It was a looooong day. A good one. One in which much got accomplished. I was happy. And tired. And got a really good book in the mail that I couldn't wait to pick up. So after getting the little kids tucked into bed, I put on my red Snoopy pajama pants (try not be to jealous) and lime green comfy tee and snuggled up with my book. The evening stretched on blissfully.
It was nearly ten o'clock when Sam said, "when do you need to go get Becky?" Drat. I forgot that the daughter was at a party and needed picked up at ten. I asked Sam if he'd go get her for me. He pulled the classic man-response and suddenly feigned deafness. I waited fifteen minutes, thinking that perhaps he'd just go anyway even without the courtesy of a response, but it didn't happen. And there was even a commercial break in there somewhere for him to have left the television.
I grabbed my purse and headed out to the car. It was dark so nobody would see my Snoopy pants.
I pulled up to her friend's house, and it was surrounded by cars. Crap. I was nearly 20 minutes late, why was everyone still here? I can't get out and go to the door with Snoopy pajama pants on. That would be ludicrous. And why was Becky not waiting for me?
Were they out back? Could I just drive around and hope that she saw me? No, wait, I see someone walking around in the house. Crap. They're inside. And I have to go ring the bell. In my Snoopy pajama pants.
Yeh, like that's happening. Apparently I DO have some pride. Who knew?
Oooh, genius plan. See if the friend's phone number is in my cell phone! If not, I'll call Sam and have him look it up for me. Yes! I'm so brilliant. And BINGO! The number is in my cell. Hit send and...
There is no cell phone service in downtown Ponyville. (Can someone alert the Verizon people about this please?)
Alrighty then, I have two options. 1. Get out in my Snoopy pajama pants and knock on the door. 2. Drive to the top of the hill above Ponyville and call, telling them to have Becky meet me out front in 30 seconds.
So I put the car in reverse and started easing out onto the road when I saw someone I know walking through the yard.
Hey! Hey, you! Yeh, you! Can you get Becky for me? (I actually used her real name, by the way. I'm not that crass.)
Thank goodness that crises was averted. And the moral of this story would be that husbands who turn a deaf ear should be punished. Severely.
Apparently I Won't Embarrass the Snot Out of My Daughter In Public When Given the Chance
I'm an Amateur, and Happy To Be One
I had a Canon Rebel 35mm back in the day. (Hand up the one who remembers what film cameras are.) Lurved the thing, right up until I got tired of lugging it around. By then the digital was invented and we invested in a toss-in-your-purse-and-go variety because carrying a huge camera, and a diaper bag, and a baby, and a purse was not my idea of a good time.
When I got camera envy this year and decided that an upgrade was in order, I got my loverly Canon Rebel again - this time in digital. (I no longer carry the baby or the diaper bag. And leave my purse a lot of times when I have the camera.) I played with my toy all spring and summer and could fill albums with the pictures that I've taken. In the plural, albums. Not even kidding. (Where are the a picture is worth a thousand words people? My mortgage would have been paid off in a single day.)
When I saw that the local arts center was hosting a photography class I figured it was high time I learned to use my new baby. All those years of the 35mm variety are some kind of craptacular photos. Poor Becky, all her baby pictures are excellent quality crap. I just have no idea what all the bells and whistles and knobs and buttons are for.
So I'm taking photography class, and in essence I've deduced that I'm paying someone to tell me to read the manual already. And also to take pictures. But it isn't like I needed someone to tell me that.
In all fairness, the instructor is more than willing to help us when we need it, but she subscribes wholeheartedly to the notion that you learn best by doing. While I love that idea myself and employ it frequently with my children, it's not so fun when it's employed on me. I took about three dozen photos today on about three dozen different settings, but have no idea which setting was which, nor which was better than another, nor even what I was doing. I was simply being snap happy because that's what everyone else in the class was doing and I am good at keeping up with the Joneses.
I also like to procrastinate, which means that at midnight last night I was trying desperately to gain comprehension of things like aperature settings and ISO numbers while learning where they are on my camera. (Get this - we're not allowed to use the automatic settings on the camera. I know!) I can see me now, trying to get a spontaneous photo of Micah, and taking five minutes to set the numbers and turn the dials, and asking him to do that over yet again.
The good news is that the class instructor said that it takes years of practice to actually learn all this so that it's second nature. At least she'll understand when I'm the class moron that doesn't get it by the end of the 5-week session.
There is a huge bonus to the class, though, and it has the potential to save me about $350. The art center has the best tree ever and I've been in love with it since before I knew my right hand from my left. I tracked one down and just a sapling is the above stated price. Like that's gonna happen. I am not opposed to asking for a branch of said tree while I'm there and starting my own tree from the cutting. It might take a few decades for it to reach tree status, but I can be patient when I have to.
If I take pictures of the entire process, that should be a double bonus, right?
The Big Gynie Visit, DONE. Don't Worry, It's Safe to Read at Work.
Becky had that appointment with the OB/GYN today. For shame, is what all the others in the waiting room were thinking while I was sitting there with my 14 year old daughter.
The doctor had an ultrasound done again and the darn cyst GREW. So much for it just magically disappearing. He's still holding out hope though. And apparently the last tech mislead me. According to the doctor, women do NOT grow cysts every month during their monthly. It's one of those things that COULD happen, and we're so lucky to be the ones that can say IT DID. Yeah, us. There will be a 30% chance that Becky will have this as a recurring problem for the rest of her life. Poor kid. She's got a long ovulating life ahead of her. One that could be riddled with pain and bloody cysts.
Worst case scenario, of course, is still surgery. Laparoscopic surgery, just because I like to say the word. He'll see her back in a month, and in the meantime that cyst could spontaneously burst, causing an hour of excruciating pain. (If it's longer than an hour, THEN come in). It could develop a leak, causing several days of "irritating" pain. (Like he'd know - he doesn't even have ovaries. He probably also thinks that PMS cramps are like indigestion.) It could grow even more in which case it would get so heavy that it would roll the ovary so that it rested on the bottom, thereby effectively twisting off the blood supply to that particular ovary and eventually killing it. THAT doesn't sound painful at all.
And that's why he's all we have to do surgery to get rid of it if it reaches 6 centimeters. I have to say, I tend to agree with him. That last option doesn't sound like a good one.
And the birth control pill option was false as well. (That's why ultrasound techs aren't authorized to talk about cases - they know diddly.) It will prevent this from recurring, but it will do nothing to take care of what's already going down.
