What I Learned In Parenting 401

I've learned a lot about parenting over the years. One of the first things I learned was that all babies are not created equal, and that everyone has a piece or five of advice on how you should raise yours.

I learned a lot with our firstborn, and more still as the family grew, but Micah has taught us so much more than the other kids. He's put things into perspective for us. Where once we would have freaked over things like dress codes and music choices, we've come to realize that kids need to find their own way in the world and if what they're doing isn't illegal or immoral, it's really just a matter of our choice vs. theirs. If there's a philosphy that we can attach to what Micah has taught us, it would be Don't Sweat the Small Stuff.

Just the other day, Becky asked me what I would think if she got her belly button pierced. I didn't answer her, mostly because I was lost deep in the dark rooms of my brain, thinking. My initial thought was, "huh, I had no idea she'd ever want one." And that was closely followed by so many other thoughts that I was sucked into my own world and never did get around to answering her.

I heard thoughts like "Oh my word! She's going That Route with piercings all over her body! What will be next? Tattoos?"

And then I smacked myself and thought rationally, "It's really a harmless place for a piercing. I don't see any reason why she couldn't have one."

I contemplated how far I'd come as a parent. There was a day that I would have freaked over that question. I would have justified why I didn't want a daughter of mine to have multiple piercings, and told her NO in such certain terms that she would have thought long and hard about asking me anything again in the next five years, while hiding the fact that she'd just gone ahead and done it.

Micah has taught us so much. We learned from him that small things aren't a big deal. So kids wear flip flops to church, and I was raised that patent leather is the only acceptable footwear. It's not a biggie. So the kids rooms are trashed. It's their space, and as long as they keep my space fairly clean, it's not hurting me. So our 8th grade daughter was asked to the prom by a senior. He's a good kid, and they're really just friends. So the boys want to take ballet when boys clearly don't do that. Each to his own. (The boys haven't asked to take ballet. Yet. But I'll bet Micah would absolutely love it.)

Of all the things that we've learned from our youngest, there is one thing that stands out head and shoulders above the others. I don't know why it took us so long to learn, being that he's our fourth child, but we know now.

Never teach your potty-training son to give you a high-five for a job well done until after he washes his hands.

Saturday Shots, The Great Race

Jessie challenges the Woody Twins to a race across the living room. The anticipation of the upcoming fun has them all smiling with glee.

Jessie's use of hand signals while turning was commendable, but Woody only wanted to die of the girly embarrassment.

What appears to be an armless Woody has been run over and left for dead by Twin #1 attempting to drive with a boot casually thrown in the steering wheel.

A late contender, Hatted Woody is attempting takeoff from the runway. The outspread arms have already lifted the front of the car several millimeters off the ground.

It was a photo finish, the winner yet to be determined by the judges. It has been confirmed, however, that at least one of Armless Woody's arms has been recovered.

The State of the Dishes

Among other things, my mom got the kids dishes for Christmas last year. The two younger boys each got one; Luke's has Tony the Tiger and Micah's has Woody featured on the side. They're cute, and dishwasher safe. Love it. I tossed them into the bin with the kids other dishes and they've been used in the rotation frequently.

Micah has that whole I'll Do Things My Way thing going on, and mostly we don't poke the beast. Eating falls right smack dab in the middle of this huge category of his, so when his Voice tells me EAT CEREAL I ask him to get the cereal that he wants, the bowl that he wants, and the spoon that he wants. I give him the choice of applesauce or milk to moisten the cereal with, and life is happy.

I broke protocol the other day and chose his Woody dish for him. He'd be happy. Except he wasn't. The nerve! How could I possibly know what he wanted? He searched and dug through the dish bin and never did find what he wanted. As he was looking, I walked away to accomplish something other than waiting. When he found what he needed, he'd come get me.

He did. He chose Luke's Tony the Tiger dish. It was sitting on the counter waiting for me to fill it.

I fixed his cereal to his specifications, he took it, and life went on.

It was sometime after he'd finished his cereal and I was washing the dishes that I realized the dish he ate from was taken directly from the sink. Not finding what he wanted in the clean dishes, he turned to the dirty ones. I fed my child out of a dirty dish and didn't even realize it. Most likely because a dog had licked it clean before it got put in the sink.

Micah gets colds, but I have to say that the boy is quite healthy otherwise. He probably has enough immunities built up to visit a third world country and drink the water without ever being affected.

