Plans? Made.

I asked Josh to bring my cell phone to the sewing room, so he sent it upstairs with Micah. The boy wasn't any too keen on handing it over because he really wanted to make a call, he just couldn't figure out how to dial. In an effort to keep the peace, I handed him the house phone extension and asked Daddy to dial Grandma's number. Micah walked out of the sewing room talking Grandma's ear off. Whether he was making grand plans, or telling her about his day, or saying that he wanted pizza for dinner was anyone's guess.

The phone was found laying in the hallway and Grandma was rescued, because she's way too polite to just hang up in the event that Micah may come back. No, we didn't know what he was talking about, but he's clearly done now and moved on to other things.

The other things involved a suitcase and a change of clothing. He was wearing a pink striped polo, inside out, and pink plaid shorts. He's a snappy dresser. His roll around Toy Story suitcase was towed down the hall to Luke's room, where he disappeared until dinnertime.

He brought his packed suitcase, a bag of videos, Woody, and a stuffed backpack to dinner with him, and insisted that instead of eating we go somewhere. His Voice declared that he needed help, but we weren't sure what he needed help with. Because we sure weren't going to drive that boy to Grandma's, despite the fact that obviously he'd made plans with her on the phone and packed to go. Not on a school night, at least.

Luke must go everywhere Micah does or the boy isn't happy, so the extra backpack was for Luke. While Micah packed his entire drawer full of short sleeved shirts for himself, he chose clothing for his brother out of the dirty laundry basket.

I never want that boy to pack a suitcase for me.

I Have Found His Wake Up Call

Because Murphy likes to rear his ugly head any time that he can, Micah is now sleeping in past 6:30 in the mornings. This is depsite putting him to bed earlier to compensate for his earlier bus arrival. And by the way, I totally called this.

It's now about 50/50 on whether he's up just minutes before my alarm goes off, or if I have to wake him. And by 'wake him,' I actually mean struggle with an 80 pound lump of boy suffering from I Don't Want To Get Up combined with a severe case of Melt Into A Puddle of Uncooperation And Become Limp So Nobody Can Pick Me Up. It's way more of a struggle than you can comprehend until you've tried it for yourself. For those adventurous types, there'll be a sign-up sheet at the bottom of the blog post.

Micah's behavior on days he wants to sleep in is baffling and new to us. This is the boy who is up at the buttcrack of dawn on a regular basis, thinking it's his personal duty to wake the sun before any random neighborhood roosters might. On the rare occasion that I've had to wake him in the past, once I actually get his eyes to open, the boy is all go, go, go. Truly, this strange new creature is a force to be reckoned with.

However, I have found his wake up call. The boy found a shirt at Old Navy one day, and since it was on clearance, I bought it for him. I knew it was all him from the moment I saw it, so it wouldn't be wasted money. It was a button down, in old-man-dress-shirt light blue, with a motorcycle screen printed on the bottom. And Micah loves it. LOVES it. He loves that shirt like you cannot even imagine a little boy of 8 loving a piece of clothing. I have to hide it when it comes out of the wash, because the moment he sees that shirt, he'll insist you button him into it so he can go jump on the trampoline and play in the dirt.

This shirt is his wake up call. As he was lying in bed, trying to ignore the fact that I was telling him it was a school day, and wishing that I would just vanish into thin air and take the intrusive light with me, I pulled out The Shirt. It was almost funny watching him go from Please Go Away and Never Come Back to Can I Strip Out of my Favorite Woody Pajamas As I'm Standing Up So That I Can Get My Favorite Shirt On Faster mode.

I'll have to be sure that shirt is freshly laundered all the time, and hope he opens his eyes long enough to see it on days that he just won't get up.

Here We Go Again. Maybe. Or Not?

We have the possibility of some fairly major home improvement projects to tackle in the next year. It's been six years since we built our house, and we learned a lot in the year it took to get it done. We learned a little bit about patience, and how to make your marriage survive in the midst of a building project of that proportion, and a little more about patience, and stress management, and of course, patience.

We were told that building a house is not for the faint of heart. They were right. Egads, they were right. And yet, we loved it. Except for that one time in month #8 when we had to take a weekend away from the work in order to preserve our marriage because we were teetering on the brink of homicide. You don't need to know that we spent our entire weekend stalking the aisles of every Lowes and Home Depot in the tri state area.

