Round Brush

Ella likes to brush my hair, and I let her.  I’d let anyone brush my hair.  If a strange man approached me on the street and offered to brush my hair, I’d seriously consider it. 

I’m really just writing this post as a warning.  I’m full of warnings this week: warnings against Ambien, and now warnings against allowing your child to brush your hair with a round hairbrush.  You probably would NEVER allow your child to brush your hair with a round hairbrush, but I, so delighted by the prospect of getting my hair brushed at all, chose to ignore the cylindrical shape.  Never ignore the cylindrical shape. 

Ella got the brush stuck in my hair, right near the top of my head.  She was initially unconcerned.

“I get it out,” she said, as she yanked on my head.  It really hurt.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it out,”  I said.  I spent a good ten minutes and it wouldn’t budge.  This was especially a problem because Caleb’s very first band concert was in one hour.  I called John.

“Are you on your way home?”

“I’m just leaving.  Why?”

“Well, hurry up.  I need your help.  I have a round brush stuck in my hair.”

“You have a what?”

“A round brush stuck in my hair.  Ella did it.”

“What?”

“A round.  Brush. Stuck.  In. My.  Hair.  What about this is so hard to understand?”

“Go to the doctor,” Ella suggested.  I called my hairdresser.

“I just wanted to give you the heads up in case you have to surgically remove it,” I said. 

“You have to admit this is sort of comical,” she replied.  I would admit no such thing.

I headed upstairs to get my spray-in conditioner.  I bumped into Caleb.

“Caleb, I have bad news.  I have a brush stuck in my hair.”  I showed him the back of my head.  He looked very upset.

“Are you going to go to my concert like that?”

I promised him I would skip the concert if said brush would not come out of my head.  He seemed relieved.  I sat on my bed and slowly, one strand at a time, extricated the thing from my rather long hair.  I called my hairdresser friend back.  I think she was a tiny bit disappointed that I wouldn’t be getting a new short haircut.

Ella was so relieved.

We all went to the concert, where Caleb and the one other baritone rocked out to “Skip to the Lou.”  It was awesome.

This story has a happy ending; however,  I urge you to never allow your five-year old to brush your hair with a round brush, no matter how relaxing it feels.  Your story may end terribly, like with a buzz cut.  And I assure you, your ten-year old does not want you to attend his very first band concert with a buzz cut.

Little White Pill

I have a rather debilitating case of insomnia.  For the past few years, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time either staring at the sticky glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling or watching Love it or List It on HGTV, which is why I’m somewhat of an expert on Toronto real estate.   After discussing my malady with the doctor, I was prescribed a certain sleeping pill that, for the most part, works like a charm.  Twenty minutes before I want to be asleep, I simply place the pill on my tongue, flush it down the throat with water, and voila!  Sleepy-go-night-night.

The other night I took my pill and continued to read a really interesting political article on the internet that expanded my views on global economics.  (It was some mommy blog.)  I don’t remember what happened after that.  When I opened the computer the next day, it indicated that I had been watching cute puppy videos on YouTube.  Who knows.

My husband says I went upstairs at a reasonable hour, dove headfirst into bed, and then did the craziest thing.  I professed my undying love.  To my husband.  How embarrassing.  Apparently, there was a lot of giggling and cuddling.  At some point, I drifted off to sleep, and not surprisingly, slept like a rock.

I do not remember this, which is disconcerting.  Who knows what else I’ve been doing when I thought I was sleeping?  Raiding the fridge?  Taking the dog for a walk?  Online shopping?  Professing my undying love to Timothy Olyphant on his Facebook page?  If I’m capable of professing my undying love to my husband, well.  Anything’s possible.

The whole incident left me completely unnerved, so this evening, I decreased the dosage by half, which is why it’s 1:00am and I’m sitting here writing this post. 

I may have to give up my little white pill of happiness.  I’m not cool with my giggly subconscious running things.  Next step?  Warm milk and a Benadryl because Ambien, well.  It’s a helluva drug.

Things I'm Learning in Therapy

“You don’t drink enough water, do you?” she asked.

“Oh no, definitely not,” I replied.

“I can tell by your dry lips.  Also your teeth.”

“My teeth?”

“You have lines on your teeth.

“I have lines on my teeth?”

These are the things I’m learning in therapy.  

I’m in therapy because apparently I have issues that can actually be fixed just by… talking a lot.

I’m also learning to handle my anxiety and my depression, which apparently are polar opposites that exacerbate one another.  I’m not even kidding.  I don’t know how I even get up and walk around during the day, what with the anxiety and the depression.

On the way home from my session, I accidentally cut off a car which did not, I might add, have its headlights on even though it was snowing.  The driver beeped and made some inappropriate hand signals.  I moved lanes to let him pass.  He moved lanes, too.  I got off on Buffalo Road.  He did too.  I got into the right lane; so did he.  I decided to pull into a public place and run for help while dialing 911.  I’m not even kidding.  The anxiety had piqued and I was totally flipping out.  TOTALLY FLIPPING OUT.

I pulled into the Home Depot.  He pulled into the Home Depot.  I pulled into a parking space and waited.  I got out my phone.  An elderly man pulled in beside me.  He smiled at me, unaware that I was having a panic attack and was inwardly screaming for help.

The car that had been following pulled up to the front of the Home Depot, and a man of indeterminate age jumped out of the driver's seat.  He reached into his trunk, I was certain, to get a baseball bat or an AK-47. 

He didn’t.

He pulled out a large Home Depot bag and trotted into the store, probably to return some pipes or something. 

WHAT ARE THE ODDS? 

My nerves were shot.  I ripped out of the parking lot and drove straight to Tim Hortons, because one needs a donut when one’s anxiety is completely out of control.

I got home about fifteen minutes before the kids' bus and used the time to try out some breathing exercises (also learned in therapy), and then ate a white cream-filled donut.  I have to say, the white cream-filled donut worked better than the breathing exercises.  Caleb walked in the door with an incredulous look on his face.

“Walruses aren’t German, are they?” he asked.

“What?”

“Are donkeys actually Japanese?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Connor said… oh never mind.”

A moment later, my therapist called with a reminder for me to do something, and asked how I was doing.

“I was stalked on the way home.  But then I wasn’t.  I imagined the whole thing,” I said.

She paused for several seconds.

“Do we need to schedule another session this week?”

Ay, it’s been a very weird day.

That Awkward Moment When You Realize Your 6-Year Old is Racist: A Martin Luther King Day Post

The other night, and I don’t even remember how we stumbled upon this topic, Ben said something... a bit racist.  I can't even repeat it, I have so much shame.

To say that I freaked out would be an understatement.

“What? WHAT? What did you say? Why do you think that? Who told you that? Was it that god-forsaken public school system?” (Further freaking out commenced, and I turned to John and may have said things like the following):

“Why don’t we just call up the KKK and send him on over to Arkansas or wherever it is the KKK hangs these days.”

“I knew we should’ve sent him to the city schools for the first few years of his life. Then he’d know what it’s like to be the minority.”

