So after my little bit of fun on Friday morning, the weekend went downhill from there. Sunday was the culmination of every reason that I need a Disney vacation. It started Saturday night.
Reason #328 - after I tucked myself into bed, I heard a kid barfing in the bathroom. Stellar. Josh at least made it to the bathroom, so I invited him to sleep on the couch in our room for the night and rolled over and went back to bed. (I have reached that point this week, people. Don't judge.)
Reason #187 - Micah awakened me at 6 in the AM (aka, waaay too freakin' early), poked me on the shoulder, and lifted his leg to show me the pee dripping out his pants leg. Awesome. I stripped him, put a new diaper on him, and put him into bed with me where he proceeded to toss, turn, and kick me for the next 45 minutes.
Reason #583 - Luke came into my room at 6:45 and announced that there was barf on his bedroom floor. Just perfect. It was from Josh the night before who failed to tell me that I had a mess to clean up. (And after a night of worry and wonder, it turns out that Josh simply ate too much the night before. Thank goodness.)
Reason #49 - A puppy fell into the pond while trying to get a drink. I had to towel him off and blow dry him, wasting the time that I should have spent studying my Sunday School lesson. Spaniels have never been accused of being the brightest dogs around. Fun times.
Reason #212 - After yet our third (and last) Thanksgiving dinner here this weekend, I finally had time to begin packing. We were all converged in my our bedroom when Micah walked into Daddy's closet and closed the door. He came out sans pants, and left a stench behind him. Fun is never ending in this house. I tossed him in the tub while I cleaned poop off the closet floor.
(That would also be reason #76 why the boy needs to potty train.)
Reason #843 - Upon getting himself out of the tub, Micah noticed bubbles on his leg. An entire cup of water poured down over it onto the bath mat took care of that. Dude, we need a video camera following our family daily. Jon and Kate Plus 8 have nothing on us.
Reason #924 - I reached the point of no return with the stress, exhaustion and looming deadline. I randomly grabbed my most fun socks out of my drawer to pack for the trip, not caring whether or not any of them match outfits that I packed. I may or may not end up wearing red paw print socks with a hot pink shirt.
Mickey, run for your life when you see us coming.
I Need a Vacation
Blackened Friday
A few years back, I convinced Sam that Black Friday shopping is what the cool kids do. When he doesn't work, we generally venture out together. This year, I had zero desire to get up early nor to fight crowds of people. Sam did. He woke Becky (who begged to go) and they headed out at 5 in the AM. I rolled over and attempted to go back to sleep.
Click. Bang. Stomp.
Holy freak, someone is in the house. "It's Sam coming back in for something" I thought. Myself replied with "it's been a half hour since he left and you know that he doesn't come back for anything once he's left the house." "Yeh, you're right, someone is in the house," said I.
And then the dogs started barking and I got really freaked out. I'm normally very level headed over these things, but alone at 5:30 AM when someone is stomping around in your house is a hard time to be brave. The level headed me prevailed for a second when I had the inspiration to call Sam's cell and ask if he'd been back to the house. (By now, a good 5 minutes had passed.) He didn't pick up.
I had another inspiration. We have a pistol in the closet for a reason. Mostly because Sam has always wanted a pistol and it was a nice gift, but protection also comes to mind. As quietly as I could, I got it down from the top shelf (did you know that sliding glass doors are really, really loud when you need to be really, really quiet?) and pulled it from the box.
Awesome.
Except not. While I have no clue if we even have ammo for this gun, I knew that didn't matter. What did matter was the fact that there's a locking device clamped onto the trigger and the key is stored separately. (See us be safety conscious?) Someone would surely notice that, even though it was dark. (The mind isn't the most sane thing in a situation like this.)
All those CSI shows I watched were coming in handy. Put one hand over the other, hiding the entire trigger lock, thereby fooling any intruder into both thinking that the gun was a working model and that I knew what I was doing with it.
I crept out into the hallway, holding the pistol in front of me, rounding corners with it leading the way. I stood at the top of the steps debating whether or not to turn on lights, and finally decided that I'd at least like to see my end coming. I snapped on the hall light and hid from the downstairs view, my gun at the ready.
Nothing. No sounds. No movement. Just dogs barking like mad.
I crept downstairs, knowing for sure that someone was hiding, my plush red bathrobe a bright beacon on the steps.
Nothing. No sounds. No movement. Just dogs barking like mad.
With the gun leading the way, I stealthily crept through the house clearing room after room until I decided that whoever it was had left.
Obviously they decided that we have nothing worth stealing. Or they were terrified of crated dogs. Or the thought of my red robed self with what amounted to a toy gun was scarier than anything they'd ever encountered.
And then I laid in bed, listening to every snowflake hitting the window for the next hour, until I talked myself into calming down and just resting already.
