We flew to Florida on a Monday, and on Tuesday evening there was a Christmas party at the Village where we were staying. It was a fundraising event for the Sunshine Foundation that sent us, and was a ton of fun for the kids. Except for Micah.
Santa was at the party. Santa was not Micah's fave person in the whole world at that point. We hadn't been to any of the Disney parks yet, so he hadn't experienced the magic of meeting costumed characters without losing his shizzle.
The good people at the Village wanted a picture of our family with Santa Claus. It features three kids between Santa and the adults, and Micah leaning off the side of the parent farthest from St. Nick. The Boy was not thrilled to be there, and ran out of the building as soon as the picture was snapped.
What he didn't know was that the Foundation had costumed characters roaming the Village. Our poor boy couldn't even eat in peace. As he was about to take a bit of burger he'd spy a character and run for cover. Repeat with his salad, and his cookies and his dinner roll...
Micah was hacked.
The boy marched right into the office, straight through to the sitting room, and right up to Santa. He stood there waving his arms and talking heatedly, occasionally pointing toward the door. And then he turned around and marched right back outside. Santa and I just looked at each other and shrugged. I laughed inwardly.
My nonverbal son just tattled to Santa about the nerve of those freaky things messing up his meal. Totally awesome.
And that was the very beginning of Micah conquering his fear of people in costume.
Say Hello
Because Walmart is really the only place in town to shop, everyone goes there. This directly translates into the fact that you run into people you know on every shopping adventure. Sometimes they're people you stand and chat with, and other times it's just a quick and friendly hello as you're passing in the aisles.
We almost always run into someone who Micah knows. He's not so good at introducing them to us, and a lot of times they don't introduce themselves. We're just to guess as to how they know our little celebrity. Each time, we just stand back and smile, watching our boy make his way in the world.
Tonight we were at McD (inside Walmart) and just as we were leaving, Micah ran into someone that he knew. Someone that means so very much to him. Someone that reciprocates that love just as strongly. The sheer joy on Micah's face at meeting his girlfriend outside of school was wonderful to behold. And what was just as wonderful was seeing his best girl introduce her mother and grandfather, and insisting that her grandfather shake hands with Micah's daddy.
We all got it. We all know that what these kids of ours ask us to do, we do it without question because their little world be turned upside down otherwise. We comply to their standards and requests, and marvel at their understanding of the social graces in grade school. We beam with pride and nod knowingly to people that we've never met before.
And we come home and feel like an idiot for being so amazed that our children are simply acting like the people around them do. Why do we continue to underestimate them?
Micah, please forgive me for holding you back. I never mean to. Please continue to amaze us.
We almost always run into someone who Micah knows. He's not so good at introducing them to us, and a lot of times they don't introduce themselves. We're just to guess as to how they know our little celebrity. Each time, we just stand back and smile, watching our boy make his way in the world.
Tonight we were at McD (inside Walmart) and just as we were leaving, Micah ran into someone that he knew. Someone that means so very much to him. Someone that reciprocates that love just as strongly. The sheer joy on Micah's face at meeting his girlfriend outside of school was wonderful to behold. And what was just as wonderful was seeing his best girl introduce her mother and grandfather, and insisting that her grandfather shake hands with Micah's daddy.
We all got it. We all know that what these kids of ours ask us to do, we do it without question because their little world be turned upside down otherwise. We comply to their standards and requests, and marvel at their understanding of the social graces in grade school. We beam with pride and nod knowingly to people that we've never met before.
And we come home and feel like an idiot for being so amazed that our children are simply acting like the people around them do. Why do we continue to underestimate them?
Micah, please forgive me for holding you back. I never mean to. Please continue to amaze us.
The Price of Gifts
Just when I think I've exhausted all the ways to be stupid at the holidays, I go and invent new ones. This year it was painting. While it sounds like a harmless past time, it really was the undoing of me.
In lieu of gifts of great monetary value (because of a certain vacation taken earlier in the month of December) we gave the boys room re-dos for Christmas. Fairly cheap-ish, as easy as a coat of paint, and presto-magic! It's done and they'll love it.
They loved it, but the done part left a bit to be desired.
We had grand plans to turn Josh's room into a game room for him, and replaced his bed with a futon. That alone would have been stellar, but then we were at a friend's house who did his basement in Steelers gold with black accents. The wheels in my tiny pea brain started turning and little hatchlings of ideas started running amok.
The helpful people at the store gave me gray primer along with my gallon of Steelers gold, and I primed and painted. And painted again. And painted again with what was left of my gallon. That gray just wouldn't be covered.
Long story short, white primer is the preferred under Steelers gold. Two coats of primer (one in gray, one in white) and 4 coats of gold paint later, and we have the desired effect. The good news is that half the paint used was generously donated by the store because of their very obvious blunder. The bad news is that at 11 PM at night I was painting walls, and at 1 AM on Christmas morning I was hanging wall decor on tacky paint.
The week of Christmas was stressful to say the least. I feel as though I'm still spinning from it. For two entire days the kids fended for themselves in the food and care department. Slacker mom, right here. I was locked in a black and gold nightmare trying my darnedest to give a Christmas gift that was giveable.
Somewhere in that nightmare I had the coherent thought that a mother to the children downstairs would also be a nice gift. Would the kids remember that I stressed a little too much over paint and presents, while neglecting them? Or would they remember the wonderful new room that awaited them Christmas morning?
I'm a little afraid to ask them. I just know that the boys are both thrilled with their rooms. And that I will not repeat Christmas Eve like that again.
In lieu of gifts of great monetary value (because of a certain vacation taken earlier in the month of December) we gave the boys room re-dos for Christmas. Fairly cheap-ish, as easy as a coat of paint, and presto-magic! It's done and they'll love it.
They loved it, but the done part left a bit to be desired.
We had grand plans to turn Josh's room into a game room for him, and replaced his bed with a futon. That alone would have been stellar, but then we were at a friend's house who did his basement in Steelers gold with black accents. The wheels in my tiny pea brain started turning and little hatchlings of ideas started running amok.
The helpful people at the store gave me gray primer along with my gallon of Steelers gold, and I primed and painted. And painted again. And painted again with what was left of my gallon. That gray just wouldn't be covered.
Long story short, white primer is the preferred under Steelers gold. Two coats of primer (one in gray, one in white) and 4 coats of gold paint later, and we have the desired effect. The good news is that half the paint used was generously donated by the store because of their very obvious blunder. The bad news is that at 11 PM at night I was painting walls, and at 1 AM on Christmas morning I was hanging wall decor on tacky paint.
The week of Christmas was stressful to say the least. I feel as though I'm still spinning from it. For two entire days the kids fended for themselves in the food and care department. Slacker mom, right here. I was locked in a black and gold nightmare trying my darnedest to give a Christmas gift that was giveable.
Somewhere in that nightmare I had the coherent thought that a mother to the children downstairs would also be a nice gift. Would the kids remember that I stressed a little too much over paint and presents, while neglecting them? Or would they remember the wonderful new room that awaited them Christmas morning?