I became irrational, which is what happens when freaking out goes unmitigated. Sometimes John just lets me go on:

"Why would you say that?  I need to understand the root of his statement right now or I'm going to totally freak out!!!

“This is what happens when you let kids watch too much television.”

“I failed! Somewhere along the way I failed.”

“YOU FAILED JOHN! SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY YOU FAILED!”

Ben: “Waaaaaaahhhhhhh! I don't want to go to a different school!"

And then, the voice of reason interceded. Caleb, who just turned nine on Friday, said the following:

“Ben, you’d better not say things like that or Martin Luther King will come out of his grave and get you.”

Stunned, both Ben and his guilt-ridden mother dropped the subject. I decided a lecture on pacifism would come later, after I could be sure Ben was no longer a racist.

I think Martin Luther King Jr. would want it that way.



MLK Jr.:  Racists, he's coming for you...

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Fire in the Hole! (Or New Year's Resolutions)

This is not my oven.  I did not, in the middle of a slight emergency, take the time to find my camera and take a picture.  This is a picture from the internet I'm using for illustrative purposes because, according to blogging experts, blog posts should come with at least one picture. 

One seemingly calm evening in early fall, I baked something, which happens every full moon during leap years. I bake in the oven that came with the house and hasn’t been cleaned since we moved into said house. There are bits of charcoal that have gathered on the bottom of the oven which I think lend the foods a nice, smoky flavor, appreciated when baking pizzas but not so much when baking, say, banana bread.

I was baking macaroni and cheese when the fire alarm went off. I opened the oven to find that my charcoal collection had caught on fire, which was an inevitable development, I suppose, but I panicked nonetheless. Here is Caleb’s account of what happened:

“Yeah, my mom screamed really loud and then threw water on it and the next day she went out and bought a fire extinguisher.”

This account was relayed to my babysitter, who had to contend with her own charcoal fire when making frozen pizzas for the kids last week.

“Why didn’t she just clean the oven?” the babysitter asked.

Why didn’t she, indeed. (Fires in the kitchen are actually a somewhat common occurrence in the Jennings’ household.)

This event is indicative of the level of chaos my kids have come to expect in our household.

All this to say that my new year’s resolution is to get my sh@# together. Because setting your house on fire is not being a good parent.

I’m on a new cocktail of meds that will supposedly help to keep me out of the mental ward (ha ha!), but they make me dizzy and forgetful. So, the next month will be about playing around with dosages, etc. Sometimes the cure is worse than the malady, but I guess I’d rather be forgetful than, you know, an inert weirdo.

(Which sounds better?)

Babysitter: So why didn’t your mom just clean the oven?

Caleb: Because she’s an inert weirdo, of course.

OR:

Babysitter:  So why didn't your mom just clean the oven?

Caleb:  She just forgot.  No biggie.  Everyone's okay.

(I thought so.)

New year’s resolutions:

• Don’t obsess over little things

• Hug my kids every day

• Respond with kindness, not impatience and anger

• Let go of those things I have no control over

• Take hold of the things I do have control over

• Be the more loving one

The More Loving One by WH Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

Get Off My Property

The twins have taken up playing a game they call “Get off my property!” Here is how you play get off my property: run up to individuals nearby and yell “Get off my property!” Then laugh diabolically until they either a) hit you or b) get off your property. Which may not even be your property. It might be, say, your mom’s property, and maybe she doesn’t want you jumping on her property and throwing all of the pillows off of it.

Repeat above steps at random times throughout the day.

Yesterday, I was trying to get the kids to put their shoes on and get out the door and into the car. I don’t get these people. They stood by the door, crowding into one another while screaming “Get off my property!” They were holding various items they simply had to bring on the car ride. Can’t go to Grandpa’s house without the red matchbox truck lacking back wheels. They were wearing their jackets, but not one of them had on their shoes.

I turned to Caleb, because he is the oldest, and is therefore supposed to be the most proficient at “getting ready to go outdoors.”

“Why aren’t your shoes on?”

“Oh. I forgot.”

So they all dropped their heavy loads and plopped down in our tiny entryway to put on their shoes. Just then, the doorbell rang. It was a rather pushy Andersen Windows salesman. They always say: “I noticed your house has its original windows.”

I don’t want strange men checking out my windows unless I specifically ask them to check out my windows. It’s just this thing of mine.

Then he started a whole spiel about saving the world by purchasing energy-saving windows and he wanted to book me for an appointment blah blah blah. He went on and on while I shuffled one child after another past him toward the mini-van, all except for Ella, who was and is usually last, because she is small and slow about putting her shoes on.

“I will be back in your neighborhood next we-“

“GET OFF MY PROPERTY!” yelled Ella. Then she laughed diabolically and ran, shoeless, into the van.

And guess what? He did. And I don’t think we’ll be seeing him again any time soon.

Prelude to Insomnia

So, last week, I set my turkey baster on fire while cooking my homemade tomato sauce. The reason my turkey baster was lounging there next to the burner isn’t really relevant. I may have panicked a bit and blown at the fire, which only fanned the flames. My next course of action was to throw a washcloth on it and sort of half-yell, “Um- fire situation here! Small fire!” The husband came in on his white steed, took over, and then gave me his “intense” look.

This is why I don’t cook.

The family eventually made it to the table, and John attempted polite dinner conversation.

“Did you hear about what’s going on in Wisconsin?”

“Yes, they won the stupid Super Bowl. I was present at the game, if you recall. The women were sitting on the floor while the men were sitting on the couches? Remember?”

“I don’t recall that, but that’s actually not what I’m talking about.”

“Well then please proceed and tell me what’s going on in Wisconsin.”

“The new conservative governor is pushing new legislation, trying to make it illegal for government workers to unionize, and people are totally freaking out. 25,000 protested.”

“That’s quite a few people for Wisconsin.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Guess the Super Bowl afterglow is over.”

“Indeed.”

“They make cheese in Wisconsin.”

“That’s true.” Pause. “You don’t really care about what’s going on in Wisconsin, do you?”

“Not at this particular moment. I’m still mourning the loss of the turkey baster.”

“Yes, with all the basting you do, I understand your grief. So. What did you do today?”

“I’ve been working on the ultimate workout playlist. Speaking of which, I have a question for you. Is there an easier way to scroll up and down on the iPod? I put my thumb across the circle, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Let me see this- this is how you work it.”

“Oh! You scroll up and down by going AROUND the circle! The middle of the circle doesn’t do anything!” Pause. “You know who would really enjoy my kickass workout playlist? Those people in Wisconsin. It was would totally pump them up. Great protesting songs. Like, for instance…” I scrolled through the songs like I’d been doing it for years, “"Right Now" by Van Halen.”

“Van- Van Halen?”

“Yes. 'Right Now' by Van Halen.” More “intense looks” commence. “Are we not a fan of Van Halen?”

Apparently we are not.

Later that evening, I curl into bed with my tattered copy of Great Expectations. (You think it is tattered because I have read it over and over again. Not the case. It is a used Penguin copy I “borrowed” a very long time ago when I was a substitute teacher. Imagine what the Wisconsin protestors would do with that piece of information.)

