Well, here it is. The final hour of my little blogging stunt.
For the last twenty-four hours, I've been attempting to blog whatever happened to come my way. It's been a lot of fun, and I'm still not finished because I have pictures to upload and a few more stories to tell.
But I'll fill you in on my morning so far.
After waking to remember The Baby's moment of birth, I very reluctantly dragged my butt out of bed. Last night (or early this morning, actually), after I signed off her, the kids played blackjack and I waited impatiently for them to finish so we could read Mandy and get to bed. I didn't realize how tired I was until I crawled into bed. Suddenly, the pillow felt so good under my head, and I really hated to set the alarm clock for so early in the morning.
Aside from waking to remember The Baby's birth moments, I also had an appointment to drive an Amish girl to her aunt's house.
The Amish don't own cars, for the most part, but they do hire people to drive them from place to place. I've took on the job of driving the Amish about two months ago in an effort to help raise money for Bard's choir trip to China, and to get to know more about my Amish neighbors.
This morning, I had to pick up Lisa, a seventeen-year-old Old Order Amish girl who was going to be a mother's helper for Mae who just had her fifth child, a baby girl. I drove through the winding roads of this beautiful farm country and made my way to Lisa's house. She was ready for me when I pulled into the driveway.
The funny thing about young Amish people, I've found, is that they'll likely not talk to you unless you talk to them, and then they have a LOT to say. This was the same with Lisa.
"Do you have plans for the weekend?" I ask her.
"Oh, yes. My weekend is full. I have a birthday party tonight with the youth from my church, and then I'll be helping Mae again in the morning. Tomorrow, I'll be babysitting twins, and then on Sunday, it's church."
"That is busy," I say.
"I like it that way," she says. "I don't like to just sit around the house and do nothing."
It's not unusual on a day like today, winter's chilly temperatures about ten degrees or less, to see an Amish woman out early with the sunrise, hanging her washing on the line. I think of my own laundry at home, two washing machines and two driers, and still a stack that I can't seem to overcome.
Lisa talks about her grandfather, who passed away a few years ago, and how he's so much like one of the little cousins she'll be caring for today. "He just wouldn't get scared. You couldn't do a thing to make him jump. But he was silly and ornery and would just say the silliest things."
Before long, we've arrived in front of Mae's new but simple home, very neat and attractive with every thing in place. It's such a bucolic scene.
"Will it suit to pick me up at 5:00? I have plans for tonight." I tell her that it will suit. The terminology of the Amish in our area is funny, quirky, and I can't help picking up some of it. "I've done that once't already." Or "That really freaks me out," in a strong Penn-Dutch accent.
I think about what Lisa will be doing today, and what Mae won't be doing. Mae has had a mother's helper since the day her little one was born over a week ago. Her neighbors and relatives have cooked meals for her. Her sisters and neices have taken turns getting the kids on the bus and cleaning her house.
I think of my own house, a mess right now. While I intended to blog everything I do in a 24-hour period, the one thing I didn't do as much as I usually do is clean. The Before picture that I took of my kitchen yesterday still has no After picture to go along with it. While I don't understand everything about Amish culture, and I'm fairly certain I'd not like to be Amish, I do envy the sense of community. I wouldn't mind at all having a sister to call to help me come clean my house or take my kids.
I suppose that's one of the reasons I have longed for a larger family, and it's one of the reasons that I get so frustrated when my children fight. I want to build a community for my children. I want them to have someone on whom they can call when they need a hand.
It's peaceful in my house. This is fairly normal for this time of day, since I'm married to a Bohemian who gave his Bohemian genes to at least one of our children. The Baby's awake and has nursed, nursed, nursed and nursed. As I type, she's playing with her grandpa, my equivalent of a mother's helper, and he's singing happy birthday to her. He will likely sing it again, and again, and again, even after her birthday is over.
I've had fun blogging for you this past twenty-four hours. When I have the time and energy to think clearly, I'll post about what I've learned and the details of Sweetheart's date, including the Wal*Mart Shopping Card Fiasco.