Boys are kinda gross.

Of Pride and Prejudice

First impressions make a large impact on how we think of someone, even before we say hello. Based on that first glance, we may not even wish to introduce ourselves. We're all aware of this glaring fact, though we're not so quick to say that we ourselves judge others. Denial is a beautiful thing.

I've always been careful about what clothing I've allowed Micah to wear in public. Those first impressions of a child with an obvious disability, coupled with hand-me-down clothing, screams a message that I don't want others to think of my son. I want Micah's first impression in the world he ventures into to be something other than pity or contempt. For that reason, I've been careful to cultivate Micah's look to be one of a child that is much loved. It's obvious that his parents care for him, and take great pride in him, even at first glance.

But Micah has been undermining my intentions. This is the year that he has decided what is and is not acceptable to wear. This year, jeans are not acceptable. The Kid In Sweatpants is now my kid. I spent a small fortune on straight-leg sweats, sweats with racy stripes down the sides, sweats with cargo pockets, sweats that I made with sporty numbers stitched onto the leg. Sweats that would look like a polished outfit when coupled with tops, and not like the kid was wearing his pajama pants to school.

This is the year that Micah has decided what is and is not acceptable to wear. He wants shirts that are screen printed with super heroes and cartoon characters, tie-dyed tees, and stained hand-me-downs from his brother. We pick and choose what goes into his dresser so that no matter the choices, he generally looks like a kid that has a caring family.

This morning Micah insisted on wearing a pair of sweats that he had outgrown. We kept them anyway because they make awesome pajama bottoms. We call them his manpris. He paired these with a short sleeved tee, and although he matched, and although it's a balmy 35 degrees, I think long sleeves would better suit him at school where the temperatures are cooler than they are in our home.

Clearly, Micah was one of those kids today. The one in obvious hand-me-downs, with ill-fitted clothing, with a family that doesn't care what he looks like. And it makes his disability so much more evident. It draws pitying stares, or dismissive glances. But there's a fine line here and I'm not sure where it lies. On one side is my pride. It's that simple, but it's large. On the other side is Micah's pride. That is large, too. I want him to be proud of the fact that he can dress himself, and happy when he looks in the mirror.

This morning I made Micah change into jeans and a long sleeved shirt. He was not happy, but he complied. This morning I think I may have made the wrong decision. He may have gotten chilly at school, but otherwise his outfit wasn't a safety issue. I have allowed others to influence how I parent. I have chosen to allow what others think of Micah to take preference over what Micah wants. There are times and places to fight over clothing, but daily to school doesn't need to be one of them.

In the future, if you see my son walking down the street in his faded manpris and his brother's cast-off shirt, know that my pride has bowed that day to allow my child to make his own choices. I will be the one walking tall behind him, in a matching, season-appropriate outfit, smiling with love at my son who has made his own choices in life.

Heralded With Song

There is something that I love about every season. Autumn is my favorite. The crisp air, the brilliant colors, the textures of earth and wardrobe, even the smells of wood smoke and decaying gardens. There is nothing that I don't love about Autumn.

Summer has a lot to offer for the kids. The whole being outdoors daily thing is such a bonus. The sunshine, the soft grass, the canopy of leaves in the woods, the cool streams filled with treasures of crawfish and tadpoles. Suntanned kids with dirty feet are the happiest in the world.

Winter even has a lot to offer. Snow is such a cleansing white, covering all the dirty brown leftover from a killing frost. Snowflakes, and frosty windows, and seeing your breath are all a little bit magical. Winter sunsets are unequalled.

Spring has been my least favorite season through the years, but it's growing on me. I love the buds pushing through the ground, the smell of Earth waking up, the return of birds that chatter in the treetops. Spring holds so much promise.

I've recently realized that I can smell Spring coming. Winter has no scent. It's cold and clean, but without smell. Spring has an earthy fragrance, of something warming and renewing. I'm eagerly awaiting that day when I smell Spring.

Today, while standing outside sniffing the cold yet again, I heard them. The birds in the treetops, gaily singing that Spring is on it's way. This makes me smile from deep in my soul. Apparently I like spring more than I've let on.

Jumping Ship

I'm breaking from the usual to attempt to draw attention to a glaring problem.

I have ads on my blog. It's not a secret, because you're here, you have eyes, you can see them. Before I placed any of these ads, I was very selective about what content would be displayed. I have very strict guidelines about what is acceptable in my home, and my blog falls under those guidelines. Therefore, I'm fussy about what's allowed in your home when you visit my blog.

