickets for it?  In the process of buying tickets, I found out children under 15 are free.

So finally the weekend arrived and Peter had to choose who was going.  Would it be the whole family?  One choice child?  After explaining that I wouldn't chose for him, he made the wise (and brave) choice of taking the oldest 4 kids, who all happen to currently be taking golf lessons.  That was great, but left me with the job of making sure the two little ones didn't feel left out.    How, you may ask, does one distract an almost 6 and 4 year old from noticing their siblings aren't around? Project Fun Day with Just Mom was born.  I present to you the PLAN as chronicled by my iPhone.

#1- Breakfast out.
Include donuts and hot chocolate in neighboring tourist town.  Also include son pointing out loudly and excitedly that the family the next table over has TWO DADDIES, which must not have been too offensive as one of the daddies later helped out when other son spilled his hot chocolate on way out the door.

#2- Stop at small theater while strolling between donut store and book store to get picture with their favorite local whale.

#3- Spend way too much time at the Best Used Book Store on the Planet.
Seriously, you should be so lucky as to have this book store near you (which is big enough to actually be several buildings on an old farm outside of town AND two satellite stores in already mentioned touristy town)

#4- Leave first tourist town for other tourist town to visit other favorite store, a.k.a. Consignment-store-where-people-who-have-one-child-while-in-their-late-thirties-bring-their-barely-used-name-brand-clothing Store.  Now THAT is some name, huh?

Spend under $150 to outfit all the kids for summer.

Wonder why you would think driving to the two biggest tourist towns on a Saturday in the summer was a good idea.

#5- Have compassion on kids and let them take a break for lunch.  With only the smallest kids with me, there was no Playland angst involved.

#6- Drive home.  Enjoy naps, reading, and Netflix streaming of Karate Kid on laptop.

#7- Head back out and let the kids spend their allowance money for the toy they've been saving up a month for.

#8- Just as day is ending, get call from husband's counselor in Youth Program (Young Mens) asking why Peter isn't answering his phone as there was a glitch in rides home from Youth Conference and 4 kids need ride from drop off spot over an hour away.  Need someone there in 45 minutes.  Hop in car and enjoy 3 hour detour in plan.

Joseph asked only once where the other kids where.  When I explained they were (quietly) watching other people play golf all day, he was completely satisfied with our alternate choice of entertainment. So was I.

Peter and the kids, however, had a blast and it was totally a fantastic Christmas present for him.

I Run So You Can Fly

I remember now why I only do friend parties every four years.  I tend to go a slight bit overboard.  The last week filled itself with googling ideas, running to 5000 stores to see if they have what I need, sewing, cutting, glue gunning, and (truth be told) a whole lot of talking to myself out loud as I figure out how to do what I want.

On top of that, there is the normal end of school year activities, preschool, extra trips to school to drop off forgotten items and various other regular-life-with-six-children running around.


In short, I've been running myself exhausted for the last week.

One day, after getting home from several errands, I found myself with an entire spare half hour before the school bus started dropping off children.  I settled onto the couch to relax, but it wasn't long before Matthew climbed on my lap and asked me to let him play on the beach.  Now "let me play on the beach" is code for "play with me on the beach."  Being ever so tired, I at first refused.  Then I remembered that running all these errands is doubly tiring and boring for a (almost) 4 year old.  Thinking of the little jellyfish we'd made in preschool the day before, I suggested we take it for a walk.


In absolute glee, he accepted my offer and we headed outside.

 The slight wind took hold of the streamers as Matthew ran and the fish flew with abandon behind him.  "Mom, my jellyfish is flying!  I'm going to let go so it can fly into the sky." 

I explained to him that it could only fly because he was running so hard.  Without his work, the jellyfish would be a crumpled mess on the sand.

At that moment, I realized my running around was worth it.  I run so my kids can fly.

Magical childhoods don't just happen.  There is a lot of work that goes into making all those memories.  The kids remember highlights and enjoy the safety of their bubble. I maintain the bubble.  They don't see the effort behind taking them to the zoo, making dinner every night, providing the environment that allows them to flourish. 

But that is okay.  One day they will gain their own feet.  Then they must run to feel the wind on their face.  Right now I'm content to run for them, giving them time to fly.