The Real World

Yesterday, I removed the curtains from the playroom. There are seven windows and only two had curtains up. This is a long, boring story. I’ve ordered new curtains! They are called “Blue Windsor Striped Valences.” Ah the domestic life. I am too excited about these curtains.

Anyway, I removed the curtains, and before I could step off of the chair, two of my children had stolen the two parts of the curtain rod and taken them in the other room to begin an epic swordfight.

They are scavengers and foragers. They are why I eat in secret.

Last week, a recruiter saw my profile on LinkedIn and contacted me about a short-term job here in Rochester. It paid well, it was 40 hours a week, and I was a “strong candidate.” I took the interview.

Ultimately, I didn’t get it, but wow, it was nice to be considered. I felt validated, like what I’ve been doing the last three years has actually made me a marketable candidate for the real-world workforce. Tell your friends!

The job would’ve gone through the summer, and of course I worried. I worried about finding a nanny on short notice, about taking time off for a vacation, about the writing conference I’d already committed to. I worried about how to get the kids off to school and what would happen it one were sick. And I thought about the things I would miss, like yesterday, when the twins got the hiccups at the same time. It’s hysterical. They’ve been doing that since they were in the womb.

I thought about how I’d miss Ben’s birthday in his classroom, reading to the twins at preschool, and taking Kiah for long walks on sunny days. I’d miss writing posts for my blog and nibbling at Ella’s leftover peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwich while I write them. I’d miss the rush of the older boys after-school routine. They come in the doors like bats out of hell, hug me, and demand a snack. I always acquiesce.

I’d miss Tuesdays at the Y and Thursday prayers at my friend’s house. I’d miss Ella’s speech therapy sessions and playdates and trips to the play museum. I’d miss snack time and quiet time and even struggling to pin Ella down so I can brush her hair. That’s a morning routine no one can do as well as I can.

I suppose I’m not ready to join the “real world” yet.

Someday, though.

From The Planet Mexico

“Mom. Is our planet called Earth?” asked Ben.

“Yes. We are earth. The blue planet.”

“Huh. I thought we lived on the planet Mexico.”

Sometimes I fear the public school system is failing him.

We were in the car, Ben in the back seat dressed in full Darth Vader regalia. He was speaking to me from beneath his black, shiny helmet. Honestly, he resembled Rick Moranis in Spaceballs more than the tall guy they got to play Darth in Star Wars.

Ben is trying desperately hard to be a good boy, which is really hard for people from the planet Mexico- not to be confused with the country in North America here on the blue planet, earth.

In my refusal to mention what racist thing Ben said the other day, I should have mentioned no pejorative terms were thrown about. I was told that because I did not relay what he said, people’s imaginations went to the worst possible places. Compared with the guesses family and friends made, Ben’s statements were almost inoccuous. Relief swept over faces when I told what had been said.

“That’s nothing. Listen to what my kid said about…”

In the car, we named all the planets.

“There’s Mercury, and the Venus, which is covered with a poisonous gas,” I said.

“Jupiter’s the gaseous planet,” John said.

“ALL the outer planets are gaseous,” I retorted. I know this from reading The Magic School Bus Chapter Book #4: Space Explorers, which is a scientific work on par with Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time.

“Caleb, do you know what color Mars is?”

“Blue and green,” he said with confidence.

“Nope. Mars is the red planet.” I was starting to feel smug about my space knowledge.

“I thought you said 'what color ours is.' Our planet is blue and green.”

Tonight, the husband is out watching the final playoff game; this week he travels. I am left alone here on the planet Mexico to discuss basic astronomical nomenclature with my kids.

“Mars people are called Martians,” said Ben proudly.

He is a good boy. They are all good boys. But sometimes I ache for grown-up conversation.

Tonight it is too cloudy to see Venus burning in the winter sky.

Why Reading To Kill a Mockingbird Will Help When it Comes Time to Read Conceptual Physics

Part 1

This morning, I came downstairs to spy the husband sitting in our dilapidated rocking chair in front of the television wearing a headset in order to talk to strangers online.

I cannot express how disturbed I am by this development.