But that was something else we learned when we built. While the actual work of building under a deadline is stressful on a marriage, the part where you choose what goes in and on the house was rather awesomeish.

And after six years, we're finding ourselves here again. Part of me is super duper excited about this, and the planning and scheming and architect playing is just way too fun. But part of me is wondering why we're going down this path again, and if I really think our marriage needs strengthened in such a way yet again.

In the meantime, if you know how to build a garage and front porch that looks like a million dollars on a budget of way less, send your secrets my way, please.

The Writing on the Pumpkin

We chose our pumpkins last weekend. The white ones were novel to us, and a little easier on the wallet, so we stocked up on those. Micah loved pulling the wagon so generously provided by the vendor while I loaded it up with the choicest pumpkins I could afford. (Side note: pumpkins are spendy little things.)

He helped me load them into the van, one by one, counting them as we went. He giggled as I put a seatbelt around the biggest pumpkin, sitting on the van seat beside him. And then he gave them no more thought, letting Becky and I do the work of unloading them when we got home while he ran into the house to watch a movie.

The pumpkins sat outside for a few days until I decided exactly what to do with them. There are so many fun things to do with white pumpkins, and I took some time deciding. In the end, I simply painted B-O-O on three of them and set them on a stand in the living room. I know it's not super schmancy, but it's cute, and I can still carve them later in the season. I call it a win-win.

There were still 2 white pumpkins on the counter, their fate being decided upon. Should I wrap them in ribbon in an argyle pattern? Should I paint pictures on them? Fall messages of welcoming tidings? Should I wrap them in black lace with colored leaves as stems? Oh, the possibilities that could happen.

Micah came home from school that day and reminded me that he misses nothing. He followed his usual routine of hugging me (which started the day after I wasn't home to get him off the bus), throwing his bookbag aside, and stripping down to his skivvies. (One has to shed the frustrations of school, I guess. We don't question what that One does. Mostly because he can't answer.) And after he stripped, he found Woody and danced him all over the living room floor.

A bit later, Micah came into the kitchen, grabbed a highlighter out of the drawer, and wrote a number 5 on one of the white pumpkins on the counter, and a number 6 on the other. Being all proud of himself, he had to show me his handiwork, and say "Iiii, iX" as he pointed to the numbers.

My heart swelled a bit. That boy loves math. He's all mine.

And then Micah carried his pumpkins to the living room and set them on either side of my row of pumpkins, because even if he's not letting you know it, he misses nothing in his world. Except for the fact that my pumpkins sported letters and his sported numbers, but he got the general gist of things.

Having A Student Driver is a Bigger Problem Than I Thought It Would Be

Becky has her driver's permit, so it's our parental responsibility to allow her to drive any time we can. Being a very-much-brand-new driver, we're hesitant to expose her to too many situations until she has the actual driving part down pat. This has eliminated driving after dark, driving in the rain, driving on heavily traveled roads, and driving with the entire family in the van. Eliminating chaos is a good thing when one is nervous. Except we allowed her to drive home from church with the entire family in the van, she did well right up until she ran into the post in the parking lot at the gas station. Sam drove home from there.

We've been playing musical seats in the van now that a teen has taken over the driver's position. I sit shotgun, then Sam sits shotgun, the kids just bounce around in the back like popcorn, vying for the best seat. One with an Oh, Shoot handle is preferrable.

The kids have mixed reactions to the fact that Becky is now a driver. The nephew is insanely jealous, and voices this approximately ever 38.2 seconds. He needs a physical and replacement social security card before he can get his permit, and he's feeling the wait. Josh dispenses advice like a champion backseat driver. Luke is in his own world, and I'm not even sure he's aware the van is moving most times, much less who is driving it.

And then there's Micah. That boy can't wait until the van stops, because that means we'll get back in it again. He is thrilled that mom and dad finally came around and decided to let the kids have turns driving. Except he's finding if very unfair that we're playing favorites. Very unfair, indeed.

He's tried getting to the van first so that he can just climb into the driver's seat, and is seriously ticked that we make him get out without handing over the keys. And yet, he's not deterred. Every time Becky gets a turn at driving, he points to her, grins, and makes the sign for taking turns.

I'm very afraid of what the next decade will bring. Keeping that boy from driving will eventually be the death of me, I'm sure.

Saturday Shots

Art Work!

