I’m thankful

This morning I watered our grass, like I do every morning at the butt crack of dawn.  I have to go out the front door because we have the back yard lawn cordoned off like a police crime scene, only tighter.  We have a snow fence and all the lawn furniture on their sides near the bottoms of the temporary fence.  All to keep the dog out.  It turns out the snow fence really keeps Chanel off the grass not the dog.  He likes to sit on the grass and mock me as I walk around the house.

As I’m watering the grass and thinking about the long, long day ahead, a small hand touches me and makes me yelp.  Jacob is standing next to me.  The only way he could be in the back yard is if he teleported.  I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have magical powers. More likely he walked out the front door and around the house.  The thought gives me a mini heart attack. I have lots of those.

I ask him where Nathaniel is.  He’s suddenly struck mute.

I hear Marshall and Michael arguing in the kitchen.  I ask them where Nathanael is.  They ignore me.  I ask with a little more snap in my voice.  They mumble they don’t know.  My heart drops to the pit of my stomach.

I know he couldn’t be missing for more than five minutes.  He was in his bed when I started watering.  I hadn’t been in the back yard long.

We go looking in the house.

My neighbor brings my two-year-old, clad only in a diaper, at 7:00 am home.  He was standing in front of our house.  If only I would have walked back around the house, not knocking over the snow fence to get in the back door to look for my baby.

I’m thankful we don’t live on a busier street.  I’m thankful our neighbor recognized him.  I’m thankful she brought him home instead of driving off to work.  I’m thankful he’s home.

Dave went to Babies R Us and bought lots of door locks and baby proofing gear.  I’m sure though, it’ll be like our dog.  The babies will be outside mocking me while I try to squeeze the knob, press the button, and clap three times, all in vain to open the door.

If that happens, I’m buying a door alarm.  When the door opens it will screech bloody murder.  Our neighbors will hate us, but no one will be wandering the streets.  Well, except for the hookers, drug users, and zombies.*

We don’t live in the kind of neighborhood with hookers, drug users, and zombies.  How cool would that be though, zombies wandering the neighborhood eating hookers and druggies brains.  It would be like free entertainment out your window.  And we’d be safe inside because we couldn’t figure out the door knob lock.

Biological Warfare

Our house is like a breeding ground for flies.  I think it’s a combination of our neighbors who never pick up their dog poop and our kids who don’t know how to shut doors.  At this point, I’ve given up.  I figure just as many flies are going out as coming in.

I’ve thought about throwing something really enticing outside to attract them out.  But then I’m pretty sure they’d send the message through the fly communication channels and they’d come from far and near to feast on the incentives to leave the interior of my house.  Which would lead to more flies inside.

Seriously, we are like the little nursery for flies.  I’ve never seen such tiny flies.  I’m sure they were conceived in our house.  I wonder if there’s a calling for fly porn.  I could totally make a killing with all the fly sex going on here.  The best part about fly sex, it makes them easy targets.  Two for the price of 1.

We’ve tried swatting.  The thought of fly guts everywhere is just nasty.  It seems like the flies only like to land on the counters.  Then I’d have blood and guts all over my counters.  Then if for some reason CSI came to my house, they’d jump to conclusions that a murder must have taken place in my kitchen.  Lots of little tiny murders.  Then I’d end up in jail.  I guess if CSI is at my house, someone’s already in jail.

Plus the kids think it’s fun to swat each other with the swatters, and that’s even more disgusting.

I thought about getting one of those electric fly swatters, but then I’m sure that would be more enticing to swat your brother with than a regular one.  Zap!

I think those sticky fly strips are conducive of vomiting.

So this week we’ve resorted to Biological Warfare.

Dave brought home one of these:

The first day it ate 5 fly flies.  We happen to be watching as it engulfed them.  It was pretty amazing.  I’m thinking about growing a whole jungle of Venus fly traps.  Pretty soon we’ll run out flies and it will be like The Little Shop of Horrors in our house.

Seymore!!!!

What did the Doctor say?

Let me preface this post with some back ground.

I sing to my babies every day.  Several times a day.  Since birth.  Yes, I’m rather amazing like that.  Or maybe, it’s more of like a free trump card.  When they grow up and we’re in therapy I can be all, “I sang to you every day and breast fed you.  What more did you want?   Sorry, you didn’t get a cell phone.  But I nourished your body and soul with breast milk and the ‘wheels on the bus’!”  Every day I’ve sung.  When they were immobile, I’d sing and exercise their little muscles.  When they sat up, I’d manipulate their little hands to make the motions to the songs.  Every day.  I was a little disappointed when they didn’t sing or do the hand motions with me at 6 months.  Or a year.  Or two years.  It’s very rare that they will sing along, they occasionally will do the hand motions, but very rarely will they sing.  I like to think they just like the sound of my voice.  That they are so mesmerized by my amazing hand motions and off key, off beat vocals that they can’t sing because they are engrossed with the watching.

