Hotels are interesting places. I am a fan, myself. I love knowing that someone else is in charge of making the bed. (Although I'm lame enough that I do it myself anyway.) I love the plush down comforters that are off-limits in our home for so many reasons. I love just sitting around relaxing with no animals or kids to care for and no responsibilities pressing on me.
That's when Sam and I are away without the kids. As mentioned, the kids don't get away too often. They have mixed feelings about the whole thing.
Josh is trying to be the big kid, cool with things, excited to be away (from school). He's pulling it off very well. He's been very good so far (it's day 2, may I remind you).
Luke is riding the wave of barely contained glee. His first time at a hotel! (At least that he remembers.) He gets off the first week of school! He gets to eat out every day! Wow, the hotel room has a kitchen in it! Look, free food in the lobby! A pool! Life is indeed good, let me tell you.
And then there's Micah. I have to sit in a car for HOW long? Yeah, a restaurant, I can fill my pants again! Look, a hotel! Is it time to go home yet? Can we pack the van now? What on earth is there to do here besides watch TV and play with the toys mom brought? Oooh, the lobby has a vaulted ceiling and my voice carries forever, how fun!
It's going to be a long week. Reality is not mocking me any longer, it's laughing.
The week wont' be without it's share of entertainment value though. This evening while at dinner the boys were debating whether they wanted the lemonade or kool-aid. I'm sooo glad that the debate was a long and involved one and gave me time to come to their rescue. They were at the wine bar.
The Fan Club
Getting Out
The first day of the County Fair is one of people running helter skelter, calling greetings to each other, barely subdued excitement. It's much like the return to the college campus. The week that follows that day is long and stressful and exciting. The kids love it, the parents live through it, and by the next Saturday the tone is very different. The running is diminished to trudging, the quiet is an indication of the exhaustion level, and everyone is just glad to be packing things in and going home. It was good while it lasted, but we're glad that it's over.
School is to start Monday. We are going on vacation. Ever an optimist, I have visions of the kids and I having a relaxing time sitting around a pool, or enjoying a museum, or playing games in the hotel room. Reality keeps mocking me but I refuse to listen to it. I'll live it soon enough.
While busy with the fair (and the life that went on around it) vacation was the light at the end of the tunnel. Saturday, somewhere between the pig auction and bringing the ponies home, we found time to pack. It was then that I realized how deprived my children are.
We don't take vacations. Being a single income family in a two income world, we don't have the luxury of vacations very often. What we call getting away involves staying with family that we go visit. And there's that once a year gift that Sam and I give ourselves of a weekend away without the kids.
The boys were packing towels. Their idea of going away is camp. Poor things.
The boys were packing shampoo, not knowing that hotels provide things like that for us. How nice.
The boys asked if they would have that thing where you pick up the phone and ask for something. Yeh, room service. That!
Luke says he can't ever remember staying at a hotel. He's beside himself with glee.
We should probably make an effort to get the kids off the farmette more often. The kids will need to be better socialized before they leave for college.
So on our way to the South, we spent the night over in the Metropolis area where the inestimable Trannyhead lives. Guess who we had dinner with? That boy of hers? Is simply darling. Darling, I say. He and Micah are very much alike, except for that adorable curly hair. And the fact that Sumo is as big as Micah and one third his age. And can talk, with very polite manners. But except for that, they got along very well because they're two of a kind. Awesome. Also? Tranny is hawt. But there was never any debating that fact.
Good, Better, and Just Plain Ugly
Good
Prentke-Romich is featuring Micah in the 2010 catalog.
Is that too cool, or what?! *squeeeeee*
I'm not sure that I can share the link that they sent me because I didn't ask permission, but I can tell you that the entire world will know that Micah's life revolves around eating. "If you give a boy a voice, he'll ask for food" is one of the quotes lifted from my blog pages. I love it. It's so Micah.
Better
I got that once-per-year wild hair and wanted to paint my toenails. The problem being that I didn't have time to do it myself. Fair week is a killer for actually getting work done elsewhere, and I have some serious sewing to do before we go away next week. I had Luke paint my nails while I sewed. There's nothing like an 8 year old boy's paint job on moving feet to make you feel classy. But he enjoys painting, and helping me, so it was a win-win. No, really. I could care less that it looks less than stellar, and that my actual toes are painted as well, and that some of the nails are only dabbled on and not painted at all. Motherhood will make you appreciate the love that goes into the effort instead of salon perfection.
Just Plain Ugly
Today I was reminded to engage my mind before opening my mouth. I had Becky and her friend at the fair this morning and we were admiring the photography exhibit when Becky said, "there's a spider on your back!" I asked her to brush it off but you know how teen girls get all "eeeeek" and "AAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!" and "no, you do it!" and nobody raised a hand to help. I envisioned that thing crawling up my neck and the thought of it actually touching skin made me yell, "don't make me take off my shirt in public!" It was then that about three men stopped dead in their tracks and stared. One icky old man even felt the need to make a lewd comment. I wanted to die and disappear right there. The girls found it hilarious.
Hair and Pigs. There's a Fun Combo.
Wow. You know that you were in serious need of a new 'do when everyone feels the need to tell you that they love it. I don't mean my bloggy friends who had no choice but to comment because I posted a picture of it and put you on the spot and practically begged you to say, "oh, Karen, I love your hair!" even if you didn't mean it. (But thanks, anyway. Luv ya for it.) I'm talking, instead, about the people that I pass three times a day at the fair and they never really say hello because they aren't my best friends and if they can just ignore me, they will. I'm talking about mere acquaintances that will shout across the pig barn that it looks fab. I'm talking about people in church who purposely run after me and gush about the new look. I'm talking about men commenting on it.
