The Rocking Pony

When Privacy Isn't So Good

2009-12-15T20:21:00.000-05:00

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?

The Elves Have It

2009-12-14T19:26:00.004-05:00

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.

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

2009-12-13T21:06:00.000-05:00

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.

Saturday Shots, Disney Edition

2009-12-11T23:22:00.001-05:00

Scaling Down

2009-12-10T21:52:00.000-05:00

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.

Urban Cowboys Step It Up a Notch

2009-12-10T07:29:00.004-05:00

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.

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!

2009-12-08T20:03:00.011-05:00

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.

Bittersweet

2009-12-07T21:26:00.000-05:00

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.

Preserving Memories that Should Probably Be Forgotten

2009-12-06T16:55:00.006-05:00

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.

Stop Growing Up Already, Would You?

2009-12-04T22:48:00.000-05:00

It Is a Bit Disturbing

2009-12-03T21:27:00.000-05:00

"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.

The Funeral Stalker

2009-12-02T22:37:00.000-05:00

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.

Take a Little Off The Top, Too

2009-12-01T21:04:00.000-05:00

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.

I Need a Vacation

2009-11-30T21:14:00.000-05:00

So after my little bit of fun on Friday morning, the weekend went downhill from there. Sunday was the culmination of every reason that I need a Disney vacation. It started Saturday night.

Reason #328 - after I tucked myself into bed, I heard a kid barfing in the bathroom. Stellar. Josh at least made it to the bathroom, so I invited him to sleep on the couch in our room for the night and rolled over and went back to bed. (I have reached that point this week, people. Don't judge.)

Reason #187 - Micah awakened me at 6 in the AM (aka, waaay too freakin' early), poked me on the shoulder, and lifted his leg to show me the pee dripping out his pants leg. Awesome. I stripped him, put a new diaper on him, and put him into bed with me where he proceeded to toss, turn, and kick me for the next 45 minutes.

Reason #583 - Luke came into my room at 6:45 and announced that there was barf on his bedroom floor. Just perfect. It was from Josh the night before who failed to tell me that I had a mess to clean up. (And after a night of worry and wonder, it turns out that Josh simply ate too much the night before. Thank goodness.)

Reason #49 - A puppy fell into the pond while trying to get a drink. I had to towel him off and blow dry him, wasting the time that I should have spent studying my Sunday School lesson. Spaniels have never been accused of being the brightest dogs around. Fun times.

Reason #212 - After yet our third (and last) Thanksgiving dinner here this weekend, I finally had time to begin packing. We were all converged in my our bedroom when Micah walked into Daddy's closet and closed the door. He came out sans pants, and left a stench behind him. Fun is never ending in this house. I tossed him in the tub while I cleaned poop off the closet floor.

(That would also be reason #76 why the boy needs to potty train.)

Reason #843 - Upon getting himself out of the tub, Micah noticed bubbles on his leg. An entire cup of water poured down over it onto the bath mat took care of that. Dude, we need a video camera following our family daily. Jon and Kate Plus 8 have nothing on us.

Reason #924 - I reached the point of no return with the stress, exhaustion and looming deadline. I randomly grabbed my most fun socks out of my drawer to pack for the trip, not caring whether or not any of them match outfits that I packed. I may or may not end up wearing red paw print socks with a hot pink shirt.

Mickey, run for your life when you see us coming.

Blackened Friday

2009-11-29T20:52:00.000-05:00

A few years back, I convinced Sam that Black Friday shopping is what the cool kids do. When he doesn't work, we generally venture out together. This year, I had zero desire to get up early nor to fight crowds of people. Sam did. He woke Becky (who begged to go) and they headed out at 5 in the AM. I rolled over and attempted to go back to sleep.

Click. Bang. Stomp.

Holy freak, someone is in the house. "It's Sam coming back in for something" I thought. Myself replied with "it's been a half hour since he left and you know that he doesn't come back for anything once he's left the house." "Yeh, you're right, someone is in the house," said I.