But for now, I'm going to go recover from my 24-hour blogging stunt. :-)
Thanks for reading. Now, back to our regularly scheduled ONCE A DAY blogging.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Joy Cometh in the Morning
I think it was after the alarm went off for the fifth time that Bo rolled over and asked, "What's up with that thing?"
"It's not the clock's fault," I told him. "It's me." I reached out for the alarm clock, turned it off, and attempted to put it on top of the headboard. Instead, it fell behind, making a racket on the way down.
"Well, I guess it won't be going off again."
It's time for me to get out of bed.
I've already been awake several times this morning. The first was at the moment of The Baby's birth. It's a moment that's very important to me, and I want to remember it here with you.
When I found out that I was pregnant, I really hadn't wanted to have another child. This is an area with which I've struggled for a long time. I so desperately want to be open to God's plan for my life, and I believe very strongly that every child has a purpose and great worth. Many times I've wondered what children I've missed raising because I wasn't willing to conceive them. I know this is futile thinking, but it's on my mind nonetheless.
But being pregnant with The Baby was a shock to me, in spite of my value of human life. Being pregnant was, I have to admit, the last thing I wanted. Already having four children, living in a small cabin, in a huge transitionary time, and struggling with my own body image as well as questioning my parenting skills and choices, I didn't feel that I was in a position at all to be have another child. I'm ashamed to say that when I saw my pregnancy test come up "yes," I prayed to God that it wouldn't be true, or that I could even just miscarry and not have another child. I am very, very ashamed to say that. But I wanted desperately to NOT be pregnant.
Do you know that, for whatever reason, that pregnancy was the absolutely worst one I've ever had? I had kidney stones, a bladder infection, and at one point, I had the flu so badly that I thought--almost HOPED--I was going to die. The snow and ice were thick on the ground so that I could barely walk the footpath to the cabin, let alone make my way back and forth to the outhouse the five hundred times a day I needed to go.
My live-in dad was undergoing biopsies for possible prostate cancer, and because he's unmarried, his care and keeping, scheduling and finances fall square upon me anyway. After his biopsy, he developed a severe bacterial infection AND had major back pain which rendered him incapable of leaving his bed, leaving me to empty his potty, which many times involved cleaning it up off of the floor, my nine-month pregnant belly hindering my every move.
I was SO done being pregnant. Boy, was I ready to have this baby.
This baby wasn't ready to be had.
About two weeks past my original due date, I was pleading with God. I know it's ridiculous. I know God has His own timing, and that pregnant women are like apple trees. Each tree is different, and while they're all apple trees, every tree's fruit ripens at different times, and each fruit on the tree ripens when it's ready. There is no "right time" for a baby to be born. But I was so very ready, and my branches were heavy with the fruit of this impending labor.
At long last, around 10:00 on the 27th of January, I knew the time was coming. I had no idea how long this labor would be, of course. Each of my labors were so very different. 36 hours, 24 hours, 16 hours, 1.5 hours...I couldn't tell if this labor would be a long one or a short one.
I labored all through the night while everyone slept. My sister-in-law, who was also my midwife, stayed by my side and listened to me complain and fuss. Something just didn't feel right to me. I was very worried over the health of this baby. What had happened? Somewhere along the line, between becoming pregnant and beginning labor, my heart had changed. Now, I wanted to fight for the health of this child. I wanted with all of my heart to hold this baby in my arms.
I did want another child. I wanted THIS child.
Though the heart rate of the baby was fine, I worried. Though my labor was progressing just as it should have been, I worried. Through the night, into the morning, all through my labor, I worried.
I feared. I cried. I prayed.
Finally, as morning crept in and the sun began to think about rising above the hilltops, those
final bearing down pains overtook me like the rush of a strong river current. And then, at just the right time, The Baby was born, welcomed into the world by her sleepy-eyed brothers and sisters who had come down from their beds to see her take her first breath.