Today I realized that Google Ad Sense had posted content that I wasn't cool with. In fact, I was quite offended by the fact that they were advertising where to find hotties in my neighborhood. This is a randomly generated ad, and it renews with something different with each click. I opened another window, opened my blog, and there it was. Again. And again with a refresh.

Oh, that's so not random. Nor is it acceptable.

I debated between contacting Google or just pulling the ad altogether, but decided that pulling it would be the first option because it would be GONE. After that little click of the Remove button, I headed over to my Google account to file a formal complaint.

And here's where my complaint grows into a public bashing. After scrolling through screen after screen to find the Contact Me button, I was then forwarded through screen after screen of Does This Answer Your Question? and Okay, Then, Try This! When I finally got to the point where I said Yes! That's What I Want! I was required to insert a copied and pasted URL from the ad that I'd just deleted. Are you seeing the problem? Ultimately, I got a screen that said We only accept email questions about certain things, and this doesn't fall under that category. (Almost the exact wording, by the way.)

So, because of your lack of concern for what you post, Google, and your lack of concern about taking care of customers when they have a problem, I am officially pulling Google Ad Sense forever. Not that it's going to hurt you much. But you'll notice that I'm also not opposed to letting others know what horrid customer service you have.

I have been happy with Blogger as a host for this blog, but now I may be contemplating moving to another forum. Any suggestions?

The Learning Curve Is a Sharp One

We had to choose a class to attend during the Sunday evening service. I gravitated toward the parenting class because one can always learn something in that area, but in reality we doubted how enlightening it would be. We've been parenting for 15 years. And it was aimed at the parents of toddlers.

In the first session we were told nothing about parenting. Instead we were encouraged to spend time with our spouse. Specifically, sit on the couch every evening - just the two of you - and take a few minutes to discuss the day without allowing the kids to interrupt, or the television to invade, or with the distraction of a book at hand. I don't know about you, but we're not into hokey-weird stuff like that. And in what parallel universe would the kids just sit back and entertain the dogs so that you could have quiet time together?

Turns out, it has a purpose. And I learned something valuable.

The purpose is to teach the kids that Mom and Dad put each other first. (And bonus! We all know that there's nothing better for a woman's self worth than to know that her husband puts her above all else.) Kids that know their parents love each other will thrive on this one-on-one time without their presence. Not at first, mind you. And maybe their little brains won't ever register that they love it, but subconsciously it'll click. The kids walking the halls at night, seeking mom and dad's bedroom, will not need that nightly assurance that mom and dad do spend quality time together. And the kids that are all me-me-me will realize that mom and dad's universe spins just fine without junior at the center holding things together.

If kids aren't being subconsciously prompted to keep their parents together, whether that's by engaging them in mom-against-dad tactics or having mom and dad plot how best to punish for THIS offense (Hey, look! They're interacting!) - they're now freed up to just be kids. What a relief this has got to be for them.

And then my little brain went *click* and I realized that despite being 4-time parents (that's like being a 4-time Olympic medalist) we really do have a lot to learn. Especially with our youngest child, who spends his days wrapping us around his pinky finger. The child who's controlling and demanding and trying his best to find out if mom and dad love each other as much as they love him. And I can see how this happened, because after he came into our lives things did revolve around him. His therapy schedule, his doctor appointments, his IEP meetings, his surgeries. We put Micah first out of necessity, and we put Micah first out of fear and parental protection. If we don't fiercely love him by putting him first above all else, he won't have a shot at making it in this world. I mean, he was born with a disability; he already has a strike against him.

And because we wanted to help him the best way that we knew how, we have made life difficult for him. Sometimes parenting involves learning things that hurt.

Saturday Shots

In The Palm of my Hand

There's a Patio Table In There

True Love

The Little Cowboy

Recharging

This Would Be Day 13 of The Snow-In

That Cowboy Doll lays down a lot of peer pressure. I mean, why else would Micah want to dress like this?



That right there is enough blackmail to turn the tables on the whole "I've got you wrapped around my pinky finger" thing that Micah has going on. He chose the outfit himself, and was quite proud of it. That makes me a blackmail billionaire.

For twisting arms to make people dress like that, Micah got revenge on Woody. He took on the role of Sid.