And then the dogs started barking and I got really freaked out. I'm normally very level headed over these things, but alone at 5:30 AM when someone is stomping around in your house is a hard time to be brave. The level headed me prevailed for a second when I had the inspiration to call Sam's cell and ask if he'd been back to the house. (By now, a good 5 minutes had passed.) He didn't pick up.

I had another inspiration. We have a pistol in the closet for a reason. Mostly because Sam has always wanted a pistol and it was a nice gift, but protection also comes to mind. As quietly as I could, I got it down from the top shelf (did you know that sliding glass doors are really, really loud when you need to be really, really quiet?) and pulled it from the box.

Awesome.

Except not. While I have no clue if we even have ammo for this gun, I knew that didn't matter. What did matter was the fact that there's a locking device clamped onto the trigger and the key is stored separately. (See us be safety conscious?) Someone would surely notice that, even though it was dark. (The mind isn't the most sane thing in a situation like this.)

All those CSI shows I watched were coming in handy. Put one hand over the other, hiding the entire trigger lock, thereby fooling any intruder into both thinking that the gun was a working model and that I knew what I was doing with it.

I crept out into the hallway, holding the pistol in front of me, rounding corners with it leading the way. I stood at the top of the steps debating whether or not to turn on lights, and finally decided that I'd at least like to see my end coming. I snapped on the hall light and hid from the downstairs view, my gun at the ready.

Nothing. No sounds. No movement. Just dogs barking like mad.

I crept downstairs, knowing for sure that someone was hiding, my plush red bathrobe a bright beacon on the steps.

Nothing. No sounds. No movement. Just dogs barking like mad.

With the gun leading the way, I stealthily crept through the house clearing room after room until I decided that whoever it was had left.

Obviously they decided that we have nothing worth stealing. Or they were terrified of crated dogs. Or the thought of my red robed self with what amounted to a toy gun was scarier than anything they'd ever encountered.

And then I laid in bed, listening to every snowflake hitting the window for the next hour, until I talked myself into calming down and just resting already.

Turns out that if you let a boy go small game hunting with his cousin, he'll come back to the house at 5:30 AM for a coat because it snowed overnight. But I guess taking your gun for an occaional tour of the house isn't a bad thing. I'll just hope for a less stressful walk next go-round.

In Anticipation

2009-11-27T21:32:00.003-05:00

There Were Mashed Potatoes In the Aftermath

2009-11-26T21:04:00.004-05:00

Thanksgiving is a marathon holiday around here. We have one meal with my family and one meal with Sam's family, and on lucky years like this one we have an extra thrown in besides. My family is getting together on Sunday and Sam's family is getting together on Saturday, and you can't not do anything on Thanksgiving Day, so we invited friends over.

Grandma had Luke and Micah the night before, so I got to sleep in until 9. I can count on one hand how often I've slept that late in my entire life. I now know that Thanksgiving Day probably shouldn't be listed among them. Live and learn, I always say.

To sum things up, let's just say that by the end of the day we learned that putting a turkey in the oven upside down will result in the little popping thing (official name, right?) failing to pop and you won't know when the turkey is done. Turning the turkey over will require a bit of maneuvering and a lot more cooking time. Weird, I know.

If you peel more potatoes than are needed (okay, I forgot that my friend was bringing potatoes, alright?) you will appear uber organized for your Sunday dinner when all you have to do is reheat them. Preferably with cream cheese in the oven. Yeh, who's the dunce now? (Okay, that would still be me.)

Becky made chocolate satin pie, and announced to the dinner table that there's Satan pie in the fridge for dessert. That was classic. The pie, Satanic or not, was delish.

She ended up checking Josh's trap line with him after the meal, and that right there is a sign of a Thanksgiving miracle because she is so not into that kind of stuff. Nor is she that into her brother. Ah, the love.

When the teen girls talk about wrapping someone's toilet in Syran Wrap, and then mysteriously disappear after dinner, you realize how grateful you are that you suck at keeping the kitchen stocked with things like Syran Wrap. Yeh, they tried. Yeh, they failed thanks to my failure as a shopper.