Be proud - I refrained from asking the good doctor how this would affect my chances of having grandchildren from my only daughter one day.
I am beginning to think of my life as a soap opera. There's always something major and kinda weird going on.
Welcome to Micahese
Micah, being non-verbal, is far from being quiet. There are days that I wish it was so, just like there are days that I secretly wish any one of my children would just be quiet for about seventeen minutes so that I can find my sanity in peace and quiet.
Micah is noisy, to say the least. Non-verbal is a misleading term. He's verbal, just not coherent. It's like listening to someone in hysterics, making babbling noises that just can't be made sense of no matter how much you try to decipher. Take this phrase, for example:
Nyuh nAAAAAAA gah
He uttered that little gem on the way to church, while excitedly pointing out the window. Hand up the one who knows what he was talking about.
Yeh, me neither. Or at least I wouldn't know if I hadn't caught what he was excitedly pointing at. A corn maze sign. Clearly, that's what he said. And if you use your imagination you could clearly see (hear?) how it's definitely "corn maze sign" that he said.
*ahem*
The problem being, that while we could all use our imaginations to pretend we're hearing what we think we know he's saying, if the sign wouldn't have been clearly visible I would have been clueless. Mostly because those are some of the same words and sounds he uses to describe 87% of the things that the sees.
Also, I'm a bit impressed that he was that excited over a corn maze sign. It has nothing but words on it. Sure, Sam and I are in charge of the smooth running of the month-long event. And yes, it's hosted at our church. And of course Micah is there to help/be in the way every time we're there. And there's no doubt that he absolutely loves the maze and all that it entails.
But does this mean that he can read?
Weekly Winners
Toe Touches
Bird Seed
Dirt Makes Me Happy,
or The Day That I Realized That The Macro Setting Is
Crap For Taking Pictures of the Kids
My Boy, Ralph
Glittered Up And Nowhere to Go
Coloring is Serious
Why, yes. I've changed the title of my Saturday Shots to Weekly Winners because I've gone commercial with it. Sort of. Okay, not really. But I did join Lotus Carroll's Weekly Winners group (collection? contest? collaboration?) and will be linking to her site so that you can check out other Weekly Winners. There is some really good photography out there, and I'm just trying to share the love. Click here to visit around.
Well Aren't We Just All Slap Happy Today
I got a phone call from the school this afternoon. Apparently Luke hasn't turned in homework for two days, AND he hit someone today. Besides being waaaaay out of character for the kid, well, there is no besides. It's just not him at all.
After a rousing game of "is that the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" which evolved into "don't MAKE me call the other boy's mom!" I got the story that it was a game of slap that got out of hand. Luke was slapped harder than he would have preferred, and instead of saying something to the boy, or ending the game, he waited until the other boy wasn't expecting it and slapped him right back. As in, "let me slap some sense into you, boy" kind of slap.
*sigh*
We also addressed the homework bit, and I threatened the cancellation of a certain upcoming birthday party if any of the "I forgots" cropped up in the next few weeks. He's 90% sure that I mean it, which is too bad because I'm 110% sure that I mean it.
I deduced that we are too busy and run too much in the evenings, which in turn contributes to Luke being overtired, which is generally the cause of all problems. I determined that we need to stop running around and make him get more rest. Unfortunately, the running we do is for Becky's physical therapy and the corn maze. Neither can just wait for a more convenient time.
*sigh*
So I loaded up the kids to run Becky in to therapy, where Sam met me and took the boys to put out corn maze signs. (What are you gonna do? See above where neither can be put off for the sake of convenience.) Only silly me, because of the school drama I forgot to bring the dog along to drop off for a visit at her friend's house. I was given the sigh and "what the heck" eye from my ever loving husband because apparently I'm an incompetent boob. (I feel the love, dear!) I ran home, retrieved said dog, dropped her off at said house, and picked up Becky from therapy.
God is amazing, because it was determined at the therapy eval that Becky need not come back. There's THAT off the calendar three times a week at least.
Once home, we put Becky in charge while Sam and I drove around the county placing yard signs for the maze. I was adamant that we had to be home by 8:00 to get Luke to bed because we are NOT going to continue to be responsible for his homework failures. Things were going swimmingly (or as swimmingly as things can go when you have to stop, knock on doors, chat with friends, place signs in rocky turf, lather, rinse, repeat) and we were at the end of our road with ten minutes to spare before bedtime when Sam pulled off to place the very last sign. He pulled a wee bit too far off and the front corner of the car disappeared while the opposite back corner dangled a foot over the road.
Awesome.
I found the whole thing hilarious, myself. However, I refrained from laughing at the fact that my husband ditched the car because he never finds these things humorous. Neither did I yell and point out the obvious because OH MY GOSH I HATE THAT when he does it to me. You know, like it was my fault that the tow strap broke when he tried pulling it out because he didn't hear me say "Hold on, I'm not ready!" (Still feeling the love, dear.)
So we were late getting back to the house and Luke was nowhere to be found and I was all impressed that Becky had him go to bed on time. She was also baking chocolate chip cookies. She's a keeper.
I sampled a few cookies, wrote out corn maze schedule reminders for the first weekend's workers, cleaned up a bit, and sat down to read. That was when Luke made his appearance. An hour past his bedtime.
*sigh*
I guess tomorrow will be another slappy kind of day.
I'll Never Reach Coolness
Quite a while ago I was telling my kids that I'd be the coolest mom ever if I didn't have 4 kids to deal with. I mean, I'd be so patient, and understanding, and FUN. I would probably even drive a fun car like THAT one. Yeh, I know I would. If I didn't have 4 kids that required me to drive a mini-bus, I'd have a funky car like THAT one. See how cute it is? And little? And how little room there is for kids, but plenty of room for shopping bags in the back seat or trunk?
Yeh. That. *sigh*
The kids bring this up on occasion; the fact that I could drive something else if I didn't have the kids. They talk about how cool I (think I) would be. How I would truly be the Coolest Mom Ever.
Not one of those kids has yet to pick up on the fact that if I didn't have them, I wouldn't be a mom. Sadly, the irony is lost. But being the most uncool mom ever, I just chuckle under my breath at them as they go on about what a cool mom I could be if only I didn't have kids.
I'm a little bit afraid for our future.
The Hard Things
As a parent, you know that there are some things that you'll have to deal with that will be less than ideal. It starts when your child is but a newborn, with poopy diapers that leak from every opening, and it progresses on from there.