I'm not sure whether to be thrilled at the imagination of Micah, or a little bit afraid for my life.

The kids seriously need to get back to school.

Fashion Advice. Help, Please?

I bought an In Style magazine for Becky the other day. I'll admit that Anne Hathaway on the front cover was a bonus for me. I won't admit that I have a girl crush going on there. Or that reading the article about her only deepened it.

My first perusal through the 400+ page magazine was fraught with much "who the heck wears stuff like that?!" I don't care what the fashion runway is predicting, I will not be wearing socks with sandals this summer. Nor next. In fact, probably not ever.

My wardrobe consists mainly of sweatshirts, tees, jeans and capris. It's not that I'm opposed to dressing up, mind you. But being a stay-at-home-mom doesn't give me much opportunity to put on the glam. And when Walmart is the only store to shop in my one-horse town, it only inspires me to change out of my sweats and into jeans.

I've tried dressing up to sit around the house. Really. But I'm a slob with a rigorous daily routine. Bleaching kennels ruins clothing quickly, and I am not a neat chef. Grease and other non-removable stains have made their mark on my wardrobe as well. My job description just doesn't support anything other than the things that would qualify me to be on What Not To Wear.

Please tell me that I'm not alone on this. Feel free to weigh in here. If you're a SAHM, what do you wear around the house? And if you work, do you stay in your work clothes throughout the evening or do you change into comfy and grungy when you're home?

And while we're on the subject of wardrobe, there's a question that's been nagging at me for a while. I was raised in a farming community, where dirt is king. Because of the abundance of said dirt, we take shoes off immediately upon entering a house. ANY house. It's common courtesy. And habit. Do you wear shoes in the house, or is this just a regional thing we have going on here? Because people on TV wear shoes in their houses and I find it particularly weird.



P.S. I have NO idea where Micah gets his style from. Mine involves clothing.

The Magic of Numbers

It's so difficult to know what Micah is learning in school. Sure, there are the papers that come home showing me that his aide helps him match up a set of eight shapes to the number eight, but how much does he grasp of that? There are the daily papers where he's working on writing his name. I do see improvement in that area, and he even attempts to write it himself on occasion, completing the H enough to be able to tell what it is. Each week he learns a new letter of the alphabet, for the fourth year in a row, yet when asked to choose which letter out of a line-up of three or four, his success rate averages about 50%. The cognitive delays are directly blamed on the Down syndrome, but the fact that the boy hates school work and refuses to apply himself doesn't help in the least. Couple that with good old-fashioned bullheadedness and you've got a combination that is nearly impossible to teach.

Don't get me wrong; the boy is brilliant. He can operate the TV and DVD player, fast forwarding and rewinding to find just the right parts of his movie. He knows which VHS tape he wants to watch just by looking at the unboxed video. He knows exactly how to wrap me around his tiny pinky finger no matter the situation. And his problem solving skills are unequaled by even his 12 year old brother.

But still, will he ever know how to count? Will he ever learn his alphabet, much less be able to read? And without these skills, what kind of future will he have? I'm his mom; I have a right to worry about these things.

And then, in true Micah fashion, he smacks me upside the head and tells me not to worry because he's got it all covered.

The boy's television watching skills are honed to a finer degree than any man I've ever seen, and I've seen my share of TV-watching men. The right movie, fast forwarded to that particular scene, with the house lights adjusted accordingly, and the volume at just the right pitch. It's an art.

And we have the nerve to step in and adjust the volume. For some reason, the television broadcasts videos much louder than it does televised shows. An adjustment needs to be made in order for the family to be able to converse over the din. Micah is not cool with that, of course, because you're messing with his art medium. We got smart and started turning the volume down when he's not looking. (The volume is on a numbered system that displays at the bottom of the screen, so he KNOWS if we're messing with his noise levels.) If I was caught adjusting things, I would get around the fact by turning the volume back up and then back down, because as long as he saw the adjustment being made he was happy.

And then the boy got smart on me. He learned his numbers. He knows that he wants that volume somewhere around 12, and if there is a number displayed below that he is not a happy child. No amount of faux adjusting in my part will pacify him because he knows his numbers. We did not send him to school all these years for nothing, apparently.

Only that child can warm my heart and produce steam from my ears simultaneously.

Is There a Snooze Button?

No matter what hour an alarm clock is set for, it means that you have something robbing you of a few more precious minutes of sleep. It tells you, before you're even awake, that you have responsibilities.