I've always wanted to work at a homeless shelter on Thanksgiving because that is the ultimate in giving. Who needs to sit around a table gorging themselves on upside down turkey when you can help others that have so very little? Maybe next year we'll plan that instead. I'll even bring Satan pie.

Reading Past the Cliche

2009-11-25T22:47:00.000-05:00

For Thanksgiving, I wanted to list the things that I was thankful for, but I always feel awkward doing that. I'm most thankful for my family, and our health. But everyone is thankful for these, and it makes me sound as though I have nothing else in my life that I can even remotely begin to be thankful for so I mention the things that everyone does just so that I have something to list.

That's not it at all.

I am reminded so very, very often that health concerns should probably be a major part of our lives with Micah, and they're just not. We're grateful. And humbled that God has chosen us to be so blessed.

Our kids are absolutely wonderful. Really. My teen aged daughter and I are best friends. We share everything. There is no fighting or attitude or backtalk. I'm not exaggerating. My boys are so content with small things. Topping Luke's Christmas list are Hot Wheels and paper to make books with. Josh has taken up hunting and trapping this year and spends his time in the great outdoors learning responsibility and commitment. Micah is happy when his siblings are around.

Our kids have the biggest hearts. They're polite to their elders. They are spoken highly of by their teachers.

We're so blessed.

So yeh, I'm thankful for my family and our health. And I really, really mean it because I've seen too many other families who don't have what we do. At this time of Thanksgiving, we are reminded yet again how much God has blessed us with.

Thank You, Lord.

Environmentally Friendly

2009-11-24T18:08:00.004-05:00

Micah has definite ideas of how he likes to watch television. In the mornings, it's with a bowl of applesauce and cereal. In the afternoons it's with Woody acting out the parts. Sometimes Jesse or Buzz have to get involved because there are so many parts to act out. In the evenings, when it's dark outside and mama is trying to make dinner, it's with the lights off.

You don't mess with the boy when he turns lights off.

Or so he thinks.

Sometimes I let him live in his dark fantasy world and cook by the tiny little light over the stove. (For some reason, he's never spotted this one. Maybe because as far as lights go, he knows it's lame.) Other nights I simply tell the boy No.

It's a take and a give, and completely depends on whether or not I feel like taking up the good fight.

The other night as we were heading out the door, scrambling in the narrow mud room to find matching shoes to wear, Micah silently declared it Dark O'Clock. Just as I was gearing up to fight the darkness, Daddy spoke up.

"He sure likes to save energy, doesn't he? That's our boy, going Green."

Well, that's one way to look at it.

Nailing Things Down, Checking Things Off

2009-11-23T21:22:00.005-05:00

I bought an official Disney autograph book for the official Disney trip. It's cute n'at. We set the oversized (read: hugemongous) pen with it so that we had the set together for the trip. Micah spied them, thought the official Disney autograph book needed some autographs, and obliged. Every few pages is liberally scribbled upon. While I'd love to be peeved over this (oh, the money we paid!) I have to be grateful that the boy who wants nothing to do with writing, coloring or drawing actually took initiative on that front. Way to go, son. You make your mad mama proud.

(Dear Blogger Spellcheck, n'at is a real word. Welcome to the greater Pittsburgh area.

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Micah had an ENT appointment tonight to follow up on his brand new ear tubes. The good news is that they're in there. (I'm not sure what the doctor expected. I mean, they do come out quickly, but 3 weeks?!) The bad news is that he's had thick, yellow drainage from his one ear since their placement. I took this as a good thing because their job is to get rid of that stuff. Job done! The doctor didn't seem to share my enthusiasm.

She took a swab to culture and said she'd get back with me after 72 hours on what it turned out to be. (For those who are counting, that would be Thanksgiving Day.) We were prescribed antibiotics to clear it up. She's just hoping it's (insert rapidly shaking hands at this point) nothing. I have no idea why it didn't occur to me to ask what, exactly, she was expecting it to be. I guess we may or may not find out.