I'm a little afraid to ask them. I just know that the boys are both thrilled with their rooms. And that I will not repeat Christmas Eve like that again.
Define Love
A while back, Sam was talking to his coworkers about my relationship with Micah. He told them that people could mess with my children and risk my disapproval, but if they messed with Micah they would surely incur my wrath. In the worst possible way. It was a given.
One of his coworkers came forward recently and confessed that she thought that statement was very uncharitable toward the older three kids. I have to admit, she's absolutely right. But she felt the need to reveal that sentiment because she now knows what Sam meant by it. Her son was recently given a diagnosis of his own.
Funny how that changes everything.
She now has a different view of her son. Not only is he her son, the love of her life, the reason she gets up in the morning. Now he's someone that she has to advocate for. It makes a very real difference. And weirdly, there's no explaining it to someone who doesn't know firsthand.
I've likened my relationship with Micah to that of a mother with her newborn. You know how you feel about that newborn when you bring it home from the hospital? That fierce, intense, protective, mama-bear kind of love. It's an instinct to protect that newborn from everyone and everything, including it's own siblings. You love that newborn a little more intensely and differently than you love your other children because it needs you to.
So do kids with special needs.
And yet, much as I try to explain it, I can't. You simply have to live it yourself. Otherwise, it sounds as though I'm choosing favorites among my children. And you know the best part about it? The other kids feel the same way toward Micah that I do.
He just brings the best out in all of us.
One of his coworkers came forward recently and confessed that she thought that statement was very uncharitable toward the older three kids. I have to admit, she's absolutely right. But she felt the need to reveal that sentiment because she now knows what Sam meant by it. Her son was recently given a diagnosis of his own.
Funny how that changes everything.
She now has a different view of her son. Not only is he her son, the love of her life, the reason she gets up in the morning. Now he's someone that she has to advocate for. It makes a very real difference. And weirdly, there's no explaining it to someone who doesn't know firsthand.
I've likened my relationship with Micah to that of a mother with her newborn. You know how you feel about that newborn when you bring it home from the hospital? That fierce, intense, protective, mama-bear kind of love. It's an instinct to protect that newborn from everyone and everything, including it's own siblings. You love that newborn a little more intensely and differently than you love your other children because it needs you to.
So do kids with special needs.
And yet, much as I try to explain it, I can't. You simply have to live it yourself. Otherwise, it sounds as though I'm choosing favorites among my children. And you know the best part about it? The other kids feel the same way toward Micah that I do.
He just brings the best out in all of us.
Saturday Shots, The Gifts Edition
A total tag reader. I'm pretty sure he knows it came from Disney.
Luke's new room, featuring his own artwork.
Josh's new room, featuring sticky tack peeling six coats of paint off the walls when the pictures fall because the paint didn't have time to cure properly. It's a sore subject, let's not discuss it any further.
Our daughter is now officially the last 14 year old on Planet Earth to get her own cell phone. At least according to her. The rapture will probably occur tomorrow and she'll never get to use it.
Luke's new room, featuring his own artwork.
Josh's new room, featuring sticky tack peeling six coats of paint off the walls when the pictures fall because the paint didn't have time to cure properly. It's a sore subject, let's not discuss it any further.
Our daughter is now officially the last 14 year old on Planet Earth to get her own cell phone. At least according to her. The rapture will probably occur tomorrow and she'll never get to use it.
Waiting for Santa
To all my friends in the bloggy kingdom, have a wonderful holiday with your family!
A Thousand Words to Talk Through
There is so much to say about this picture. Like my daughter's awesome home school uniform. And the fact that Micah is so proud that his sister can decopauge. Clearly, he's thinking "I knew you could do it!" (See him clapping for her? That's really because once he acknowledged that she can decopauge, too, he got the paint brush back.) The fact that this is the most that we accomplished today will remain unspoken.
Santa Meets Micah
We were hurriedly trying to wrap up some shopping at the mall today. "Come on, Micah, stop dawdling. I know there is a Christmas tree downstairs, we'll get there. Hurry up!"
He poked and he plodded and he looked at this and that. I hurried and rushed him and constantly looked over my shoulder to be sure that he was coming.
And then he saw Santa. There was a bee-line made for the guy in the red suit. Micah patiently waited his turn in line, then stood at Santa's knee and allowed the man in the red suit to put an arm around his shoulder. Micah answered questions with a "yep!" or "nooo." He was thrilled to be in the presence of Santa Claus Himself.
And as Micah was walking away, I glanced over my shoulder to see Santa looking after us. The man with the beautiful, real white beard had a twinkle in his eye and a look of love and understanding on his face that brought tears to my eyes. The Boy Who Can't Talk touches even the heart of Santa Himself.
I need nothing for Christmas. I have Micah.
He poked and he plodded and he looked at this and that. I hurried and rushed him and constantly looked over my shoulder to be sure that he was coming.
And then he saw Santa. There was a bee-line made for the guy in the red suit. Micah patiently waited his turn in line, then stood at Santa's knee and allowed the man in the red suit to put an arm around his shoulder. Micah answered questions with a "yep!" or "nooo." He was thrilled to be in the presence of Santa Claus Himself.
And as Micah was walking away, I glanced over my shoulder to see Santa looking after us. The man with the beautiful, real white beard had a twinkle in his eye and a look of love and understanding on his face that brought tears to my eyes. The Boy Who Can't Talk touches even the heart of Santa Himself.
I need nothing for Christmas. I have Micah.
I'll Bet You Wish You Were the Recipient of This White Elephant Gift
Hand dipped chocolate cricket. You know, in some countries it's considered a delicacy. I have no idea where my daughter gets her sense of humor.
This Year for Christmas I'm Giving Up OCD
Every year I have this notion that I will be super matchy and wrap all the gifts in coordinating paper, with big bows and curly ribbon. Every year that backfires on me. I get to the store, see all the fun prints, and just buy whatever strikes my fancy at the time. Not this year. This year I spent a lot of time coordinating this silver with that red, while trying to get the most yardage for my money and not spending over $10. (See me be the cheapest person on Planet Earth?) I chose wisely, and was proud of myself.
The kids brought gifts home from school, wrapped in very non-matching paper. The kids brought gifts home from church in even less matchy wrap. I had grand intentions of re-wrapping these in my super-coordinated paper (over top the other paper, of course, so that I didn't see what the kids gave me) but Micah was distressed that I gathered the ones he brought home with the others. He was proud of his choices and knew which ones they were. If I re-wrapped them, I'd be taking that joy from him. I simply can't do that to the kids.
And that's why Christmas is not a good time for being OCD. Christmas is a time of love, and wonderment, and giving. And if the kids want to carefully place their handmade gifts under my tree, wrapped in some of the most hideous paper known to mankind, then so be it. It makes my heart smile.
I'll save the coordinated paper for when the kids are grown and out of the house. And wish that I had hideous under the tree again, with all the sticky fingerprints and torn corners that go with it.