Yeh, that's bad.
Mental note, never let my hair get that bad again. Yikes. Sorry, general public, friends, family, and total strangers that I run into at Wal-Mart. I didn't realize that I looked so awful.
Moving on...
If you decide to give yourself highlights, and choose not to follow directions on the enclosed tri-lingual paper, you have to be aware that the achieved effect will not be the desired effect. I'm just saying. Thankfully, I'm good with this. Also thankfully, I'm not vain. I am, however, considerably more blond.
*******
The pig show was Tuesday. Mind you, the kids bought the pigs early this spring, fed them daily, walked them, cleaned pens, whined about them, and looked forward to the show All. Summer. Long.
The dog decided that Tuesday would be a super-fine day to go into labor. Of course. I debated long and hard about whether to leave the dog and risk losing her and a litter of puppies (hey, after this spring's whelping journals anything could happen) or missing the kids show. I waited around all afternoon, and mere minutes before the show was to begin I decided that PETA could gasp in horror. My kids came first. I drove back and forth between classes and was here to witness the birth of the first puppy. (The fair is a 20 minute drive one way.) So we have puppies. I love puppies. Mom and babies are just fine. And darling. And well taken care of.
Because you care, I'm going to tell you that the kids did very well with their pigs. Out of fourteen, Josh got fourth. Becky got eighth of fifteen. While you're thinking that it's not all that newsworthy, it really is. Judges tell us all the time (and this year was no exception) that the pigs at our fair could win any class across the nation from about sixth place on down. We truly have some of the stiffest competition ever, and to place at all is huge. Feel free to tell me that you don't really care.
Follicly Challenged
I need a new hair style. Desperately. I am as low maintenance as things come (my poor, poor husband) but there comes a time when even low maintenance needs a new 'do.
Since summer came along I've had my hair up in the ever-so-chic ponytail just about every day. (I know. Hush.) But there was something going on while I wasn't spending time styling.
I was going bald.
I know you think I'm overreacting, but I'm not. The ponytail that I have been wearing is thinner than ONE of my pigtails used to be. Not good. While this poses many problems in the "what style works with no hair" department, that's not the worst of it. The worst?
Women in my family have a history of balding.
There, I said it. It frightens me a wee bit. Especially since I am 38 years old and already lost half my tresses. My word, I shouldn't have to worry about this. Isn't it enough that my metabolism has turned on me and I gain weight while thinking of eating carrots? Why must I fight my metabolism and my follicles?
I could always go with the wig option, but I fear there would be some kind of work involved with that. Plus my head would sweat and that's just gross. I mean, how sexy would it be to have that thing slip sideways while my dog is having a c-section and I'm madly shaking down puppies? It wouldn't, that's how sexy. And I could totally see myself just forgetting to don it before venturing into public. One day I have a gorgeous fro going on, and the next nothing whatsoever.
So while I was at the salon I mentioned to the stylist that my hair was thinning. (Yeh, she noticed.) We decided on a cute bob that could be blown nice and full to make it look like there was actually hair there. (I feel like my 91 year old grandmother. She's been doing this for years.) And I'll be getting highlights because they'll add the illusion of volume.
Maybe that wig option isn't such a bad one after all. At least the hair would actually be there, sideways or not.
Also? I bought salon products. In 38 years of life I've never bought salon products before. (I know. Hush.) These products are guaranteed to stop the thinning and even start new growth. Why are balding women not as widely accepted in society as balding men? When will the Alzheimers kick in so that I don't care about the balding any longer?
I didn't mention that Alzheimers runs in the family, too? Yeh, it does. I've hit the genetic gene pool jackpot.
Walk On, Team Micah
There were a lot of overwhelming emotions involved when Micah was born. The high of seeing your newborn for the first time is always euphoric, but that was closely followed by the news that he was being tested for Down syndrome. It was at that point that my world was turned upside down and shaken. I had no idea what Down syndrome really involved, how it would impact our lives, what it would mean for Micah, or how to deal with the diagnosis on a day-to-day basis. The first week was one of fear, heartache, confusion, and since I'm being completely honest here, disappointment. Through all that, the undercurrent that held us together was love. No matter what they told us about our newest son, that didn't change the fact that we loved him. And I was extremely grateful that he was healthy enough for me to cradle in my arms while I cried my way through a box of kleenex per hour. I couldn't imagine being sent home from the hospital childless, whether that child was in the NICU, or worse. The closeness of my newborn was a balm to my soul. There's nothing like looking at the face of a sleeping child, knowing that he's yours to keep forever and ever. I had that. And I loved him. It didn't matter what else we learned in the weeks and years to come. We'd take it all, internalize it, and love our son even more for it.
And yet, it wasn't that easy. Sometimes, while trying to educate myself through online research or book reading, I would come across something that would take me back to the beginning, with the pediatrician sitting across the room from me, his folded newspaper under his arm, telling me that my son had a disability. One that would remain with him for a lifetime. One that would impact every aspect of his life and ours. Those raw emotions would resurface and it was then that I realized the extent of the emotional injury. Two months after his diagnosis, or half a year, or three years later, that hurt would come back, still raw and painful. It took years for that wound to heal to the point of being a scar. And there are still times when, if hit just so, that scar will throb with the memory of the pain.