"I knew it was a girl! I told you it was a girl!" Sweetheart cried. And she had. She'd told us all along that this baby would be her sister. No matter how we presented other possibilities, her mind was made up. This would be, she insisted, a baby girl. And she'd been right.
I called my mother-in-law to tell her that she had another granddaughter. She read this verse to me:
Psalm 30:5 For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping
may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
Tears ran down my face. Joy cometh in the morning.
And so, the baby's middle name would be Joy.
As I look out over these sun-kissed hills, I think about life with my sweet Baby. She is a blessing, a treasure, and her worth is far above rubies. She brings me so much joy. So. Much Joy.
The Baby and Sweetheart
"It's not the clock's fault," I told him. "It's me." I reached out for the alarm clock, turned it off, and attempted to put it on top of the headboard. Instead, it fell behind, making a racket on the way down.
"Well, I guess it won't be going off again."
It's time for me to get out of bed.
I've already been awake several times this morning. The first was at the moment of The Baby's birth. It's a moment that's very important to me, and I want to remember it here with you.
When I found out that I was pregnant, I really hadn't wanted to have another child. This is an area with which I've struggled for a long time. I so desperately want to be open to God's plan for my life, and I believe very strongly that every child has a purpose and great worth. Many times I've wondered what children I've missed raising because I wasn't willing to conceive them. I know this is futile thinking, but it's on my mind nonetheless.
But being pregnant with The Baby was a shock to me, in spite of my value of human life. Being pregnant was, I have to admit, the last thing I wanted. Already having four children, living in a small cabin, in a huge transitionary time, and struggling with my own body image as well as questioning my parenting skills and choices, I didn't feel that I was in a position at all to be have another child. I'm ashamed to say that when I saw my pregnancy test come up "yes," I prayed to God that it wouldn't be true, or that I could even just miscarry and not have another child. I am very, very ashamed to say that. But I wanted desperately to NOT be pregnant.
Do you know that, for whatever reason, that pregnancy was the absolutely worst one I've ever had? I had kidney stones, a bladder infection, and at one point, I had the flu so badly that I thought--almost HOPED--I was going to die. The snow and ice were thick on the ground so that I could barely walk the footpath to the cabin, let alone make my way back and forth to the outhouse the five hundred times a day I needed to go.
My live-in dad was undergoing biopsies for possible prostate cancer, and because he's unmarried, his care and keeping, scheduling and finances fall square upon me anyway. After his biopsy, he developed a severe bacterial infection AND had major back pain which rendered him incapable of leaving his bed, leaving me to empty his potty, which many times involved cleaning it up off of the floor, my nine-month pregnant belly hindering my every move.
I was SO done being pregnant. Boy, was I ready to have this baby.
This baby wasn't ready to be had.
About two weeks past my original due date, I was pleading with God. I know it's ridiculous. I know God has His own timing, and that pregnant women are like apple trees. Each tree is different, and while they're all apple trees, every tree's fruit ripens at different times, and each fruit on the tree ripens when it's ready. There is no "right time" for a baby to be born. But I was so very ready, and my branches were heavy with the fruit of this impending labor.
At long last, around 10:00 on the 27th of January, I knew the time was coming. I had no idea how long this labor would be, of course. Each of my labors were so very different. 36 hours, 24 hours, 16 hours, 1.5 hours...I couldn't tell if this labor would be a long one or a short one.
I labored all through the night while everyone slept. My sister-in-law, who was also my midwife, stayed by my side and listened to me complain and fuss. Something just didn't feel right to me. I was very worried over the health of this baby. What had happened? Somewhere along the line, between becoming pregnant and beginning labor, my heart had changed. Now, I wanted to fight for the health of this child. I wanted with all of my heart to hold this baby in my arms.
I did want another child. I wanted THIS child.
Though the heart rate of the baby was fine, I worried. Though my labor was progressing just as it should have been, I worried. Through the night, into the morning, all through my labor, I worried.
I feared. I cried. I prayed.