John yawns and gets ready to turn off his light.

“Y’know?” I say, “Reading Dickens is a definite aphrodisiac.”

John perks right up.

“Really?”

“What?”

“You just said reading Dickens is an aphrodisiac.”

“I said no such thing. Why on earth would I say that? Stop looking at me that way.”

“Here are your words, verbatim, ‘Reading Dickens is a definite aphrodisiac.’”

“I said reading Dickens is a great soporific device.” (Pointed yawn.) “See? I’m sooo sleepy.”

(Sometimes I confuse words with others. Aphrodisiac might be one of those words.)

“Just admit that you said aphrodisiac.”

I consider this.

“It’s been a long day, what with the compiling of great eighties hair band songs, nearly burning the house down, and now I’m trying hard to work my way through this enchanting but sleep-inducing tale of redemption. We’ve had a trifle misunderstanding! I’m not even sure why you married me, anyway. I obviously have the IQ of a gnat.”

John mumbles something about the reason he married me into his pillow, and it sounds like it had nothing to do with my brains.  I read to him in a British accent, because reading Dickens in a cockney accent is just so fun, and he's asleep in five.  I’m left alone to ponder what the heck Pip sees in Estella when he could have the perfectly lovely, warm, and hardworking Biddy. The house still smells faintly of burnt rubber, and I can’t get Van Halen out of my head. I'm so sleepy, but won't drift off for another three hours.

Van Halen and Dickens, by the way, don’t mesh very well. 

Sometimes, that’s just the way things are.

111 Miles

This past Monday marked fifteen Valentine's Days come and gone with the husband, and for the first time ever, we were apart. Not only that, but I was not wearing my wedding ring. Took it right off. Because my fingers were swollen like sausages.

We spent the weekend up in the Adirondacks with friends who had invited us to go snowmobiling. Amazingly, my parents were each able to take a set of children on short notice, my friend (God bless her) took the dog, and we were good to go. John and I left Friday late afternoon for Old Forge, which is the snowmobiling mecca of the east. I’m not even joking. Instead of cars, the small town is jam-packed with snowmobiles and people strolling about in full winter regalia, looking like rather colorful astronauts.

After meeting our friends at the inn, we headed to a restaurant at the bottom of a steep hill. Inside, the walls by the door were lined with heavy jackets and helmets. Men and women wandered around in snow bibs (which I haven’t worn since I was twelve), their cheeks rosy from the brisk night air. I felt conspicuous with my corduroy coat; everyone else donned a brand-name snowmobiling jacket: Yamaha, Ski-doo, Polaris…

A fire kept things cozy, and a live band played an Indigo Girls song in the corner. We found a booth and our friends, Chris and Kim, gave us the snowmobiling lowdown.  When they were done, I asked them a series of questions mainly concerning the chances of me crashing into a tree. I then went over my very particular care plan should I suffer a spinal injury, insisting that no one resuscitate and that they donate all my organs to those in need, but not to “science.” I’m not sure if this ever happens, but I’m not comfortable with my heart being in a jar in some professor’s lab.

Chris is a doctor, a medical kind, mind you, and I didn’t want him to take any life-saving measures. You can’t raise twins if you’re paralyzed. You just can’t. Better to leave that to my husband and his new, hideously unattractive nanny.

Saturday morning, I put on my snow gear, which included under armour, jeans, a shirt and a sweater, snow bibs, a jacket, boots, gloves, and an unwieldy helmet with a radio attached to it. I took my first spin on the snowmobile around the parking lot, where I did a lot of embarrassing and girlish shrieking. This is where I learned that arm flapping when freaked out doesn’t work well when on a snowmobile. You tend to lose your balance, and become susceptible to tumbling over.

We headed off to the trails, which meant crossing an asphalt road. You can’t steer a snowmobile if there’s no snow. You have to position yourself just right and step on it, waiting until you reach snow again to maneuver your machine. I found this slightly disconcerting.

We made it to the trail! I was doing well! And then I drove into a ditch.  We were only 5 minutes into our venture. The ditch, I soon found out, happened to also be a small creek. Absolutely mortified and somewhat stunned, I crawled out of the ditch and waited for help. Chris carries rope in his sled, and within moments, five guys had stopped to help.

“It’s my first time!” I kept insisting. A guy patted me on the arm.

“You’re doing great!” That was so nice of him to say since clearly I wasn’t doing great at all. Driving your sled into a ditch is the exact opposite of doing great.

It only took ten minutes for the men to haul the sled out of the ditch. Both the sled and I were unharmed, so I got back on and gave it another whirl. Slowly, I gained back my confidence. John, directly ahead of me, radioed me every couple of minutes:

“You okay?”

“Yes. And you don’t have to go so slow,” I called back, irritated. And as soon as I said that, I went into my second ditch.

“It’s not as bad, this time!” I insisted. It wasn’t. It only took three men to haul me out. Fairly certain our hosts would insist I go back to the hotel room and stay a safe distance from their snowmobiles, I was surprised by their good humor and their encouragement. I got back on.

Chris gave me rather simple but invaluable advice. “Look where you want to go, not where you don’t want to go.” After that- no more ditches. I think that statement may be bigger than even snowmobiling. I’m hoping Caleb will use it as a quote in his valedictorian speech.

We rode through wide trails, skinny trails, over bridges, along steep ravines. We rode on nearly deserted roads to a diner in a small town, where we hung out jackets and snow bibs to dry. After falling in the snow and (ahem) water, my butt was a trifle cold and damp, so I stuck it up against the heater until it got good and toasty. Again, the only people in the diner were snowmobilers.

The next leg of the trip took us across the frozen Stillwater Reservoir, a six mile jaunt of smooth, fast riding. I was told not to be concerned about the slush, that it was from cracks in the surface where water had seeped through. I wasn’t concerned about it until I got to it, and then I became fairly certain I was going to perish within the icy waters, an ironic death, since I am a fairly good swimmer.  (Not to get braggy.)

There was a good amount of mist over the lake, and soon John’s taillights disappeared, and though I knew Kim was right behind me, I felt pretty isolated. We followed a line of scraggly trees to the lights at the edge of the lake, where a secluded hamlet awaited us. Beaver River is only accessible by boat or snowmobile and has a total population of 8. I assume these 8 people run the three businesses within the hamlet. We stopped at the Norridgewock III Resort, where a restaurant was full of more chapped faces, helmets, and people huddled over cups of coffee and hot cocoa. I drank hot cocoa with ample whipped cream.

We headed out about fifteen minutes before dusk, thereby again traversing Stillwater Reservoir during the most spectacular sunset I’ve ever seen. We drove toward the brilliant orange light, the mist dissipating into the air, the stars just beginning to emerge. It was absolutely surreal and beautiful. As we approached land, Kim called over the radio,

“I’m having so much fun hitting all of these moguls!” Kim is kind of a daredevil. Her husband responded,

“DON’T HIT THE MOGULS! We don’t know what they are!”