Turns out that if you let a boy go small game hunting with his cousin, he'll come back to the house at 5:30 AM for a coat because it snowed overnight. But I guess taking your gun for an occaional tour of the house isn't a bad thing. I'll just hope for a less stressful walk next go-round.
There Were Mashed Potatoes In the Aftermath
Thanksgiving is a marathon holiday around here. We have one meal with my family and one meal with Sam's family, and on lucky years like this one we have an extra thrown in besides. My family is getting together on Sunday and Sam's family is getting together on Saturday, and you can't not do anything on Thanksgiving Day, so we invited friends over.
Grandma had Luke and Micah the night before, so I got to sleep in until 9. I can count on one hand how often I've slept that late in my entire life. I now know that Thanksgiving Day probably shouldn't be listed among them. Live and learn, I always say.
To sum things up, let's just say that by the end of the day we learned that putting a turkey in the oven upside down will result in the little popping thing (official name, right?) failing to pop and you won't know when the turkey is done. Turning the turkey over will require a bit of maneuvering and a lot more cooking time. Weird, I know.
If you peel more potatoes than are needed (okay, I forgot that my friend was bringing potatoes, alright?) you will appear uber organized for your Sunday dinner when all you have to do is reheat them. Preferably with cream cheese in the oven. Yeh, who's the dunce now? (Okay, that would still be me.)
Becky made chocolate satin pie, and announced to the dinner table that there's Satan pie in the fridge for dessert. That was classic. The pie, Satanic or not, was delish.
She ended up checking Josh's trap line with him after the meal, and that right there is a sign of a Thanksgiving miracle because she is so not into that kind of stuff. Nor is she that into her brother. Ah, the love.
When the teen girls talk about wrapping someone's toilet in Syran Wrap, and then mysteriously disappear after dinner, you realize how grateful you are that you suck at keeping the kitchen stocked with things like Syran Wrap. Yeh, they tried. Yeh, they failed thanks to my failure as a shopper.
I've always wanted to work at a homeless shelter on Thanksgiving because that is the ultimate in giving. Who needs to sit around a table gorging themselves on upside down turkey when you can help others that have so very little? Maybe next year we'll plan that instead. I'll even bring Satan pie.
Reading Past the Cliche
For Thanksgiving, I wanted to list the things that I was thankful for, but I always feel awkward doing that. I'm most thankful for my family, and our health. But everyone is thankful for these, and it makes me sound as though I have nothing else in my life that I can even remotely begin to be thankful for so I mention the things that everyone does just so that I have something to list.
That's not it at all.
I am reminded so very, very often that health concerns should probably be a major part of our lives with Micah, and they're just not. We're grateful. And humbled that God has chosen us to be so blessed.
Our kids are absolutely wonderful. Really. My teen aged daughter and I are best friends. We share everything. There is no fighting or attitude or backtalk. I'm not exaggerating. My boys are so content with small things. Topping Luke's Christmas list are Hot Wheels and paper to make books with. Josh has taken up hunting and trapping this year and spends his time in the great outdoors learning responsibility and commitment. Micah is happy when his siblings are around.
Our kids have the biggest hearts. They're polite to their elders. They are spoken highly of by their teachers.
We're so blessed.
So yeh, I'm thankful for my family and our health. And I really, really mean it because I've seen too many other families who don't have what we do. At this time of Thanksgiving, we are reminded yet again how much God has blessed us with.
Thank You, Lord.
Environmentally Friendly
Micah has definite ideas of how he likes to watch television. In the mornings, it's with a bowl of applesauce and cereal. In the afternoons it's with Woody acting out the parts. Sometimes Jesse or Buzz have to get involved because there are so many parts to act out. In the evenings, when it's dark outside and mama is trying to make dinner, it's with the lights off.
You don't mess with the boy when he turns lights off.
Or so he thinks.
Sometimes I let him live in his dark fantasy world and cook by the tiny little light over the stove. (For some reason, he's never spotted this one. Maybe because as far as lights go, he knows it's lame.) Other nights I simply tell the boy No.
It's a take and a give, and completely depends on whether or not I feel like taking up the good fight.
The other night as we were heading out the door, scrambling in the narrow mud room to find matching shoes to wear, Micah silently declared it Dark O'Clock. Just as I was gearing up to fight the darkness, Daddy spoke up.
"He sure likes to save energy, doesn't he? That's our boy, going Green."
Well, that's one way to look at it.
Nailing Things Down, Checking Things Off
I bought an official Disney autograph book for the official Disney trip. It's cute n'at. We set the oversized (read: hugemongous) pen with it so that we had the set together for the trip. Micah spied them, thought the official Disney autograph book needed some autographs, and obliged. Every few pages is liberally scribbled upon. While I'd love to be peeved over this (oh, the money we paid!) I have to be grateful that the boy who wants nothing to do with writing, coloring or drawing actually took initiative on that front. Way to go, son. You make your mad mama proud.