Pinterest is my go-to for decor ideas, menu options, and just plain fun. Like this.



Becky decided that she would love that hanging on her bedroom wall, so I bought a 3-pack of art canvas at Walmart for $9 and we had a fun afternoon of creating. Because we have more crayons on hand than Walmart does at any given time, we didn't need to purchase any of those. (Seriously, we do. I have over a dozen boxes in a desk drawer not even opened, and twice that many in a go-to jar on a shelf.)

Becky chose the colors she loved best, and hot glued them along the top of the canvas. We broke out Sam's heat gun and started melting crayons.



We tried a hair dryer, which was very effective at melting crayons, but also effective at blowing the wax all over the canvas. The heat gun has a setting that makes a lot of heat with little air flow. It rocks.

Colors will still run together, but it makes the art that much more interesting.



And when Luke came home, he wanted to get in on the action as well.



And then he personalized his with his name Sharpie'd at the bottom.



And I have to say, every time I walk by the kids' rooms, I am loving those pieces of art.

Photographic Evidence of My Day

A photo journal of my day, in bits and pieces and bright images.


























You know, just any old ordinary day.

The Random Screaming Will Be The Undoing

When I became a mom sixteen years ago, I never did the math to see how old I'd be when my daughter was old enough to drive. Had I done that, I maybe would have made a plan to brainwash Becky to think that she really didn't want her driver's license until she got married. I could have completely convinced her that it's the best husband-wife honeymoon bonding there is.

I may or may not speak from experience on this. Except it would be learning to drive a standard, not driving in general. If I were speaking from experience that is. Ahem.

We now have a teen driver in the house. Just a permit, mind you, not a license, but a teen driver nonetheless. Because she passed her test, I figured I should do something special. We stopped at CVS to get sodas, because we know how to party, and then I took the back way home; partly to avoid the road construction, and partly to allow Becky to drive on less traveled roads her very first time behind the wheel. On a road. In public. As a legal driver.

Just breathe.

She did very well, actually. I know I shouldn't be surprised, but it was just what? A year or so ago that she asked if the mirror should be adjusted to see herself, or see out the back? And failed to put the van in drive before stepping on the gas while practicing in our driveway? Yeh, I've had reasons to fear. But she did well. I was congratulating myself that I was actually calm and enjoying this whole adventure when I realized that my hand hurt. The hand that had a death grip on the door handle.

Maybe I wasn't as sure of this as I thought.

I waited until she pulled into the driveway, and was almost at the house before I screamed. Loudly and suddenly. She jumped and had a slight panic attack.

This teen driving thing is going to be a lot of fun.

Well THAT Was a Disappointment

I got the fall decorations out of the attic over the weekend. Micah was all sorts of helpful, as he always is when things come out of the attic. It's like a treasure chest up there; one never knows what fun you'll find lurking in a dark corner.

We hauled the crates down two flights of stairs to the living room, and Micah was nearly dancing with glee when he opened the first box. He dug through to the bottom, pushed it aside, and moved on to the next box. When they were all gone through, his disappointment was visible. And huge.

It was not Christmas decor, and the stocking with the Disney characters on them were not among the boxes.

I love that my boy loves Christmas as much as I do. Now I just need to work on helping him love Halloween, too.

Dear Telemarketers:

When I used that wonderful feature that allowed me to block telemarketers from calling my home phone, thereby hassling me while I ate dinner, or helped with homework, or interrupted my day in any way, shape, or form (read: please don't call me, I'll call you if I ever need what you're pandering), I was a bit irked that I was still hassled.

You told me the hassling was not part of telemarketers ploys, but people with whom I have business already.

So, Dear Credit Card Company: I already am aware of your services. I have your card. I also get the statements that you send monthly. And the blank checks that also come monthly, separate from the statement, so that I may access my unused credit balance at the great interest rate of My Children Will Never Attend College Because I'm Paying You Back With Compounded Interest. Really, if you would stop mailing things every 4 days, and stop calling me every month to ask if I want more from my card, you would be able to save so much money that you could probably reduce my interest rate on my existing card balance. I know, radical, right? Try multiplying that by the millions of customers that you have, and be mind-boggled at the savings.

So after getting off the call list with my credit card company, I was still receiving phone calls, interrupting my day with pleas of help. I further questioned, and you told me, Telemarketer, that nonprofit agencies are exempt from that Do Not Call list. And my, how you've taken advantage of that.