The kids brought gifts home from school, wrapped in very non-matching paper. The kids brought gifts home from church in even less matchy wrap. I had grand intentions of re-wrapping these in my super-coordinated paper (over top the other paper, of course, so that I didn't see what the kids gave me) but Micah was distressed that I gathered the ones he brought home with the others. He was proud of his choices and knew which ones they were. If I re-wrapped them, I'd be taking that joy from him. I simply can't do that to the kids.
And that's why Christmas is not a good time for being OCD. Christmas is a time of love, and wonderment, and giving. And if the kids want to carefully place their handmade gifts under my tree, wrapped in some of the most hideous paper known to mankind, then so be it. It makes my heart smile.
I'll save the coordinated paper for when the kids are grown and out of the house. And wish that I had hideous under the tree again, with all the sticky fingerprints and torn corners that go with it.
It's a Small, Small World
We went to Disney to experience the magic and wonder that Walt had in mind when he created the park. And there are certain things that are simply synonymous with the words Walt Disney World.
Mickey Mouse is one of them. If you go to the park and don't see the Mouse himself, you just feel as though your whole trip was for naught. Don't you remember the commercial with the little girl about that very thing? It's true.
Watching a Disney parade is another. Seeing all those characters in one place is awesome. Seeing the magic of the nighttime spectacular that is the Spectro Magic Light Parade is beyond description. Seeing the look on your kids' faces as they watch the magic float by them is pure bliss.
Riding the rides is another must-do at Disney. Because, despite everything else that it is, it's still an amusement destination. While the rides aren't top of the line as far as roller coasters go, there are certain other rides that are must-experience. Space Mountain ranks right up there. (Guess what we didn't do?) Dumbo is another. I've heard that once kids get on that, there is no getting them off. (We missed that one as well.) And what's Disney without knowing that It's a Small World?
I joked that we couldn't leave until we sufficiently tortured Daddy with it. The kids joined the bandwagon. We rode through the entire World's waterways in a tiny boat behind a woman who sat with her hands over her ears and a resigned look on her face.
We all felt just like that.
And now the kids know that Daddy wasn't joking when he said he was only just recovered from the deep, internal scars of riding that as a small boy. They have all made a pact with themselves that they will never - as long as they live - sing that song again.
Which is why I have made a pact to slip in the phrase "it's a small world" every single day. Just when they least expect it, I'll remind them that we live in a small world after all, don't we? Or that Ponyville really is a small world.
I'm not going to sugar coat things. They hate me for it.
Mickey Mouse is one of them. If you go to the park and don't see the Mouse himself, you just feel as though your whole trip was for naught. Don't you remember the commercial with the little girl about that very thing? It's true.
Watching a Disney parade is another. Seeing all those characters in one place is awesome. Seeing the magic of the nighttime spectacular that is the Spectro Magic Light Parade is beyond description. Seeing the look on your kids' faces as they watch the magic float by them is pure bliss.
Riding the rides is another must-do at Disney. Because, despite everything else that it is, it's still an amusement destination. While the rides aren't top of the line as far as roller coasters go, there are certain other rides that are must-experience. Space Mountain ranks right up there. (Guess what we didn't do?) Dumbo is another. I've heard that once kids get on that, there is no getting them off. (We missed that one as well.) And what's Disney without knowing that It's a Small World?
I joked that we couldn't leave until we sufficiently tortured Daddy with it. The kids joined the bandwagon. We rode through the entire World's waterways in a tiny boat behind a woman who sat with her hands over her ears and a resigned look on her face.
We all felt just like that.
And now the kids know that Daddy wasn't joking when he said he was only just recovered from the deep, internal scars of riding that as a small boy. They have all made a pact with themselves that they will never - as long as they live - sing that song again.
Which is why I have made a pact to slip in the phrase "it's a small world" every single day. Just when they least expect it, I'll remind them that we live in a small world after all, don't we? Or that Ponyville really is a small world.
I'm not going to sugar coat things. They hate me for it.
When Privacy Isn't So Good
I've mentioned Becky's cyst already; you know, the one that cleared up. Thankfully we have the Vicodin left from the aftermath because guess what's back? Yep.
So I scheduled an appointment for later this week just so the Gynie office can have record that it's happening again, and keep a professional eye on things. I am not happy that it's back so soon. Our last clear thought on this was that we were hoping this wouldn't happen again for a few years at the earliest. Two months later isn't even close. It appears that Becky has fallen into the 30% of women who will have this as a lifelong problem. The poor, poor kid.
Because she IS a kid. She's 14. I've been making her appointments for her, taking her in to the office, sitting with her through the visits, and talking to the doctor about all the possible scenarios, results and outcomes. In short, I've been highly involved in the care of my daughter, who is a minor.
That's why it irked me more than a little when the office called today to reschedule an appointment we had set up for January as a follow-up from the last time we were there. The call went something like this.
Ring, ring, RING.
Husband: Hello?
Office: Hi. Is Becky there?
Husband: No, she's not. Can I take a message.
Office: This is her doctor's office calling. Could you have her call back at this number?
Husband: Would you like to talk to her mother? (And then proceeding to hand over the phone.)
Me: Hello?
Office: This is Becky's doctor calling in regards to an appointment. Could you have her call us?
Me: She's my daughter, could I help with something?
Office: We need to reschedule. Just have her call.
Me: I'm her mother. I make all her appointments.
Office: Oh. (Sounding rather unsure about going on.) Well, she has an appointment in January that we need to reschedule. (Insert pause while she waits for me to just offer to have Becky call.)
Me: We'll be in later this week. I'll just reschedule then.
Office: Oh! Okay! That will work. (Clearly relieved that she didn't have to reschedule with the mother over the phone.)
Am I the only one who's completely bent out of shape over this? I mean, I understand about patient privacy and all that. I understand that there are teen girls out there doing things that their parents are unaware of. I understand that the gyno office could think they're doing girls a favor by preventing unwanted babies while keeping the parents in the dark about what's really going on.
And while I understand all that, I don't have to agree with it.
Plus, read the chart! My daughter is not in there scoring birth control behind her parents' back. If you'll consult the records, my 14 year old daughter is there for a painful cyst that you prescribed hefty-duty meds for. And if you think for one minute that keeping the parents in the dark about kids taking drugs like Vicodin is in any way, shape, or form a good thing, you've got another thought coming.
I'll be taking my daughter to the Lady Doc this week. And I'll be sure to give them a piece of my mind on their privacy policies. Before I make a complete idiot of myself, does anyone think I may be blowing this way out of proportion? Anyone?
So I scheduled an appointment for later this week just so the Gynie office can have record that it's happening again, and keep a professional eye on things. I am not happy that it's back so soon. Our last clear thought on this was that we were hoping this wouldn't happen again for a few years at the earliest. Two months later isn't even close. It appears that Becky has fallen into the 30% of women who will have this as a lifelong problem. The poor, poor kid.
Because she IS a kid. She's 14. I've been making her appointments for her, taking her in to the office, sitting with her through the visits, and talking to the doctor about all the possible scenarios, results and outcomes. In short, I've been highly involved in the care of my daughter, who is a minor.