There were so many things that we were told just after Micah was born. We needed to make an appointment at the Down Syndrome Center. We should call Early Intervention. Here is the number for Parent to Parent. You'll want to see a cardiac specialist as soon as possible. He failed the newborn hearing screening, please schedule with the pediatric ENT to retest. Read over this packet of information. Keep the number for Special Olympics, you'll want that for when he's older, but he'll need his c-spine scans done before he can compete. There were so many more, too. It was overwhelming, and yet we muddled through because we needed to. We also dealt with newborn vaccines and wellchecks, pneumonia at six weeks of age and consequential breathing problems as a result. He had his adenoids removed at 4 months of age because they posed a risk of blocking his airways when he wasn't struggling to breathe. You'll understand, then, that optional things were just that. The Buddy Walk fell under that category.
The Buddy Walk is the annual Down syndrome world's awareness program. Families who have the privilege of parenting a child with DS get together and walk. Each family raises funds, gathers friends, and walks for the cause. Not only is it an awareness program for outsiders, it's the best support group ever for families living in this strange and wonderful world that we've all somehow found ourselves in.
The first year, my head told me that the Buddy Walk would be a wonderful thing. I could connect with others, and learn so much from them. I could see older children and get a clearer picture of how Micah might grow and learn through the years. I could talk to someone who understands everything. But my heart said no. That deep emotional wound was still a gaping hole and there was no way that I wanted to be that vulnerable in public. Those people would know.
The next year, much to my shock, I felt the same way. That wound was so very deep. After that we were heavily involved with the corn maze and the Buddy Walk just wasn't something that ranked high on my priority list. Every year, in the spring, I planted an idea in the back of my mind that I should attend that year, but once October came it didn't happen. Micah is six years old this year. This is the seventh year that I've known about the Buddy Walk. This is the year that I'll attend.
This year, I am ready to make our debut into the world of those who will understand the most. I look forward to meeting hundreds of other families who have found themselves in a world that they never planned to wak up in. I will be proud to be counted among their numbers.
Pittsburgh's 15th annual Buddy Walk is October 17th. I want our first Walk to be a resounding success on all fronts. This is where my friends can help. While nobody can control the weather or the kids' attitudes on the actual day of the Walk, we can all help to raise funds for Downs awareness. I love that you all love Micah, and on his behalf I'd like you to consider making a donation for Team Micah via the link on my sidebar. If we can help raise funds to educate others, to help with inclusion of those with Downs, to help new parents realize that they are not alone in this strange new world, the day will be successful for everyone.
The Fair is a Special Kind of Fun
We took the animals to the fair over the weekend. That is always a fun time. It ranks right up there with marathon mall shopping with four kids in tow.
Many people decorate their horse stalls. They go all out, too. Pictures of the horse that is right there in the stall. Name plates so that we know who we're looking at. Sometimes there are awards and ribbons they've won in the past proudly displayed just in case you were wondering if the horse is any good, or just good to look at. And then my personal favorites, the ones that hang fabric over the entire stall and curtains in the door so that you can't see the horse you're there to see. I had the notion that I would mock them all by putting up the tackiest decor ever, but it occurred to me that it would not be perceived as tacky but as very stylish and cute. So the red leather fringed cowboy vest, green straw hat, bandanna and lasso that I took over sat in the car instead. I hung the halters and lead ropes, and that's the extent of my decor.
Somewhere between lunch and the bathing of the pigs, Micah discovered this discarded stash. He donned the vest and hat, and wanted me to tie the bandanna on him so that he could pull it up over his nose. It looked especially dashing with a shirt that said HUNK and jersey shorts. What are you gonna do? He was entertained and that was huge when there was work to be done.
Luke and Micah shared the cowboy gear back and forth as the pigs were cleaned, then we headed back across the fairgrounds to bath the ponies. While the fair is an excellent place to portray What Not to Wear, there were plenty of stares and chuckles at our urban cowboy. I told Becky, "it's a good thing that we're used to Micah, otherwise he'd be so embarrasing." He was so thrilled with his outfit. The boy makes me smile.
There is a concrete pad to wash the horses on so that you're not standing in mud. This is genius, except when the drain is plugged. The ankle deep water was such a nice shade of did that come off the horse or out of it that I wasn't about to dig around in it hoping to find the mess of yuck holding up the water flow. I was not thrilled to have to stand in it, but there was little choice, and I was covered in pig poo anyway so what was murky horse water?
It didn't take long for Micah to start wading. He took off his shoes for the event. While I was slightly grossed out, I figured that his crocs weren't any better than barefoot what with all the holes in them leaking muck onto his feet. I didn't say anything.
As he was splashing around in the murk, a few of Becky's friends wandered by. We all started chatting. Another horse was led onto the wash block and I kept gently reminding Micah to stay on our side of the muck puddle because not every horse is used to little boys splashing around behind them. I'd hate for him to get kicked.
Somewhere around this point I noticed that one of Becky's friends had a look of entertained shock on her face as she looked over my shoulder. She started to say, "Uh, Micah..." but I didn't hear the rest. I saw.
Oh.
My.
Word.
I Saw.
The boy was sitting stark naked in that lake of murk, splashing away like it was his own personal swimming pool.
He was sitting in it.
Naked.
It takes a whole lot to skeeve me out. A WHOLE lot. I was raised on a farm. I am a dog midwife. I am the mother of boys. I don't skeeve easily.
I was thoroughly skeeved by Micah sitting in that pond. Nekkid. The embarrassment factor never kicked in, but I did wonder what kind of worms one could pick up from swimming nekkidly in dung water.