I've never liked my alarm that much.

When I had kids, I no longer needed that alarm. Turns out, my kids came pre-programmed to wake me. The worst part is that after nearly 15 years of parenting, I have yet to figure out how to set the wake-up time.

The good news is that as the kids get older, they sleep longer. The teen sleeps until the clock hits double digits, or would if I'd let her. Micah, however, is stuck in a perpetual toddler phase. The butt-crack of dawn is his favorite time to wake up.

Being a considerate son, he tries hard not to wake us. He quietly sneaks down the hall to our bedroom to close the door so that we won't hear his blaring television downstairs. He lacks the Gentle Gene, and slams our door. It's effective in waking even Sam.

Today he decided that a flashlight would be helpful to find his way down the hall to slam our door. Instantly my mom-sense was all over that and yelled, "I don't think so, son!" The rest of me was still asleep as I made Micah crawl into bed and lay down. He handed me the TV remote which I promptly put on the night stand. I laid a hand on him so that I could return to slumber but still know if he tried sneaking off.

As I was drifting in and out of slumber, I had flashes of light brighten my subconscious. Maybe it was lightning, or fireworks, or Jesus coming back. I really didn't care because I was so close to sleep. And then the light was blinding. BLINDING. Right in my eyes.

Flashlights are evil. I miss my alarm clock.

Sometimes Good Is Overrated

The bedtime dilemma has gone on for a while, and then there was the AHA moment in December when Micah just all of a sudden decided that he'd be a big boy and go to bed all on his very own. I was both thrilled and a little sad.

Lately, though, he's been all I Need Mommy To Sit With Me At Bedtime again. I can't say that I'm hating this. Take the other night, for example. Since there was no school (hello, snow days!) we let him wander around upstairs to see what, exactly, he'd do. He knew he couldn't make an appearance in the downstairs because he'd be in Big Trouble, and then herded right back up to bed. I listened to him playing in the hallway, probably debating whether or not to make the descent. I listened to him playing with Woody. I listened to his breathing fall into the regularity of sleep.

He fell asleep on the top step. It was darling.

Tonight I sat with him in bed as we watched television. He has this game where he points and laughs, and expects me to do the same. I have to turn my head to look at him or it doesn't count. While this gets old, it's endearing for a while. Mostly because he made it up and it's something that we share. And then he decided that it was time to actually sleep. He reached out a hand to hold mine as he drifted off into Never Land. I leaned my head down to give him a kiss and he reached up with his free hand to pat me on top of my head. His touch is the most gentle and loving that I've ever experienced.

It's the little things like this that make me love our bedtime dilemma. There are just some things that you miss when you're chasing after the whirling dervish through the day, and herding him back to bed at night. When I take the time to sit with him, it's just us. And it's just wonderful.

So what if I spoil my boy? He's mine, after all.

Saturday Shots

String Section

Perfectly Aligned

Enjoying Sun

Morning Frost

My Boy

Day 7 In This Frozen Wasteland

So, how about the weather, huh?

Of course, if you're not in the eye of the storm here on the East Coast, your weather is perfectly fine. Or not. I can't see much past the end of my driveway. The kids have been in school a total of 7 hours in the past week, and I've been out of the house exactly twice. Both times for groceries.

I'm normally quite anal about things like bedtimes and such, but lately I've been learning to lighten up and let the kids live a little. Since we got the call early yesterday that the kids wouldn't be having school today, I figured I'd let them stay up late watching movies so that we could all sleep in this morning.

Grand plans of kids giggling into the night, followed by them chipping in to help with the requested French toast for breakfast, and a day of wonderful family togetherness were dancing in my head.

That worked as planned right up until the crack of dawn, when Micah wanted to reassure himself that the hills were still alive. (He and Julie Andrews are tight.) The breakfast happened as it did in my head, but things fell apart shortly thereafter.

Board games got boring two days ago. Movies got old the day before that. Playing together is just insanity because now I have four tired, grumpy, bored kids on my hands and if they're in the same house as each other they fall to fighting to break the monotony.

I'm a genius of a parent. Tonight's bedtime will be 6 PM to make up for my faux pas yesterday. But on the brighter side, I now know what I'm getting my husband for Valentine's Day. I'M GETTING OUT OF THE HOUSE. It'll be a sanity saver, and that's something we can all appreciate.