That's why it irked me more than a little when the office called today to reschedule an appointment we had set up for January as a follow-up from the last time we were there. The call went something like this.
Ring, ring, RING.
Husband: Hello?
Office: Hi. Is Becky there?
Husband: No, she's not. Can I take a message.
Office: This is her doctor's office calling. Could you have her call back at this number?
Husband: Would you like to talk to her mother? (And then proceeding to hand over the phone.)
Me: Hello?
Office: This is Becky's doctor calling in regards to an appointment. Could you have her call us?
Me: She's my daughter, could I help with something?
Office: We need to reschedule. Just have her call.
Me: I'm her mother. I make all her appointments.
Office: Oh. (Sounding rather unsure about going on.) Well, she has an appointment in January that we need to reschedule. (Insert pause while she waits for me to just offer to have Becky call.)
Me: We'll be in later this week. I'll just reschedule then.
Office: Oh! Okay! That will work. (Clearly relieved that she didn't have to reschedule with the mother over the phone.)
Am I the only one who's completely bent out of shape over this? I mean, I understand about patient privacy and all that. I understand that there are teen girls out there doing things that their parents are unaware of. I understand that the gyno office could think they're doing girls a favor by preventing unwanted babies while keeping the parents in the dark about what's really going on.
And while I understand all that, I don't have to agree with it.
Plus, read the chart! My daughter is not in there scoring birth control behind her parents' back. If you'll consult the records, my 14 year old daughter is there for a painful cyst that you prescribed hefty-duty meds for. And if you think for one minute that keeping the parents in the dark about kids taking drugs like Vicodin is in any way, shape, or form a good thing, you've got another thought coming.
I'll be taking my daughter to the Lady Doc this week. And I'll be sure to give them a piece of my mind on their privacy policies. Before I make a complete idiot of myself, does anyone think I may be blowing this way out of proportion? Anyone?
The Elves Have It
The whole Santa thing is a fine line to walk as a parent. The kids who believe get gifts. Those who don't must be sworn to keep their thoughts to themselves. And we as parents have the job of monitoring the masses.
Luke believes. With his whole entire being, he believes. And I find it endearing. Of course, being Luke, he takes things to extremes. He took it upon himself to snitch to Santa about the kids who don't believe. His letter went something like this.
Nice, no?
Over the weekend we attended a family Christmas party. I've lost count of how many kids there are running around, and am having a hard time keeping track of who belongs to whom. The kids range in age from college on down to infant. Every year, the parents are encouraged to bring a wrapped gift for each of their kids, someone dresses as St. Nick, and the distribution of the gifts begins. It's always fun to watch the kids grow up as they graduate from being terrified of Santa to tolerating his lap for the sake of a gift to placing bets on who's playing the jolly old elf this year.
I made the kids shirts, because it's what I do. Luke was thrilled with his. In fact, his very words were, "Mom! Look! It's a shirt with a pirate ship sewn onto it, just like I wanted! Its' just like you make, only Santa's elves made it."
And he was serious. The boy believes.
Luke believes. With his whole entire being, he believes. And I find it endearing. Of course, being Luke, he takes things to extremes. He took it upon himself to snitch to Santa about the kids who don't believe. His letter went something like this.
Dear Santa,
I believe in you. Other kids in my class do not. Their names are (insert names of kids who do not believe). I told them that if they do not believe in you to keep their thoughts inside their heads.
Nice, no?
Over the weekend we attended a family Christmas party. I've lost count of how many kids there are running around, and am having a hard time keeping track of who belongs to whom. The kids range in age from college on down to infant. Every year, the parents are encouraged to bring a wrapped gift for each of their kids, someone dresses as St. Nick, and the distribution of the gifts begins. It's always fun to watch the kids grow up as they graduate from being terrified of Santa to tolerating his lap for the sake of a gift to placing bets on who's playing the jolly old elf this year.
I made the kids shirts, because it's what I do. Luke was thrilled with his. In fact, his very words were, "Mom! Look! It's a shirt with a pirate ship sewn onto it, just like I wanted! Its' just like you make, only Santa's elves made it."
And he was serious. The boy believes.
Mickey, If You Could Help I'd Appreciate It
We have a mouse problem. This does not make me happy, but despite my best efforts, I'm not making much headway on eradication.
There are mice in the van. They had a hey-day when the van was parked for a week at the airport. The evidence of the hey-day is everywhere, and a napkin is shredded in the glove box.
There are mice in the car. There is evidence of mice having been on the backseat.
There are mice in the house. NOT GOOD, PEOPLE!
I know for a fact that there are mice in the stable and kennel, but they are almost expected to be there and I'm not worrying my pretty little head over them.
While we were gone, apparently the mice had a hard time finding good food lying around on the floor. Normally the dogs do a great job of cleaning things up, but sometimes food is consumed after the dogs have been put in lock-down for the night and this makes excellent mouse fodder. Not that I haven't told the kids a hundred times over that they can't let food sit around or anything... (It took us 3 months to get rid of the fruit flies, but - knock on wood - they're finally dead. DEAD.)
We must be some seriously dirty people, the way we attract pests.
The mice have decided that they love my kitchen utensil drawer. Those wooden spoons (now made of plastic), the soup ladles, the spatulas - all fun stuff as far as mice are concerned. They apparently spent a lot of time in that drawer. The evidence is disgusting.
I washed everything in hot water. And ran it through the dishwasher. And cleaned the drawer with bleach and vinegar. And Googled what on earth to do to repel the little pests.
Peppermint. Who knew? (And the bigger question - does it work?)
I stole a candy cane from the tree, snapped it into quarters and put one piece in each corner of the utensil drawer. Fingers crossed that it works.
Luke saw me and jumped to his own conclusions. "Is that for the mice?" Yep. "That's nice. It IS the Christmas season. They should get treats, too."
IT'S NOT FOR THE MICE TO EAT! I AM NOT FEEDING THEM ANY MORE THAN THEY ARE FINDING ON THEIR OWN. THEY ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!
I shouted that in my head. I said it in a normal voice to Luke. I also applaud the boy's giving spirit, even if it is to disease-laden rodents who want to take over my home.
For the record, candy canes don't work at mouse eviction. The mice will, however, take the paper off the candy canes and help themselves to a bit of a midnight snack while deficating in your kitchen drawers.
Those mice are going down.
There are mice in the van. They had a hey-day when the van was parked for a week at the airport. The evidence of the hey-day is everywhere, and a napkin is shredded in the glove box.
There are mice in the car. There is evidence of mice having been on the backseat.
There are mice in the house. NOT GOOD, PEOPLE!
I know for a fact that there are mice in the stable and kennel, but they are almost expected to be there and I'm not worrying my pretty little head over them.
While we were gone, apparently the mice had a hard time finding good food lying around on the floor. Normally the dogs do a great job of cleaning things up, but sometimes food is consumed after the dogs have been put in lock-down for the night and this makes excellent mouse fodder. Not that I haven't told the kids a hundred times over that they can't let food sit around or anything... (It took us 3 months to get rid of the fruit flies, but - knock on wood - they're finally dead. DEAD.)