(Dear Blogger Spellcheck, n'at is a real word. Welcome to the greater Pittsburgh area.
********************
Micah had an ENT appointment tonight to follow up on his brand new ear tubes. The good news is that they're in there. (I'm not sure what the doctor expected. I mean, they do come out quickly, but 3 weeks?!) The bad news is that he's had thick, yellow drainage from his one ear since their placement. I took this as a good thing because their job is to get rid of that stuff. Job done! The doctor didn't seem to share my enthusiasm.
She took a swab to culture and said she'd get back with me after 72 hours on what it turned out to be. (For those who are counting, that would be Thanksgiving Day.) We were prescribed antibiotics to clear it up. She's just hoping it's (insert rapidly shaking hands at this point) nothing. I have no idea why it didn't occur to me to ask what, exactly, she was expecting it to be. I guess we may or may not find out.
******************
Becky started school at home today. We had to call the Cyber Headquarters no less than two times just to get started. Color us really, really stupid.
*****************
I had a big order of shirts over the weekend, which directly translates into the fact that Christmas is on hold. I got the decor out and there it sits. The living room looks like a forest. I may or may not need intervention on the tree front. I also may or may not get things decorated this week. I'm going with if Becky has time, it'll get done. If you were smart, you'd go with that, too. I am getting shirts done, though. See me sew! (Virtually, of course.)
****************
The Cold of Death has me firmly in it's grip. It's accompanied by a severe outbreak of zits. I'm pretty sure that H1N1 doesn't exhibit that symptom so I should be good. I'm so very close to 40, people. At what point do the pimples go away? If I were to retain some of my youth, why couldn't it be perkier boobs or something a whole lot more appealing than pus filled growths?
The universe has a wicked sense of humor.
By No Fault Of My Own
After the Fall Formal, I was a designated chauffeur for the junior high girls, shuttling them from the dance to the restaurant. I packed a book in my purse, hoping to avoid the other mom-chauffeurs and be anti-social as I relaxed for an hour or so alone. My plan didn't work; I was spotted by another mom as I stepped from the van and was asked to sit with her and her husband as we waited for the girls and their dates to wind down the night. Shortly after being seated, another mom joined us in our booth to round out a quartet.
We talked about our school years and how the styles are coming back around to haunt us. We discussed the mullet (Lord, send a memo to Somerset that it's time to let it go, Amen) and rednecks (i.e., ourselves) and school teachers. Somewhere in the course of conversation I realized that I don't know anyone. I don't know the kids in our school except for the ones my own children are friends with. I don't know the teachers or custodians unless the kids have brought them to my attention. I don't know the old man on Main Street that's a little creepy. And I don't know the parents of the kids at school.
We discussed school, and boyfriends of the girls, and what went on between so and so and why they broke up. The other parents were speculating on this theory and that. And I realized that I knew what they were talking about. I knew who was dating whom, and what went on between those girls, and why he broke up with her. And in a blinding flash of illumination I said aloud, "do your girls not talk to you?"
Three heads snapped to stare at me. Six eyes looking at me as though I spoke a different language. Questions hanging above heads were visibly stating, "she can't mean what she just said. It's impossible." And in a weird turn of events, it was the other parents trying to fit in and pretend that they weren't the odd ones out. It was the other parents scrambling to make sense of the conversation and attempt to know what I was talking about. It was the other parents trying to cover for the fact that they don't have the best-friend relationship with their daughters that I do.
I'm humbled. What did I do right in this great game of parenting to deserve such trust and respect from my teen aged daughter? I take no credit for the fact that my daughter and I are best friends. I simply enjoy it. I can't see the future, and the teen years that stretch out before us, so for now I thank my God that we have what we do. And pray that we only grow closer, my daughter and I.
Ah, Thursday
Gosh, this week rocks. For some odd reason, I am getting things done. That's a rarity around here.
This morning I had a gift wrapping gig at the elementary school for a few hours. That is an interesting way to spend time. One kid wrapped three gifts for Grandma, and that was it. I asked if he wanted to specify which Grandma they were for, but he didn't. His poor mother and father got zilch from the school-sponsored store, but Granny made out like a bandit. Another girl wrapped a gift to herself because she just likes to open gifts. Heh. Don't we all? Maybe I'll take her lead on that this holiday season.
This gift is for Daddy, this is for Becky, here is one for each of the boys, and the rest are all Mommy's. Merry Christmas to me!
When Becky came home from school I started on her gown. I took time out to assemble dinner, then time out to eat dinner, and some more time out to Twitter and converse with the family, and then presto! the gown was done. I should seriously be on Project Runway. And Micah would be the model. He had to try the gown on at every fitting just like Becky did. He especially liked the bubble effect at the bottom. It inspired him to twirl in front of the mirror. I should probably make him his own gown. It would be his favorite Christmas present.