Here's the thing. I am well aware that heart disease kills. I know that March of Dimes helps babies. I support my local and state police through my tax money. I also know how to find each of you when I have the desire to give more. If you want to call and ask for my help personally, I promise not to get bent out of shape. But please be courteous and end there.

Dear Telemarketer, when you call me and ask if I can mail letters to my neighbors in January, thank me when I agree. Do not call back in 2 weeks to remind me of my commitment in 3 months. And then do another follow-up call a month later to tell me that the packets will be arriving in 6 weeks. And then.... Lets be clear on this - I consider this harassment. I will also be tempted to tell you that I've changed my mind about said letters and to please take me off your list of willing patrons.

And one more thing, while I have your time and attention, Dear Telemarketer. Please remember that you were the one who called me. You interrupted my daily routine, you called during dinner, you are the reason I'm now running late to my appointment. Please don't get snippy and short with me when I exercise my right to say, "no, thank you."

Love,

The Harried Mom That Is Always Up To Her Elbows In Work And Doesn't Really Have Time To Take Your Call Even Though I Make Time On Occasion Just To Be Polite And Hear What You Have To Say

P.S. My nonverbal son LOVES to talk on the phone. If these calls do not stop, I will hand him the phone. Don't think it's beneath me. He never hangs up. Ever.

Party On

I Refuse To Contribute To The Skankiness

I hate that Halloween has become a ho-fest. It seems no matter what costume you Google, you'll see a scantily clad ho-bag wearing as little clothing as possible, while still somehow managing to convey the idea of the outfit. Perhaps it shouldn't be, but it's shocking to me that even something as innocent as Little Bo Peep has been twisted into epic wrongness of X-rated proportions.

This doesn't translate into boys' costumes, so we're generally in the clear with what the boys can wear. But with Becky, it's pretty dicey finding a costume that covers all her girly parts. This is part of the reason that I make everything the kids wear for Halloween. The other part is that the costumes in my price range are cheesy and tacky, and the ones that are actually more than a one-piece pull-on screen printed with a 2-D superhero character are more than I pay for an entire year's worth of clothing.

But despite the fact that I make my costumes, thereby ensuring that the daughter is dressed modestly, doesn't mean that it's easy to pull off Halloween without participating in the ho-bag fest. Last year, she wanted to be a ballerina. Her idea of a tutu was waaaaaay shorter and skimpier than my idea of one. We compromised on a length, but I insisted she wear shorts underneath because it was a bit more see-through than I would have preferred despite the 10 yards of tulle used.  Neither of us were terribly happy with the outfit, so I guess it was a win.

This year, the daughter has chosen to be a peacock. I made the mistake of asking Google to show me some costumes. You'd think I'd remember that Halloween is a ho-fest, but I'm a slow learner. DON'T GOOGLE IT. You've been warned. But really, I wanted to know how to make the tail feathers without actually buying and de-tailing a live bird. I'm still stumped in that department, but I have every confidence I'll think of something before October 31. The most difficult part is that I prefer my budget to stay under $10. But I'm seeing that budget as easier to achieve than making the daughter happy.

If you've got some ideas to help out, I'd be glad to hear them.

How My Mind Completely Twisted the Boy Scouts of America

His excitement over Boy Scouts isn't new. He wanted to join last year, right up until sign-up night, and then he changed his mind because he "didn't want to be tied down every night of the week." But this year Luke followed through with his enthusiasm and joined, mostly because he'd already checked to see if he could get out of it "in case the need arises." That's dedication, right there.

So last night was sign-up night, and as I was looking over the information that Luke brought home, I realized that one paper said it would be 6-7PM, and the other paper said 5-7PM. Highlighted text that has been copied results in a blackened mark over that text that is still readable, but certainly not highlighted. The 5-7PM text was highlighted and copied. I figured it was the correct paper. Plus, Boy Scouts meet 5 minutes from the house, so even if I'm early, coming home for another hour would beat missing half the first meeting.

I knew I was an hour early when there were 2 other cars in the lot, and I saw the flags being carried into the building. But I went in anyway, just to clarify. "Hi," I said. "I wasn't sure what time the Boy Scouts were meeting. I had two different papers, with two different times listed. Am I an hour early, or does it start at 5?"










??????