The second peice of back ground.

My babies can talk!  Yes, my babies are talkers, especially Jacob.   This weekend the babies were playing in our pile of dirt.  Nathaniel was throwing sand.  Jacob got an eye full and screamed.  I told him to use his words.  He said, “Natey, You threw sand in my eye and it hurt me!”

Now that you are caught up.

I had to call the doctor today.  Dave asked me “what did the doctor say?”

Jake:  No more monkey’s jumping on the bed!

They listen!

Verbose

I’m going to totally embarrass myself here.  And I’m going to expand your vocabulary.

I’ve only gotten into one fist fight in my life.  Knock on wood, cross my fingers, send up a prayer to the Big Kahuna.   I was in high school.  I was having a hard time with a group of girls.  Who doesn’t have a hard time with someone during high school.

My friends and I were cool.  We were the kind of cool kids that hung out in the yearbook room.  We were the kind of cool kids that all were in Advanced classes.  We were the kind of cool kids that went to ivy league colleges and became Presidents of political groups.  We were the kind of cool kids that were part of the Kiwanas club.  Basically, what I’m trying to say is we were cool.  During lunch we were so cool we’d peruse the dictionary and do our homework.

One day during lunch, while flipping through the dictionary, I choose a page that got my ass kicked.  I found the punchinello.  It described my nemesis perfectly.  The little illustration looked so much like her it was uncanny.  The publisher’s must have known her.

Pun⋅chi⋅nel⋅lo (noun)

1.	a grotesque or absurd chief character in a puppet show of Italian origin: the prototype of Punch.

2.	any similarly grotesque or absurd person or thing.

You learn something new every day.  So when my nemesis roughly brushed past me between classes.  I turned around and called her a punchinello.  She was less than thrilled.  I gave her the excuse she was looking for.  It was over sooner than it started.  I am rather proud that she ended up with a black eye and I appeared completely unscathed.  It’s a good thing that I didn’t bruise easily and it was a Friday.

Of course, we were called into the vice principals office. They separated us so that we could individually tell our side of the story.  This was before the zero tolerance policies.  This was when the authority got to choose who was right and who was wrong.  She went first.  She told the Man I started it.  I called her a name. What a wimp.

My turn.

I guess technically I called her a name.  I called her a punchinello.  You know, it’s the star of an Italian puppet show.  It’s too bad that her vocabulary isn’t better.  I’m sure she would have appreciated it more if she knew.

She got a three day suspension.

I got the afternoon off and was told not to abuse my vocabulary.

So yes, the bigger girl might get a mightier punch in, but the smarter girl didn’t get in trouble.  The vocabulary is mightier than the fist.  Or something like that.

Turns out, she’s a punchinello, and I’m an abecedarian.

a⋅be⋅ce⋅dar⋅i⋅an (noun)

1. One who is learning the alphabet; hence, a beginner.
2. One engaged in teaching the alphabet.
3. Pertaining to the letters of the alphabet.
4. Arranged alphabetically.
5. Rudimentary; elementary.

I’m a darn good abecedarian (by definition number 2).  My two-year-olds know about half of their letters occasionally on demand.  Yes, occasionally.

Cake Decorating for Beginners

This year my goal is to find McKayla some joy.  Just a little bit.  I’m happy with a small tiny little corner of joy, really anything.  She is so sad and despondent about being homeschooled.  Her biggest complaint is the lack of social interaction.  She misses her friends.  I don’t know how she can possibly miss them when she talks to them all afternoon long and she sees them a couple times a week.

I’m respecting her supposed lonliness.  I’m trying hard to help her make connections within the homeschool community and with other kids her age.  I signed her up for tennis.  We are participating in homeschool softball.  She goes to art class.  I organized a movie night.  I joined a support group.  I take her and her friends to youth group.   We are dragging her to the Civil Air Patrol.  I’m barely leading a girl scout troop.  This is a very busy little girl.

Last month one of the mom’s offered a Cake Decorating class.  $10 for 4 weeks of cake decorating classes.  I signed her up.  Who doesn’t like cake?  I love cake.  Today was the first day of class.  We trekked to the lady’s house.  I dropped her off and wished her well.  They were making a bathtub cake.

McKayla’s didn’t turn out quite so well.

“Well, it’s not like we were going to take pictures and publish it in a magazine.  We’re just going to eat it,” McKayla laughed.

It wasn’t a total loss.  She did have a great time.  She came home with great stories, a couple possible friendships and some interesting tips.  Like, if the frosting is the correct consistency you should be able to turn the bowl upside down and the frosting shouldn’t fall out of the bowl.   The decorating mom was much braver than I, she had all of the girls try it.  They all failed miserably, there was lots of frosting on the floor.