We must be some seriously dirty people, the way we attract pests.
The mice have decided that they love my kitchen utensil drawer. Those wooden spoons (now made of plastic), the soup ladles, the spatulas - all fun stuff as far as mice are concerned. They apparently spent a lot of time in that drawer. The evidence is disgusting.
I washed everything in hot water. And ran it through the dishwasher. And cleaned the drawer with bleach and vinegar. And Googled what on earth to do to repel the little pests.
Peppermint. Who knew? (And the bigger question - does it work?)
I stole a candy cane from the tree, snapped it into quarters and put one piece in each corner of the utensil drawer. Fingers crossed that it works.
Luke saw me and jumped to his own conclusions. "Is that for the mice?" Yep. "That's nice. It IS the Christmas season. They should get treats, too."
IT'S NOT FOR THE MICE TO EAT! I AM NOT FEEDING THEM ANY MORE THAN THEY ARE FINDING ON THEIR OWN. THEY ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!
I shouted that in my head. I said it in a normal voice to Luke. I also applaud the boy's giving spirit, even if it is to disease-laden rodents who want to take over my home.
For the record, candy canes don't work at mouse eviction. The mice will, however, take the paper off the candy canes and help themselves to a bit of a midnight snack while deficating in your kitchen drawers.
Those mice are going down.
Scaling Down
I'm not sure where I got the notion from, but I am under the impression that Christmas is a holiday that needs to be done right. I come from a long line of non-decorators. My grandmother may or may not have put up a tree in my remembrance. (If she did, it obviously wasn't note-worthy.) My own mother decorated every year while we were home but the minute we moved out she stopped doing much of anything at all. "Trees are messy" she said. And that was that.
When we lived in our single wide trailer, there wasn't much room to decorate. In fact, when we were squashed in there with 4 kids and 3 dogs, had home school books and boxes stacked in two corners of the living room because our bedroom couldn't hold any more storage, and the kids bedrooms doubled as playrooms, there wasn't much space to do anything at all in. You kinda sorta had to walk around the tree in the middle of the living room floor because that was the only available space we had going.
The year we moved into our house I decorated. I decorated two floors. (We had 2 floors of living space!) I hung shiny balls from every curtain rod and two shower curtains - the entire length of them. I decorated bedroom doors, and the laundry room and every bathroom. I even decorated the patio furniture, pony stable, and dog kennel. It was awesome. (Mental note: dogs will eat ribbons off wreaths through the chain link.)
And then I opened The Rocking Pony and realized that working women don't have time to do that kind of decorating. My OCD decorating side couldn't let go, so I had the brilliant idea that putting up more trees would be easier and quicker than decorating 2 floors of living space. Running with the premise that more is better, I somehow managed to wind up with 5 trees in the downstairs. No time saved, really.
This year, determined to get a head start on things, I started decorating in early November. In my mind. In reality, the attic wasn't raided until the week before Thanksgiving, and then the store got slammed with orders. No time to decorate. My trees stood bare in the living room for nearly 3 weeks before I got around to dressing them this year. And somewhere in the last few weeks I realized that sometimes less is more.
It's so freeing to put more back in the attic untouched than you actually unboxed. Who knew? This holiday season I'm learning to let go. We won't call it laziness because that's such an ugly word. Let's call it getting in touch with the real meaning of the season.
When we lived in our single wide trailer, there wasn't much room to decorate. In fact, when we were squashed in there with 4 kids and 3 dogs, had home school books and boxes stacked in two corners of the living room because our bedroom couldn't hold any more storage, and the kids bedrooms doubled as playrooms, there wasn't much space to do anything at all in. You kinda sorta had to walk around the tree in the middle of the living room floor because that was the only available space we had going.
The year we moved into our house I decorated. I decorated two floors. (We had 2 floors of living space!) I hung shiny balls from every curtain rod and two shower curtains - the entire length of them. I decorated bedroom doors, and the laundry room and every bathroom. I even decorated the patio furniture, pony stable, and dog kennel. It was awesome. (Mental note: dogs will eat ribbons off wreaths through the chain link.)
And then I opened The Rocking Pony and realized that working women don't have time to do that kind of decorating. My OCD decorating side couldn't let go, so I had the brilliant idea that putting up more trees would be easier and quicker than decorating 2 floors of living space. Running with the premise that more is better, I somehow managed to wind up with 5 trees in the downstairs. No time saved, really.
This year, determined to get a head start on things, I started decorating in early November. In my mind. In reality, the attic wasn't raided until the week before Thanksgiving, and then the store got slammed with orders. No time to decorate. My trees stood bare in the living room for nearly 3 weeks before I got around to dressing them this year. And somewhere in the last few weeks I realized that sometimes less is more.
It's so freeing to put more back in the attic untouched than you actually unboxed. Who knew? This holiday season I'm learning to let go. We won't call it laziness because that's such an ugly word. Let's call it getting in touch with the real meaning of the season.
Urban Cowboys Step It Up a Notch
Luke got a gun (with a holster!) for his birthday. The gun makes sounds, just like he wanted it to. He's a very happy 9-year-old boy, except for the fact that Micah wants to do everything that he does. As there is only one belt with holster, this has caused a few minor fights in the Pony Casa. Being newly-minted 9, sometimes Luke struggles with the whole thing. While completely flattered that someone looks up to him so much, he still gets annoyed with it. Siblings are difficult sometimes, yo.
Luke saw his gear lying around, didn't see Micah, and decided that it was a grand opportunity to play cowboys. Around his waist was the belt and gun holster, and in the holster was Micah's play cell phone.
Urban cowboys. What was he going to do? Call the cows home for dinner?
But no worries, Luke informed me of cowboy cell phone etiquette.
And that's how it's done nowadays I guess. So much for all that messy shooting and riding. Just call in back-up. As long as he doesn't translate that to his schoolwork, we'll be good.
Luke saw his gear lying around, didn't see Micah, and decided that it was a grand opportunity to play cowboys. Around his waist was the belt and gun holster, and in the holster was Micah's play cell phone.
Urban cowboys. What was he going to do? Call the cows home for dinner?
But no worries, Luke informed me of cowboy cell phone etiquette.
Hey, Mom. Look. If a bad guy is coming, I'll just get my handy-dandy cell phone out and call The Fastest Cowboy In The West. He'll come take care of things for me. And then I'll call The Fastest Horse In The West like this. "Hello? Fastest Horse in the West? Yeh, I need you to come right away. There's an emergency. Thanks." And that's - WHOA - the horse is here already! That WAS fast! I mean, I was just on the phone with him a second ago and now he's right here.
And that's how it's done nowadays I guess. So much for all that messy shooting and riding. Just call in back-up. As long as he doesn't translate that to his schoolwork, we'll be good.
I Have Pictures!
My dear camera is (finally!) back in my possession. It's a good, good day.
Here is a recap, with photographic evidence.
Luke was man enough to have his hair done at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique. He lurved it. What you can't see is the Mickey head painted in the back of his hair. And the glitter in the shower that night.