Fishy Would Be a Nice Upgrade

Some things are inevitable when you're a parent. The fact that your newborn will vomit curdled milk on you is a given. He scores triple bonus points if it gets down your wool sweater and into your bra while you're at the mall, thereby making you have to go buy new clothes just to get through the next hour without adding to the vomit. Not that I would know.

As a parent, you will never have the privilege of going to the bathroom with dignity ever again. Your kids will eat the groceries you paid half a month's income for in less than two days. And what you once claimed as your own will now belong to everyone but you. This includes, but is not limited to, your razor, your toothbrush, your money, and your sanity.

Something else that is inevitable is the fact that the more you try to look nice and get some class on, the more likely it is that your nursing pad will be clearly visible through your shirt, or there will be baby snot on your shoulder. Even when you're out of the baby stage, the kids get creative. All that Keeping You Up At Night serves the purpose of sending you into public with deep purple bags under your eyes. Kids are sadistic.

Because Micah is an especially creative kid, he comes up with especially creative tortures for me. Like poo. He finds the most inconvenient times for a poo that he can. His newest was walking between the house and the van, so that as we were all buckling in we were smelling it. Given that we perpetually run late, I rushed him into the house, changed him, and rushed him back to the van.

When I got into town I thought that he must have finished what he started earlier because I smelled it again. A quick check told me that I was wrong, but the smell just wouldn't go away.

It was then that I realized that I was smelling my own hands. Being rushed, I forgot to wash. And I can testify that Purell may kill 99.99% of germs, but it does not kill odor.

Hi, I'm a mom. I have no dignity left.

The V-Day Dilemma

We're not really the gift-giving kind of couple. At least one of us isn't. The other of us is actually very good at remembering major holidays and buying appropriately thoughtful gifts. That someone is probably not the one you're thinking of.

So to remedy things this year, I consulted Priceline about a gift for the both of us. Nothing says I Love You like a night away from the kids, the dogs, the farmette, the fire making, the snow shoveling, and the housework. I was going to be the best giver of gifts this Valentine's Day, and then Priceline had the nerve to laugh at me as it called me cheap.

I'm now back to the drawing board with the gift giving thing. I may or may not do what I've always done in the past, which would be pretty much nothing.

So tell me, internets, is Valentine's a big deal at your casa? Do you give your beloved other gifts from the large end or the small? Is it more like a box of his favorite chocolates (or maybe a steak) or something a bit more romantic like cologne or power tools?

Curious minds want to know. Thanks in advance for sharing. I'm not looking for ideas, just trying to determine how far down on the scale of suck I actually fall.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

The kids were out at noon on Friday, and today was a snow day, which means that all told, we've had four good days of family togetherness. It was fun. We played board games and shoveled snow and watched movies and ate junk. The fun lasted right up until about 5 PM on the fourth day, and then mommy lost her shiz. Without mood enhancing drugs, I can only take so much mess making and arguing and all together sibling rivalry before I have to declare that this mommy has had enough and all bets are off on whether or not anyone gets to live to see another day.

Okay, things weren't that bad, but you get the picture.

So in the midst of my meltdown, the phone rang. Luke answered, but nobody was on the other end so he hung up. It promptly rang back the minute he clicked off, and I picked it up.

Hello?

Heavy breathing and giggling were heard, but no words were spoken.

HELLO?

More giggles and twittering, and a voice that demanded to know, "Who is this?"

"This is Karen. Who is THIS?" I asked in my sternest I'm The Adult voice.

Reluctantly, a voice said, "It's Beth and Vicki."* And that was followed by more heavy breathing and snorting.

Can I help you with something? I demanded.

After a very long pause, the answer was, "Uh, yeh. Is Josh there?"

"No, he's not. Can I take a message for him?" Think school librarian PMSing. You've about got the tone right.

"Uhhhhh, Beth?" (pause) "Uhhhhhh, no."

"Ok, thank you." And then I hung up.

I probably just squashed my son's love life. But dude, if you're not going to be civil to the boy's mother, your future is toast. How hard is it, really, to be respectful of adults?

*Girls names changed to protect the stupid.

Snow Fun, Or Not

So that snow was fun, huh? We spent a whole lot of time shoveling ourselves out because the snowblower took one look at the massive amount of snow and promptly had a heart attack.



This is one of those times that having a garage would have been nice. While we spent a lot of time playing games this weekend, Which Drift Contains A Car wasn't the most fun. (Good job to the one who correctly identifies how many vehicles are in the drive.)