I’m concerned about slush and Kim is flying over rocky islands.

The remainder of the ride was in the dark, and the sky was absolutely clear. The stars put on a brilliant winter show.

The day would have been without further incident except that while trying to get the snowmobile over a small but rather steep incline, it kept going and I stayed behind. Lying on my back, molded rather comfortably in a drift, I felt relatively peaceful.

“So that happened,” I thought. I looked up at the stars. Kim ran toward me, fearing the worst, so I got up, tried again, and was on my way before the men even knew what happened.

By the end of the day we had driven 111 miles.

We went back to the inn, changed, and ate Italian food at the fanciest restaurant in town, where the dress code remained snow bibs and boots. I slept hard, excited to hit the trails the next day.

And then I woke up, and I ached in areas I did not know could ache. My head ached, my shoulders ached, my back ached, but the worst was my hands. My hands had tightly gripped the handles of that snowmobile for 111 miles, and my joints had swelled up.  My thumb ached from holding down the throttle. 
We spent Sunday morning at the Old Forge hardware store after eating pancakes.  It has taken three days for the swelling in my hands to go down, though the wedding ring doesn’t quite fit yet.  That being said,

I’d totally do it again.





Oops.

 

John on a sled.



Scenic vista



Miles to go before we sleep...



Stillwater Reservoir



Hamlet of Beaver River



Norridgewock

Today is my actual shopping day

Yesterday, Ben woke up all shivery and Daniel was warm, so I did what any mom desperate to go to Wegmans would do. I gave them each a dose of Ibprofen, sent Ben off to school, and bundled up Daniel so we could venture to the land of donuts and bulk candy.

The place was mobbed with people stocking up on beer and bread (that was exactly what the guy in line in front of me was purchasing- copious amounts of beer and bread) so they could load up on carbohydrates for the storm. Every elderly woman I passed cooed over Daniel, who was looking especially cute with his Elmer Fudd hat and feverish pink cheeks, and Ella, newly revived from her bout of cold/ hand, foot, and mouth disease/ impetigo/ sinus infection. The elderly women then made mention of the impending snow apocalypse, and I retorted with,

“This is my regular shopping day.” Which wasn’t exactly true. But I felt compelled, probably because I was irritated with the crowd, to insist that was the case. My normal shopping day is Wednesday, but I went yesterday because of, well, you know why.

I don’t know why I am the way I am.

John called me as I was about to check out. The school nurse wanted one of us to get Ben. She was kind of wondering why I sent him to school with a 102 degree fever. To which I retorted,

“Well, today’s my regular shopping day. And we were all out of beer and bread.”

By the end of last night, all three boys were shivering on the couch watching episodes of “Little Bear.” John is insisting they all watch “Little Bear” more often because Little Bear is so well-mannered and Father Bear is “kind of a bad-ass.” I love “Little Bear.” He’s so much better than that whiner, Caillou.

Daniel was by far the most pathetic, and John, who of course feared he was on the brink of death, forced him to drink ¾ of a bottle of Pedialyte. Daniel got up, stumbled around, crying, four times last night. In his state of sleepy, sick delirium, he knew something was very, very wrong, but wasn’t quite sure what.

I’ve never seen a kid pee so much in my life.

Today is a snow day, though the boys wouldn’t have gone to school anyway. Caleb, who has a headache and fever, remains stoic, determined to make the most of the snow day. He is stubbornly willing himself to wellness. Ben, on the other hand, is content to languish on the couch and treat me like his slave.

We’ve never had a winter like this- with so much sickness. And I fear, this morning, that my throat is a little sore, my head a little achy, and my hair is a bit heavy on my head. That’s how I know I’ve got something- my hair begins to hurt my head. Suddenly, instead of regular old dead cells clinging to my scalp, it feels like I’m being jabbed with thousands of tiny needles.

I could either be stoic, like Caleb, or languish on the couch and demand that John bring me popsicles and toast with jam- all of which I have- because yesterday was my regular shopping day.

Mele Kalikimaka

Yesterday. Ella woke up, found a permanent marker (gotta put a tighter lid on my collection of scrapbooking supplies) and drew all over her face and hands. What a debacle this girl is.

I was not in the best of moods. There is still a mouse (mice?) dwelling within these walls, and they are of supreme intelligence. They evade the many mousetraps I have set out. I have spent several late evenings running around the house like a wack-a-doo with a bowl, trying to capture mice (or one mouse- it’s hard to say) I spy scurrying along the sides of the walls. It always ends with the mouse escaping and me making plans to move right away.

On a related note, I did catch Daniel one day. In a mouse trap, not under a bowl. He’s fine, though I suppose we’re lucky his finger is not broken. Please don’t call child services; I’m a capable parent 85% of the time, which I think is a reasonable percentage.

Thursday night, John was off to NY and I was all alone, contending with my unwanted guests. I slept with the covers over my head and got up several times in the night to run around with my bowl. I got four hours of restless sleep. I have this nightmare where a mouse tries to climb into my brain through my ear.

We went grocery shopping after my Friday morning Mothers-in-Touch meeting, where Ella tried to ride my friend’s dog like a horse. The dog was really quite lovely about it.

Then we went to Target. Got Ella new boots- pink suede ones she picked out. Daniel picked out Spiderman sneakers and I bought Caleb new shoes AND boots. I feel a little bad about sending him out in the snow and slush in sneakers that had holes in the toes.

“My teacher said I couldn’t go outside wearing these shoes. She wouldn’t feel right about it, she said.”

So that’s embarrassing.

After I spent a copious amount of money on footwear, we went to Wegmans, where a man in a large landscaping truck screeched through the parking lot, parked across from us, slammed his door, and proceeded to scream a collection of eclectic curse words at his skinny and meek looking female companion. He hit the top of his truck, he was so mad about “how stupid she was.”

Because I am fearless, I said, “Hey! Do you mind? My kids can hear you!”

He responded, “Mind your own *expletive* business!” Then he started walking toward me. He looked angry and I felt threatened. So I stuck my hand in my purse and said,

“You come any closer and you’re going to be very sorry.” He did come closer, so I pepper-sprayed him in the eyeballs.

This is all true, up to the part where I said “Hey! Do you mind?” What I actually did was put the twins into the van very quickly. Then, I unloaded my cereal and bananas with intense focus, making certain not to look in the angry man’s direction while taking care not to smush my bread. I always smush my bread.

I am not fearless. Plus, did you know it can actually be worse for the victim of physical and verbal abuse if you intervene? The abuser will take out their embarrassment and anger on the victim later.

But oh man, sometimes I do fantasize about using my pepper spray. Be forewarned.

Later at home, while sweeping the kitchen floor, I found a long lock of golden Ella hair. This was alarming. I scooped her up and examined her head. Indeed, I found a spot where the golden lock should have remained.

“Ella! Did you cut your hair?” I asked.

“Ella cut my hair, too!” Daniel interjected.

“What? Where?” He pointed to a sparse looking spot on the top of his head. “Why did you let her do that?”