Yesterday, John bought a wireless router so we could access Netflix through his Xbox. Unfortunately, this means subscribing to Xbox Live. If you have Xbox Live, you can play arcade games with other people live over the internet- through the television. If he starts playing Warcraft, I am going run off and become a lounge singer on a cruise ship. He wasn’t even excited about all the Gregory Peck movies we could watch right in a row! Or the karaoke features! He just wants to play hockey with 12-year olds who swear at him if he fails to prevent the opposing forwards from screening his goalie.

In my next life, I am going to marry someone whose idea of gaming is playing Scrabble on a Friday night. Good grief.

In other horrible news, we moved the television from the basement up into the playroom, which means we have two TVs on the first floor. The Wii is in the playroom, and the Xbox is in the living room, which means when I came downstairs, everyone in the house was playing video games.

Video games, of course, are not inherently bad in themselves, and I guess have some “benefits,” like in that 80s movie where the boy’s impressive gaming skills get him recruited to battle in an intergalactic war.

Of course, as a mom, I am naturally concerned that TV, video games, and other forms of technology are turning my kids’ brains into the consistency of the gruel served to Oliver Twist in Dickens’ classic.

“What’s gruel?” asks Ben.

“Kind of like porridge.”

“What’s porridge?”

“What the three bears ate.”

“Oh, yeah! That stuff is good!”

(I assume he decided that based on contextual evidence.)

Part 2

While some argue that the reading and writing kids do online “counts,” I am suspicious. And here’s why: reading a friend’s poorly conceived e-mail or participating in online forums or threads on Facebook does not develop the critical reading skills kids need to succeed.

I’m a huge fan of fiction: it’s fun, it allows kids to learn to sit in one place and read for an extended period of time, improves analytical thinking, expands vocabulary, improves memory, and helps kids become better writers. However, other types of literature, including comic books, magazines, and non-fiction books achieve these same goals.

Online reading doesn’t generally improve critical thinking skills. Since most kids aren’t logging on to The Atlantic or online literary journals, they are susceptible to the strategies websites use to get readers on to their website. Strategies include writing short paragraphs that are written around “keywords,” lists, emboldened headings, low-level vocabulary, and water-downed pieces of information people can scan to get the gist of the message. And then, there are the built-in links that drive online users from one page to the next, where eventually they become lost in cyberspace. There is no discernable ending when reading online, and time is literally sucked up into a vacuum as we aimlessly wander through a virtual world of our own creation.

Yes, digital literacy is a valuable asset in today’s technology-driven world, but are kids really gleaning valuable, factual information while web-surfing on their own? Outside of the classroom, kids troll YouTube, Facebook, celebrity sites, and personal blogs. Sure, you can find an answer to a question a lot faster on the internet than by visiting the library, but how do kids know if that source is reliable? I love this quote from a NY Times article:

Web readers are persistently weak at judging whether information is trustworthy. In one study, Donald J. Leu, who researches literacy and technology at the University of Connecticut, asked 48 students to look at a spoof Web site (http://zapatopi.net/treeoctopus/) about a mythical species known as the “Pacific Northwest tree octopus.” Nearly 90 percent of them missed the joke and deemed the site a reliable source.

Extensive web-surfing fosters extremely short attention spans. The average time a person spends on a web page? 27 seconds. In a rush, we search for the answer to our question, then click on an advertisement that proclaims to have pictures of Ashton Kutcher’s latest tryst. (The pictures were questionable, by the way.)

If kids don’t grow up reading books, they miss out on developing critical thinking skills. When they get to college and a professor gives them a reading assignment, a lot of freshman can’t do it. They don’t know how. If they can’t sit still and read the first chapter of To Kill a Mockingbird, how are they going to read two pages of Conceptual Physics? How are they going to be able to dissect and respond to case studies, poetry, historical documents, and political science articles?

In short, if the future of mankind places extreme value in virtual hockey playing, intergalactic starfighting, finding songs on YouTube in less than 10 seconds, and cyber-bullying, by all means, let’s allow our kids to spend unprecedented amounts of time gaming, web-surfing, and texting. However, if the future still calls for doctors, physicists, engineers, novelists, poets, teachers, and lawyers, we should temper gaming and surfing with reading. (Maybe not the lawyers.  Unless they are like Atticus Finch, played by Gregory Peck in the film version of To Kill a Mockingbird.)