It was beautiful if nothing else.



But it did make for some difficult choring. I had to dig a room for the dogs to go to the bathroom in, and we had to dig the goat out of it's house. She was completely snowed over.



We weren't the only ones with problems, of course. My parents ended up shoveling off their porch roof for fear of a cave-in.



But it's definitely something that the kids will talk about for years to come.

Saturday Shots

Newborns

Strumming

Food is Funny

Well Played

Have You Seen My Identity?

Last year was a fun year for us. We had a no-good, horrible, really-bad year with the kennel and in trying to save lives of countless puppies, we were at the vet's office every single week for nine weeks. Some weeks, our visit was daily. Becky injured her knee on the trampoline (turns out, Sam was justified in his hesitation to get one) and was in therapy three times a week for months. Micah changed ENT's mid-stream with the ear tube placement and we had visit after visit trying to get things ironed out between the doctors. Luke became an orthodontic patient and we are frequent flyers at their office. Not only did his braces need adjusted, but it seems as though he'd had a faulty installment because we were there several times a week getting them put back together.

Fun times, people. Fun times. I wish that I got paid for all this running because someone, somewhere, should compensate me for all that free time I was to have when the kids went to school.

Spending all this time in waiting rooms has taught me a lot. First of all, I take a book along. I have read more books in the past year than I have in the five years previous. Half hour increments are so much nicer than two minutes on the toilet.

I learned to read people in an instant and seat myself accordingly. I can map out a waiting room like you wouldn't believe.

I have become, for all practical purposes, a professional waiter. I wait here, I wait there, I wait for him, I wait for her. I simply wait, because I am a waiter.

Unfortunately, my kids have mistaken this not so desirable quality with the other kind of waiter. The one where I wait on them hand and foot, like a puppet at their bidding.

I wonder if there will ever be a time that I'll get my life back.

Win, Lose, Draw

A few years back, our TV decided to be contrary and insist on being handled through the remote only. If you had the nerve to actually walk over and push it's buttons, it would choose all on it's own what it wanted to do. "Oh, so you want me to turn the volume down, do you? Well how about I change channels instead."

We got lucky and had a month left on the warranty, so we called in the TV doctor (who still makes house calls, yo) who told us that the part we needed is no longer available and we're just out of luck. The nice thing about warranties is that they cover when bad stuff happens like that. We got refunded the full paying price of the television. Suh-weet.

As long as we used the remote, we had no problems. Until yesterday. Now the television has decided that it doesn't want to be ignored. Ever. It won't turn off. Not manually, not with the remote, not happening. We've taken to pulling the plug to get it to be quiet. (If only kids came so equipped, you know?)

In order to avoid mega headaches dragging the entertainment center away from the wall to plug and unplug that contrary beastie, Sam plugged the TV into the bottom outlet hole. When he built our home, he wisely put all the bottom outlet recepticles in the living room on a switch so that we could plug things like lamps and Christmas decor into them and turn them on and off with one simple flick of a switch. (Yes, my husband is brilliant that way.)

I've mentioned before how Micah has a thing for Dark O'clock on occasion. One of those occasions is first thing in the morning. One simply cannot watch television at the crack of dawn with lights on. That would be silly. And wrong.

So Micah came downstairs to pay homage to his onscreen friends. Except what ho! The TV didn't turn on. I showed him that a light switch now controls the magic, and he would have been happy except that I have a lighted topiary plugged in on that electrical circuit.

Lights!

Highly unacceptable. He turned the lights off. And off went the TV.

GAH!

He turned the TV back on and as he went to check to be sure that it was flashing colorful pictures at him, he saw those lights were on again.

NO!

Off went the lights, off went the TV. On went the TV, on went the lights. On, off, on, off, round and round the mulberry bush...

In the end he decided that it was better to watch TV with the glare of purdy lights than to watch no TV at all.

Life is full of hard choices.

The Teacher

The kids were watching skiing on TV the other day. As I looked closer at the screen, I realized that it was not a regular ski competition. The athletes lacked legs. They had a special ski that they sat on, and maneuvered themselves down the hill just as adeptly as anyone else.

The kids watched that for quite a while. I heard talk of things like, "that's Special Olympics, like Micah does" and "those people are amazing." That's just what I'd expect, of course. What I didn't expect was to hear Luke talk for hours about the things that he would invent, inspired by what he saw.