"I just wasn't sure if I was on time, or too early. Do you know when it starts?" Three people pointed to the one whose back had been turned to me. "You'll need to talk to her." She continued to shuffle papers and ignore both me, and the fact that she was just handed a stranger full of questions.








??????




!!!!!!!!!




##*$@#*%





"I guess I'm an hour early. I'll head home and come back at 6."

"If you give me a minute to finish the paperwork, I'll get you signed in. Can you just wait? It starts at 6. I crossed out the 5:00 time." It sounded rather huffy, considering I was the one who was being snubbed. But I spent my time waiting by explaining my situation. "It really looked like it had been highlighted and copied. I thought you were marking that as more important."

Luke was handed a mini copy of the Boys Life magazine he'll begin receiving through the Scouting year, and he promptly buried his nose in the text. I filled out paperwork, handed over a check for $15 (although, clearly that had been highlighted and copied as well - the part that said registration between September and December only cost $5), and was given information for popcorn sales.

Because my mind tends to wander a lot, and sometimes goes down twisty paths based on all the CSI shows that I watch, I was thinking to myself that the Boy Scouts would be a perfect place for pedophiles to hang out. I mean, boys come flocking to you for out-of-school activities, and expect you to take them out and about and do fun things with them. I was just chastising myself for my twisted thought waves, knowing that anyone working with kids has had background checks, when one of the ladies interrupted both my train of thought and the speech given by the Lady In Charge.

"I just want to say that as the Popcorn Colonel for the past three years, we're not selling popcorn. We're selling Boy Scouts."

People, I kid you not, my mind split into two distinct halves. One half was rolling it's eyeballs and guffawing loudly that not only would someone actually come up with a title like that, but that someone else would  proudly call themselves that in public. The Popcorn Colonel? Did they also spell it Kernel, instead?

The other half of my mind was whistle blowing and dialing 911, becuase it was already thinking that the Boy Scouts were a pedo haven, and now they just told me that they're selling Boy Scouts. All I could think of to say was, "What?" I am not good at hiding my facial expressions, so I'm sure the horror was evident.

"I just mean that we're not selling popcorn, we're asking people to buy Boy Scouts, and in return they'll get popcorn for their investment." And my mind was thinking, Oh my gosh, it's getting worse! They REWARD you for buying your own personal little boy. HELP ME UNDERSTAND THIS INSANITY.

Thankfully, one of the other ladies butted in at this point. "I just told my son to say, 'I'm a member of the Boy Scouts. Would you like to support our troop in one of these dollar amounts? As a thank you, we'll give you popcorn for your donation.'"

I think it may be a very interesting year of Scouting ahead of us. And I think I just figured out how they get parents to volunteer so easily. But Luke is excited, so I have to be excited, too. I'm just glad that Scouting is a father-son time, and hope Sam doesn't have to work evenings EVERY Tuesday.

We Learned About Chinese Food on Tuesday in Sunday School

I was teaching the 1st and 2nd grade class about creation. While I taught the Bible lesson, I gave them a strip of butcher paper and a pack of markers so that they could draw a picture of what God created on each day. This worked well for half the class, which consisted of one boy. The other half of the class decided to draw his own thing. I think it was entitled The Eyeball Robot Destroyer, or something like that. It was very detailed.

Two minutes into the class, I sent my husband out on an errand, and one of the boys asked to use the restroom. "Can you wait until Mr. Sam comes back so he can take you?" "Well, I don't know. I'm afraid if I do my underpants will be leaky." We don't want leaky underpants in Sunday School, so I sent him off to the restroom.

Once we got on with the lesson, I wanted the kids to know that God declared things were "good" at the end of each day of creation. Everything that God makes is good. I asked them to repeat the "And God said it was good" phrase with me. By the time we were on the 4th day, it was clear that half the class knew that God declared things to be good, but the half that was elaborately drawing The Eyeball Robot Destroyer (or something like that) was distracted by his awesome creation. "At the end of the fourth day God said, 'It is......,'" I prompted.

"Tuesday?"

I almost laughed out loud. The things these kids come up with.

And on the day that God created animals and Adam, I asked the kids what the verse meant when it said, "God created cattle." To help them understand, I said, "God created Adam, but what else lives on the earth with us besides fish and birds?" (That's pretty narrowed down, right?)

"Chinese food."

Well, yes. It really does. I love teaching Sunday School.

Things That Went Down Today

 Today was very random, even for our place.