Can one bleach their boy's nethers? Is that safe? What if said boy needed his nethers bleached really badly?
The Potty Chronicles
Just when you think it might be safe to dip a toe back in the water, you realize that the sharks have been circling without your knowledge.
Things on the potty training front aren't progressing like you think they should. (Do they ever?) In fact, the whole concept of Pull-Ups is not grasped by the one who wears them. To Micah, they're just a diaper. One that has a tendency to leak every time you pee, but that's alright because this is the summer that he's decided to tackle that sensory issue that he has and he can now walk around wet and not have it bother him. Go, Micah.
Being the conscientious mom that I am (stop laughing) I don't like for him to walk around in wet pants because he'll either get pee on my leather sofa (screw the carpet, it's half decayed already) or he'll look like he peed himself when we're in public. Which is exactly what he did. Sort of.
Becky was at physical therapy the other day and I realized that there was yet another Pull-Ups fail so I rushed him to the restroom to dispose of that thing discreetly. Micah peed while we were there. This left him sans protection for the duration of our foray into town because I keep the pouch with extra gear in the van and I was driving the car. I'm smart that way. Micah peed twice more in the fifteen minutes that we were at the gym just because I needed to keep him entertained, and Mr. I Pee A Lot is always glad to produce a stream upon command.
You can imagine, then, that when we got to Wal-Mart I thought that he was peed out. Silly me. I found out otherwise when I was at the jewelry counter looking for a new watch because mine died. Micah is in the habit of climbing out of the cart (very stealthily, I might add) and walking off, so I am in the habit of turning around to look at him (and sometimes give him the evil eye) every 2.8 minutes. At one of these safety checks I realized the error of my ways because Micah was sitting in the basket of the cart, peeing right down through the grids and onto the floor where a nice puddle had already formed. I bought the watch and hurried him to the car so that we could strip him out of his wet shorts and get home.
I never gave a thought to him having to go in the car (no, he didn't. There ARE limits here) but the moment that he opened his door, he climbed out and stood there and pooped in the driveway. I swear, the dogs are better trained than that boy is. You just can't take him anywhere without a pooper scooper and a roll of paper towels. And lots of wet wipes. And hand sanitizer.
It's much easier to stay home, you know?
The kiddie pool was empty and today was to be hot and sticky again so I thought I'd do the kids a favor and fill it. There was a little bit of rain water in from yesterday, just enough to fill the bottom, and something else - oooooh, gross! It's poo! Son of Mine, poo goes in water, but the only water we poo in is the toilet. Got it? I know you know what to do. Can you just potty train already?
I am so ready for school to start. Someone else can deal with this for a few months.
It's a Zoo Out There
It was Somerset County Day at the Pittsburgh Zoo. Because the zoo has grounds in Somerset County for it's elephant reproduction program, it offers the residents of the great county a night at the zoo for free. That's so special.
It was a veritable meet and greet. Better, even, than Wal-Mart. I didn't think that was possible, but there it is. I also didn't know that I knew that many people. I'm not a social butterfly in case you haven't heard. I generally stay at home, except for trips to Wal-Mart to restock the pantry or dog food supply. Because of that, I was shocked to find that I knew at least half the people there. Gotta love small town living.
(Actually, I do. I was just thinking the other day how wonderful it was that locking doors at night is optional, and letting the keys in the ignition for the garage owner to move your van at will is a bonus.)
Micah was all "meh, it's the zoo. Been there, done that" right up until we saw the giraffes. He ran and pointed and was all "ook! eeee!" because giraffes are the coolest things ever. Except elephants.
Elephants!
Commence with the staring and finger pointing and oogling. Begin at one end of the barn and walk to the other, stopping to look at every. single. elephant along the way. Run around the walkway to start at the beginning of the barn again.
Elephants!
Be ready to start Elephants, Round 3 and make your parents come get you and drag you out physically because Look, Elephants!
For the first time in our 14 years of parenting, we were ready to spring for a toy at a gift shop for our child. A stuffed elephant was the toy to have because Hey, Elephants! Turns out the boy decided that while the stuffed toy was great, he'd rather have a snake to wrap around his neck. We didn't buy him the snake.
Did I mention that he petted a snake? No? He did. He then turned to grin at me in a way that clearly said "guess what I want for Christmas."
Ain't happenin, kid.
It's Another One of THOSE Days
For the first time in a long time, not only did Micah sleep in past seven o'clock, but I didn't have to go anywhere or get up to do anything. I was half in and half out (because I'm conditioned to wake up at seven regardless) when the phone rang. It was the loving hubby, reminding me that the van needs taken to the garage first thing this morning because we forgot to drop it off last night.
I love those wake-up calls, don't you?
I tried in vain to get a packaging label to print but realized fifteen minutes into it that it's not very accommodating for international clients. After running the van to the garage, the thought occurred to me that I could have taken the package with and had the post office take care of that for me. I blame the brain lapse on PMS.
The kids informed me that we were running low on pig feed and that began the inquisition. How much are you giving them? Are they cleaning up between meals? Be sure they have plenty of water in this heat or they won't eat a thing. The small pig gained fifteen pounds last week (go, Henry!) and is only five pounds short to make weight. We're in, for sure. He has seven days to gain five pounds so it's a sure thing. I think. We're feeding those pigs all they'll eat, obviously. So close, and yet not quite there.
I had grand plans to continue sweating in the sun today but it rained instead. If I'd watch the weather, I'd know stuff like that. I spent a good portion of the day in the sewing room because I needed to. (I also cleaned the house, but you can't tell because there are four kids living here.) While I was happily sewing away, Micah came to see me. He was wearing a poodle skirt. Nothing else. Awesome.