Part 3

The best way to foster a love of books in your kids is to:

1. Read to them.
2. Read in front of them.
3. Provide them with interesting reading materials.

(In the husband’s defense, his nose is in a book as often as or perhaps more often than he’s in front of the Xbox.)

I’ve been reading the boys A Christmas Carol, because of the holiday season and also because of a possibly premature and over-zealous desire to introduce them to Dickens. We stop a lot because they want to know what words mean.

“What does frigid mean?” asks Ben.

“Let’s see if you can figure it out. I’m so frigid! Brrrr!”

(A snicker comes from a corner of the room.)

“NO COMMENTS FROM THE PEANUT GALLERY!”

The boys are really enjoying the book, even though it’s a bit beyond a first and third-grade reading level.

“It’s like that movie, Monster House!” says Ben.

“I would never wear tights. Even if I lived back then,” says Caleb.

The other night, we unwittingly allowed Caleb to stay up past 11:00 on a school night. He was reading Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen.

I’ve never been so proud.



Fun articles:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/27/books/27reading.html?pagewanted=all

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2010/07/children-who-dont-read-grow-up-bad.html

http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2011/aug/23/survey-children-reading-habits

Top Ten Reasons Holly Should Get a Pool in 2012

1. The home in which she rears her children and works lacks central air. Yet, the long-suffering and meek individual that she is, she rarely complains.

2. She enjoys swimming and is exceptionally good at the side-stroke.  Her children ALSO enjoy swimming.  Studies show that families who swim together stay together, and children who come from homes with pools are 88% less likely to fall into drinking and drugs.  It's true. 

3. A pool is the perfect place to hold "2012 the world is ending" parties.  If should also be pointed out that since the world is coming to the end, concerns about paying off the pool are moot. 

4. She feels bad that every time a friend calls for a play date, she asks if they have a pool. She’s starting to feel desperate and rude.

5. She is currently undergoing a rigorous physical exercise regime that will ensure that by the summer of 2012, she will look perfectly acceptable in a bathing suit.

6. She gave birth to twins.

Vaginally.

And one jumped of them into the world feet first.

She feels she should also mention the epidural was not working at full capacity toward the end.

It should be mentioned that she breastfed said twins for 15 months, saving $3000+ in formula costs. Of course she did it because it was the best thing for her babies, but she can’t help but also point out that a pair of perfectly lovely 34Cs were absolutely ruined in the process.

7. She acquiesced to becoming a dog owner and has, for the last 10 months, been responsible for 90% of poop-pick-up duties, despite promises made by certain individuals who shall remain nameless but know who they are. Yet, the long-suffering and meek individual that she is, she has not complained, even when picking up steamy feces before her rambunctious children run barefoot into the backyard.

8. Two weeks ago, she purchased a $50 Walmart pool with filter, commissioned a friend to help her put it together, and filled it up with fresh water from a reliable hose. Exactly 5 hours later, a certain individual who shall remain nameless let the aforementioned dog run outside, jump into new pool, and rip open pool with claws which resulted in the demise of the pool. Yet, the long-suffering and meek individual that she is, she has not complained.

9. She’s pretty sure that inserted into the wedding vows was, “after twelve years of marriage, I promise to buy my wife a pool. Not doing so allows the wife to run off with Timothy Olyphant who will provide her with multiple pools and cosmetic surgery to restore her boobs to their former glory."

10. Holly is "nice."  Niceness should be rewarded with pools. 


Postscript:

Holly reads post to husband.

Husband:  I feel like this post is leading up to something.
Holly:  What?
Husband:  You asking me for a pool.

Can't pull anything over on this guy. 

Personal Private Space

I think the thing I don’t like about dogs is that they don’t respect your personal space. I’m very big on personal space. I mean, I love a good hug. If I haven’t seen you in a few months, I’ll happily give you a squeeze and a peck on the cheek. But if we’ve just seen each other three days ago, we don’t need to embrace. If we’ve just seen each other five minutes ago, we don’t need to jump on each other and lick each other and pant like we’re going to die.