We had the home inspection this morning for the remortgage appraisal. I was all sorts of curious what the value of the home is now that we've added a patio, almost finished the basement, got a ton of landscaping done, installed a pond.... And I have to wait a week for results. Or more. "I'm slow at these things" is not something that you get excited about hearing in a situation like this.

And as I was out and about on the grounds, greeting my girls, I noticed one of the corgis was winking at me. It's never good when a dog winks at you, especially if they've not been trained to do so. (Ours have not.) It's even worse if you have to peel the crusty stuff off the eye to see what's going on behind it. The poor dog scratched over 1/3 of her cornea. She's now in the house to avoid the sunlight while she's on meds that dilate her pupils. She's also on pain meds because, wow, scratched eyes are incredibly painful. Poor Stella.

I ran to Walmart after the vet visit to pick up dog food and milk (Yum! Dinner anyone?)) and was on my way home when I realized that Micah was due to be dropped off at home five minutes ago. Yes, as in, I should have been home to get him off the van. And I wasn't. Egads, the panic. And egads, the poor, POOR boy who was terrified out of his tiny wits at finding himself family-less, lost bowel control, stripped, and was running through the yard crying in hysterics as I pulled in the driveway. He calmed quickly after hugs and apologies and resumed his normal after-school routine very quickly.

While getting ready for his bath this evening, Micah was standing in front of the mirror admiring his handsome little self. It was then that he noticed the tooth he lost over two weeks ago. Mind you, when it fell out, he simply spit it out, ran to the bathroom and spit into the sink, and flushed the tooth down the toilet. (He has zero clue about losing teeth.) But tonight he noticed that gap in the lower half of his smile, and he freaked. He cried for 45 minutes, and I have a lot of reasons to believe it has less to do with the tooth than the fact that Mama forgot about him this afternoon after school. Huge parenting fail, right there. I've got a whole lot of guilt.

And through the course of the day, the smell has come back. Thanks to the record keeping qualities of blogging, I know that the ammonia that I smell with every breath is not a result of the cleaning I've done, but that overactive olfactory nerve. I also know that I'll need to see the ENT to make it go away, and preferrably before the I-smell-ammonia-induced headache comes on.

Today was so random. Even for this place.

I Give My Husband Permission To Just Walk Away Next Time

So we have that appraiser coming to look at the house at 9AM Monday. I'd said that I needed to desperately clean the house and I most likely would spend the weekend up to my elbows in Pine Sol and Magic Erasers.

I did not.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that instead of cleaning I hired a maid to do all the heavy work while I had a massage and stocked up on bon bons. But you thought wrong. Here's the timeline of events for my weekend.

Thursday: Phone call from appriaser to set up 9AM Monday appointment.

Friday: Decide to finish the basement because a finished basement would add value to the house.

Rest of Weekend: Work on basement. Except for that 2 hour meeting on Saturday morning, church on Sunday morning, and church that evening. Yeh, they cut into worktime like you can't imagine.

So that whole cleaning thing didn't happen. In fact, not only did the house not get cleaned, it got trashed even more. We are now living in a construction zone, sprinkled with dog hair and a sink full of dishes. We've had the materials to do the basement for a while, so it was just a matter of actually doing it. And what better time than the present? With an appraiser coming? Deadlines are the best incentives ever.

The good news is that the basement has walls and a ceiling now. The bad news is that it's not finished, nor will it be. I'm hoping we get credit for trying at least. (Right? Yes? Please?) But even if not, the basement is much farther along that it's been for the past 6 years.

We worked hard all weekend. Sam, Josh, & I did all the work ourselves. Josh worked harder than either of us adults, putting up half a wall alone while Sam & I attended that meeting. That boy, at 14, amazes me.

To think that I was so concerned about cleaning makes me laugh uncontrollably. It's borderline hysteria, actually, because I know that I still have cleaning to do and not only am I running of time, but I have run out of steam. (I nodded off in the shower. You've gotta be tired to do THAT.) I wake each morning with not-so-subtle reminders that I'm no longer 20.

The next time I decide to tackle a massive project on a tight deadline, Sam has premission to laugh at me. And then walk away.

This is the kind of stuff that you look back on and laugh about in your old age, right?

Fun & Games

Well This Was Unexpected

You know how you get busy, and the housework slides to the bottom of the list, and when you have time to actually tackle it things are so bad that it's going to take two full weeks of sheer elbow grease to get it back to presentable again? We're there. Or we were a month ago at least. And things have only gotten worse in the meantime.