Because I didn't know that it was to rain today, I hung a sleeping bag out to dry. It's wetter than when I hung it out. It also fell off the porch railing onto the rocks so it'll need completely rewashed. Fun times here, people. Fun times.
Micah just came up from the basement sans clothes. He ditched the poodle skirt for shorts and a tool pouch (and they say that women change often) but must have filled his pants because he came up nekkid and went straight for the wipies. First of all, thank goodness for marble poo that doesn't make a mess. And second, I have to go find the mess because, um, ewwww.
Okay, found, cleaned up, and duly disposed of. I'd like for that to be the end of the day, but it's not. The kids saw a mouse run from the pantry to the hall closet. They are determined that they'll catch it with their bare hands. Or a shoe. Or something. Thank goodness the Mouse Flu isn't an epidemic. Yet. I won't even think about mice with rabies because we've been watching Wallace and Grommit and the Wererabbit and it's a little bit freaky to think of a Weremouse. Or a rabid mouse. It would probably be the same thing.
Maybe tomorrow will be more normal. Does anyone know what normal looks like anymore?
Random Is Such a Subjective Term
First of all, I want to thank my readers for their wonderful comments yesterday. Thanks. I didn't expect anything less of friends, but I am glad that nobody felt the need to get into religious arguments. One thing that we all agree on; our children are our children no matter what, and our love for them will never change. I love that.
I'm sure that one or four of you may have noticed that I haven't been reading blogs lately. You'll kindly remember that I was at camp last week and forgive me, right? I had to mark all as read and start fresh. I get overwhelmed quickly when the number of unread is in the several hundreds. While I had small pieces of free time at camp, they had no internet service. I know. I tried one day. Why yes, I did take my laptop to camp with me, why do you ask?
Oh, camp? It was awesome. I'm signing up next year. My aunt was the chef and she's an incredible cook. To quote Becky, "even the yucky food was good." And she's absolutely right. It's a good thing it was a quarter mile walk from the cabins to the chow hall because I needed that to counterbalance the weight I surely would have packed on. No, I'm not kidding. It really was a quarter mile. I walked a LOT last week. I was actually shocked that my thighs didn't shrink. There was a day or two that my legs took matters into their own hands and seized up when I sat down for dinner. I am out of shape. Can you imagine how hard it would have been if I hadn't been doing an hour on the treadmill at home? I think I'd be lying in the weeds along the path somewhere between Bible Bay and Craft Cabin.
This is the last week of summer. The ironic part is that summer just arrived. The temps have finally gotten above the 70's and we're sweaty and smelly and very hot. (Lovely visual, no?) Next week is the fair and then school starts. Because it's the last week of summer, I'm doing all the things that should have been done and weren't. Like finishing the pond, and the stone walkway, and bricking under the grill, and creating yet another garden (because eight aren't nearly enough) and planting shrubs (I know this is a bad time of year to plant them, but we have our reasons). How lovely that it's ninety degrees for all this heavy digging and lifting. I was desperate enough to don a swim suit and sit in the kids wading pool today. Because you don't really know, that is a level of desperation that I reach about every three years.
On a side note, one probably should not do heavy gardening while wearing a swim top. The dirt I found under my boobs could have grown it's own garden. It was really gross. My shower needs cleaned now.
The kids got coupons from the school to go bowling over summer. They did last summer, and summer was over and gone and they expired. I had grand plans to not do that this year. We went bowling today. Yeh, I almost missed the fun again. I'm a stellar mom like that. Turns out, they're not one-time use coupons like I thought. They're good for every single day from June 1 through August 31. Now we know, and maybe next year we'll get there before mid August. Becky has PT three days this week and I now plan to torture myself by taking all the kids with so that we can bowl afterward. Hush with the "bowling isn't good for a bum knee" comments. I'm the idiot that finishes off on her right leg; my daughter is a normal bowler and ends on her left so it's all good.
The kids made garden art for their very own garden today. I love it. I love their creativity, I love the fact that they worked together happily on a project, and I love the finished design. Someday I may have pictures to post, but for now just know that it truly is possible for siblings to get along when they have a common purpose. I had heard of that phenomenon, but so rarely experience it myself. You can bask in my glory if you need to.
Unquestionably
*Today's post contains some highly controversial subjects. While we could all argue and finger point about them, I'd rather that you didn't. I'm just asking that you keep an open mind and listen to what I'm saying.
Micah probably spends too much time shopping with Becky and I, and what we do, Micah does. If look for a new purse, Micah shops for one, too. His favorite color is pink, and unfailingly he always chooses the brightest pink that he can. There was that one day that we stayed around the accessories department for the sheer entertainment value that Micah provided us.
He started innocently enough with a Get Your Rock On hat, in hot pink. He found the coordinating tote bag (also emblazoned with Get Your Rock On) and carried that over the crook of his arm to show Becky. We couldn't help but get involved at this point, so we pointed him in the direction of the belts. He found a pink one and loved that I was willing to wrap it around him. He wasn't sure what to do with the scarf, and while deciding whether or not it really accessorized with the ensemble, he spied the glasses. He loves to try on glasses. He found a pair of pink sunglasses to wear. He was so tickled with himself.
So the other day we were in Wal-Mart and I was walking through the purse aisle because I'm coming to realize that I have an obsession. Micah wasn't complaining though because he found a brightly striped purse to carry. This, of course, prompted him to accessorize. He found a men's straw hat and an over sized purple umbrella. He was quite the sight.