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Becky started school at home today. We had to call the Cyber Headquarters no less than two times just to get started. Color us really, really stupid.

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I had a big order of shirts over the weekend, which directly translates into the fact that Christmas is on hold. I got the decor out and there it sits. The living room looks like a forest. I may or may not need intervention on the tree front. I also may or may not get things decorated this week. I'm going with if Becky has time, it'll get done. If you were smart, you'd go with that, too. I am getting shirts done, though. See me sew! (Virtually, of course.)

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The Cold of Death has me firmly in it's grip. It's accompanied by a severe outbreak of zits. I'm pretty sure that H1N1 doesn't exhibit that symptom so I should be good. I'm so very close to 40, people. At what point do the pimples go away? If I were to retain some of my youth, why couldn't it be perkier boobs or something a whole lot more appealing than pus filled growths?

The universe has a wicked sense of humor.

By No Fault Of My Own

2009-11-22T14:32:00.003-05:00

After the Fall Formal, I was a designated chauffeur for the junior high girls, shuttling them from the dance to the restaurant. I packed a book in my purse, hoping to avoid the other mom-chauffeurs and be anti-social as I relaxed for an hour or so alone. My plan didn't work; I was spotted by another mom as I stepped from the van and was asked to sit with her and her husband as we waited for the girls and their dates to wind down the night. Shortly after being seated, another mom joined us in our booth to round out a quartet.

We talked about our school years and how the styles are coming back around to haunt us. We discussed the mullet (Lord, send a memo to Somerset that it's time to let it go, Amen) and rednecks (i.e., ourselves) and school teachers. Somewhere in the course of conversation I realized that I don't know anyone. I don't know the kids in our school except for the ones my own children are friends with. I don't know the teachers or custodians unless the kids have brought them to my attention. I don't know the old man on Main Street that's a little creepy. And I don't know the parents of the kids at school.

We discussed school, and boyfriends of the girls, and what went on between so and so and why they broke up. The other parents were speculating on this theory and that. And I realized that I knew what they were talking about. I knew who was dating whom, and what went on between those girls, and why he broke up with her. And in a blinding flash of illumination I said aloud, "do your girls not talk to you?"

Three heads snapped to stare at me. Six eyes looking at me as though I spoke a different language. Questions hanging above heads were visibly stating, "she can't mean what she just said. It's impossible." And in a weird turn of events, it was the other parents trying to fit in and pretend that they weren't the odd ones out. It was the other parents scrambling to make sense of the conversation and attempt to know what I was talking about. It was the other parents trying to cover for the fact that they don't have the best-friend relationship with their daughters that I do.

I'm humbled. What did I do right in this great game of parenting to deserve such trust and respect from my teen aged daughter? I take no credit for the fact that my daughter and I are best friends. I simply enjoy it. I can't see the future, and the teen years that stretch out before us, so for now I thank my God that we have what we do. And pray that we only grow closer, my daughter and I.

Dear November, This is Why I Love You

2009-11-20T23:18:00.000-05:00

Ah, Thursday

2009-11-19T21:20:00.006-05:00

Gosh, this week rocks. For some odd reason, I am getting things done. That's a rarity around here.

This morning I had a gift wrapping gig at the elementary school for a few hours. That is an interesting way to spend time. One kid wrapped three gifts for Grandma, and that was it. I asked if he wanted to specify which Grandma they were for, but he didn't. His poor mother and father got zilch from the school-sponsored store, but Granny made out like a bandit. Another girl wrapped a gift to herself because she just likes to open gifts. Heh. Don't we all? Maybe I'll take her lead on that this holiday season.

This gift is for Daddy, this is for Becky, here is one for each of the boys, and the rest are all Mommy's. Merry Christmas to me!