I resolved to clean now that the kids are in school. I got the living room done, including sorting through toys in 2 boxes, the dress up clothes, the videos, and a shelf full of books. It's a good start considering the kids have only been in school a week, and I have sewing to do. I was all proud of myself, even.

And then we decided to refinance the house. People, I've got until Monday at 9AM to get this place ready for an appraisal inspection. Oh, the work to be done.

The thing is, if we'd have done the projects we intended to for the past year or so, we wouldn't have so much to do. So far today, I redid the junk collecting catch-all corner into a reading nook, Sam put up the kitchen backsplash, and the basement & laundry room are cleaned. It's a start.

If you need me, I'll be up to my elbows in Pine Sol and Mr. Magic Erasers.

The Ducks Go Over The Road

Avoiding the Tardy Bell

Micah's school starts an hour earlier this year than they have in the past. I was told it was to save money because 2 other schools merged into this one, but I fail to see how a start time saves money. And for some reason, nobody can explain it to me, either. It's just so.

Micah rides a van to school rather than a bus, and I know from experience that this van company is lax in contacting parents about who is driving the route and what time they'll be at my house. Despite my vigilance in calling them a week prior to school starting (and even then I think maybe I should have heard from them, no?), I didn't get to talk to anyone until the day before the starting date. I was told that they'd pick Micah up at "quarter till."

You mean a quarter till 7, right?

"No, a quarter till 8."

But that's what time he was picked up last year, and school is starting an hour earlier this year.

"Yeh, but he doesn't have to be there until 8:00, and we figure it'll take about 10 minutes to drive him in once he's picked up."

The late bell rings at 8. If he gets there at 8:00, he'll be late. He should already be in class by then.
"I don't know. That's just what they told me." (I was talking to the mechanic, who was doubling as Micah's driver. The Man In Charge wasn't in.)

(:::headdesk::::) Okay, we'll see how it goes the first day, but we may have to revisit this if he's getting there too late.

Hand up the one who guessed that Micah got there too late.

So I called the van company again, who rearranged schedules and shifted vans and got someone here at 7:05 so that Micah could get to school on time. I now rank among the rest of the population that gets up before 7AM on a school day, and I have to say, I don't like your world. Just hush, I know I was spoiled.

I am not happy about this whole 7AM bus thing, but Micah is generally up at 6:30 anyway, so I figure it's all good. It just means that I actually have to get up to get him ready instead of laying there with my eyes closed and my ears open for twenty minutes, pretending to rest longer. (It's my version of a snooze button.) So this morning, when Micah walked into our room at 6:15 and got in bed with us, my first thought was, "seriously? Because setting my alarm 30 minutes earlier isn't bad enough, you have to wake me *before* it goes off?" And the boy promptly went to sleep.

People, I had to wake the boy for school. Somewhere in the universe, life is mocking me.

Bees!

Bees smell like honey and wax when you vacuum them up. I now know this from experience.

Josh was accosted by bees when working at what was previously the pony stable but is now minus the ponies and will always be labeled as the pony stable regardless. After using a can of bee spray in a useless attempt to ward them off, he found the motherlode of bee nests in a tree next to the stable. His work was done for the day, and I didn't blame him one bit because when I went to look at this "motherload of all bee nests", the nest was really a swarm of honeybees. The swarm was hanging on the trunk of a pine tree, and was roughly a foot wide and three feet high. It was interesting, but not something you wanted to work beside.

Which is where the problem came in. My garden is in what was previously the pony paddock, adjoining what was previously the pony stable. The volleyball field and fire pit for the teen hangout is in what was previously the pony pasture, by the paddock-turned-garden. The bees were in a bad location. They had to be moved.

While I am not a bee enthusiast, and will not hesitate to kill one that has decided my house will now be it's house, honeybees aren't all that common in nature anymore and I knew that killing a swarm was not a smart thing to do. Surely someone would want those bees.

Finding someone to take a swarm of honeybees proved to be a learning experience. I had no intention of paying for their removal, nor was I interested in making money on selling them. I simply wanted to help someone out with a new hive while they helped me by removing them. We heard that it was too late in the year to make money on them, so it wasn't worth the effort to get them. We heard an answering machine that refused to even get back with us. Door number three came within 24 hours.