Proof that Micah is not a respecter of places when it comes to stripping down. And proof that the boy is getting way too big to be stripping down in public. Also proof that the trip was to the magical kingdom. See his armband? It's an ID bracelet that he freaks out over when he sees it. See him wearing it happily, as if it's not even there? Miraculous.
Micah was dancing in the street with his girl, Jessie. Life doesn't get any sweeter. And you are again beholding the magic of Disney right there. The boy who is terrified of costumed characters is dancing with one. I nearly cried, for real.
Enthralled comes to mind. Micah loved getting character signatures. LOVED it. Miracles never cease. Of course, he wouldn't actually touch them unless he absolutely had to, but we're taking what we get.
Oh, the sweetness. But he wouldn't give them a high-five. Unfortunately it was at the end of the day and his tolerance level was low by this point.
My little Viking girl. Don't make her mad.
Another of Micah's long-time loves. Dude, it's Mary Poppins, in the flesh! (You'll notice there are 2 autograph books going on there, right? Remember that Micah signed the original? Yeh, that was his. And you should have seen the boy frantically paging through it while standing in line, looking for a blank page for a fresh signature space. I just imagined his little mind thinking, "why did I write in this?!")
Typical teen, thinking they hold the world in their hands.
Here is a recap, with photographic evidence.
Luke was man enough to have his hair done at the Bibbidi Bobbidi Boutique. He lurved it. What you can't see is the Mickey head painted in the back of his hair. And the glitter in the shower that night.
Proof that Micah is not a respecter of places when it comes to stripping down. And proof that the boy is getting way too big to be stripping down in public. Also proof that the trip was to the magical kingdom. See his armband? It's an ID bracelet that he freaks out over when he sees it. See him wearing it happily, as if it's not even there? Miraculous.
Micah was dancing in the street with his girl, Jessie. Life doesn't get any sweeter. And you are again beholding the magic of Disney right there. The boy who is terrified of costumed characters is dancing with one. I nearly cried, for real.
Enthralled comes to mind. Micah loved getting character signatures. LOVED it. Miracles never cease. Of course, he wouldn't actually touch them unless he absolutely had to, but we're taking what we get.
Oh, the sweetness. But he wouldn't give them a high-five. Unfortunately it was at the end of the day and his tolerance level was low by this point.
My little Viking girl. Don't make her mad.
Another of Micah's long-time loves. Dude, it's Mary Poppins, in the flesh! (You'll notice there are 2 autograph books going on there, right? Remember that Micah signed the original? Yeh, that was his. And you should have seen the boy frantically paging through it while standing in line, looking for a blank page for a fresh signature space. I just imagined his little mind thinking, "why did I write in this?!")
Typical teen, thinking they hold the world in their hands.
Bittersweet
Sometimes when your toddler does something that's totally grown up, it just makes you smile from the inside out. You know, things like kicking back in the recliner with a sippy cup in one hand and the remote in the other. Or moving the dining room chairs to play vacuum under the table. The little things that they do to mimic us. The things that we know they'll do for real one day when they've left toddlerhood behind them forever.
Those moments are bittersweet with Micah. While they warm my heart, they also make me a little sad. It's just another day in the life of a child with a mental disability.
While the other kids will grow up, leaving behind toddlerhood to take on adult roles, Micah may never do that. Micah may always be the one playing at adult games, and doing a stellar job of it. Just this morning he got flour on the floor while baking with me, and took the initiative to get the broom and dustpan and clean it up all by himself. If only the other kids would do that!
It's more complicated with Micah. He can do big things, and will learn to do more, but vague concepts elude him. It's a part of who he is. He grasps tangible, concrete things like dirt and dustpans, but not elusive things like Christmas is coming, or next year. And he may never grasp them. It's that reason among others that prevent so many adults with Down syndrome from living on their own.
When I see Micah play at big people things, I smile from the inside out. But I hear that small, quiet voice in my head reminding me that this is who he is. He'll always play at being an adult and never really grow into one. He'll always be my baby, in more ways than just the fact that he's the youngest in our family.
And yet, I love him for it. He's my son.
Those moments are bittersweet with Micah. While they warm my heart, they also make me a little sad. It's just another day in the life of a child with a mental disability.
While the other kids will grow up, leaving behind toddlerhood to take on adult roles, Micah may never do that. Micah may always be the one playing at adult games, and doing a stellar job of it. Just this morning he got flour on the floor while baking with me, and took the initiative to get the broom and dustpan and clean it up all by himself. If only the other kids would do that!
It's more complicated with Micah. He can do big things, and will learn to do more, but vague concepts elude him. It's a part of who he is. He grasps tangible, concrete things like dirt and dustpans, but not elusive things like Christmas is coming, or next year. And he may never grasp them. It's that reason among others that prevent so many adults with Down syndrome from living on their own.
When I see Micah play at big people things, I smile from the inside out. But I hear that small, quiet voice in my head reminding me that this is who he is. He'll always play at being an adult and never really grow into one. He'll always be my baby, in more ways than just the fact that he's the youngest in our family.
And yet, I love him for it. He's my son.
Preserving Memories that Should Probably Be Forgotten
There are certain parts of a vacation that you'll look back on years in the future and remember clearly. Like the time Micah first saw Woody in the Disney parade and his little world stopped so abruptly that several people around him were affected. I won't ever forget that. But there are other times that you just laugh about and then forget in the blur and haze. Things that don't have photographic evidence to back up their existence. Things that you'd rather not forget, but will eventually.
Like the fact that last Monday at the airport, Micah knew exactly where we were and what we were doing. That's not surprising because he's been there once before and there were planes all over the tarmac and he's not an idiot. What was surprising is that he remembered the exact table we sat at eighteen months ago when we indulged in a McD lunch. He sought it out and insisted that we eat there again this time. The boy has the memory of an elephant.
And how about that fun time on the airplane to Orlando. While excited to be traveling, Micah is not a fan of the friendly skies. The takeoff and landing are just a bit more than he likes to tolerate, but being the trooper that he is, he bears it as well as he can on the outside while completely losing his freak on the inside. Some of that freak leaked out into his diaper and I had the adventure of changing a 6 year old on the diaper deck that folds down over an airplane toilet. Just take a guess at how big that deck was, and how fun the whole job was to complete. The contortions we both had to maneuver into and out of would have baffled the mind of anyone not a parent in a desperate situation.
I'd love to always remember the Interactive Turtle Talk with Crush event. Micah saw the small kids sitting on the floor at the front of the room and immediately ditched us and joined them. He wouldn't let me sit with him because he is a big boy. There are times that I'm glad the boy is nonverbal though, because there is no way he could have been mistaken for the boy who yelled "dudes don't wear boobs!" Crush himself, on the screen in front of everyone, slapped his head and begged the audience to forget that that little speech ever happened. Heh. Too late!
And the fun, fun memory of telling Micah that we were flying home at the end of the trip. As we were headed to the airport, he got that little bit of freak out of his system and left a lasting imprint on the rental van when it leaked out the top, down the bottom and everywhere in between. Let the memory clearly state that we're extremely grateful this happened before we checked the luggage because every article of clothing that he was wearing needed changed.