The brightest side:  We all had cake for dessert.

Regret. She’s a bitch

I want to preface this post with I really do love my children and being a mom. At least 99% of the time.  Even now, I can feel my overactive ovaries dropping eggs like crazy.  I can hear my uterus urging for the company of a placenta and a baby.   It’s a lonely little organ.  When you think about it, it’s so lonely that it makes its own accompanying organ.  What other organs do that?

There are more days than not that I yearn for another baby but then sometimes, not often, but sometimes, the pang of regret is so palpable, it hurts so deep I feel like my heart might break.  These are the days that I wish I would have used birth control until I was 40.

No one tells you about the drudgery of parenthood.  Sometimes it can down right suck.  When you have kids, you no longer live your life according to the beat of your own drum.  You turn your drum in and it gets smashed and incinerated and you get the little baby drums of your children.  You live your life according to their drums.  They have erratic little drums, just when you think you’ve found the rhythm they change the song, sometimes even the whole genre of music.  You’re floating along marching a quaint and easy lullaby and then Crash, they’ve moved to the blues.  Blues has no predictability.  You stumble along until they decide to change it again.

Bong. No more sleeping in.  You get up at 6.

Bong.  Forget manicured nails,  you’re changing dirty diapers for toddlers that refuse to reliably use the potty.

Bong.  No successful career.  You stay at home to raise happy, well adjusted, good little humans.

Boom.  All of the things that you used to be are now redefined.  You’re now a cook, chauffeur, maid, negotiator, peace maker,  teacher, wife, butt cleaner, disciplinarian, nose wiper, meanie.  Each day, with each dirty diaper, with each load of laundry and meal cooked you loose just a little more of yourself.

It isn’t often that I think of all of the things that I gave up to be a mom.  They all seem so petty and selfish. Honestly, some of them I don’t even want. Even some that I think I might want, I know I really don’t.  Every once in a while, something creeps up and blindsides me.  It will remind me what I might be missing.  It’s the want for something more than missing sleep and the drudgery of the housekeeping and monotony of the cooking.  It’s that thing that reminds me of the person that I am deep down buried under the dirty dishes and clean laundry.

Regret rears her ugly little head.  She’s a bitch.  She shares her  malcontent and short temper.  She breaks out the black streamers and the alcohol and the pity party starts.  I’m ashamed to say that sometimes I’m more than happy to join her.  I just want to wallow in it.  I want to swim around with her until my fingers get all shriveled and pruney.

I know how incredibly blessed and lucky I am.  I could write every day about the wonderful things my kids do, the wonderful little people they are turning into, the perfection of my husband.   Yet, there are still those days that I morn for my drum.

My big fat dog

We decided to get a dog a few months ago.  We researched what kinds of dogs would be good for our family.  We looked for dogs that are good with kids.  We looked for dogs without lots of fur for Dave’s allergies.   (A short aside, Dave went to the allergist and it turns out he’s allergic to everything.  I don’t know how he’s survived as long as he has.)  I wanted something big and furry and with a ferocious bark.  I wanted a Bull Mastif.  Dave vetoed that.  He was worried he’d come home to find the dog had been sitting on me all day long.  I wanted a Golden Retriever.  Dave said it had to much hair.  Dave wanted something in the hound family with a howling bark.  We settled on a beagle.

Days after deciding on a beagle there was an ad on freecycle for a pure bred beagle who needed a new home because the owners were moving somewhere they couldn’t take their dog.  Sucky economy.  When we went to have our doggie interview he was the most energetic happy dog.  He galloped and ran through the park.  He jumped and licked.  He sniffed.  I think his owner spiked his water with redbull.

All Buster does is sleep.  Well, sleep and snore.  I think he might have sleep apnea he snores so bad.  He also only likes me.  He spends the day at my feet.  He wants to sleep next to my side of the bed.  I can’t sleep with the dual snorers.  Dave built him a house so he could sleep outside and then bark to come in as soon as the sun rises.

Okay, to be honest, he sleeps, snores and farts.  He’s like an old man.

He is also the gentlest dog ever.  I’m not so sure if he’s gentle or apathetic.  He lets the babies get in his face and in his house.  He lets them pet him.  He lets them sit on him.  He’s incredibly patient.  He’s let McKayla dress him.  He’s also let the kids pick him up and try and throw him on the bed.  He’s even let them try to weigh him.   He’s also pretty docile.  He will lay in the same spot all day.  If you accidentally run into him, he raises his head and then goes right back to sleeping.

This is not a gaurd dog.  He only barks to come INSIDE.  This was tough potty training him.  He just sits by the back door to go out.  He won’t bark.  He’ll sit there until he can’t hold it any longer.  Then he’ll walk away and walk back to the door.  He must think we’re telepathic or incredibly observant.  We’re neither.