When Becky came home from school I started on her gown. I took time out to assemble dinner, then time out to eat dinner, and some more time out to Twitter and converse with the family, and then presto! the gown was done. I should seriously be on Project Runway. And Micah would be the model. He had to try the gown on at every fitting just like Becky did. He especially liked the bubble effect at the bottom. It inspired him to twirl in front of the mirror. I should probably make him his own gown. It would be his favorite Christmas present.

Josh was late getting back from checking his traps, which of course means that he got something. It was the smallest opposum known to mankind and still considered an adult, and completely deemed throw-out-able by the trapping guru the boys rushed it to this evening to show it off. I'm proud of their commitment and enthusiasm on the trapping thing.

Luke, being true to his weirdo nature, spent a portion of the evening writing down every word that Becky and her BFF said. Once his paper was filled (after asking the girls to slow down a few times) he deemed it a masterpiece. Have I mentioned that the boy is weird? He is. We love him for it.

And tomorrow Christmas breaks forth from the attic. The clean house will never know what hit it.

Wednesday with Micah

2009-11-18T20:59:00.000-05:00

Today we got the floor finished. Done, people. You won't be hearing any more about it, and I know you're jumping for joy because which one of you really cared to begin with? Yeh, that's what I thought.

Wednesday is Mommy and Micah day, wherein I pick up my boy from school, we snarf down a quick take-out lunch, and head to speech therapy. One day we have hopes that all this schlepping and fast food will work it's magic and help our son talk.

Our tiny town has a new visitor, and it's enthralled Micah like nothing else can. Jackson's tribute is an elephant, assumably made of fiberglass, and is very much life sized. As we pull up to the intersection where this statue stands, Micah starts craning his neck and oohing and aaahing. Once he actually sees it, every single person in the van has to personally acknowledge that Micah has seen it before he'll let it rest. His smile goes on for a few more miles.

Today I had to stop at the Art Center, where the elephant happens to be standing, and Micah was beside himself with glee. He said e-e-e. (If you'd have been there and heard it with your own ears, you would know without a doubt that the boy said elephant.) Amazing. All those years of speech therapy and all we needed was an elephant in our yard to motivate him to speak.

When I returned Micah to school, his teacher said that he had a really good morning. He insisted on doing his seat work all by himself with zero help from her whatsoever. Mr. Independent scored well below Good Job, but we are all in agreement that compliance in the school work realm trumps good grades any day. My boy. He's growing up.

This evening Micah played in the dryer again. It's the best appliance ever. There was laundry in the dryer, and bless his wee heart, he tried putting it in a basket for me. The tiny little basket that hangs on the side of the sink to hold dog shampoo. All of one shirt and two socks fit in there. The rest were tossed on the floor. It's the thought that counts, though, right? It's also more than the other kids would have done.

And This is Tuesday

2009-11-17T22:07:00.004-05:00

So here's the thing. The floor is not done. Are we shocked over this? Heck, no. It's par for the course.

I will say that my dad and I (yep, he's my cohort on this crime) did almost as much in one hour today as we did all afternoon yesterday. So there's something. I will also say that once Dad starts a project he doesn't like to quit until it's done. This is good if you need someone to keep you on track (yeh, I'm talking to me) but bad if you have a hundred and four other things to do and have to stop at some point to get them done. This will make you feel guilty because Dad will continue working on your living room floor all by himself with his two replaced hips, and all that up and down will wear and tear on them. Guilt and I are now good friends.

And then we ran out of underlayment for the laminate boards and the project came to a screeching halt. It could have been done in a half hour, okay maybe forty minutes, but instead here I sit with the legs of my desk chair straddling the plywood and laminate joint.

There is always tomorrow. And it will get done. Because on Thursday I have a gown to sew for Fall Formal (don't even ask how I got roped into that one, and yes, I am extremely thrilled that my daughter trusts me enough to make her a gown for the event instead of buying her one) and then on Friday I am breaking out the Christmas Crazy.

Stand by, it's going to happen.

And on a completely unrelated note (again) someone stuck spaghetti on my refrigerator. Why? And what do people without kids do for entertainment value if they don't peel sticky spaghetti off their fridge doors?