"Within 24 hours" actually translated into a 6AM meeting at the pine tree in the field. I guess if I was the one poking the swarm, I'd want to be sure they were cold, asleep, and inactive as well. The Bee Man was armed with a mini Shop Vac motor and hose attached to a 5 gallon bucket. I was armed with a cup of hot coffee. The Bee Man sucked up those bees, one at a time, into the bucket that was fitted with the largest wire caterpillar cage I've seen. The whole thing was incredible, really.

As he vacuumed more and more, a few of the more alert bees started flying around The Bee Man. I began to question my loose leg yoga pants selection and stepped around by the side of the truck. Eventually, we both donned a bee bonnet, although mine was completely unnecessary.

It took over 30 minutes to get all those bees. It was estimated that there were several thousand bees in the swarm, including a queen. I learned that most likely, they would have moved of their own accord before winter set it, but it very well may have been into someone's house. I learned that bees produce heat in the winter by shivering, because their queen needs kept at a very comfy 92 degrees at all times. I learned that in summer, the life span of a bee is 6-8 weeks because they wear their wings out.

I decided that my fascination with beekeeping is best kept at the end of my bucket list. But I'll remember the sweet, sweet smell of bees being vacuumed up. They smell like honey and wax.

Nineteen

Because we are the romantic type (she said sarcastically) we did absolutely nothing out of the ordinary for our 19th anniversary. We went to church, stayed afterward for a picnic, had the teens over for dinner, and watched Indiana Jones on TV because we get 4 channels and it was the best thing on. But it was a wonderful day because we spent it with friends that we love.

I hope you have that wonderful of a day with friends and family on the last holiday of summer. Happy Labor Day!

One of These Is Not Like The Other

Ah, The Flashbacks. But There Was No Flash Dancing.

This week at youth group was vintage game night. The kids had an Atari tournament, playing Pac-Man. (Anyone having flashbacks yet?) And because we amp  up the fun factor any time that we can, the kids got extra points for dressing vintage. And by "vintage," we meant anything in a previous era. You know, 20's, 40's, 60's, even 70's. But the teens chose to include the 80's as well, because to them, it was clearly before their time.

This will make you feel older than you've felt in a long time. Since when are the 80's considered 'vintage'? And what's next? Are they going to tell you that your music should be on the oldies stations? *sigh*

So since the kids insist that I'm an old fogey who grew up in the bright, neon ages of the 80's, I chose to dress like I did back in the day. I pegged my jeans, layered brightly colored tops (which were banded at the side to take in the slack!), and donned a long gold chain paired with huge gold earrings.

(If you don't  know what pegged jeans are, you can just turn your music down and get off my lawn.)

But the real fun started when I did my hair. I was very afraid of how easily it all came back to me. The daughter was very afraid of the hair. She walked in just after I turned my head upside down to shake out the tangle of curling iron induced ringlets and spraying them with enough instant freeze hairspray to put a hole in the bathroom wall. Forget the ozone. I felt brain cells dying out. Why has there never been a study done on diminished mental capacity of overzealous hairspray users?

"Mom, it looks like a clown. You need to tame it down in the back." Oh, no, hon. It should probably be teased to achieve more volume. If this were the 80's, I'd be a loser with a lame hairdo like this.

Her eyes widened until there was very real danger of them falling out of her head.

I sprayed the sides until they stood at a 90 degree angle from my head, and teased the bangs until they achieved the maximum height allowed for their length. Becky's horror grew in proportion to the hair's volume. "Wait till Dad sees you," she said in shock. "Oh, he's seen me like this, hon. It's how I snagged him in the first place." Disbelief was palpable. I could tell that she was considering conducting that diminished mental capacity study on her own free time.

I think it's going to take a full week to get the hairspray washed out. And I think I also figured out why the hair has been thinning as of late. All those years, and all that spray. How can hair not be traumatized? I consider it a delayed reaction to the torture of the 80's. I may conduct a study in my free time on women who grew up in the 80's and now have thinning hair.



(Photo taken by one of the teens, in a darker room. Forgive the quality. Or did you just think it was blurred from your laughter?)

Here, look at the kids. Because it was really their night to shine. From left to right, they're representing the 80's, the 70's, and Darnell. And of course Micah, who thought it was Halloween. But that boy never needs an occasion to dress up. Seriously.