Do you know how hard it is to read a book with a lap full of bull mastiff? Or how annoying it is to try and eat breakfast while an Australian Shepherd sniffs your crotch?

Blatant invasions of personal space.

We are currently dog-sitting a friend’s bull mastiff, who is the sweetest thing on the face of the planet and oh so droopy and velvety, but who has absolutely no regard for my sleeping habits or my aversion to diarrhea on the floor. Today, we left both dogs home while we went to my in-laws for dinner, and I have to say, I was relishing being away from them for a bit. In the car, it felt good to have my four needy children strapped into their seats. No one putting their grubby fingers on my face. No one sticking their snout on my lap. No one pulling on my hair. When we arrived, my in-laws’ black lab jumped on me and later slobbered all over my jeans. Which, you know, was fine. It gave Kiah a good reason to glom onto my leg for five minutes while I was trying to get everyone in the door.

Sometimes I wonder if my kids would have been just as happy with a smaller pet, one that respects my personal private space- say, a newt.

These past two months, my freelance writing venture seems to have taken off like a stampede of wild horses. I’ve had to turn down several potential clients. It’s been a whirlwind, and wholly encouraging, but it’s also led to a whole “how in the world do moms work from home when they have twins who don’t take naps (one who has serious developmental delays), a dog who probably has canine attention deficit disorder and also laundry that probably has laundry attention deficit disorder and that mates and reproduces frequently in various hampers around the house?” conundrum.

If anyone has an answer to this question, let me know.

Maybe it cannot be done.

Maybe it will have to wait a little while.

At least until the bull mastiff goes home.

Christmas Reflections

I am frazzled.  I blame Christmas entirely.  I don't think the sweet 7 lb 11 oz baby Jesus would approve of the frenzy that surrounds the celebration of his birth.  I swear I have an ulcer.  Or maybe I've just been eating too much junk food.  Either way, it's not good. 

So I'm glad it's pretty much over.  Somehow, I have to get this house recovered by around 5:00 on New Year's Eve.  I can't believe no one got me a free year of Merry Maids. 

There were some splendid moments.  A few minor miracles. 

For instance, I made enough cookies for a pretty Christmas cookie platter.  I'm sad to say the dog ate a good portion of these when she escaped from her crate the other night, but on Christmas Eve, they were lovely.

Our tanenbaum.  The kids decorated it and this year, I didn't rearrange the ornaments.  That's not entirely true.  I moved all the ones on the bottom up higher so the dog wouldn't eat them.  The dog consuming all Christmas-related things was a major theme of our holiday this year.

On Christmas Eve, Ella cuddles with Justin Bieber.  No, it's not really Justin Bieber.  It's Jacob, my friend Janet's son.  I hope his girlfriend doesn't get too jealous over this picture.  (Note Ella's pink boots.  They were also a definite theme this holiday.)

Our friend Billy reads an "interactive" Christmas story to the kids.  This is Caleb interacting. 

Christmas morning at last!  While reading the story of the birth of Christ from the book of Luke- right before we are about to open present when the kids are so excited they look as though they might pee their pants- John sends the kids a look of irritation.  There's nothing more vexing than having your children behave like children on Christmas morning on Christmas morning.  Sheesh. 

Ella opens the first gift on Christmas morning.  It's the gift of- arting!  WE LOVE ARTING!  Boots are a go.

Here is Caleb.  He has just opened up his Spy Net Video Watch, which records audio, video, and takes pictures.  And this is not creepy or annoying at all. 

Note Caleb's busted lip.  He fell off the top bunk, flat onto his face..  He was "trying to sit on the very, very edge of the bed.  But IT DOESN'T HURT MOM!"  Ben, on the other hand, gasped in pain every time he wiggled his newly loose tooth and nearly had a panic attack when it started bleeding.  These are two very different people.

Yes, I bought my husband a machete for Christmas.  Because I am an awesome wife.  And because I am concerned about the inevitable impending zombie apocalypse.



Benjamin lost his tooth during our Christmas dinner!  His very first tooth!  I am so glad it happened Christmas day and not Christmas Eve.  Santa's PR reps try to keep this information under raps, but you should know that Santa and the Tooth Fairy have an unpleasant history and actually cannot stand one another.  (It stems from the following argument:  who works harder?  TF works all year, but Santa visits every child in one night.  It's a tough call.)  I so did not want a confrontation in the middle of the night. 