Josh was late getting back from checking his traps, which of course means that he got something. It was the smallest opposum known to mankind and still considered an adult, and completely deemed throw-out-able by the trapping guru the boys rushed it to this evening to show it off. I'm proud of their commitment and enthusiasm on the trapping thing.
Luke, being true to his weirdo nature, spent a portion of the evening writing down every word that Becky and her BFF said. Once his paper was filled (after asking the girls to slow down a few times) he deemed it a masterpiece. Have I mentioned that the boy is weird? He is. We love him for it.
And tomorrow Christmas breaks forth from the attic. The clean house will never know what hit it.
Wednesday with Micah
Today we got the floor finished. Done, people. You won't be hearing any more about it, and I know you're jumping for joy because which one of you really cared to begin with? Yeh, that's what I thought.
Wednesday is Mommy and Micah day, wherein I pick up my boy from school, we snarf down a quick take-out lunch, and head to speech therapy. One day we have hopes that all this schlepping and fast food will work it's magic and help our son talk.
Our tiny town has a new visitor, and it's enthralled Micah like nothing else can. Jackson's tribute is an elephant, assumably made of fiberglass, and is very much life sized. As we pull up to the intersection where this statue stands, Micah starts craning his neck and oohing and aaahing. Once he actually sees it, every single person in the van has to personally acknowledge that Micah has seen it before he'll let it rest. His smile goes on for a few more miles.
Today I had to stop at the Art Center, where the elephant happens to be standing, and Micah was beside himself with glee. He said e-e-e. (If you'd have been there and heard it with your own ears, you would know without a doubt that the boy said elephant.) Amazing. All those years of speech therapy and all we needed was an elephant in our yard to motivate him to speak.
When I returned Micah to school, his teacher said that he had a really good morning. He insisted on doing his seat work all by himself with zero help from her whatsoever. Mr. Independent scored well below Good Job, but we are all in agreement that compliance in the school work realm trumps good grades any day. My boy. He's growing up.
This evening Micah played in the dryer again. It's the best appliance ever. There was laundry in the dryer, and bless his wee heart, he tried putting it in a basket for me. The tiny little basket that hangs on the side of the sink to hold dog shampoo. All of one shirt and two socks fit in there. The rest were tossed on the floor. It's the thought that counts, though, right? It's also more than the other kids would have done.
And This is Tuesday
So here's the thing. The floor is not done. Are we shocked over this? Heck, no. It's par for the course.
I will say that my dad and I (yep, he's my cohort on this crime) did almost as much in one hour today as we did all afternoon yesterday. So there's something. I will also say that once Dad starts a project he doesn't like to quit until it's done. This is good if you need someone to keep you on track (yeh, I'm talking to me) but bad if you have a hundred and four other things to do and have to stop at some point to get them done. This will make you feel guilty because Dad will continue working on your living room floor all by himself with his two replaced hips, and all that up and down will wear and tear on them. Guilt and I are now good friends.
And then we ran out of underlayment for the laminate boards and the project came to a screeching halt. It could have been done in a half hour, okay maybe forty minutes, but instead here I sit with the legs of my desk chair straddling the plywood and laminate joint.
There is always tomorrow. And it will get done. Because on Thursday I have a gown to sew for Fall Formal (don't even ask how I got roped into that one, and yes, I am extremely thrilled that my daughter trusts me enough to make her a gown for the event instead of buying her one) and then on Friday I am breaking out the Christmas Crazy.
Stand by, it's going to happen.
And on a completely unrelated note (again) someone stuck spaghetti on my refrigerator. Why? And what do people without kids do for entertainment value if they don't peel sticky spaghetti off their fridge doors?
Hello, Monday
All weekend my mind was playing games with me. It's good to know that it's alive and well at least.
The right side of my brain would be all, "woo-hoo, Monday! The kids will be in school and I'll get sooo much done."
The left side of my brain was all, "you moron. Monday is an Act 80 day. The kids are off."
To which the right side of my brain would reply, "oh, yeh! Luke has that orthodontist appointment first thing in the morning, so maybe the kids and I can do something fun after that."
But then the left side of my brain would smack the right side and say, "Act 80 day means parent-teacher conferences. You're really losing cognition, aren't you? You've got three teacher meetings at two different schools in addition to that ortho appointment. You should probably get groceries while you're in town because turkeys are on sale for .40/lb. Oh, and Starbucks."
So that was my morning. The good news is that I'm only slightly brain-damaged from all the fighting that went on in there and I got a Starbucks out of the deal.
The afternoon was spent laying flooring in the living room. It's funny how your idea of perfection changes the further you get into a project. And how things take fifteen times longer than you envision that they should in your head before you start. The phrase "what could possibly go wrong?" should be stricken from your vocabulary while talking about an upcoming project. It's just an open invitation to Murphy, and he's never welcome anywhere.
The flooring is about one third of the way done. It may or may not get finished this week. It will, however, get finished before Thanksgiving because I have some serious Christmas decorating to do and half a floor is standing in the way.