The toddler years, the school years, the growing up years.
And then the teen years.
Every parent lives in dread of them. Of what their child could do to themselves that might have lasting effects. Of mentally damaging peer pressure, or physically damaging stunts of teen boys. And then there are the trending fads that we all cringe to think about. The things that we think surely happen elsewhere but in reality are happening in our own homes.
The cutting.
The burning.
The smoking.
The drugs.
The drinking.
And we pray that it won't have lasting effects. That it truly is just a fad. And in reality we know that it's the outward sign of a deeper problem. A problem that isn't likely to go away any time soon.
We cry, because the kids are hurting and there's so little that we can do about it.
And we thank God that our daughter comes to us with these problems that she sees in her friends and is just as concerned as we are over them. We thank God that she's so horrified over what they're doing that she's in tears. And we pray for our daughter as she goes through her day, knowing that her friends are hurting so badly.
We beg for God to keep her free from the influences around her. To let her be the one friend that everyone can confide in because she doesn't have hurts of her own. And to keep our family strong and happy so that our kids can feel safe at home, even if the world around them is falling apart.
So How Was Your Day, Honey?
If you sit down to write a blog post, you will hear a puppy whining so annoyingly that you can't concentrate.
If you get up to see what the puppy is whining about, you will find that it walked itself out of it's kennel and got stuck under the wheelbase of the desk chair.
If you rescue the puppy and put it back in the kennel you will remember that you need to start the puppies on solid food today.
If you go into the laundry room to get a puppy dish and some food, you will see the mountain of laundry that needs shuffled through.
If you shuffle some laundry, you will see a bag on top of the dryer that mysteriously appeared in the van yesterday and was brought in and dumped there. That mysterious bag contains a girl's fleece jacket from Niagara Falls. You will be even more baffled. And then you will remember that you were actually in the laundry room to feed the puppies.
If you put the puppy food in the microwave to soften for a bit (don't ask) you will see that the counters need cleaned off.
If you clean the counters off it will be very obvious that the dishes need done.
If you do the dishes, it's clear that the counters weren't cleaned off because of the dish distraction.
If you clear the paper clutter away you'll notice that the Friday Folders were dumped there and the note you sent to the PTA about working the book fair was returned with no note attached, and you will wonder if you really are working the book fair this week or not. And you wonder at the incompetence of the PTA. You will also find the note you left for yourself to call about the composting class that you signed up for at the Extension Office but hadn't heard whether you got in or not and need to call to find out because that class is tonight.
If you call the Extension Office, you will remember that you need to call to schedule a sit-on for Micah's speech therapy at school, and check up on things through FDS, and ask the Sunshine Foundation your list of questions.
If you go through your purse looking for the list of questions to ask the Sunshine Foundation, you will find some checks that need deposited into the bank account today.
If you run the checks to the bank, you will remember that you need dog food and head to Wal-Mart since you're out anyway.
Once you're in Wal-Mart time seems to slip away from you, as does your money, and you come home with dog food and $68 worth of other crap.
Once you're home you realize that you didn't get a flash drive for your son who needs one for school this week, nor did you buy toilet paper, and you've been using Kleenex to wipe because there is no toilet paper at home.
If you call to ask your husband to get toilet paper on his way home from work, he will tell you that we'll just pick some up tonight when the kids go to music lessons.
If you fall for that line of reasoning, you will assuredly know that the toilet paper will be forgotten, so you reason that you will just pick up the toilet paper yourself when you go for composting class.
When you go to composting class, you stop to pick up your mother because you're taking the class together (the family that composts together, stays together, or something like that) and you are busy talking while driving and completely forget to stop for toilet paper.
When you get home, you will realize that you still do not have toilet paper, that the counters are still cluttered, that the blog post didn't get written, and that apparently yet another day has slipped by when absolutely nothing got done.
And I so looked forward to the kids being in school so that I could accomplish much.
Fashions are Falling
While perusing some of the fashions for this fall, I was rather shocked. First of all by the total lack of striped stockings being sported because I really wanted an excuse to wear them. No, I'm serious. And that statement makes this post so very, very ironic.
Have you seen some of the fall fashions? Wowza. I'm not fashion forward by any stretch, and now I know why. The only websites I managed to visit before dying of a laughing fit were Piper Lime and Nordstrom.
Oh. My. Word.
Take a look-see at some of the fun that I've found.
It's reassuring to know that the oversized shirt is totally in. I have some in my closet that I absolutely hate and use for things like painting and bleaching and, well, that's about all. Now I can wear them with pride. How cute.
NOT.
Feminism is obviously dead this fall. This next one just proves that point.
Dude. A plaid shirt? Five sizes too big? I can score that at Salvation Army for a dollar. No, seriously. No need to pay big money for the fashions this fall. And you could pair that with long johns to complete the ensemble. Think how sexy THAT would be.
Am I the only one who sees a bath robe when I look at this?
Seriously. A gray flannel bath robe. No need to actually get dressed in the morning anymore. Wear your robe to work! It's all the rage this fall. Think how comfy you'd be. But would you wear slippers with that, or heels?
Then there's this.
If it makes a size 2 wire frame look like it has hips, think what it'll do for a real set. Holy Huge Hips Dresses aren't for those with any type of figure, that's for sure. Maybe if you paired it with a pair of thigh-high boots it would have a bit of a slimming effect. But I doubt it.
If you're really going for the hippy look, though, this would be the number to choose.
In what parallel universe would that look good on the average size double-digit woman? Even the single-digit ones are cringing. Heck, the super model wearing it is thinking, "You mean I have to model THIS?! Why does SHE get the slimming A-line and I got stuck with THIS?! Do you know how much chocolate cake I've foregone in my lifetime to NOT look like I have hips?" (Seriously. Look at her face. It's like reading her thoughts.) I call it a designer fail.
Moving on...
Talk about your revival of retro. Napoleon lives.
And Aladdin is real.
Could you even imagine wearing this?
Maybe because I'm short I'm having a hey-day with it, but I'm seeing me dragging the right side in the mud, or running over the hem while rolling around in my office chair. You'd become airborn if you ever caught a breeze.
I, personally, am a fan of the mini skirt. Mini meaning just above my knee. This? Is wrong on about seventeen different levels. A sequined mini skirt. You're welcome. And don't bend over.
Unfortunately there are no pockets in that thing, and I wouldn't even recommend a fanny pack (when would I EVER?!) because it would be larger than the skirt and hide the whole thing.