December 26th= Christmas #2 at the in-laws!  There were three puppies present.  Three.  Is this the Chinese year of the dog? 

I continue to torture Kiah by dressing her in costumes.  So long as she keeps stealing food and breaking precious memorabilia, I will continue to do so.

Ben relaxes with uncle Richie and aunt Michelle. 

Uncle Scott, Ella's favorite person in the entire world thank you very much, has just placed a crown on Ella's head.  We will ignore the fact that it is crooked because he is a man and doesn't have any children yet. 

Ella does love to get dressed up.  She was wearing a new jumper that morning.  She added layers of new clothes as she opened them.  She received a Tinkerbell costume later in the afternoon which she insisted on putting on immediately.  By the end of the day, she looked like a very fancy homeless person.  (Yes.  She is wearing her pink boots.)

Christmas #3 at my dad's...

John shows off his "beard."  He tries this every year.  Silly, silly man. 

On Christmas morning, I opened my gift from John: a netbook.  Which immediately broke.  My toy broke!  I have to get another one.  I will wait for it under my new sherpa blanket, which makes me very, very happy.  Sherpa blankets make winter much more bearable. 

Daniel asked me to take this picture.  So I did.

And that was our Christmas in a nutshell.  A whirlwind of beloved family members, wrapping paper, and dogs. 

In a half an hour, it is my birthday.  I will be 33.  One year older than Sally of Harry and Sally fame, and the same age as Jesus when he died.  (And yes, my birthday totally gets overshadowed by His, but I don't hold it against Him.)  So, of course, there's much reflection on the things I have not accomplished during my time on earth.  (Jesus: masters carpentry, saves the world.  Holly: masters cookie platters, saves leftovers.) 

Of course, comparing myself to the world's ONLY perfect person is folly.  It's convenient that my birthday falls so close to New Year's: I can make grandiose resolutions once instead of twice during the year.  This year, I resolve to emulate Christ without striving for perfection.  You were striving for perfection?  Really?  I would never ever have guessed that in a million years based on the way your house looks and also your hair. 

I was.

You know what happens when you strive for perfection?  You realize how utterly insufficient you are.  You become overwhelmed.  Then paralyzed.  And small hills become the Himalayas.  And you dream of perfection without actually accomplishing... anything at all.  And you become depressed and despondent and numb. 

Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead,  I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 3:13-14

I am looking forward to year 33.  Pressing on! 

Merry Christmas!  I hope you have had a peaceful and blessed holiday.

The Sum of All These Parts

The hair situation

My hair doesn’t hold scent. I became aware of this in my early teens when I started buying my own shampoo- bottles of bright pink, apple-scented Salon Selectives. After a hair wash, my girlfriends’ hair would smell soapy, fruity, or flowery, but mine always smelled tiresomely neutral. Like hair.

The cell phone situation

I had a cell phone- a pre-paid doohickey that was stolen a while back. 90% of the time, I forgot to charge it. (The other 10% it was charged, but lost in the cavernous depths of my coat pocket.)

I’m still stuck in the era of Salon Selectives. When I tell people I don’t have a cell phone, I get one of two reactions:

1) A roll of the eyes along with, “Oh, I WISH I didn’t have a cell phone.” (Which always strikes me as disingenuous.)

2) A raised eyebrow. It’s surprising how many people can do this.

Everyone, it seems, wants your cell number. I’ve been asked by my primary physician, my OBGYN, the pediatrician, the school nurse, my kids’ teachers, my friends, my family, some hairy guy at the gym… and I have to shake my head with feigned regret.

Payphones are going the way of the dodo bird, which is an inconvenience. I wonder the following: are people less likely these days to help you if your car breaks down on the highway because they assume you are carrying a functional cell phone? And is NOT carrying a cell phone while driving around with four kids in the car considered irresponsible?