And on a completely unrelated note, Luke got hot pink bands on his braces today. It looks like he has bubble gum stuck on his teeth. That kid is just kinda strange.
Walking With the Stars
As the parents of a child with a disability, you worry about a lot of things. I think the mental part of the disability is what I'm most stressed over. What will people think of him? How will he be received? Will he be prematurely judged based on appearance alone?
Any parent simply wants their child to have a fair chance at life. We're no different. I guess that's why it's so touching when someone falls in love with our boy. As his mother, I can find a kajillion reasons to love him, but for others to take the time to find even one of those reasons is wonderful. It thrills my heart.
But when Micah went to school, something weird happened.
We're walking through the grocery store, picking and choosing what we'll toss into the cart, when someone walks up and gushes about how wonderful Micah is. These encounters last a few moments to a few minutes, and each time we're so taken aback that we just stare. I'm pretty sure that our mouths are closed, but I can't guarantee anything there.
At first, I assumed that my husband knew the stalker. He assumed that I did. Turns out that neither of us did, and Micah wasn't telling. We've come to realize over the years that Micah has quite the following. Who knew. And being that Micah is kind of shy when he's randomly approached by people out of their familiar places, he won't give these people (any of them!) the time of day. A lot of times, he won't even look at them. When they're gone he's all "ook!" and "eeee!" and craning his neck to see where they went, but while they're trying desperately to engage him in conversation or even to make eye contact, he's pretty intent on studying the tips of his shoes.
Shopping with Micah is like walking with a movie star. He's definitely a celebrity, and we're simply his entourage. He refuses to give his paparazzi what they're after, but secretly eats it up. And we, his parents, are clueless and underpaid.
Parenting a special needs child entails a whole lot more than we ever imagined.
The Hair Is Alive
The kids' Wednesday night church club is having a sleepover Friday night. The sleepover has a pilgrim and Indian theme. All the leaders (that would include us) are required to wear costumes. Ball of joy. My friend told me that she bought a black wig on clearance at Walmart to wear for her Indian costume. I went directly to Walmart and purchased not one but two of them. They were 80 cents each. I love me some clearance sales.
The wigs are black and curly. In fact, they were labeled The Afro, and came complete with a pick stuck in it. I had plans to straighten that hot mess, braid it down into straight lines, and be Indians. What I didn't figure on was the fact that there was no straightening The Hair.
The Hair (which really deserves it's own identity) was spotted by Micah the moment he got home from school. Woody felt the need to wear a wig. Woody was eaten alive.
Luke also donned one when he got home. Micah realized that wearing The Hair himself was an option, and he wants nothing more than to be like his big brother Luke. Micah was swallowed by The Hair.
The Hair takes no prisoners.
Delilahfied
Sometimes I wonder if there is a limit to the things we'll do for kids. One day you're a happily married couple, childless and blissfully ignorant, and the next day you wake up and realize that you're parents to a toddler that only wears striped shirts and only eats blue food. You wonder how you got here, and why the kid is the one calling the shots. And then you come to the realization that you'll do anything (obviously) just to appease the wrath of The Toddler.
What brought this on, you ask? Samson and Delilah. Since I'm sure you're not seeing the correlation, let me explain. In an effort to help the kids retain more of the lessons in Wednesday night kids' club, we have taken to acting things out. Tonight's lesson was on Samson, and Sam and I got the acting parts.
First of all, let me just go on record as saying that Samson was hands-down the dumbest man EVAH. I mean, here's this hot chick that he's been sleeping around with asking him to divulge where his strength lies, and when he tells her (a lie) she tests it out, calls in his enemies, and watches him fight them off. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. Except Samson fell for this hot chick's line four times before finally telling her the truth. He had to know what was going down by now, and yet... To quote my dear and spiritual husband, "she must have really been good for him to have kept going back to her."
Anyhoo...
I wore a black afro wig that I scored on clearance for eighty cents (that's $0.80) and stuffed my robe so full that my chest was probably a double H (as in hubba, hubba).
Sam wore a straight black wig and looked for all the world like an 80's rock star. Or Ozzie. Seriously. Just like this.
We made one cute couple, let me tell you.
The kids loved the acting, and really listened to the lesson. But what I heard them all talk about afterward was the fact that Delilah pulled scissors from her bosom. Maybe that wasn't my best acting improv. But I wouldn't doubt that Delilah herself did it, too.
Also, don't Google Samson and Delilah if you're looking for costume ideas for kids. Yowza. You've been warned.
And, getting back to the original statement, apparently there's nothing we won't do for the kids.
School Roulette
As zealous new parents, we started our firstborn in Le Ponyville Homeschool Academy, convinced that it was the best choice for us. Since that day, so very long ago, we've run the gamut of schooling options.