“I need haircut.” This is true. He does need a haircut.

“Well, sweetie- Ella might not be the most qualified person to perform this task. Please don’t let her do that again.”

“Kay.” He shrugged and we all went about our day. No use crying over spilt hair.

John returned home before dinner and I waited expectantly for my gift, because John ALWAYS brings me a gift when he goes to NY without me. It’s Christmas time, so naturally I expected to receive snow globe of the NYC skyline from Saks.

But, no gift. No snow globe. The romance is fizzling.

“Viggo Mortensen would’ve brought me a snow globe,” I thought.

I had waited until John got home to clean up a mess the mice had made. I wanted him to see the extent of the horribleness of living with rodents.

“Look at this? What do you think these are?” I pointed to a mess in the corner of the counter behind the toaster.

“Little dead bugs?” he guessed.

“No. That is mouse EXCREMENT!!! I’ve got no snow globe and I’m living with mice! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT I AM THIS CLOSE TO HAVING A VERY UNIQUE KIND OF NERVOUS BREAKDOWN?”

So, we now have a fancier mousetrap, and if the mice are not dead, yes dead, by the end of this weekend, the professionals may be called.

Last night, Kiah peed on the rug. Caleb wet the bed. At 5:30 am, Ben puked all over his covers and the rug.

I have gone through two 22 fluid ounces of Resolve Carpet Cleaner for pets (which happily also removes puke smells) since September.

Right now, I’m supposed to be decorating for Christmas. I hauled up the bins, started decorating, and abandoned the project because I felt overwhelmed. Downstairs, it looks very much like Christmas exploded all over my kitchen. This also might be because I stupidly left Ella alone for like ten seconds with a vile of silver glitter.

On Christmas Eve, I’m totally hitchhiking a ride on Santa’s sled- a Hawaiian Christmas sounds lovely.

The Walk

Australian Shepherds are quite variable in temperament. Some lines are extremely energetic, quick moving, and hyperactive, while others tend toward a milder, calmer manner.

It may be too early to tell, but I suspect that Kiah falls in the former category. I suspect this because of the number of times a week I say the following: “THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS!” I might yell it a little bit. I definitely say it twice as often as I did before Kiah came into our home and started decimating it.

So, I’ve begun taking her for long walks. It’s the only way to settle her down a bit. I put the twins in the double stroller and the three of us take a merry jaunt through and out of our neighborhood. I like to stroll down a nearby country road to a very old, small cemetery. The twins get out and stretch their legs while I flap my arms and implore them not to climb the tombstones. After that, we head back. It’s a charming time.

Today’s walk didn’t get off to a good start. I could not find Kiah’s leash anywhere- it wasn’t where I left it and the twins weren’t talking- so I fashioned a leash out of a jump rope. Then, Ella managed to fall out of her seat onto the coarse pavement, which she was not happy about. The cemetery is not even a mile away, but it feels so much longer when you’re pushing twins, picking up stray twins and putting them back in their seats, all while corralling an extremely energetic, quick moving, and hyperactive puppy. There are grates to be avoided, cars not to swerve into, and large teethy dogs to steer clear of.

Today, we made it to the cemetery and I sat with Kiah under a large Hickory tree. Daniel soon broke the tranquility with a “Look mom! A little Daniel chair!” I went over to remove him from the low-to-the-ground tombstone. It was right then that Kiah decided to defecate beside the grave of one Robert Danworth, deceased in February of 1868 at the age of 89. Someone had recently stuck a small American flag by his grave, so I have to assume he was a veteran. Of the Mexican-American War. Or the War of 1812. Maybe even the Quasi-War with France. Who knows. (I think it’s lovely someone out there knows.)

Immediately after she finished her business, Kiah trotted off, bent over, ate a Hickory nut, began choking, and spit the thing up. I stared at her, somewhat dazed. She stared back.

It was then I became irritated; however, always willing to do my duty as a responsible pet owner, I reached into my pocket for a baggie. (This whole carrying your dog’s poop in a baggie thing, by the way, is quite possibly the worst part of dog ownership. Even if it’s triple-bagged, you are still always profoundly aware that you are walking around with sh&# in your pocket. I generally gravitate toward someone’s garbage tote on the curb and sneak Kiah’s waste into it, even though I have heard that some people don’t like their garbage mingling with other people’s garbage- hence the sneaking.)

There was no baggie in my pocket. We’ve only had Kiah a little over a month, so I have not yet developed that “never leave the house without a baggie” mindset.

You can imagine my predicament. I had several options:

1) Turn around and never ever visit the little cemetery again. Pray for forgiveness.
2) Find large leaves, pick up poop, and fling it into the woods behind cemetery. (This was my least favorite option.)
3) Go home and return later to clean up the mess.
4) Ask the woman who was staring at me the next house over if she had a baggie.

I went with option 4 and unloaded the baggie in someone’s garbage tote about six houses down.

The walk took longer than I imagined it would, and as I approached our development, Caleb's  and Ben’s school bus sped by me. And thus a race of epic proportions- think Ben-Hur- commenced. Kiah and I sprinted to the house and arrived 30 seconds before the bus did.

When we got home, Kiah raced to her water bowl. After an incredibly long and sloppy drink, she did something she’s never done before. She went into her crate and laid her head on her paws, looking very beleaguered, and went to sleep. Just like that.

Score one for Holly.

The Day in Pictures

John is having a hard time accepting that his coffee maker is kaputs. Every time he brews coffee, it leaks all over the place. So he's taken to brewing his coffee in the sink, even though we have at least four other functional coffee makers collecting dust in the garage. My head hurts thinking about this.




This is what happens when certain people leave their lime chips out:

The pre-wash cycle:

This is what the twins were doing while I was bringing groceries in from the car. I can now empathise with what those poor people in Iceland went through. This picture doesn't quite detail the extent of the damage. They flung ashes across the room, onto all of the furniture, onto the clean folded laundry, even onto the television. My vacuum cleaner needed emptying four times. During the third time, I'm pretty sure it swore at me. And one of my attachments broke while I was vacuuming the cushions. Cleaning up the living room= 2-hour project.

Look what I found!!! It's the wishbone from last Thanksgiving's turkey. We are such procrastinators.

Now is the time where I ask if I can come stay with you for a day or two. If you have a house where all of the people and animals have COMPLETE control over their bowels and are reasonably quiet, I assure you, I would make a very pleasant house guest.

If not, I understand. I hear there's plenty of room at the Hotel California.

Last day of August

7pm- met my friend Lyd and went to the beach. Had ice cream at Abbott's. Lyd loves when my kids yell "funky rhythms"- something they heard on Sponge Bob. And they love to yell it. And run around like chickens. But when two pre-schoolers who are in speech therapy yell "funky rhythms" with gusto it sounds... bad. And the older couple wearing the America t-shirts standing in line for ice-cream stared at us, mouths agape, wondering why we were laughing, NAY, encouraging their profanity.

So we took our funky rhythms elsewhere. We walked on the beach. Which started innocently enough.