Becky laughed at each new addition, but when he added the pink backpack to the get-up she said, "I think he's gay."
I smiled, because he does have an unerring ability to find pink. And loves ladies' accessories. Becky said, "What if he would be gay?" To which I replied rather off-hand, in the light tone in which we were discussing Micah's accessory choices, "well, I'd still love him.
"No, really. What if he would grow up to be gay?"
The light tone became a weight that hung between us. It was one of those parenting moments that you instantly recognize as a teachable one. In one brief semi-second the world stopped short where I stood while the rest of it rushed around me like a vortex. In that tiny moment I did some incredible soul searching before answering.
I was raised to believe that the Bible is the ultimate authority. In recent years I have questioned a lot of what I've been taught, and have come to realize that I use the Bible as my guide because I choose to believe it, and not from default. I believe the Bible when it says that children should obey their parents. I believe that breaking the Ten Commandments is wrong, both in tiny things like white lies and coveting, as well as big things like adultery and murder. And I believe that homosexuality is not looked upon favorably by the Creator of the Universe. For Micah to grow up gay would be a sin. What would I do?
Just as quickly as the world stopped rushing headlong into tomorrow, I knew the answer. From that space deep inside your soul that knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that you would throw yourself overboard to save your child from drowning, I knew that I would love Micah anyway. But my love for him wasn't what was being questioned. And I also knew that no matter what any of my children did, I would always love them. That's what a mother does.
I answered Becky's question. "I'd still love him."
"But the Bible says that it's wrong. What would you do about that if he made the choice to go against God's will?"
"He would still be my son, and I'd love him no matter what. Like any of my kids when they're doing something that they shouldn't, I'd try to help him. But whether he chose to accept my help or not, that would never change the fact that I love him. I would never disown a child of mine for anything that they would do. God doesn't disown His children when they sin, why should I think that my standards are higher than His?"
And I meant it, because I'm his mom.
Seasonal Change
Autumn. It's my favorite season of the year. The air gets crisp, the mornings are chilly, the evenings are made to sit around a fire, the leaves turn colors and fall to the ground, collecting in crunchy piles in corners and against borders. The garden is cleaned out and you can no longer keep windows open all night without piling on another blanket or three.
I love all this about fall. I love wearing sweatshirts in the evening, seeing your breath on the coldest of mornings, and having the opportunity to sip hot chocolate while wearing warm socks. I love the smell of dried flora hanging on the air like a perfume, strong yet subtle.
I love hearing the crunch of leaves underfoot, and still having a soft and living lawn to sink into. I love that the flowers in the gardens are just at the end of their prime, but still good enough to put into vases on the kitchen table. I love the colors of autumn; the golds and purples and oranges.
What I do not love is that this is happening too early. It started at the end of July, and here it is, the beginning of August, and we've experienced all of this already. I won't complain if we are just having an incredibly looong autumn, but if winter thinks it's going to encroach into fall's turf I'll have to put a hurting on Mother Nature.
Anyone know her address?
It's Too Late, I'm Too Far Gone
We took the older two kids to a concert the other night. It was a good concert, mind you, and I enjoy listening to this particular band's music. But while there, I realized that I am old.
Don't try to tell me differently. I have cold, hard facts to back me up on this.
I have been thinking that I need a new hairstyle lately, and have been people watching with a passion in an effort to find something that I love that would also work with my hair. I found a style that I loved while at the concert, and pointed it out to my friend (the hairdresser) who said, "that's an old lady's style!"
First point in my argument.
Partway through the first song, I realized that I couldn't hear the words being sung. I heard noise, and screaming into the microphone, but not words. That's something an old person would complain of.
Second point.
While the bulk of the concert goers were swarming the stage and dancing to the fun, I sat sedately in my seat thinking, "I'd way rather be in my pajamas, sitting in bed, watching this on TV."
If that doesn't scream OLD nothing does. And that's not even the worst of it.
The worst would be the part where I actually had the conscious thought that this concert would be soooo much better if it were the Celtic Women. I'd LOVE to see them in concert. Seriously.
There's no turning back from this point, I'm told. And I'm good with it.
Pass the Geritol. It's best to be prepared.
Kid for Hire
I had a friend in college with a much younger sister. He loved that sister dearly, mostly because of the entertainment value that she provided. As she got older, he loved her less because she matured out of the innocent and fun stage. Partly because of that, I've always looked forward to the toddler years of my own kids. Little did I know that the teen years are very much the same. When you're a parent, there is no end to the entertainment value that your children provide.
Listening in on a conversation between Josh and Luke (12 and 8, respectively), Josh said, "it's so much cooler to have armpit hair than chest hair. I think if I get chest hair I'll shave it off." Well, okay then. And all I could think of was the conversation between Josh and Becky on the subject of armpit hair a few months back. Apparently armpit hair is a major milestone in a tween boy's life. I had no idea.
The things that I say as a result of parenting are equally amazing. Like when I told Micah the other day that "no, I do not want to wear a potty seat on my head." In what other dimension would that even come up in normal conversation?
I think it's Luke that takes the prize for weirdest random comment though. He's good at them, apparently. We were in the store the other day, just walking along chatting about whatever, when Luke says, "I can gargle my own spit. Want to hear?"
I should probably hire him out for entertainment. I could pay for his braces in no time.
On Vacations and Get-Togethers
Sam's job is sending him for training in a few weeks. We find it very ironic that they're sending him to learn to use equipment that he's been using for the past five years, but we're not complaining too much. He's going to North Carolina, and I had a brilliant idea to go along with him and call it a vacation.