Becky was heading into third grade and Josh was ready for kindergarten the year that Micah was born. Life suddenly became overwhelming and the new normal for us included doctor's visits and in-home thereapy several times weekly, with various fun things thrown in like visits to specialists and emergency surgery. Sam and I both knew that homeschooling was not going to be an option for our family any longer.
That year we enrolled the kids in a local Christian school. Unfortunately, it wasn't until after we in the midst of the year that we realized it was less of a Christian school and more of a private school for kids that weren't Catholic. (The only two private schools in the area were the Christian and the Catholic versions.) There was more snobbery than there was Bible learning. That wasn't what we were paying for.
The next year we enrolled the kids in another Christian school. One week before school was to start we had that feeling in the pit of our stomachs that clearly told us that we had done the wrong thing. Good timing, That Feeling. We lost our enrollment fees. That year, we chose cyber school.
Cyber seemed the way to go, until halfway through our second year. The problems that we ran into were frustrating, and I pulled the kids at the holiday break and finished out the year homeschooling on my own.
That was the year that Micah stopped receiving at-home therapy and needed to go to preschool to continue. That was the year that Becky longed for friends. That was the year that Josh needed help with reading. His dyslexia was a roadblock that neither I nor a tutor could surpass. That fall we enrolled the kids in the local public school. Luke started kindergarten there.
There has been no turning back. We're in our fourth year and the kids love it. It took me a while to adjust to having nobody at home for the first time in ten years as a parent. I opened The Rocking Pony to fill my days.
This week, we've decided that it's time for a change again. Becky is coming home. Cyber school is getting a second lease. Our daughter is getting a second lease. The stress. The worry. The pressure. It's more than one should have to bear. We can't watch her spiral downward any longer. Her relief is immense. I'm so looking forward to days spent with just my daughter.
We have learned long ago that nothing is ever set in stone.
The Replacement
That new dryer we got is a keeper.
Since the old dryer was choosing our best and newest articles of clothing to inflict burns upon, anything else would have been better in comparison. Hanging sweatpants from the van's antenna and booking 60 was looking like a good option in the clothes drying department. So it isn't like the new dryer had to actually prove itself to get instant approval around here.
The first day we had it, while it was sitting in the hallway waiting to replace the old one (which was a fire waiting to happen - wait, it already caught fire once), Micah sprayed the inside with vinegar. (You don't keep a spray bottle of vinegar around the house for various cleaning jobs? Huh. You probably should.) I was fully expecting the first load of laundry to smell like vinegar and made a mental note to myself to wash something that normally reeked and would make vinegar smell like an improvement. Like dog beds.
Mental note forgotten, the first load of clothes ran through that new wonder machine was some of our best clothing. It had already been drying for a while before I saw that note hanging in the corner of my mental office space, so I was a bit apprehensive when the bells alerted me that the clothes were now dried, folded, and ready to be worn. (It's a slight exaggeration.)
Upon opening the door, I found a dollar bill. No pungent vinegar smell, just money. Dude, my new dryer is paying me for my day job as a mom! That's a whole dollar more than I've ever gotten paid for any mom-job in the past 14 years. I'm swooning over an appliance at this point. My husband's position may be in jeopardy.
Micah is in love, too. He discovered the light inside the drum. (Did I not mention that? Oh, yeh. I mocked it at first, but now am a believer. A lighted drum. Oh, be still my beating heart.) Micah plays inside the dryer. With the light on. With two Woodys. He's in love.
As I was watching him play, I spotted this.
It's a quarter stuck in the door. My dryer is also paying me to babysit my kids.
*sigh* Dryer love is awesome.
And get this - the high efficiency model dries a full load in less than half the time my burn-em-at-the-stake model did. How sweet is that?
The only thing that could make this appliance any sweeter is if I had been given it as a freebie to test and rave about. Unfortunately, those kind of things don't befall me. I had to sell a horse to make the purchase. It was a good trade though. The horse was worse at drying clothes than the appliance we just replaced.
Regifting Birthdays. Or Not.
Luke was invited to a birthday party recently. While I knew about this little event well in advance, I tend to procrastinate. A lot. I didn't get a gift for the birthday kid until the day of the party. I had plans to go to town early, stop by Wal-Mart, buy a gift, wrapping paper, a card, and hastily wrap that thing in the van on the way to the party. I'm stellar at planning like that.
But then I had an even more genius plan. I'd raid the gift closet.
I have never gone Christmas shopping with a list of things that needed to be purchased. Instead, I start at the post-holiday clearance sales and shop all year for things in clearance bins and sales racks. Hey, this would be awesome for my niece! And I get it, and squirrel it away in my gift closet. You get the picture, because you're not dense.
I had purchased a dart board for next to nothingness with the intent of gifting it to my nephew for Christmas this year. It's the exact same dart board that we bought for our kids a few years back and they love. The nephew loves it, too. It would be a winner of a gift. We'd be the favored aunt and uncle. Boo-yah! And then my sister decided that we wouldn't exchange gifts this year, thereby sucking the fun right out of Christmas.