You could pair that skirt with these. They'd probably go together quite well.
And the only people who should wear them are street walkers. Seriously. Although it may put a hurting on their business. Of course, the mini skirt would hide those fun zipper pockets.
My personal fave is this one.
It's a cashmere jumpsuit. Those two words should never, ever be used to describe the same object. And I cannot even begin to imagine where one would wear that. Not the office. Certainly not the PTA meeting. And I can't even see it fitting into the Christmas party scene. I'm just clueless. And apparently you don't really accessorize with it either. I'm thinking how awkward a belt would be. And now you are, too.
Are your eyes bleeding yet? No? Try thinking of yourself in that cashmere mess. ALL of you in it. There's no hiding what you had for breakfast, that's for sure.
Since it looks like my striped stockings just aren't making an appearance, you can find me lovingly wearing my jeans and sweatshirts once again this fall. I may not be fashion forward, but I won't make anyone vomit either. That's always a bonus.
On Learning and Living, and Being Who You Are
Micah is not so much into academics. Shocking, I know. He's a hands-on, run-all-day, learn-through-adventure kind of kid. It's just how he's wired. When he has homework, it's a struggle of immense proportions. There's a reason that I make teachers fight him - it's because I don't have the energy to do it myself. (Sorry, teachers. But you know that I love you!) I know that they do fight him because there was a note on one of his papers yesterday that said "20 minutes, 2 broken crayons, 3 tossed crayons" and it was just a sheet with 5 objects to color.
So you can fully understand that over summer, we don't make the boy do any school-related work. Sure, I count with him as we put toys away, and I tell him that his right arm and then his left arm are slipping through his shirt holes, and I tell him all the colors of cars that he has. But I don't make him do anything. I don't ask him which color is yellow, I don't ask him to help me count to five, I don't ask him to color this picture of Woody for me. I let him enjoy summer while subtly trying to infuse learning into his active mind.
And I don't require him to use his Voice.
This was a struggle for me. That Voice, sitting there on the counter every single day, just waiting to be used, wasn't. That Voice, that we spent so many months fighting for, collected dust. That Voice that could make a huge difference in his life and ours. It sat idle for three months.
I worried that when I sent him back to school he'd have forgotten how to navigate his way around, or would simply decide that it was too much bother to use at all.
And then I talked to his aide, who was amazed at how far he'd come over summer. He can now recognize 9 out of 11 numbers (last year it was a 50/50 shot when there were only 3 or 4 numbers involved), he knew all his colors, and he was making sentences on his Voice. Two, three and four word sentences. We were both amazed. And thrilled. And it just reinforced to me that sometimes kids do so much better when they can learn at their own pace and not be pushed, and prodded, and made to do extra math worksheets because they got a 96% on the last test.
It always amazes me that Micah amazes me. I think it is still attached to that non-verbal thing that he has going on. When I can't hear him count, or hear him say it's a yellow truck, or hear him recite the periodic table of the elements (hey, who knows what the kid knows) I just assume that he doesn't know these things. And then I wonder how many other people think the same way. How many others judge him to be mentally lacking just because he can't talk? And then it gets me to thinking about mental disabilities in general. We, as a society, base so much on an IQ, as if it's the end-all and be-all to life. We think that smarter people are better people. We think that smarter people get the best jobs. While that is true to an extent, it's not entirely. I could have been a veterinarian (it was my career of choice, had I chosen a career) but instead I chose to be a stay-at-home mom and not grace the workforce with my presence. It doesn't make me stupid. It doesn't make me lazy. It doesn't make me inferior. It makes me a mom. It doesn't make me a better mom than a working mom. It doesn't make me a better mom than a single mom. It doesn't make me anything other than a mom to my own children. And that's exactly how I like it.
And even though Micah may never be able to tell us what he's thinking with any clarity, that doesn't make him less intelligent than anyone else. And if he never scores outside the mentally handicapped range on an IQ test that doesn' make him inferior to those who do. That makes him Micah. Just the way God intended for him to be. And I'll still be his mom, ready to take on anyone who judges him and finds him lacking for all the wrong reasons.
If I Didn't Have To Pay The Doctor Bills We'd Have Our Own Island In The Bahamas
Well this is just a fun, fun week. (What week isn't around here?) But I'm getting things accomplished and that's good. The sewing I'm getting done is phenomenal. If there was an Olympic sport for sewing designs on shirts, I'd consider myself to be in training. I'm kicking some shirt, um, sleeves. Go, me!
Becky complained of an ear ache Monday evening and I pulled my most popular mom-remedy out and told her to take two Tylenol for the pain and go to bed. I've found that 90% of the time kids will wake up feeling fit as a fiddle. The other 10% of the time it truly is something to be a bit concerned over, and that's when I call the doctor. (I rarely panic over things. I've found that it just wastes energy that could be better spent doing anything else, like breathing.)
Becky's ear still hurt Tuesday morning so I called the pediatrician. She had an ear infection. Don't tell the school, but we spent the rest of the day shopping and eating out instead of rushing her back to school. The doctor's excuse said that she'd return to school the next day, and I figured it was best to follow doctor's orders, you know? *ahem*
I asked about her ultrasound test results (because the doctor doesn't know that we know the results) but we saw a different doctor who knew nothing about anything other than the ear. And she consulted me about a dog problem that she was having. (Why don't I start charging the ped for the dog advice that I dole out every time I'm there? We could start bartering services. Seriously.)
That was Tuesday.
On Wednesday the mom-dog was lethargic and refused to leave the puppies. While she could easily be the best mom-dog I've ever had (and that's a tall order to fill) that's not like her at all. Plus her nose was leathery and rather un-normal looking. I spent the morning at the vet. I used to feel thirty-six kinds of stupid when I didn't know something that I thought I should, but I've realized today that if I don't know about something then that simply means that I haven't experienced it first-hand. That makes ignorance a very good thing. But I learned something today. Eclampsia. It's real. And it's easily remedied by calcium pills.
I also learned that if you don't have time to shower between the vet and speech therapy that a set of dressy clothes will trick people into thinking better of you than they should.
I called the pediatrician when I got home to ask about Becky's test results. Again. That cyst was scary enough for the pediatrician to pass off to the OB/GYN. (She mentioned things like overly large, twisting the ovary, and losing organs. Of course, she also said these would be worst case scenarios. Me, still not panicking. I haven't heard the official report from the specialist yet.) The secretary at the OB/GYN mentioned the fun word "surgery" in reference to the cyst's removal, but I chose not to tell the daughter this. I'm beginning to think that the birth control pill is a rosier outlook.