The ear situation

The hole pierced in my right ear at Piercing Pagoda in the fifth grade has closed. I tried to wear earrings when we out a couple of weekends ago, but ended up exhibiting naked lobes. I’ve never liked things in my ears. Earphones are okay; ear buds are gross. Some women wear earrings that precariously dangle down the side of their face every day. They don bracelets and rings and drape layers of necklaces around their necks. 90% of the time, I sport only my wedding ring and engagement ring. The other 10%, I want to wear jewelry, so I put on a necklace and find matching earrings only to discover that my ear is no longer pierced.

It seemed like such a big deal to wear earrings in the fifth grade.

The underwear situation

I need new underwear. I can’t remember the last time I got new underwear. Occasionally, while in Target or Walmart, I think I might pick up some Hanes cotton panties, but I know this would depress the husband terribly. The woman has given up entirely, he will think.

I have a coupon for a free pair of panties at Victoria’s Secret, and will probably do their $25 for 5 panties deal. This appalls me, to pay $5 for a pair of underwear. I will throw away $5 on a magazine I’ll read for a half an hour only to pass along to a friend without a thought, but spending $25 on but 5 pairs of underwear? Why does this bother me so?

And, if I should suddenly perish, murdered by thieves in the street because I didn’t have any phone or jewelry to steal, would the undertaker judge me for wearing threadbare undies? With what might appear to be moth holes? And, I think the following question is imperative: if Viggo Mortensen and I were to start a torrid affair, would the threadware undies be a deal breaker?

The sum of all these parts

Sometimes, I think I am more like a shadow than a person. I am among the living, but am tethered only to myself. I lack a scent, style, and I certainly don’t need sexy underwear.

And I don’t know if I like it that way or not.

Oh November

It's November. The month of death.

Fall used to be my favorite season. I am still infatuated with the beauty of the  leaves, the crispness of the air, the smell of chimneys, and... that's it, really. You can take the cold, the frosts, the increasing darkness, and stuff it.

I wish I could hibernate.

November would be awful if it wasn't for Thanksgiving.  Oh Thanksgiving.  Cornucopias and pumpkin pie, gelatinous cranberry sauce, glorious tryptophan, and me correcting my children's flawed nomenclature: No, honey, Indians are people from India. What are they showing you Pocahontas in school for, anyway? I could keep you home and show you Pocahontas, except that it is the most historically inaccurate movie I've ever not seen, so I wouldn't.

Soon, the kids will bring home turkeys made from their little handprints, and we will bake gingerbread cookies and read about the Mayflower.  It will rain outside and be grey, but then Ben will spontaneously say something like, "I'm thankful for YOU mom.  I made you a robot."  And suddenly, it will feel as warm as July. 

We'll watch the A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving this year, I hope.  I miss it every year.  That Charles Schultz sure knew how to make a girl all teary. 

I'll simmer cinnamon scented potpourri on the stove, because that's what people who don't bake much do to make their house smell wonderful.  As days pass, the Halloween candy will dwindle and we'll all get a little fatter, just like those poor, ill-fated turkeys.  The pumpkins sitting the porch will start to get ripe, and I'll throw them away amidst protests from children who don't understand that pumpkins are a perishable fruit.

We will be thankful in spite of the bleak skies, the dead leaves, the rotting pumpkins.  We will go around the table, say what we're thankful for, and though our reasons might sound trite, they will somehow still ring true.  And I will be so filled with love and hope, because spring does (so far) always come again, and because we all have each other.

So, on this first of November, I'm thankful for... Thanksgiving.  The whole commercial she-bang.  (And I don't even like turkey that much.  I'd prefer lasagna.)

I think March could use a Thanksgiving.

Don't Worry Be Happy

My kids are sick. They have goop dripping out of them. I think they might be melting. When they cough, Kiah perks up because she thinks they are barking dogs.

I kept Ben home today but sent Caleb in, even though (and this is horrible) I wish he had been sick enough to keep home.

Caleb hates school.

He doesn’t like his teacher. She is too serious, she inexplicably raises her voice at him, and she is impatient. Every morning is a struggle with Caleb, but Monday mornings are the worst. He sulks all morning and, with tears brimming in his big blue eyes, comes up with worst case scenarios in the form of “what ifs”:

“What if I had homework that I didn’t know about? What if she yells at me because I have to go to the bathroom? What if I don’t understand the math and she tells me she won’t help me?”