So there sat that dart board, and it was a great gift for a little boy for a birthday party. I wrapped it, tucked it under Luke's arm, and sent him off to party.
After the fun, I asked him all the parentally required questions. Did you have fun? What did you do? Did he like his gift? And Luke being Luke, he shared every tiny little detail. Including the fact that he informed the birthday boy, the birthday boy's mom, the birthday boy's guests and parent who stayed to help out that Luke gave him the dart board we'd been using for years. I think it went something like this, "So that's where our dart board went! I was wondering because I hadn't seen it in a while."
Niiiiice.
Does one call the birthday parents and explain that no, we most certainly did not recycle a gift? Or does one simply assume that the birthday parents are astute enough to realize that the box is still brand-new, the darts still straight, and the whole thing is indeed new?
Kids.
Weekly Winners
Forgotten
Ahh, November
Hinged
Twins
Inquisitive
Seen
For more Weekly Winners, visit Lotus here.
But In The End, I Won
Some of the most fun times with kids are to be had in vehicles. Also some of the worst times. But we'll focus on the good because my glass is generally always half full. Except when I'm stressed, then it's definitely half empty. Maybe more so.
We were driving through town and Luke is all "you know what would be the funniest thing ever?" and "you know that new kid in school today?" and "I think a snake bed would be awesome, it would be green and coiled" and "guess what book I got at the library!"
That boy could talk the legs off a chair.
And during the flow of convo he took time to interrupt himself to yell "Punch Bug! Don't punch me back!"
Darn. And there I sat at the red light, just admiring that very same Punch Bug with it's cheery red paint job and sporty antenna on top, not even thinking that I could punch someone because things like that never occur to me.
And then I focused in on the sounds in the back seat again. They went something like this.
Mmmrfff
Gnnnhhhhh
Nnnnnhhhhuuuuuyyy
"Mom? Could you lean over a little?"
Yeh, right! You think I'm stupid?
"What? Josh fell for it."
Oh, to have longer arms. Or not be confined to a seat belt. The opportunity to slug one's own mother doesn't arise every day. This one was blown.
Hospital 101
I realized a lot of things while spending the morning at Children's yesterday.
Micah is growing up. I don't mean in a *sniff* my baby is growing up kind of way (which he is) but in a holy freak, when did he get so big kind of way. I had to ask Sam to restrain him for me because I physically wasn't capable. I also had a struggle to keep the kid on my lap in recovery because he outgrew it. Dang. I need to work out just to wrestle my son down for meds.
He's grown socially as well. He held a nurse's hand as they walked down the hall, and waved hello and goodbye. He answered when spoken to. (Okay, it was in Micahese, but it totally counts. It's not his fault that he can't articulate well. He gets full credit for social graces.) He did not fuss as they wheeled him away from us into the OR. And the boy totally knew what was coming.
He knows exactly what an armband at 6:30 AM means, and filled his pants from the anxiety. Now you understand a little more how proud I am of him for exhibiting such astounding social skills.
As I was changing his diaper, I had the realization that a boy whose bowels betray him when he's terrified will be a fun one to potty train. Hopefully, by the age of 10 or 28 he'll learn to get himself to a restroom when he sees a giant Red Robin or goes in for surgery.
We are now considered frequent flyers at the hospital. This comes with privileges. They consult with us on his reaction to drugs and his recovery time and take notes. They make exceptions for Micah when we tell them that he won't drink anything as long as he's in the hospital.
And then our son goes and drinks a whole cup of juice just to prove that we really don't know him at all, and he'll make the rules, thankyouverymuch.
Dr. Freakenstein (not her real name) mentioned that she was putting long-term tubes in Micah this time. I had to stop the flow of convo to inquire. And also sit on my hands to keep from strangling her. I mean, the boy's ear tubes fall out at a very alarming rate and are replaced yearly. (New record this time - it was 7 months!) Why would long-term tubes not have been discussed before this? Why would you put him through unnecessary sedation so frequently when he could have had long-term tubes from the get-go?
She got out of a strangling by reminding me that because his ear canals are so very, very tiny the more permanent brand wouldn't have fit. I didn't realize that they needed a larger space to fill. My bad. I'm so glad that I refrained from the strangling because that would have been awkward.
And then she told me that his tiny little ear drums are incredibly scarred from all the slashes they've made for his previous 6 sets of tubes. Now I feel really bad. Not that there's much we could have done, but still.
The guilt.
The scarred ear drums.
The wondering how this affects his hearing because scar tissue is thickened and ugly.
The wondering if I'm actually alright in the head for wondering weird things like this.
The realization that I'm probably not, and am permanently brain damaged from lack of sleep and too much mom guilt.
It Needs a Title, Too? Geez.