And then out of sheer guilt for making my daughter visit the OB/GYN when I haven't been in for so long (hush with the medical talk - I KNOW) I scheduled myself an appointment. The secretary tried to schedule for the same time that my daughter was there. Chicka, I do not consider it mother-daughter bonding to have coinciding gynie visits. Not happening in this life or the next. And don't think I wasn't aware of the fact that you had to put me on hold so that you could laugh from my comment about not scarring my daughter for life. Laugh away. I'm standing firm on this one.
Maybe next week will be boring. One can only hope.
Rollier Than Thou
Micah is a good eater. He always has been. He would come back with notes from pre-school saying that he was a good eater. When I met with his teacher, she always felt the need to comment that he ate well. As a kindergartner, we heard that Micah was still a good eater. The cafeteria aide, his personal aide, his teacher - they all feel the need to tell me this. I have to laugh.
I didn't realize that part of the reason that people in the know feel the need to tell me this is because apparently I wasn't in the know. From what I'm told, people with Down syndrome are picky eaters. (And there is one of those blanket statements that set some people on edge. Sorry, it's just what I've been told.) Whether it's the texture of certain foods, or the taste, that keeps others from eating the way Micah does, he certainly stands head and shoulders above the general cafeteria crowd. The boy will eat anything while at school. He hasn't met a food group that he hasn't loved.
Around here, we pray before meals. In our immediate family, we also hold hands during the prayer. It's just what we do. Micah knows this, but it seriously cramps his style.
So when we're praying, the boy doesn't have free hands. He has been known to try to eat during a prayer anyway. Take the other day, for instance. As we finished the prayer, I looked up to see Micah licking his peas. Except that peas are round little balls, and he was chasing them all over his plate with his tongue.
Life with the boy is never dull.
Pioneering Mama. No, We're Not Talking About The Era That I Grew Up In.
When we were newlyweds, we had two different sets of dishes. Each was for four place settings. Sam lamented the fact that if we had more than two friends over, we were forced to use mismatched plates. He feared that it made us look tacky. I (ever the optimist) said that it was hip and chic and very artsy to not always be matchy-matchy. This was seventeen years ago. If only I'd have written a magazine article about such a thing, I would have been the one getting credit for the brilliance of that idea instead of Whoever Did.
While I certainly cannot take credit for inventing the blog, I do feel like a trendsetter in the family. I discovered the joys of blogging over two years ago (Yeah! Go, me!) and have shared things with the world that I probably should never have. The kids think of the blog as one of Mommy's weird idiocyncricies. They also think of it as the family's tabloids. If they make a story, they're both elated and mortified. And they're just glad that I have a hobby that keeps me from making them clean their room regularly.
So Josh came home from school the other day and said that he needed to create a gmail account for school. I reminded him that he already has one, but he was insistent that he needed a second one. Okay, what for? He's making a blog for class.
Get. Out.
His teacher has yet to reveal what this blog will be used for, and any number of scenarios have been running through my head. There is the "this blog will be used for taking notes during class so that you have something to study from at home with no excuses" one and the "let's keep track of our science experiments here." But when he told me that it was his English teacher that is spearheading the project, my best guess is the "if I have kids write something every day it'll improve their writing skills and grammar" scenario. And I have to say, that would be brilliant of her. I approve.
Until this project is up and running, we are free to have fun with it. Josh, especially, is using it as a weapon of great force. Everything his sister does that is rather teen-girlish will be blogged about, so he says. He's holding this over her head with glee, but she could care less because "who will read it anyway." That was where I came in, because I am a loving and supportive mother that way. "Honey, everyone will read it. All his classmates will, and then share it with their siblings - some of whom will be in high school. And once it hits high school you know how it'll spread through the ranks. The teachers will all read because you can bet that some of the kids will be highly entertaining to read, and the high school teachers will want in on the action as well." The look of complete and utter horror on her face was all the thanks that I needed.
Too bad that things won't happen that way, because how good would it be?
But I do feel all good about myself because finally there is some type of school work that I know I can help the kids with. How embarrasing will it be if my sixth grader comes home as a brand new blogger and tells me how to make a whole new template design from scratch, using words like widgets and HTML?
What a Pain in the Belly Button
While we were on vacation, Becky stayed at home. (Or more accurately, she stayed with friends. It was her choice; we didn't ditch her.) During one of our daily calls home she reported that her belly button hurt. Weird. She reported nothing unusual that had happened to cause it, and neither was there a bump indicating a hernia. I asked if grandma should take her to the doctor or if she thought it could wait until we got back. She said she thought she could wait.
We were back several days before she complained of the pain again, and this time it was accompanied by spreading pain across her abdomen. I figured it was time to see a doctor.
At the doctor's office we saw our very favorite pediatrician ever. The one that left abruptly last year. Apparently she's back. This makes me very happy. No idea where she was, why she left, or why she chose to come back, but I'm happy.
She was also very clueless about what Becky's belly button pain could be. Not appendicitis nor a hernia, and other than that she's not afraid to tell me that she doesn't know because of the weird specifics of this particular pain. She took a urine sample (and Becky learned the fun of a clean-catch cup) and while we were waiting for the doctor to come back again, my daughter felt the need to tell me that they were doing sit-ups in school the day before.
Stop the presses.
The spreading abdominal pain that isn't exactly internal but more muscular? Yeh. I felt like a huge derf-wad because I didn't think to ask at home if she'd done anything out of the ordinary lately. (But remember that it's been over a week of belly button pain now and obviously I wasn't thinking well beyond that.) I chose not to tell the doctor this new piece of evidence when she came in because it still didn't explain the belly button pain and I figured all our prayers would be answered when the "mysterious" spreading pain disappeared. At least as far as that mysterious spreading pain went.
In order to further address the situation, the doctor requested an ultrasound to rule out bladder or other internal problems. We had that done over the weekend. While in the waiting room, Becky asked if being poked in the belly button would cause it to hurt like it does.
The presses will never get the printing done with all the stopping going on.
When was she poked in the belly button? And why? Well, you know how you poke each other in the stomach (no, not really; adults don't do that) and sometimes you miss and hit the belly button? That happened. Last week just before all the pain started. Derf-wad doesn't begin to explain how I feel at this point. Daughter of Mine, have you heard of the Need to Know Law that exists between parents and children? GRRRRRR Should we even go on with the testing, or tell the hospital staffing that we are complete and total morons and we'll just be going home now?