A little sand never hurt anyone.

"It was an accident."

"I fell."

No! Ella no!

End game.

Bad Habit

I’ve somehow picked up a really bad habit. I’ve taken up winking at people. And animals, too. Anyone’s game. In my defense, it’s not done in a flirty way, but rather an “I get you, sweetie!” kind of way. You know- conspiratorial winking. However, I could see how it could be misconstrued as flirty, as it was yesterday by the young man working at the Home Depot.

It started with Caleb. Caleb and I have secrets, secrets that I will never divulge, even under great duress. Sometimes, Caleb and I allude to these secrets in public (public= in the presence of Ben, Daniel, and Ella), and when we do this alluding, we wink at one another.

Caleb LOVES to wink. He has since he learned how to about a year ago. Ben loves to wink, too, though he hasn't figured out how yet and only manages to blink really, really hard. But Caleb and I, to boost Ben’s self-esteem, assure him he’s a great winker. And then we wink at each other. Conspiratorially.

I’m not sure how many people I’ve winked at in the past month. I started becoming self-aware about a week ago, and I’m really trying to curb the habit. Of course, since it’s a pretty established habit, it’s been difficult to quit it cold turkey. Winking has become spontaneous, like a tick. I’ll be talking to someone, we’ll share a laugh, and before you can say Bob’s your uncle, I’ve winked. Conspiratorially, of course.

I went to Home Depot to get a doohickey that reaches down into drains to grab hair. They sell said doohickey for under $2.00 right next to the Drano. Initially, I was wandering around the plumbing aisle with its long and intimidating tubing, looking very out of place. A Home Depot employee spotted me and thought, “A woman in the plumbing aisle? She must be lost! I will help her!”

I told him I was looking for a thinger I could stick down drains. That’s literally what I said. A thinger I could stink down drains. And he knew exactly what I was talking about. He led me to the doohickey and said, “Is this the thinger you were referring to?”

I grinned. “This is the thinger I was looking for!” I said. Then I winked at him.

And let me tell you that if I were you, I would not wink at helpful, slightly chubby young men working at the Home Depot. They might put their hand on your arm and ask if there’s anything else they can do for you. And you, startled, might take a big step backward and say something like: “Oh, that’ll do it, sir! Yuppers!” Because you’re a dork. And he’ll smile, wanly, and walk away.

The thinger you can stick down drains worked out great. I pulled out miles of black, gunky hair, and had fun doing it, too. Clearing the shower drain gave me a sense of accomplishment I’ve never felt before. Except last week, when I fixed the garbage disposal. And the week before, when I re-wired Daniel’s battery-operated car.

Soon, I’ll be right at home in the Home Depot’s plumbing aisle.

Wink.

We are Gazelles

This morning, I found two eggs perched in the middle of the window-seat in the library/dining-room/ room where Holly folds her laundry and then leaves it in piles until the mood to put it away strikes. Which occurs maybe once a week.

As soon as I saw the eggs, I was sure it was going to be a good day. The eggs, which had obviously been retrieved and transported from the refrigerator to the window-seat by twin A or twin B, were fully in tact, not a crack in them. So there was that to be grateful for. Oh- and I was hit with profound inspiration: egg salad for lunch!

This is the way life has seemed, lately- just teetering on the border of total disaster. Like the day the hot-water heater went. I was using the microwave and the stove at the same time, which is a big no-no in our house, when I blew the fuse. After muttering, John went into the basement to switch the power back on and discovered an impending flood. If the fuse had not blown, John would probably not have ventured into the basement that night, and 25 gallons of water would have seeped out of the heater and totally ruined my gift bag collection, which is about eleven years old. It is an enviable gift bag collection, I might add.

The hot-water heater died just a few days after my vacuum went kaput. I knew the vacuum was getting old. It had begun to act ornery, only cleaning one room before it would refuse to work anymore. I would let it rest a half an hour before proceeding. Vacuuming turned into an all-day event. Then one day it wouldn’t start at all. I hope my calling it a petulant bi*%* isn’t the reason why.

Unfortunately, I did not run right out and buy a new vacuum. This is because I am a gazelle. (I'll explain that in a minute.) We decided to really research vacuums and get one that would last more than three years. (Not might be a good time to let you know that if I were you, I would not buy a Hoover.)

I reminded John after the water heater was replaced that we also needed to get a new vacuum. He gave me his “intense look” and said, “Let’s take one thing at a time now.”

Does he really think going without a vacuum is a viable option? And let me tell you what, my “intense looks” rival his any day.

John and I are doing a “Total Money Makeover.” This is based on a book of the same name. We have made a rather strict budget and are committed to getting out of debt. We’re in it for the long-haul, like gazelles, and do not plan to go fast at first only to peter out later, like a cheetah. This is a metaphor. It’s from the book.

In a year, we should be able to refinance our 30-year mortgage into a 15-year mortgage and start making major payments on the loan we took out for the modest house in the Hamptons that we can’t visit as it is inhabited by zombies. By “modest house in the Hamptons” I mean school loans, and by “zombies” I mean loan officers. This is also a metaphor. I made it up myself.

We remain vacuum-less. It’s pretty awful. My broom and I have been getting better acquainted. I guess we’re looking for a great vacuum sale or something because gazelles are smart shoppers.

Speaking of smart, last night my dad asked Caleb who he thought was smarter, his mommy or his daddy. You may think that this is kind of a sick question to ask a kid, which may be true, but we wanted to know.

Caleb, without pause, said, “Oh, my dad.”

“WHAT?” I shrieked. He looked frightened.

“I’m not mad,” I promised. “I just want to know why you think that.”

“Because lots of times I ask you questions and you always say, go ask dad…”

I wanted to tell them that it wasn’t because I’m not smart, but rather, because I am inherently lazy. And since about 80% of Caleb’s questions are either hockey or baseball related, I feel John has a slight edge on the “appearing smart” scale.

Signing off now. Laundry to fold in the library/dining-room/room where Holly folds laundry…

The Day I Ate Mold (Accidentally)

Yesterday, in a moment of solitude and extreme weakness, and in spite of the fact that I had burned off 450 calories at the gym only an hour before, I took it upon myself to consume the last sizable piece of vanilla cake from the twins' birthday party. (It was a corner piece with ample frosting.)

Three bites from the very end of the cake, I happened to pause and saw that there was a bit of green fuzz clinging to the bottom of the piece I was about to put in my mouth. In fact, all three remaining bites had green and grey fuzz. It is more than likely that the entire piece of cake had been decorated similarly.

This is the point where I ran upstairs and googled “I accidentally ate mold.” If google prompts and online forums are any indication, this is a common problem that should probably be discussed in town hall meetings.

Apparently, the type of mold that grows on cake is not generally toxic, so I was temporarily reassured and proceeded with my day. (Sadly, the remainder of the chocolate cake was similarly afflicted and needed to be discarded. Ella discovered the cake in the garbage and kept peering down at it, saying, “Birthday?”)