I can't imagine that we'll ever forget that the bag that was delayed for a day somewhere in the air between Florida and Pennsylvania was not the one that contained the poo. It was, instead, the one that contained my camera with several hundred pictures on a memory card inside it. (My poor, poor fifth child. I should never have left you out of my sight. And I didn't really mean that I was unhappy with you when I contemplated making the airline replace you with a Nikon.) I managed to refrain from any overt display of emotion over that until the call came to say that the luggage was located. I may or may not always remember that I then cried like a baby.
Memory should now serve as a reminder that if I am stupid enough to check Big Important Things in luggage, then I will be blamed by the airline and held responsible for it going lost. Also, the van keys should never, ever be in checked luggage either. Especially if you live two hours from the airport. Oh, yes. We did. And again, it was our fault for trusting the airline to actually do it's job and deliver luggage to the desired destination. Silly us. I'm grateful for in-laws willing to drive keys to the airport to meet us so that our vacation could effectively come to an end.
And now, thanks to blogging, we will always remember that when parents are distracted by lost luggage and making arrangements to get home from the airport, Micah will climb onto the now-still luggage carousel and up the conveyor belt to investigate exactly where those suitcases come from. Curious minds just want to know.
Like the fact that last Monday at the airport, Micah knew exactly where we were and what we were doing. That's not surprising because he's been there once before and there were planes all over the tarmac and he's not an idiot. What was surprising is that he remembered the exact table we sat at eighteen months ago when we indulged in a McD lunch. He sought it out and insisted that we eat there again this time. The boy has the memory of an elephant.
And how about that fun time on the airplane to Orlando. While excited to be traveling, Micah is not a fan of the friendly skies. The takeoff and landing are just a bit more than he likes to tolerate, but being the trooper that he is, he bears it as well as he can on the outside while completely losing his freak on the inside. Some of that freak leaked out into his diaper and I had the adventure of changing a 6 year old on the diaper deck that folds down over an airplane toilet. Just take a guess at how big that deck was, and how fun the whole job was to complete. The contortions we both had to maneuver into and out of would have baffled the mind of anyone not a parent in a desperate situation.
I'd love to always remember the Interactive Turtle Talk with Crush event. Micah saw the small kids sitting on the floor at the front of the room and immediately ditched us and joined them. He wouldn't let me sit with him because he is a big boy. There are times that I'm glad the boy is nonverbal though, because there is no way he could have been mistaken for the boy who yelled "dudes don't wear boobs!" Crush himself, on the screen in front of everyone, slapped his head and begged the audience to forget that that little speech ever happened. Heh. Too late!
And the fun, fun memory of telling Micah that we were flying home at the end of the trip. As we were headed to the airport, he got that little bit of freak out of his system and left a lasting imprint on the rental van when it leaked out the top, down the bottom and everywhere in between. Let the memory clearly state that we're extremely grateful this happened before we checked the luggage because every article of clothing that he was wearing needed changed.
I can't imagine that we'll ever forget that the bag that was delayed for a day somewhere in the air between Florida and Pennsylvania was not the one that contained the poo. It was, instead, the one that contained my camera with several hundred pictures on a memory card inside it. (My poor, poor fifth child. I should never have left you out of my sight. And I didn't really mean that I was unhappy with you when I contemplated making the airline replace you with a Nikon.) I managed to refrain from any overt display of emotion over that until the call came to say that the luggage was located. I may or may not always remember that I then cried like a baby.
Memory should now serve as a reminder that if I am stupid enough to check Big Important Things in luggage, then I will be blamed by the airline and held responsible for it going lost. Also, the van keys should never, ever be in checked luggage either. Especially if you live two hours from the airport. Oh, yes. We did. And again, it was our fault for trusting the airline to actually do it's job and deliver luggage to the desired destination. Silly us. I'm grateful for in-laws willing to drive keys to the airport to meet us so that our vacation could effectively come to an end.
And now, thanks to blogging, we will always remember that when parents are distracted by lost luggage and making arrangements to get home from the airport, Micah will climb onto the now-still luggage carousel and up the conveyor belt to investigate exactly where those suitcases come from. Curious minds just want to know.
It Is a Bit Disturbing
"Graveyards are creepy", Becky said.
What? No, they're not.
"Yeh, the one below our house? Creepy. I walked down with my friend and she wanted to play Sardines there with the youth group but I said no way because it's creepy. Plus it would be illegal, right?"
Why would it be illegal?
"You know, like, disturbing the dead."
Oh yeh. She was serious. Teens are just as entertaining as toddlers.
What? No, they're not.
"Yeh, the one below our house? Creepy. I walked down with my friend and she wanted to play Sardines there with the youth group but I said no way because it's creepy. Plus it would be illegal, right?"
Why would it be illegal?
"You know, like, disturbing the dead."
Oh yeh. She was serious. Teens are just as entertaining as toddlers.
The Funeral Stalker
Sam's younger brother was killed in a car accident when we'd been married 5 years. He was just 20 years old, and it was as shocking as you can imagine it to be. The day after his death is one that I remember in bits and flashes of stark light and blurry hazes. I was 9 months pregnant with our second child. That was one of the longest weeks in any of our lives. We were through so much, emotionally, that by the time the funeral came we were in an altered state of mind. Paul knew Jesus as his savior. Because of this reassurance that he was in heaven, the funeral was not the end of his life, but a new beginning. We were not sad for Paul; we were selfishly grieving his loss in our lives. But even then, we'd grieved so much through the days leading up to the funeral that we were grateful for any other emotion we could find.
The viewing was particularly difficult. Being 9 months pregnant, and as huge as a barge, I had very little to wear. Neither did I want to rush out and buy something because hello? I was due in a little over a week. I was forced to wear the only dressy thing that fit me at the time. It was a hot pink tent with black polka dots. The polka dots were roughly the size of my fist. Think 80's, and you'll have a very accurate mental image. I was mortified beyond belief, but the funeral wasn't about me so I sucked it up and stood in the receiving line with the family.
There were two viewings the day before the funeral. People were lined up, snaking around different rooms of the funeral home, out onto the sidewalk, and around the back of the building. It was touching, and at times overwhelming. We shook hands, made small talk, received condolences, laughed with friends, reminisced with old acquaintances, and cried with those we hadn't talked to through the long week. It was a non-stop line for hours on end.
We knew everyone, of course. We were just amazed at the people who came. We were touched by the love and kindness shown to the family. And we were quite baffled by the strange woman who crashed the funeral. Her and her two daughters shook our hands like she'd known us all our lives. She said that Paul had been to her house nearly every day for over a year. Her daughters were so close to him. It was such a tragedy, his death, and they'd miss him sorely.
We had no earthly idea who these people were. None of us knew. They were strangers to us all. And there they stood, declaring with their very presence that either they had the wrong funeral home, or that Paul had a secret life. We scratched our heads in wonder, and allowed them to move on.