“Caleb,” I respond, “You are ruminating again.” (I have been picking up self-help lingo from a book I’ve been reading: The Depression Cure by Stephen S. Ilardi.) Caleb now knows what it means to “ruminate.”

“It’s really hard not to ruminate,” he says.

You got that right, kid. Especially on cloudy Monday mornings when you’ve got to face a grouchy 8-month pregnant teacher whose ankles have recently melded with her calves. Of course she’s grouchy! Her boobs are about to be ruined forever. (I don’t tell Caleb this.)

The past few Monday mornings, I’ve vacillated between being Caleb’s energetic cheerleader and being visibly annoyed about the whole Monday-morning production. (Those are mornings I’m not proud of.)

This morning, I was feeling especially sympathetic, so I made all sorts of promises and grand gestures: We’ll make cookies with frosting when you get home! I’ll come have lunch with you once your brothers and sister have stopped dripping with ooze! I’ll bring pizza! We’ll read THREE chapters of Pippi Longstocking tonight!

This is probably the incorrect way to handle the situation. I don’t want Caleb to associate negative rumination with rewards. But acting nonchalant about his concerns trivializes his… life. This is his life.  And he’s so unhappy! And I know, from experience, that stuffing your face full of cookies will only dull the pain for a while.

So, I’m developing a “life strategies for Caleb” plan. It involves memorizing an inspirational bible verse every week, dwelling on the positive aspects of the day, taking baby steps out the door and onto the bus, wearing a goldfish around his neck, and receiving a giant kiss on the hand that he can hold up to his cheek any time he wants.

Now, I just need someone to make such a plan for me. Excuse me- it's time for my morning ruminations.

New Beginnings

So, it turns out I’m pregnant. We’re really hoping it’s not twins again. John is slowly getting used to the idea. I swear I don’t know how it happened! I mean, I KNOW how it happened, but, y’know. A happy little oops. You know what I’m most concerned about? Fitting five kids in our van. I so don’t want one of those mammoth ugly vans. They reek of utilitarianism.

APRIL FOOL’S DAY!!!!

That’s the best I could come up with.

Not only am I not pregnant, but I am adjusting to the idea that I will never be pregnant again. It is a bittersweet adjustment. On the one hand, I can’t wait until all four of my little boo-bahs are in school, so I can hop right back into bed after I ship them off on the big yellow bus. Or, I might get a job. One or the other. The sleeping scenario is much more appealing to me, of course.

On the other hand, babies are cute. At least, my babies were always cute.

Now that we’ve pretty much decided that this is the end, my only friend, the end, because all of the children are insane, we are faced with the task of deciding what to do with all of our baby crap. Or rather, I am faced with what to do. John would be happy to dump it all off at the Salvation army, and wouldn’t give a second thought to the tiny bobby socks, those one-piece playsuits with giraffes on them, and that little bib that says “I Drool, Therefore I Am.” I’m perfectly content to keep all of the clothes, our bouncy chairs, the crib bumpers, and the rattles and teething rings in the basement forever. JUST IN CASE. Our grandkids could use them. Or maybe a little baby will just arrive on our doorstep one day with a note that says, “I saw you with your kids at the park and I think you’d make a great mom for my baby. I’m just not up to it right now. Take good care of her.” (Do you ever imagine what you’d do in this scenario? It’s a perfectly plausible scenario, I think.)

Or, I could donate said clothes and baby accoutrements to friends and family. However, my many pragmatic in-laws aren’t reproducing as quickly as I would like. My sister has declared they are finished after just two kids (the nerve), and my brother and sister-in-law are working on their “careers” or some such nonsense. John’s brothers are taking their sweet time in the baby department, as well. I don’t know what they’re waiting for. No time like the present. Especially with the now-affordable health care for everyone. Their excuses are tiresome.

If you haven’t seen where I’m headed, I’ll just put it out there for you. Garage sale. Which is either a fantastic idea (according to some) or the worst idea ever (according to most.)

It means, of course, that strange babies will be wearing my kids’ stuff that I got at garage sales that other strange babies wore. Am I really okay with that? Will I be able to sell my daughter’s first little sundresses, or will I have a change of heart at the point-of-sale? (I worked in retail for a while.)