A little after 3:00pm, Caleb’s school nurse called me at home, which is always distressing. Caleb, she said, was covered in hives. He was not having any trouble breathing or swallowing, so we decided to allow him to come home on the bus since it was the end of school anyway.

He arrived home very itchy. The hives were large, white monstrosities that covered his arms, his legs, his back, and his stomach. One of his knees was swollen to the point where I felt mildly repulsed, so after giving him a dose of Benadryl, I called the pediatrician and talked to a friendly nurse:

Holly: Caleb is covered in hives.

Nurse: Is he having trouble breathing?

Holly: No… they’re very itchy and they look gross.

Nurse: Well, it’s probably just an allergic reaction. Is there anything different going on at school? Any new pets in the classroom?

Holly: Caleb- are there any new pets in your classroom?

Caleb (with serious expression on his face): The worms are gone now.

Holly: No pets. The worms are gone now.

Nurse: Well, people aren’t generally allergic to worms.

Holly: I suppose not.

Nurse: Has he eaten anything unusual? Anything different?

Holly: No…. everything’s the same…. Oh my gosh, he ate MOLD!

Nurse: He ate mold?!?

(I will now note that I have had very little sleep of late, thanks to persistent insomnia and some bed wetting. Not me, my kids.)

Holly: No, wait. Caleb didn’t eat mold. I ate mold.

Nurse: You ate mold?!?

Holly: Well, not on purpose. I didn’t know I was eating mold.

Nurse: You didn’t know you were eating mold?

Holly: Correct. But the point is, Caleb did not eat mold.

After we cleared the whole mold issue up, the nurse told me to give Caleb Benadryl before he went to bed and to just “watch the situation.” The hives were gone twenty minutes later and there has been no recurrence so far.

As for me- I feel fine. I think mold agrees with me.

Lord Beer Me Strength

I'm not a drinking person. And it's not because of religious reasons. It's because I am a recovering alcoholic.

No, I'm not a recovering alcoholic, but this is what I tell people when they pressure me to have a drink.

"Come on!" they say. "You're out, away from the kids! Just have a beer."

"No thanks," I say.

"Come on... loosen up! One drink won't hurt you!"

"No- I'm good with my Sprite."

"Let me get you something. A cocktail? An appletini, perhaps?"

"I really don't drink. I'm a recovering alcoholic."

And they shut up and leave me alone EVERY TIME.

I'm such a wuss. I hate the taste of alcohol. I don't care if it's a glass of expensive red wine or a screwdriver... it all tastes what I imagine the Ajax stored beneath my sink would taste like. Smiling while trying really really hard not to grimace as I sip a glass of wine is not my idea of a party. Plus, I don't do well when I am "affected." There is too much silliness and I flirt too much. This pisses off the official husband of Holly Goes Lightly.

But today- today I am contemplating making myself several margaritas after the kids fall asleep and getting good and silly because this has been the morning from down under. (The fiery place- not Australia.)

A couple of work projects have kept me from my housework the past week-and-a-half. The laundry has especially been neglected. I was seriously contemplating just throwing it all out and starting over again but have since reconsidered and am now in the process of washing my seventh load. Two more to go, I think. (There was bed-wetting last night... that hasn't helped things.)

This morning, I set the twins up at the table with crayons and some coloring books and sat myself down a room away to fold the laundry. All was calm. The twins jabbered away for a while. Then, I heard them get down from the table. They scurried up the stairs, quietly, which is always a bad sign. I got up to see what they were up to and found a mess of marker stains all over the table and other parts of the kitchen.

When the twins evacuated the kitchen, they left behind a blue trail:

Kitchen floor.


Stair railing.

One of several newly decorated walls.

I found them in the upstairs bathroom, where they had decided to clean themselves up. They had hauled their wipes to the sink and were busily ridding themselves of the blue on their faces and hands.

I almost blew a gasket, but took a deep breath and decided (instead of screaming at them) to grab the camera and see what they did next. I would not have been such a cool cucumber had the markers not been of the washable variety.

After they felt they were sufficiently clean, they went downstairs and began wiping down the mess. It was all very reminiscent of Beatrix Potter's "The Tale of Two Bad Mice," which we had read the other day:

Later on, when I was putting clothes away upstairs (it's such a long process, the laundry), Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum took the handsoap off of the counter and put copious amounts of it in their hair. So I gave them a bath.

They'll probably need another one before the day is through.

That Word

The boys played outside today in the snow and came back in with pink cheeks and cold noses and demanded hot cocoa. I refuse to go out into the snow until I get a decent pair of boots on account of my perpetually cold feet. The boys don’t understand this. They do not get why I do not also think that making snow angels and building forts and throwing snowballs is the cat’s behind.

Ahhh, children.

As they sipped their hot cocoa at the table, I was showing John a part of a movie I watched last night. The scene had kids in it, so I thought it was safe to watch when OUR kids were nearby. Unfortunately, I forgot about one particular conversation and before we could do anything about it, the male lead character was shouting expletives. He said something along the lines of “you mother effing b#@ch.” Twice, I think.

We quickly turned it off. John gave me his “intense look” and said I would have strongly chastised him if he had put such inappropriate material on the boob tube whilst the children were awake.

I pleaded ignorance. Erstwhile, we heard secretive whispering from the other room.

“What word?” said Ben.

“I’m not going to say it. It’s a very bad word,” Caleb said.

I called Caleb over.

I asked him what word he was talking about. He opened his eyes wide and shook his head. He is an incredibly decent individual and is polite and thoughtful and would NEVER say a bad word.

I assured him he would not get in trouble. I just wanted to know what the word was so I could explain it to him, if necessary.

“You know. What that guy said in that movie.”

“You can tell me. What did he say?”

“You know. The word after he said funking.” Funking?

I probed him further. John sighed, exasperated.

“He means b#@ch, Holly.”

Caleb’s eyes widened and he nodded. Caleb already knows this particular word, thanks to said father’s verbal outbursts during sporting broadcasts. (I don’t think it’s nice to call Tom Brady a little b#@ch, either.) We all agreed it was not a good word to say and that the character on the movie should not have said it. We also all agreed that Ben did not need to know that word at this particular juncture. Caleb went back to drinking his cocoa.

“For the love of God, Holly. It’s like you were trying to get him to say the f-word,” said John.

I wasn’t trying to get him to say it. I just wanted to know if he knew that what he heard was the end-all, be-all swear, as well as the most versatile and grammatically interesting curse word that was ever invented.

Fortunately, he was so focused on the sudden sound of the bad word he DID know that it didn’t occur to him that it was preceded by a very subversive, well, gerund in this case.

Innocence preserved just a little longer.

And the Award for the Worst Mom of the Weekend Goes To....

Friday morning

8:40 am

Caleb is dressed and ready for the snowy tundra that is our driveway. He had been jumping around the house with his backpack wide open, and one of his shoes fell out somewhere. I send him outside to wait for the bus as I frantically search the wild terrain that is our floor. After all, one can’t participate in gym if one is wearing winter boots. It’s just not done. I find it as Caleb is getting on the bus. I run with superhero speed, in my bare feet and pajamas through two feet of drifted snow, waving my arms and shouting like a looney-bird. The driver stops and everyone stares with wide eyes as I march to the door and hand Caleb his shoe.