I chose to go on. And say nothing to anyone. Hugest Derf-Wad Ever Award right here. (How long could an internal bruise last, anyway? And if it's still that tender after more than a week it needed addressed regardless.)
While Becky was relieving her bladder at the end of the ultrasound, I asked the tech if she'd seen anything out of the ordinary. (If I was going to play Hugest Derf-Wad Ever, I may as well do a good job of it.) My daughter has a cyst on her ovary. Huh.
Do you know what the very first thought was that popped into my head? "How will this affect her decision to have children someday?" No kidding. Is that selfish of me? Let's pretend that it's not, okay?
So I learned a little something that I really should have known years ago. A woman's ovaries grow cysts every month. That's how we reproduce. Who knew? Only this one cyst didn't pop and perhaps that's what's causing her the weird pain. It may or may not go away on it's own over the next month's course of womanly life. If not, there is medication to be given that will make it go away and prevent this from happening in the future. This medication is called Birth Control.
I laughed. I really did. Someone just told me that my fourteen year old daughter may or may not have to go on birth control pills, and I laughed. Life is that kind of ironic, you know?
We'll follow up with the pediatrician and see what she recommends, of course. I may or may not reveal at that time that teens are apparently in the habit of running into each other with pointed fingers, and that schools still require kids to do sit-ups in gym class. Because I am The Hugest Derf-Wad Ever, I probably will. That's how I roll. Plus the doctor could probably use a good laugh.
I think I just figured out why she came back after being gone for nearly a year. She missed our family. It probably shouldn't come as a shock to you that this episode really isn't out of the norm for us. I may or may not tell you about the ongoing psoriasis. The ongoing part is a bit of an understatement. We're talking over ten years of " my poor son never outgrew his cradle cap."
Let me just break out the silver polish for that Hugest Derf-Wad Ever Award.
(And the beauty of that picture is the fact that you now don't remember that I'm the Hugest Derf-Wad Ever. Love it.)
Sometimes Words Just Aren't Necessary
The funny thing about vacations is that they wear you out. Everyone says that you need a vacation to recover from vacations, and I think Everyone speaks the truth.
So in order to be able to function this week at all, I needed a nap. That's exactly what Sunday afternoons are made for. Unfortunately the stars rarely align for life to happen that way, but this past week they did.
You know how sometimes when you're overtired and you just can't sleep? That happened. I laid there, willing myself to sleep, and not having much luck with it.
I heard footsteps in the hallway. I heard a rattle at the door. That would be Micah. If I pretended that I was already asleep then he would go away and leave me alone because he has a healthy respect of sleeping people. Let them sleep. If they wake up they'll make you join them. He can't take that chance.
But obviously he needed something in a desperate sort of way because he didn't just go away and let me rest. He walked over to the bed. He laid his hand on my back. Yep, mom was asleep because she didn't move.
He made no sound as he kissed me, patted my back, and walked out of the room.
I'm so glad that I had difficulty falling asleep. I wouldn't have missed that for the world.
Speechless
I know that I'm way behind the rest of the nation on this bandwagon (does that make me the caboose?) but I'll blame the school for that. It didn't suit our school to air the president's speech on Tuesday, so they showed it on Wednesday instead.
I am not generally up on current events of any kind. Really. I only knew about the president's speech because when we came home from vacation there was a message on the answering machine from our school principal saying that if we wanted to excuse our children from participating then we would need to send a note in on their first day back. This, of course, put me on high alert about the whole thing. Why would I want my children to be excused? What could the president possibly be addressing? How controversial or graphic would he get while talking to school aged children?
So I spent the weekend learning all I could about this controversial topic. I learned that there are some close friends of mine who were not allowing their children to participate, and I learned that there are a lot of people who are opposed to the president speaking to the kids, and that a lot of people thought it was just the president's way of pushing his agenda. I also learned that I could view the speech online. So I did.
It's everything that I've been telling my own children for years. Stay in school. Study hard. Do your homework. No matter what career you choose, you will need an education. Don't waste your life.
Now how controversial is that? It's not, that's how controversial it is. (Also, the whole "pushing his agenda" thing? If the president's agenda involves helping my kids in school then I'm all for it. Everyone else should be, too.) This all tells me one of two things. Or maybe both.
1. People panic over the dumbest things ever and blow things way out of proportion (hello, swine flu) and don't care to verify facts themselves but instead add to the hype and make rash decisions.
2. People are not very supportive of our president and are using this as an opportunity to express their displeasure. And actually, that's putting it nicely.
I did not vote for President Obama to get into office. I am not happy that he is our current president. But here's the thing - he's the president of the nation that I live in. I believe that America is the greatest nation on Earth, and I choose to live here and enjoy the freedoms that we have. Because this is my chosen country, I will submit myself to the authority of our president. Along with that comes a certain amount of respect that I have to give him, whether or not I agree with him on every issue.
If we, as a nation, don't support our president, then we as a nation will start to fall apart very quickly. Is this the message that we want to give our children? Really? Or could we all just get over the fact that the president is black, or that he's not of your religious persuasion, or that a Democrat is in the White House, and instead teach our children that we are bigger than petty differences.
We can work together to help our children. It is up to us to make America strong.
I choose to teach my children that we don't always get what we want from life, but it is our responsibility to make the most of what we are given.
If Good Intentions Counted, I'd Be The Best Mom Ever
On the kids first day of school, I suddenly become all domesticy (real new word) and have such grand intentions of having a wholesome (or sometimes not) snack waiting for them when they get home, and make wonderful from-scratch meals for the family, and have the house clean (because the kids weren't home to mess it up all day) and generally be Carol Brady (with Alice's help) and Martha Stewart together in one fun size package.
The problem is that reality tends to get in the way of the Dream Me.
To say that the house is a mess is an understatement of immense proportions. You know how when you're not really home but just here for a meal or two and to sleep, and the house just gets trashed because you come home from wherever it is you were, dump all the stuff that you brought home with you, and start the day over? And dishes pile up in the sink, and the floors aren't swept, and the spiders know you're not really here so they have an arachnid party and invite friends and family from three states away and they build party swags in every room plus the shower (even though it's still used daily)? That was the whole month of August at our place, with the exception of those two days in the second week.