A garage sale could be fun. We could make a little bit of money, and Caleb and Ben could have an adorable lemonade/ brownie stand. No time like the present to start molding little capitalists! And to teach them not to be hoarders, like their mother. And father, for that matter. He has t-shirts in his drawer from high school.

A garage sale would help me move on, I think. A symbolic letting go of the baby years.

You should probably come. Only 1.50 for a brownie with chocolate chunks and chocolate frosting. (Remember- four kids to put through college.)

April Fool’s Day! (Brownies will only be 1.25 a piece.)

Thoughts

Last night, at around 9:00sh, Ben came downstairs to announce that Caleb was “having sad thoughts” again. This is the third such instance in just as many weeks. Caleb thinks of something that makes him cry and Ben comes down to tell us about it.

First,Caleb imagined he got lost somewhere and couldn’t find me. He sobbed as he said, “I looked and looked and I couldn’t find you anywhere.” I comforted him and gave him some helpful strategies should he ever get lost (go tell another mommy you are lost- find a policeman- stay in one spot until I find you) and assured him I would always find him. Then, we prayed and he was seemingly calmer and went to sleep within fifteen minutes.

On Tuesday, Caleb dropped his magic wand down my father’s heating vent. Yes, Caleb carries a magic wand around with him. Doesn’t your child? (It was a part of a magic trick birthday present package.) The heating vent became a source of great curiosity. Where did the vent go? Why couldn’t we get stuff out of the furnace? Is there really a fire down there? Naturally, that evening he sobbed as he thought about the ever-so likely scenario that he gets caught inside the vent. Apparently, in his mind, he called and called for me and I never showed up. So, we had a long conversation about heating duct systems. And about how superb my hearing is.

Last night, Caleb had bad thoughts about Ben being engulfed by lava. Because there are so many volcanoes around here that could erupt at any moment. John handled that one.

Though I was annoyed, as it was time to get my cuddle on and watch The Office with John, I’m a little embarrassed because I do the same thing. There has been many a night when I have let my mind get away from me, nights where I imagine horrible scenarios and end up crying myself to sleep. Occasionally John hears me and wakes up.

“What’s wrong?” he’ll ask.

“I was imagining that I had a horrible disease and only had a month to live and I was thinking about all the things I wanted to say to the kids. Look…” (I hold up my journal) “I started to write them down.” (Further sobbing.) “THEY NEED ME!”

John usually responds with something like, “For the love of God, woman,” and rolls over and goes back to sleep. Now, when Caleb thinks about the less likely event of a volcano erupting in Rochester and taking out Ben, he gets a nice little geography lesson and compassionate words. God help John if I ever DO get a horrible disease.

Lately, at night, I’ve been thinking about all of the things that need to get done and all of the things I want to get done. Then, I chastise myself for spending too much time doing frivolous things, like obsessively finishing my jigsaw puzzle, instead of actual work. Here I am again, procrastinating by writing this blog post instead of working.

When I started the blog, I didn’t know how often I’d post or what I wanted to do with it. I will have had this blog for a year in April, and I’m seriously contemplating ending it then. I know, I know, what will you do without my whining and complaining to read on a weekly basis? Still, blogging for a year seems like a cool thing to have done. It’s just something I’m thinking about. I’ve been encouraged to continue, but if I do, I will still face the same weird and often conflicting challenges every time I sit down to write something, like:

1) I have nothing of importance to say.
2) I have so much to say.
3) I don’t want to offend anyone. Then they might not like me. And that would be the worst.
4) How can I be honest without being overly-revealing, crude, or offensive?
5) My blog has no compass. Is it a mommy blog? Do I want it to be pigeonholed as a mommy blog?
6) Is my personal faith revealed enough in my writing?
7) Isn’t John Edwards the worst? I intensely dislike that man.
8) I don’t feel like promoting my blog anymore. I don’t even want to post it on Facebook. It makes me feel- self-promoting.
9) I spend way too much obsessing over my lousy blog design.
10) Why don’t more people leave comments? Should I ask more questions?

So there are my thoughts. My dad has just called and informed me I should go take a walk because it is sunny. I think I will.