Sometimes I do have good ideas.
I've been scouring ways to entertain kids in the Raleigh area, and am quite excited about what I'm finding so far. I am, however, disappointed that we won't be placed closer to a beach. What good is being in a Southern state if you can't hit a beach daily? *grumble, grumble*
This grand vacation is scheduled for the week after the fair. This is also the week that school starts. I've always questioned the powers that be for not giving the kids a week's rest between the fair and school, so we've taken the upper hand on that this year. What? You don't know that at least 60% of the county is involved in the fair in one way or another? Well, they are. And apparently you're not aware that the fair is a week-long marathon of driving, overnights, chaos, long nights, early mornings, overtired kids, stressed parents and animals out of their element. If you don't think that a vacation is needed after that, you're welcome to join us this year. Or take my kids over twice daily to feed the animals. Seriously, feel free.
There are some catches though. Like the fact that it is the first week of school. The boys couldn't be more excited (you mean we get to vacation AND miss school?! Our parents ROCK!) but Becky would rather not miss the greatest event in the calendar year (yeh, she's weird). She's opting to stay home with grandparents. This does, of course, eliminate the whole "who will take care of the animals while we're gone" dilemma.
Another downfall is the fact that we have a dog due to whelp mere days before we are slated to leave. While I have every confidence that I'll be here for the birth, it's the just-after-birth that I won't be here for. The first week is critical. If you don't remember, you're welcome to revisit some of my spring posts. There were every hour round the clock bottle feedings for weeks, unthrifty puppies, moms who had a hard time recovering after a c-section, vet visits daily (that's not an exaggeration) and constant monitoring of temperatures and heating pads.
I'm torn about going. Stupid timing of vacations that other people plan for us.
But anyhoo, the reason for this whole story is the fact that some people felt the need to chide me for not letting them know that I was in their neck of the woods when we went to DC. Heads' up, people. I'll be in the Raleigh area the first week of September, and in DC Labor Day weekend. Or at least Friday night before Labor Day. If anyone wants to plan a meet-up I'd seriously love it.
Seriously.
Weigh Ins are for Wussies. Or Honest People.
Four weeks. That is how long the fat reserves held out that my body was storing. For the first four weeks of my affair with Weight Watchers I couldn't have been happier. Portion sizes were awesome! I could eat anything that I wanted! The points system was so generous! I was never hungry!
Four weeks is how long it took for my body to realize that it was slowly being starved to death. Now? Portion sizes suddenly shrunk, the points are closing in on me, and I'm always hungry. While I can still eat anything, I now need all my points in filling foods (like carrots and bread) and can't afford to squander half my day's portion on half a chocolate bar.
I hate dieting. If I had the will power to keep myself from getting into this shape to begin with, I wouldn't have to diet. I'm grateful for Weight Watchers, mind you, but not happy about it.
One can only eat so many carrots and so much lettuce before one feels the need to snare a rabbit to fry. I wonder how many points an entire rabbit would be? And do they really taste like chicken?
I lied on my weight last week and am now being punished for it. I was down twelve pounds total from the start (*me, smiling so hard that you can hear it*) but just before weigh-in I gained a few pounds. Those few pounds didn't allow me to meet my weekly goal set for myself, and since I'd been below that goal a day before, I fudged. I figured that I'd lose it again by the next day, but I figured wrong. Instead I spent the week gaining more weight. Don't even try to tell me that it was muscle gain from the treadmill because that does not make me happy. Just in case that may have been the case, I stopped with the treadmill last week. (Mostly because of the crazy week that I had. Don't yell at me.) I still haven't lost that weight that I gained, so not only did I fudge last week, I'll have to fudge again this week to make it look like I didn't actually gain. Which I did.
Cheaters never win, but that's alright because I just want to be a loser. Unfortunately that's not even happening. I can run without wetting myself (much) and sprint without panting though, so that's something.
But trying to focus on the positive, I've lost way more inches than I have pounds. This makes me very, very happy. Also? It's funny how the last time I weighed this much I thought I was horribly overweight. While I was (and am still) it's so much better than what I was four weeks ago.
Also, I hate pictures. My mirror is whispering sweet nothings in my ear about how good I look compared to what I did, and my clothing isn't hugging me quite so tightly. I love this. But I saw a photo of my arm the other day and daaaang that thing is huge. Huge-er than my mirror says it is. Huge-er than I really think it is. It's not purty. I hate photographs. That's also probably what other people see when they look at me. For that, I'm sorry.
That right there is good enough incentive for me to continue nibbling carrots.
Yet Another Day in This Week of Torture
Becky has been complaining about knee problems (at the age of 14) that stemmed from a trampoline injury (don't tell Sam, although he already knows, but still). Just about time it started feeling a bit better she decided to try the high jump in youth group and extended it again, thus aggravating the not-really-healed-yet injury. Seeing as how it's obviously susceptible to re-injury, and seeing as how school will be starting in a few weeks and she'll have to participate in gym classes, I figured it was worth getting it checked out.
She needs therapy. For her knee. We'll work on the psycho kind on the next visit. Oh, wait, that would be for me. Maybe we won't work on that because I'm happy in my delusional state.
So anyhoo, I had Becky, Luke and Micah at the gym today for therapy (Josh was with grandparents). It was an interesting time. Micah got a foam sword at the Dollar Tree and has been playing Peter Pan and Captain Hook for two solid days. He did that at therapy, too. At one point a receptionist said, "you boys can't run because elderly people come in here" to which I thought in my head, "yeh, I'll get right on enforcing that." While the boys were rather on the wild side, they do know how to settle and act mannerly around elders.