So instead of spending the entire week (or maybe the whole month) cleaning, I have mucho sewing to do. I took the kids Adjusted First Day of School picture, sent them on their way, and commenced to sewing. Things were clipping along rather well when the phone rang. Micah had two bouts of diarrhea and I'd have to come get him right away. There's that policy this year because of the swine flu.
I spent the whole summer with swine. I'm not concerned about the flu. But rules are rules.
When the school calls and you have to go get a sick child you shouldn't really take time to put on makeup and pretend that you're not so tired that your eyes are kind of squinty and very puffy and you're not pale from the cold that you're fighting off. I looked in the rear view mirror to see exactly how bad I was because I didn't want to frighten the children and was thinking that if I wasn't fighting this cold I'd have more sleep and would look better when the realization dawned on me that I heard Micah cough yesterday and I vaguely thought that he might have my cold as well (it's a fun drainage-only one) and that the diarrhea was a direct result of the swallowed gunk. (If you were eating, sorry.) So in my moment of revelation, I was glad to know that he wasn't really sick.
And sure enough, he wasn't. His aide even said so. But rules are rules. So Micah got another day off school.
On the way home I remembered that I had grand intentions of being Carol Stewart and stopped by the grocery store to buy a soup bone to make vegetable soup and frosting in a tube to make fun cupcakes for the kids to snack on after school (the not so healthy category, but hey, it's the first day of school. Sort of.) and $97 later I was out of there.
So now I have a horribly messy house, a not sick kid that has been home all day trashing it further, mucho sewing to do, soup to make, and fun cupcakes to find on the internet and attempt to recreate in my kitchen. I had to run Becky to physical therapy as soon as she got off the bus, I had more homework to do than the kids did what with all the start of the school year paperwork times four, someone was coming to look at a horse that I have for sale, and Sam had to run out of state on a corn maze errand leaving all the kids and homework in my care.
I think, once again, that my kids will realize their mom is Roseanne instead of Carol Brady. But good intentions count for something, right? I'll bet if I had Alice things would be completely different.
Back Home. Meh.
Thank. Goodness. I just got back from a relaxing vacation, refreshed and ready to go. The amount of work facing me is enough make me curl up into a fetal position and cry myself to a happy place.
The puppies are all alive and well, despite the loving care they were given while we were gone. Apparently there was a dispute on whether or not a nursing mom needed food or just water. For two days. It isn't like there wasn't a very detailed list of how to feed hanging right there on the refrigerator. Yowza.
The fish pond experiment was a raging success all summer. I was thrilled with my fish keeping prowess, and had plans to grow Jeffrey and Denver into brook trout size within a few years just because I was that good. Except I'm not. They went belly up last night while we slept, and Luke cried off and on all day. (The fact that he's overtired was a large contributing factor to the tears.) Now I have Fish Killers Guilt again. I'd love to get some more but I fear it's too close winter at this point to introduce poor innocent fish to the great outdoors. We'll try again next spring. I think. Hopefully Luke is over the mourning by then.
Just because we have puppies, the dogs think it's Drama Time. I get to go to the vet tomorrow for a weird injury incurred. No, it's not puppy related. But it is dog related, and am I the only one who notices that I went all summer without a vet visit, and now all of a sudden just because we have puppies the fun starts up again? I think they get jealous of each other and do things for attention. Someday I'll prove that theory, just you wait.
The adjusted First Day of School is this week. Well, for three out of four kids anyway, but I'll pretend that it's the first day for everyone when I make them pose for a picture with their new clothes and filled backpacks and freshly polished glares.
For the past two weeks, I have been pretending that I am not having a relationship with Weight Watchers and shockingly I've only gained 3 pounds. It was totally worth it, but that's easy to say on Day 1 of the diet again, when I didn't really diet but enjoyed a picnic with family and friends instead. Day 2 will probably bite. Especially since I'll be reacquainting myself with the treadmill.
Suddenly that fetal position doesn't sound like such a bad option.
Saturday Shots, Less the Shots
I'm still out of town, on the laptop, and can't upload photos (although there are a bazillion and eight of them) so Saturday Shots will be void of photos. Instead, it'll be visuals.
* Micah is leaned over by the side of the pool, intent on something on the ground. He lifts it up. It's the lid to the pool clean-out for the pool pump. Before I can rush over to where he is and rescue him from whatever it is a six year old boy can get into in the clean-out, he reaches in and pulls out a used band-aid. Niiiiice.
* We are eating dinner poolside one evening, with the place to ourselves. It was nice that the boys could swim while we enjoyed a meal alone. When they were hungry we got them something from the buffet and brought it out to them rather than having them drip through the dining room.
Imagine, if you will, two Mary Kay proselytes, one with a turquoise and one with a pink pants suit, enough hairspray to put a hole in the ozone layer before dinner was over, and of course the make-up enough to cover an entire pink Cadillac in a fresh coat of mascara and lipstick.
Now imagine the looks of horror on their faces as I walked out of the dining room with a plate in one hand, a cup in the other, and a second plate balanced on my forearm. (I'm a mom. We can all do this.) Now imagine those looks graduating into comments as I came back for seconds for the kids. And thirds. And a fourth trip because I needed hot tea for myself.
Classic.
* Our family was sitting around the pool having dinner when Luke leans over, aims his rear end toward Josh, and blasts so loudly that I think I actually saw the towel wrapped around his waist flutter from the breeze. Because we weren't in the stuffy and formal dining room, we laughed. We're cool parents that way.
* The boys, holding hands, and jumping into the pool together. Micah giggling the whole time, even when he comes up for air.
* Josh teaching Micah to fall backward into the pool. Micah standing backward on the edge, then sitting into the water. And laughing.
* Micah climbing the second story railing to hang over and look at the breakfast diners below him. Me freaking out, trying not to scream too loudly, and running across the room to rescue him from the danger that he wasn't really in.
* Micah trying to climb the ropes leading up the mast to the eagle's nest at the Pirate's display at the museum. Me, trying not to freak out as he was balanced on the ledge of the wall and leaning waaaay over reaching for the only crossrope that was available for climbing.
* Luke, using a cheesy fake voice, saying "how bout them beans!" and Micah giggling like a maniac, and not stopping until he can reach up from his carseat and pat my arm to be sure that I found it funny as well. For twenty miles without stop.
* Being at a hotel within walking distance from Hendricks Motors and seeing the boys' faces as they got to touch a real live racecar. Me, trying not to freak out as Micah runs over to a Corvette completely surrounded by ropes to keep small children at bay, and see Micah reach out to touch the polished chrome and glossy paint. Daddy, putting Micah on his shoulders and quickly locating the exit.