The next day at the funeral, the lady and her daughters were among those in attendance. We saw them coming into the back of the church and whispered amongst ourselves that the strange strangers were back. They were now funeral stalkers. But she came closer. She kept inching her way to the front of the church so that she was finally at the pew where my sister-in-law and I were sitting. She took my sister-in-law's hand and looked deeply into her eyes. She said, "I had a dream last night. You're pregnant, aren't you?"
Um, hello? Elephant in hot pink here! I think you have the wrong sister-in-law, honey. I was the pregnant one, not the stick figure she was talking to. The lady was clearly not with us. My sister-in-law reassured her that she was not pregnant, and the lady gave her a knowing look that said she knew differently. She then vanished into the crowd.
Our Joshua Paul was born 15 days after the funeral. My sister-in-law didn't get pregnant with her next child until 2 years later. We still wonder about the psycho funeral stalker. Who was she? How did she know Paul? Did she really have the right funeral? Or was she just some random lady with a weird obsession for dead people's families?
The world will never know, and we'll always wonder. We'll never think of Paul's funeral without her being a small part of it.
The viewing was particularly difficult. Being 9 months pregnant, and as huge as a barge, I had very little to wear. Neither did I want to rush out and buy something because hello? I was due in a little over a week. I was forced to wear the only dressy thing that fit me at the time. It was a hot pink tent with black polka dots. The polka dots were roughly the size of my fist. Think 80's, and you'll have a very accurate mental image. I was mortified beyond belief, but the funeral wasn't about me so I sucked it up and stood in the receiving line with the family.
There were two viewings the day before the funeral. People were lined up, snaking around different rooms of the funeral home, out onto the sidewalk, and around the back of the building. It was touching, and at times overwhelming. We shook hands, made small talk, received condolences, laughed with friends, reminisced with old acquaintances, and cried with those we hadn't talked to through the long week. It was a non-stop line for hours on end.
We knew everyone, of course. We were just amazed at the people who came. We were touched by the love and kindness shown to the family. And we were quite baffled by the strange woman who crashed the funeral. Her and her two daughters shook our hands like she'd known us all our lives. She said that Paul had been to her house nearly every day for over a year. Her daughters were so close to him. It was such a tragedy, his death, and they'd miss him sorely.
We had no earthly idea who these people were. None of us knew. They were strangers to us all. And there they stood, declaring with their very presence that either they had the wrong funeral home, or that Paul had a secret life. We scratched our heads in wonder, and allowed them to move on.
The next day at the funeral, the lady and her daughters were among those in attendance. We saw them coming into the back of the church and whispered amongst ourselves that the strange strangers were back. They were now funeral stalkers. But she came closer. She kept inching her way to the front of the church so that she was finally at the pew where my sister-in-law and I were sitting. She took my sister-in-law's hand and looked deeply into her eyes. She said, "I had a dream last night. You're pregnant, aren't you?"
Um, hello? Elephant in hot pink here! I think you have the wrong sister-in-law, honey. I was the pregnant one, not the stick figure she was talking to. The lady was clearly not with us. My sister-in-law reassured her that she was not pregnant, and the lady gave her a knowing look that said she knew differently. She then vanished into the crowd.
Our Joshua Paul was born 15 days after the funeral. My sister-in-law didn't get pregnant with her next child until 2 years later. We still wonder about the psycho funeral stalker. Who was she? How did she know Paul? Did she really have the right funeral? Or was she just some random lady with a weird obsession for dead people's families?
The world will never know, and we'll always wonder. We'll never think of Paul's funeral without her being a small part of it.
Take a Little Off The Top, Too
Being on top of my game for once, I scheduled things that needed to happen before vacation quite a while ago so that I'm not scrambling at the last minute. Well, except for ordering diapers, which I did the day before Thanksgiving, and now we're praying that they arrive today because otherwise we'll end up buying diapers for the week we're away and that's not going to make me happy.
Anyhoo, one of the things that I knocked off my list were haircuts for the boys. They were in desperate need. As is par for the course, I was rushed getting out the door and simply slapped crocs and a jacket on Micah while herding him out. I'd forgotten that he chose to go the underpants route earlier. I was reminded of that when we got out at the hair salon and saw a wet spot on his pants.
Stellar.
We recently changed hairdressers, and this was her first experience trimming Micah. She gave him a spray bottle to aim at whatever he wanted as she was spraying him. This was fun, but not distracting enough. She moved him to the sinks. A pump of shampoo, a handful of toys, a spray hose, and we were in business. Micah never fussed and only occasionally waggled his head from side to side.
Micah peed. It ran down his leg and dripped out his croc. He kicked his shoes off.
Micah sprayed the bubbles off the toys and sprayed the hair trimmings underwater and swirled things around like soup.
The spray hose got a little wild and Micah's pants were soaked. He took them off.
The hair continued to come off (the boy is blessed with a full head of it) and since he'd long since tossed the cape aside (bah, capes are for sissies!) he was getting hair down his shirt.
The shirt came off.
By the time Micah was fully trimmed, he was standing in nothing but his skivvies.
"I'll bet you've never had a man strip for you as you were cutting his hair," I said. (Don't worry, we're friends. I don't say such things to total strangers. Or maybe I would. One never knows.)
Micah left the shop in his crocs and his jacket, and a fresh Pull-Up. But he didn't cry and I didn't have to wrestle him down. It's the first he's taken off bottoms while getting a little off the top, but it was an astounding success.
The hairdresser is a keeper, and a saint as far as patience with kids goes.
Anyhoo, one of the things that I knocked off my list were haircuts for the boys. They were in desperate need. As is par for the course, I was rushed getting out the door and simply slapped crocs and a jacket on Micah while herding him out. I'd forgotten that he chose to go the underpants route earlier. I was reminded of that when we got out at the hair salon and saw a wet spot on his pants.
Stellar.
We recently changed hairdressers, and this was her first experience trimming Micah. She gave him a spray bottle to aim at whatever he wanted as she was spraying him. This was fun, but not distracting enough. She moved him to the sinks. A pump of shampoo, a handful of toys, a spray hose, and we were in business. Micah never fussed and only occasionally waggled his head from side to side.
Micah peed. It ran down his leg and dripped out his croc. He kicked his shoes off.
Micah sprayed the bubbles off the toys and sprayed the hair trimmings underwater and swirled things around like soup.
The spray hose got a little wild and Micah's pants were soaked. He took them off.
The hair continued to come off (the boy is blessed with a full head of it) and since he'd long since tossed the cape aside (bah, capes are for sissies!) he was getting hair down his shirt.
The shirt came off.
By the time Micah was fully trimmed, he was standing in nothing but his skivvies.
"I'll bet you've never had a man strip for you as you were cutting his hair," I said. (Don't worry, we're friends. I don't say such things to total strangers. Or maybe I would. One never knows.)
Micah left the shop in his crocs and his jacket, and a fresh Pull-Up. But he didn't cry and I didn't have to wrestle him down. It's the first he's taken off bottoms while getting a little off the top, but it was an astounding success.
The hairdresser is a keeper, and a saint as far as patience with kids goes.
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