Mind you, a lot of those things that he would invent had nothing to do with the special people he was watching. It was more along the lines of gas powered skis and rocket blasting snowmobiles, but there were other things like special sleds for kids that can't walk, and small snowshoes to help kids walk in the snow. (We'll just ignore the fact that small snowshoes would be ineffective, the boy is thinking and planning and I'm giving him mad props for that.)

Ever since that day, nearly seven years ago, when Micah was introduced to us as a child with a disability, I've been thankful above all that his siblings get to experience life with him. Their acceptance level will be greater than most kids, their tolerance of different will be wonderful, they will learn that everyone has value, no matter what that person is able to do or not do.

It's just one of the things that Micah teaches us on a daily basis. We're so blessed.

But I also love that because my kids are able to look past that difference, they can see ways to help others. My kids are quick to step in and lend a hand, or an ear, or a shoulder to lean on. My kids are learning compassion.

I love that.

The Cost of Good Taste

I have come to realize (once again) that I have impeccable taste. If you would see how I dress on any given day, you'd wet yourself laughing over that statement, but I'm serious. I'm not talking about clothing, though. I'm talking about decor.

When we were building our house, I was drawn to things like cherry cabinets and slate floors and French doors. To balance this penchant for spendy tastes, I am the cheapest person on Planet Earth. This poses problems, of course. I was able to get some of what I wanted by patiently waiting for sales and using discounts, but other things were left at the store for someone else to indulge in. I love our home, and the fact that we didn't pay full price for much of anything in it.

But after five years, I'm thinking it's time to update some things. (I get all HGTV-redo every now and then. It's a curse.) I repainted the living room and dining room last summer, and am now eyeballing the kitchen. It needs a back splash. And we should probably put up the crown moulding that we bought five years ago. I'm thinking less than $200 should get the job done.

Go ahead, laugh with me.

Done yet?

Isn't it funny how one thing leads to another? The laminate back splash morphed into tile, which needs grout and sealer. And if we put the crown moulding on, we should probably change out those cabinets that don't match. And you know what would look really super nice? A wooden valance above the window, with pillars down each side.

For the record, we're talking tile that costs $20/sq. ft. and cherry cabinetry.

Le sigh.

It may be a while before this all happens because finding this stuff on clearance is proving to be harder than I thought. Why is it that the pretty stuff costs so much, when you can do ugly on a dime?

The Beginnings of a Blogger

I am not a fan of sports. Sam watches sporting events any chance that he gets. I learned early on in the marriage that he is in control of the television, and when sports are on I may as well be the maid for all the more I exist around here.

So there was that time I rented a movie over the weekend. It was due back Tuesday and we hadn't watched it yet. I (rather stupidly) asked Sam if we could watch it on Monday night so that we could get our money's worth out of it before I had to take it back the next day. The look he gave me was clearly one that said I'd lost what little sanity I'd been harboring. And then he had the nerve to stand there and actually verbalize "Football is on."

Okay, I know all you die-hard fans out there are clearly on his side. But try for one moment to see my side of this. Every Monday he watches football. Every. Single. Monday. Plus most Sundays as well. And the other days of the week he is clearly in control of the remote, sometimes allowing me to catch glimpses of shows that I like between the commercial breaks of the shows that he chooses. The TV clearly belongs to him and I am just along for the ride. Also, I don't think it's unreasonable to watch what I want on television once in a while.

But apparently he does, and there's nothing like having him confirm that he loves sports more than he loves me.

I did what any normal grown up would do. I stomped off to my sewing room and took out my frustrations in my work.

About 30 minutes later Sam came in and said, "I'm working the overnight and need to get a nap before I go in to work. You can watch what you want on TV now."

I don't know about you, but to me, that came across less as "I'm sorry. You have a right to watch television, too" and more as "hurry and watch what you want while I have something else to do." Nothing like digging the hole deeper there, dear.

And that was the beginning of my blogging career. I turned to the internet and swore off television. While Sam was channel surfing and watching sports, I was making new friends and expanding my small horizons.

*Disclaimer - this was 2 years ago. We have inadvertently scheduled music lessons for 3 kids on Monday night and Sam is in charge of schlepping them to and from. Monday night football is not a regularity in our house anymore. And also, my dear and loving husband has learned from this whole event that sharing the television isn't the beginning of the end.

So what was the beginning of your blogging career? Did anything or anyone inspire you?