* The boys playing games in the van, and learning the state abbreviations while keeping track of license plates they've seen. Don't tell them that the trip was educational.
* The family, having a wonderful vacation that was refreshing and relaxing. Except for poor Sam who attended class all week.
Equality
We are simple people. We don't have maids or butlers. We don't have a chef or a groundskeeper. (Who does?) We don't even have a housekeeper. That would be me. When I feel like it. Sometimes when I don't.
My kids idea of waitstaff is gleaned from waiters or waitresses at restaurants, and once a waitress sees the four children she generally disappears into the depths of the kitchen only to return once or twice to refill drinks. All I'm saying is that the kids don't have any idea what servants are. This is neither good nor bad, it's just the way things are.
Today at the hotel, I asked the boys to clean up our room a bit before we headed down for breakfast. Josh informed me that "the maids would do it, that's their job."
Stop. The. Presses.
He's absolutely right - the maids get paid to clean rooms at the hotel. But I informed him in my best mom/school teacher/I'm your boss and you'll listen to me voice that there's a difference between cleaning up after yourself and expecting someone else to clean up after you. It is the maid's job to run the vacuum and wipe the bathtub down and put clean sheets on the beds. It is NOT her job to pick up our clothing or put our toys away or keep our toiletries neatly lined up on the bathroom counter. I asked Josh to write a note for the maid, thanking her for cleaning our room this week. He did. I was proud.
At breakfast we were chatting with one of the servers. She's the sweetest lady even if she is a bit of a talker. I love that the boys treated her just like a friend and not someone who was there to wait on us. What I didn't love is the fact that the other hotel guests wont' even look our way for fear of making eye contact and having to be friendly. They won't acknowledge our presence (and it can't be denied, with Micah around) because they are clearly so much better than we are. That bothers me. A lot.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want my kids to grow up knowing that no matter what social class you're from, no matter where you find yourself staying for the night, no matter who you meet through your day, we are all the same. We are all to be treated equally. And a smile is meant to be shared.
It's the Newest Thing. It's Called Playing.
My evil plan for the kids to rediscover play is working. I purposely didn't pack electronics (and we see how that went over) but instead packed Go Fish and Play-Doh and Magz. Today the kids chose to stay in the room and hang out instead of going and doing and seeing. I was cool with that.
They played with Play-Doh for a good hour. It was wonderful. They made pancakes and flipped them in a skillet. They made balls and tossed around the room. They made animals and shapes and didn't even mix colors. (Not that I would have cared - it's their Play-Doh, after all.)
They found the Magz. Micah entertained himself with those forever. He cooked the metal balls in a pot. He rolled them around the floor. He bagged and unbagged them. All with the TV turned off. It made my heart happy.
The boys worked on their Quiet Time books for church without complaining, and studied some verses to say next week upon our return. Willingly and happily, even.
And even more amazing, Micah picked up a pen and wrote on paper with no prompting whatsoever. The boy who will throw himself on the floor in a fit of you can't make me do that when you even so much as think about asking him to do paperwork.
Wow.
The resounding success of the vacation is astounding. What will they do next? Clean up after themselves?
*swoon*
That just happened. My boys. They are making me proud.
More Vacation Talk. If You Think You're Sick of It Now, Wait Until the End of the Week.
My word. Vacationing with boys is, um, yeh. Don't get me wrong. Vacationing with boys would probably be a lot of fun if they wouldn't be MY boys. You'd think John-Boy and Billy Bob have never been off the farm.
Let me start off by saying that I had grand plans of hanging about the room and leisurely getting ready for the day because it IS vacation, even if Micah was up at the plumbers crack of dawn. Someone forgot to shut the drapes last night. You can bet THAT won't happen again. I have my doubts if it'll help with the internal wake-up call that boy is programmed with, but I've got to make the effort.
So anyhoo, I was sitting around in my PJs watching Madagascar 2. (What, I forgot to tell you that we were checked into the room for all of 3 hours before we were forced to go to Wal-Mart to buy a DVD and a player for the boy? Yeh, we did. That would be a vacation fail.) Sam had gone down for breakfast and a shuttle to the school. (Poor guy. If it wouldn't be for him we wouldn't be here, and he's here for schooling. Life truly isn't fair.) He called to ask me to come down NOW because the shuttle was a bust and he was going to be late for his first day of class. Apparently when we were told that the shuttle service is available from 7 AM to 10 PM and that we didn't need to make a reservation for it but simply call 10 minutes in advance of leaving, they didn't really mean it. Instead they meant that their Tuesday driver doesn't show up until 8:30 and their backup driver runs late without warning and if you had time to wait around all day they'd eventually get you to where you needed to go but if you had somewhere to be first thing in the morning then you were hosed. Not being hotel shuttle savvy, we didn't know the secret language of the concierge.
So I hurriedly threw on some clothes and ran Sam to class sans make-up, with unbrushed hair. Thank goodness for that marvy new cut that looks just as great messed as it does styled.
Upon our return, we got ready for the day (because the boys were still in PJs) and went down for breakfast. We take our boys out for meals in restaurants. Really. But you'd never know it.
Luke was eating with his hands. In public. What is wrong with these kids?!
After I got through to him that we use silverware just like we do any other time that we eat, I caught him with a piece of ham speared on a fork, and he was leisurely nibbling around the edges. I am grateful that we waited until all the hotel guests were gone for the day before gracing the lobby with our presence because MY WORD the boys have no idea how to act in public.
And there were all the fun comments - very loudly, I might add - about how "this is how you place your napkin when you're done eating" and "if we were famous people we would have to sit like this and be quiet when we eat" and other such statements that gave the entire waitstaff the idea that our boys have never been in public before in their lives. I'm beginning to wonder if they have been.
My kids will be thrilled to know that I'm thinking of implementing a Formal Dinner Night once a week at home. We'll break out the good china (since it never gets used any other time) and drink from real glassware and not plastic, and they'll learn how to properly set the table and eat with their mouths closed and not burp. You know, how they act every time they are at a restaurant but not at a hotel. I wonder how long that will last before the fun wears off and the kids learn to hate their mother for making them mind their manners. I'm guessing five minutes into the first Formal Dinner Night.
I will give mad props to Micah for not stripping right there in the lobby when he discovered the pool off the patio. At least there's that.