“Oh. Thanks, mom,” he says nonchalantly. I go back inside and stand on the radiator for a good five minutes.

One Hour Later

I am sitting in the back of a church sanctuary with all of other moms whose husbands and parents can’t get out of work to go to their child or grandchild’s Christmas program. My camera is primed; I am ready to shoot video of Ben singing “Rudolph,” “Jingle Bells,” and “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” My friend sitting next to me bites her lip through “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Her son has admitted to swinging his arms a little too vigorously during the song, previously injuring the little girl who sits next to him. I peer over at them and, indeed, the little girl looks a bit anxious.

Daniel sits and plays with his gowack but Ella thinks Ben’s Christmas program is a wild party and she dances in the aisle. No one seems to care.

In the crowd later, Santa arrives. I coral the twins and Ella is picked up by Mrs. Claus. She stares in awe. Santa asks her what she wants for Christmas and she shakes her head.

“No,” she says.

We go home after slipping and sliding through the parking lot.

11:00 am

I spend a good two hours at my favorite lunch bistro, McDonald’s, with Janet. Ella climbs the elaborate jungle gym and won’t come down. I stand below bribing her with a candy cane.

1:30pm

I drop the kids off at my mom's so I can go to the dentist.

2:00 pm

No cavities! The dentist wants to know how I chipped my front tooth. I can’t remember. He seems to think that is odd.

3:00

I run to the mall to find a pretty dress to wear to a Christmas gala that evening. I find one at Sears. It is brown. I don’t try it on.

3:45

Back at my mom's, bundling the kids. I look at the clock and am astonished to remember that Caleb is getting off of the bus in five minutes, and I’m twenty minutes away. I get hysterical. My mother slaps me across the face and says,

“Pull yourself together woman!”

I pull myself together and call my wonderful friends and neighbors who live around the corner. Chris literally races the bus to my house and grabs Caleb. Thankfully, the bus driver doesn’t call the cops when Caleb gets into a strange car with a man who is not his father.

4:00- 5:00 pm

I sob at what an idiot I am. I vow it will never happen again. I don’t vow it to Caleb, because he has no idea what almost happened. I vow it to Ella, who nods, solemnly.

5:30 pm

I squeeze myself into my new dress. John, who is a bit cool toward me, probably because of incidences that occurred earlier that afternoon, zips me up but doesn’t tell me I look pretty. I totally deserve that. Plus, my eyes are bloodshot and the dress is a bit tight and I really don’t look pretty at all.

6:00-10:00 pm

At the Lakeside Hospital Christmas gala, a woman at the bathroom says:

“Has anyone told you you look just like Renee Zellwegger?”

Actually, yes! When “Jerry Maguire” came out, another woman in a bathroom told me I looked just like Renee Zellwegger. It was one of the happiest moments of my small life.

The woman in the convention center bathroom turns to her friend behind her and says:

“Renee Zellwegger. You know. Bridget Jones.”

It’s come to this. I used to look like “Jerry Maguire” Renee Zellwegger. Now I look like “Bridget Jones” Renee Zellwegger. If someone ever compares me to “Cold Mountain” Renee Zellwegger, I may do something hostile.

Laura Bush is the keynote speaker. She comes out and places a bobble-head of herself on her podium.

“It has come to this,” she says. She explains that the bobble-head was purchased by a friend at a gift store in Washington D.C. It was on the clearance rack.

How utterly sad.

I lose the silent auction I was bidding on, but win the table’s gorgeous centerpiece. John forgives me for my past transgression and we go home kind of tired.

Saturday

6:00 am

John leaves for Buffalo to speak about constitutional freedoms at a men’s breakfast.

7:00 am

Everyone is up and eating oatmeal.

11:30 am

John comes home and Ben and I rush off to swim lessons. Ben now jumps into the pool, doggie-paddles in the deep end, floats on his back, and practices blowing bubbles in the water. He has vastly improved in just a few weeks.

12:30 pm

Back home… I leave John to spend the day Christmas shopping with one of my best friends. I eat a St. John panini at Cibon and later a slice of lemon raspberry cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory.

5:30 pm

Back home. John leaves with boys to get a Christmas tree. I tell them to get a BIG one. They come home with not such a big one. Ben and Caleb are pleased with their tree.

“It was the best one!!!!” says Ben.

“They had to have this one,” says John.

It occurs to me that the tree does look huge to the boys.

7:00 pm

John leaves to hang out with friends. I curl up with a book I bought for somebody else for Christmas. I intend to read all of the books I have purchased for others before Christmas. Is that wrong?

Sunday

8:30 am

I’m off to sing in the church choir. I come back in between services to grab Caleb. Ben sounds croupy so John decides to stay home with him.

1:00 am

Caleb and I grab lunch at Wegmans after church: white cream-filled donuts, and head over to Supercuts so Caleb looks less like mountain child and more like a nice little boy. It grosses me out that the hair hasn’t been swept off the floor by Caleb’s salon chair. I am standing on someone else’s hair.

1:40 pm

Back home. Ben and Ella are napping. The Bills are winning. I intend to take a winter’s nap. Ben comes down from his nap wheezing. He can hardly talk and seems to be struggling to breathe. Since I am leaving later to go with Caleb to his Christmas piano recital, John decides to take Ben to Urgent Care.

4:00 pm

Urgent Care takes one look at Ben and calls an ambulance. John and Ben ride over to Strong. I start cleaning the house because what else can one do when one feels like throwing up because her small child is away from her, in an ambulance, fighting to breathe?

5:00 pm

The doctors at the hospital are alarmed by a constriction in Ben’s throat. At first, they think he might have actually swallowed something that got lodged there. It turns out his throat is just very swollen. He has severe croup. They give him albuterol and steroids and wait.

6:00 pm

My dad comes and picks up Caleb for his recital. They are going to play “Jingle Bells” as a duet together. Caleb is okay that I’m not coming.

7:00 pm

Ben is released. The twins and I bundle up and ride to Strong to pick them up. We then grab John’s car at Urgent Care, stopping to pick up some popsicles for Ben. Ben is spry, but is milking his illness for all it’s worth.

“Mom,” he says, “I am still very, very sick.” He gives Renee Zellwegger in “Cold Mountain” performances, sometimes. Oscar-worthy, I mean.

11:30 pm

I am so tired but I can’t sleep. I read more of the book I am giving to someone else, being very careful not to bend one single page. I am thankful that everyone is safe and under one roof. I have apocalyptic dreams, where all of the banks in the world crash and utter chaos is the new normal.

Monday

I am glad it’s Monday. Caleb, who was incredibly neglected this weekend, doesn’t want to go to school. He’d rather stay home with, of all people, me. We watch his performance at the recital again and again.

I’m sorry, buddy.

I’ll do better next weekend.