He doesn’t bark at strangers.  He doesn’t sniff or jump on them either.  He’ll come out to see what the fuss is all about and then saunter away.  Completely apathetic.

He’s run away and gotten lost once.  Now, if he gets out, he goes to the front porch and barks to get in.  He knows where his toast is buttered.

Boy, is it buttered.  He came to us over weight.  I’m sure on the doggie scale he’s near obese.  We put him on a diet.  He eats our zuchinni plants.  The babies feed him.  He eats fallen food before it even hits the floor.  He eats from the table.  Literally, as soon as we get up he’s on the table.  ON the table.  At first we thought it was a fluke.  This dog doesn’t move very fast, he’s more related to a sloth than a dog.  After some hiding around the corner we saw him actually jump on to the table.  We were amazed.  This gives the kids added incentive to do their chores faster.

This week I’ve made it a mission to start running again.  I’m doing the couch potato to 5k running plan.  Week 1:  run 60 seconds, walk 90 seconds for 30 minutes.  Wednesday I took Buster with me.  By the second 60 second interval Buster was worn out.  I had to constantly reassure him that we were almost done.  “10 more seconds Buster.  You can do it!  Good Boy!”  By interval number 4, I I had to slow the pace down.  By interval number 6, I was dragging him.  I was cursing myself for not bringing my cell phone.  I wasn’t sure he could make it home.  I knew I couldn’t carry him.  He weighs more than I do. I was wondering what I’d do if he just keeled over and died on the side walk.  What is the protocol for killing your dog while trying to exercise?  Do you stay with them?  Do you do CPR?  Do you knock on the house in front of which he expired and tell them you’ll be back for his carcass?  What would we do with a dead dog?  Do I just leave him and run away?  Or maybe I should casually walk away…

We made it home.  He flopped under the desk and didn’t move all day long.   Tomorrow we’ll do it all over again.  I’ll bring my cell phone.

No grass yet

but the sprinklers work great.

Soccer

Soccer started this past month, along with everything else.   We’ve been the slacker family that only comes to half the practices because everything else started this month too.   After a few months weeks with no activities it’s hard getting into the groove of having to be two, three, or four places at once.  This is Mike’s first year with the big kids.  The way his birthday falls, he’s almost two years younger than the oldest kids in his division.  He’s much smaller than every one else.  He looks terribly small and insignificant compared to some of his teammates.  What he lacks in size he definitely makes up with spunk and pure aggressiveness.

We were so incredibly proud of him.  I told him that I thought he was definitely the second star player of the team.  Always modest, he placed himself as the third star.

McKayla said that we were thoroughly embarrassing with all of our shouting and cheering.  I think if she could have found a rock to crawl under, she would have.   If it wasn’t for the shade our Sportsbrella® offered, I’m pretty sure she would have inched her way over and pretended to be part of another family.

The other parents were standing and gasping at that poor little kid at the bottom of the pile.  That was our kid.  Right about now I was screaming, “Get up! Get up!  Hurry, they’re distracted!  The ball’s open!  The goal’s open!  Mike get up!”  I wonder where my kids get their competetive streak from?  He popped right up.  Like a jack-in-the-box.  It was really rather amazing. All of this cheering was done sitting in our sports chairs.  (Do you realize how much stuff we bring to kid’s sports functions?  We need an alpaca.)

I think it was his complete disregard for his own personal safety that landed him the spot as Goalie during the second half.   He was kick ass.  I’m not sure if it was the gloves or all of the shouting from us, but his little hands were like glue.  Out of the eight balls that were aimed at the goal, he diverted seven.

What can I say?  I’ve birthed a little pro soccer player.   I’m crediting that to my Mexican heritage.  It’s in his blood.  Fútbol and picking.   Plus, he’s even got a Mexican name, “Miguel Javier”*.

Well, except for the drop kick.  He needs some work on the drop.  His are more of  flop kicks.  This, his love for sloppy joes, and Ralph Lauren loafers… pure whitey.

By the end of the game, every bit of hesitation was gone. He was a formidable opponent.

*check back later about Miguel Javier

The sleepover saga continues

The mom of one of McKayla’s friends is rather persistent on trying to break our sleepover policy.  She won’t let her daughter come to our house until McKayla spends time at their house.  I offered daytime hours she countered with evening.  The mom said no.  McKayla cried.  Her friend cried.  The mom got upset.  It wasn’t pretty.

McKayla:  Why can’t I spend the night?  (this is all said with dramatic crying and whining)

Dave:  Because, my children are very important to me.  The most important thing.  I don’t want anything to happen to them.

McKayla:  You have five kids, you can spare one.

ah, but darling, we only have one daughter.