This was all in the half hour before Becky even started therapy.
Once she was called back, I was glad to see that it was a rather young man that looked like he had a sense of humor. I asked if the boys were welcome in the back (because I'm not all that comfortable with my teen aged daughter alone in a room with a youngish male therapist - thanks Janet) and we all headed to a room where Becky was hooked up to an electrical machine. At the end of fifteen minutes, just before the time was up, she was so sure that it would stop sending fun impulses and actually shock her that she turned rather whitish and tensed. The girl is no end of entertainment.
We headed to the bikes, and Micah found the exercise balls while Becky pedaled to nowhere. I was ever so grateful that nobody asked us to not touch the equipment because let me tell you, an hour and a half of entertaining the littlest man is not my idea of a good time. The kid has more energy than I ever did, and I've lost a considerable amount over the years you know.
We snagged lunch (Starbucks Lite Mocha Frap, thank you very much) and headed to the church to practice drama for the play next week. I had an appointment to go to camp to look over the facilities after that and Micah was a fun time there. While I ran after him, chased him back, and wore myself out keeping up with him, I was also reminded that Holland is a slower world. While the rest of the group was hiking at a normal pace through the wooded paths to the cabins, Micah took time to step on interesting rocks, hang over the bridge to look at the water rushing below him, and look for fun cloud formations in the sky. I got lost from the group at one point. I ended up carrying Micah back from the cabins, and boy was I grateful for that hour on the treadmill each day building my stamina.
I stopped at Wal-Mart to fill some prescriptions and then had to kill a half hour there with kids who were done being out and about. Thaaaat's a good time if ever there was one. The fighting, arguing, yelling, pinching, pushing and running were a bit much, and that doesn't even cover what the kids did. (I kid.) (But the kids really did all that. If you have kids, I know you know what I'm talking about.)
I did find out today that a Caramello bar is only 1.5 Weight Watchers points per square. After an all-day marathon with the kids, I needed that. I ate the whole bar for dinner. It's a good thing, too. I needed the sugar energy to round up the ponies. Micah was playing with Woody's horse, Bullseye, when he got the inspired idea to let Bullseye go visit the real ponies. It was about that time that Bullseye whispered the notion that Tommy and Flash would probably want to run free and not be confined in their paddock like criminals. Micah was just doing what the voices in his head were telling him to. He stood there watching his trusty steeds run off down the road while I ran after them, trying not to pee myself from the exertion. Again, I'm grateful for the treadmill time. It lessens the urge to wet. Who knew?
I am beginning to think that this is the never-ending day.
The good news is that my pants are are determined to make me into a plumber (yeah! except, um, gross) but the bad news is that I do not fit into the size below without some serious muffin top going on (also gross). I hate the whole in-between thing. Mostly because I don't own a belt.
Happy Campers is a Term Made Up by Disgruntled Counselors
Next week is camp for the boys. That means that three boys will be absent from our house, and while most people would be thinking that the home will be quiet and peaceful, we are not most people. No, we'd be the idiots who don't just send their kids to camp, we go with them. Other families are idiotic enough to go be counselors and stay overnight, but we take idiocy to all new levels. *Go, us.* We'd be the ones that choose to drive back and forth every single day because we are day helpers and not overnight counselors. We will also be bringing Micah home with us daily (nightly?) so that would ensure that we don't even get a peaceful night's sleep. We're excelling in idiocy, my friends. We are Excellent Idiots.
What could possibly make this any more irrational? The fact that I volunteered to help with the drama. While I was originally informed that drama would take place during the evening lesson, I've come to find out differently. First of all, let it be noted that by volunteering to "help with the drama" I was actually volunteering to "head up the drama team." I'm not sure how that got so twisted, but there it is. And what was during the evening lesson is now during the evening lesson AND first thing in the morning. Yippee Skippee, I'm the one who has to get up at the plumber's crack of dawn to feed horses, dogs, goats and lizards (okay, so it's just one goat and one lizard, but it might as well be a whole freaking zoo at this point) (Oh wait, it is. Forget I said that.) BEFORE driving a half hour to put on drama for campers. They'd better be happy campers is all I have to say. I have to be there first thing in the morning and last thing at night, with nothing else to do all day in between. Driving a half hour home won't be an option, but it sure will feel like it should be.
But I have this theory that if you have to do something, you do it right. I will be doing the drama unlike any camper has done drama before. Wearing random, mismatched clothing just because I can sounds like a plan. I'm also thinking of making the teen boy who's helping me sculpt his hair to represent the parting of the Red Sea on the day we learn about that. It'll be dyed red, of course. And a day isn't complete without bright, striped knee socks with shorts and flip flops. I only hope the drama doesn't detract from the lesson. That would be a fail. Of course, I may never be asked to help again. I'm not sure if that would be good or bad.
Have I mentioned that Starbucks is on the way to camp every day? It is. And a Lite Mocha Frappuccino is only 2 points. Totally do-able. Now to talk my ever loving husband into stopping daily. I wont' count up how much that would cost because it would scary. Let's call it therapy and know that nobody can live with me without it, okay?
Also? My mother-in-law has taken off work the entire week of camp to be Micah's personal helper. She volunteered for this monumental task all by herself, and asked my permission to do it. My word, she's a saint.
All hail Saint Mother-In-Law.
No, seriously. Do it. She's a gem.