The ear tubes? They are in.
The parents? They are exhausted.
The brain? Nonfunctioning.
The doctor? Nearly got strangled, but I'm grateful for her services.
The glasses? His sister's.
The dirt? All his.
Spoiled
As a parent, I had a lot of ideas and ideals. Some were good, others probably needed thought through a bit more. Our firstborn was an experiment, and it's a wonder that she lived through it. (Sorry, hon!)
The really ironic part is that I was determined not to spoil my children. And yet I spent every second of the day doing just that. I rocked Becky to sleep for every nap and for bedtime for an entire year. Sam caught onto this shortly before her first birthday and tried putting an end to it. That didn't go well for either mom or daughter. My favorite line was, "I have nothing better to do with my time." And I meant it.
The boys were different. Josh wanted nothing to do with snuggling when he was tired, and he would cry until I laid him down in his own crib. He relished being alone. By the time Luke came along, I didn't have time to rock a baby to sleep if I'd wanted to. That's what swings were invented for.
Micah was different. We were really hoping for another daughter, but regardless of what God chose to bless us with, we knew we were done at 4 kids before he born. Sam reminded me constantly that just because this last child was the baby of the family didn't mean that we'd spoil him. "Well, duh. Like I'll have time for that."
After Micah was born, things were different. He was different. He needed to know that his mama loved him. I needed to hold him close to remind myself that no matter what differences he had, he was still a baby in need of his mama's love. And I never put him down. Sam reminded me that we weren't going to spoil our last child. "You're right, we're not. I am."
Even now, we sit with Micah as he drifts off to sleep. Sometimes he needs to touch us, to reassure himself that we're there. Sometimes he wants to be by himself. And either way, it's okay. It's all about what he wants. The bedtime routine is one of the most precious times of the day. His gentle touch, his sweet smile, his soft breathing as he drifts off to sleep.
Who else gets to have one foot firmly in the sweet bliss of toddlerhood while the other is marching right into the school years?
Spoiled is exactly where I like to be.
Love, Me
I have always loved November. As far back as I can remember, my three favorite months of the year have been September, October and November. Call me strange, I don't care. I embrace strange. I embrace fall. All of it.
November is a month of bare trees, allowing me to see through them to the orange and pink glow of the setting sun. The fallen leaves are now crunchy underfoot, and thickly carpet my path. Shuffling is the preferred gait of November.
November is warm sweaters, and mittens and scarves. The smoke of burning leaves weaves a magical fog through the bare trees, suspended in the air somewhere just above your head.
November is a heavy frost and crunchy grass in the morning, and sun-warmed soil in the afternoon.
The November sunsets are some of the finest of the year. Colorful, brilliant, deep, meaningful. Sunrises are rays of gold reflecting on the last of the dead leaves clinging to bare branches.
November is Thanksgiving, and family, and a season of counting your blessings.
November is snuggling under blankets while watching TV in the evenings, and sipping hot chocolate, and slippers.
I've always loved you, November. Welcome back.
Nothing is Sacred, and It Drives Me To Be a Bad Mother
I used to be an uber organized person. Kids sure can change you, you know? Misplacing things started with pregnancy. My husband called me at work once to ask why I'd put the phone in the bread drawer. Pregnancy brain was my only answer. But the first time I'd ever lost something, never to find it again, was only the fault of kids. It remains so to this day.
Take my tweezers, for example. Everyone else does. I had three pair of tweezers. Nobody needs that many, but I had them regardless. One by one they managed to disappear. While helping my husband clean up his spilled tool bag the other day I found a pair. He claims that I knew he had them. Whatever. I found a pair beside the crickets and mealworms (i.e., lizard food) and decided that although they were my very best pair, they could just continue to be used as such. I didn't really want them back. The third pair mysteriously remained at large, and my eyebrows grew shaggier and more shaggy.
I finally had to buy tweezers. For the love of tweezed brows, are those things expensive! I chose a lower end $4 pair, but they go upwards of nearly $20. For one pair of tweezers. Do they perform electrolysis while they're plucking? Good lands.
Upon opening those tweezers at home, I announced loudly to the entire family that they are mine, all mine! See how nifty they are, and how I bought the pair that look vastly different from the other tweezers floating around the house in various job fields? THEY'RE MINE. They're also easily identifiable, and I'll hunt them down because by golly the other three pairs disappeared rather quickly.
Becky admitted to taking the last pair. And gleefully informed me that they were working just fine keeping her neat and tidy. Knowing that my kids would steal jewelry off their dead mother's body if the chance arose, I was forced to make the following speech.
Is nothing sacred?! Those are the ones that I used to pluck my pubic hairs with!
(They're not, by the way. Just so you can erase that image from your mind.)
The look on her face was absolutely priceless. Mission accomplished.
Luke asked what a pubic hair is.
In retrospect, that probably wasn't my finest parenting moment.