Finally, as morning crept in and the sun began to think about rising above the hilltops, those
final bearing down pains overtook me like the rush of a strong river current. And then, at just the right time, The Baby was born, welcomed into the world by her sleepy-eyed brothers and sisters who had come down from their beds to see her take her first breath.
"I knew it was a girl! I told you it was a girl!" Sweetheart cried. And she had. She'd told us all along that this baby would be her sister. No matter how we presented other possibilities, her mind was made up. This would be, she insisted, a baby girl. And she'd been right.
I called my mother-in-law to tell her that she had another granddaughter. She read this verse to me:
Psalm 30:5 For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping
may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
Tears ran down my face. Joy cometh in the morning.
And so, the baby's middle name would be Joy.
As I look out over these sun-kissed hills, I think about life with my sweet Baby. She is a blessing, a treasure, and her worth is far above rubies. She brings me so much joy. So. Much Joy.
The Baby and Sweetheart
I've made the announcement
Here's the truth.
I don't usually let my kids stay up this late. It's not that it's that big of a deal, because they can sleep late in the morning, but usually they're in bed by midnight. Tonight has been a special night, so I've let them play while I sit here doing this wacky twenty-four-hour blogging thing.
But I've just made the announcement that it's totally and completely time for bed, so we're going to read a chapter of Mandy and then it's time for prayers, and then it's time for bed. The younger kids will lie quietly and listen while Bard knits one last gift for The Baby. It goes with my one last gift for Baby, which I will photograph and post tomorrow.
Here's the other truth. I'm going to go to bed and sleep for a few hours and finish blogging in the morning. I have an Amish-hauling job at 7:00, and something about driving the Amish makes me very on time. For some reason, being on time for people who are in no hurry lightens the pressure and I can actually be punctual.
So, goodnight for now. Thanks so much for taking this wild ride with me. I'll see you for the last three hours in the morning. :-)
I don't usually let my kids stay up this late. It's not that it's that big of a deal, because they can sleep late in the morning, but usually they're in bed by midnight. Tonight has been a special night, so I've let them play while I sit here doing this wacky twenty-four-hour blogging thing.
But I've just made the announcement that it's totally and completely time for bed, so we're going to read a chapter of Mandy and then it's time for prayers, and then it's time for bed. The younger kids will lie quietly and listen while Bard knits one last gift for The Baby. It goes with my one last gift for Baby, which I will photograph and post tomorrow.
Here's the other truth. I'm going to go to bed and sleep for a few hours and finish blogging in the morning. I have an Amish-hauling job at 7:00, and something about driving the Amish makes me very on time. For some reason, being on time for people who are in no hurry lightens the pressure and I can actually be punctual.
So, goodnight for now. Thanks so much for taking this wild ride with me. I'll see you for the last three hours in the morning. :-)
Did you think you lost me?
Not a chance.
I'm still here, awake, and blogging. As a matter of fact, Bard and I have spent the past hour and a half uploading images to the first few hours of the blog. So, if you want to see photos of the day, you can go back and read the blog again. Or just look at the pictures. Your choice. Though I think the words are kinda nice, too.
As I type, the boys are still playing with The Baby's toys from her birthday. One of the things she received was a Brio-type railroad set that Bo picked up for $11.00. The Baby wasn't too thrilled with it at first, but Monet and Houdin are all over it. Good for them.
To whomever it was who wondered how I was able to sleep until 9:30, now you know.
I'm still here, awake, and blogging. As a matter of fact, Bard and I have spent the past hour and a half uploading images to the first few hours of the blog. So, if you want to see photos of the day, you can go back and read the blog again. Or just look at the pictures. Your choice. Though I think the words are kinda nice, too.
As I type, the boys are still playing with The Baby's toys from her birthday. One of the things she received was a Brio-type railroad set that Bo picked up for $11.00. The Baby wasn't too thrilled with it at first, but Monet and Houdin are all over it. Good for them.
To whomever it was who wondered how I was able to sleep until 9:30, now you know.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
You Take the Cake!
Here's a Piece for YOU! Thank you so much for coming to The Baby's birthday party!
It was two years ago right about now that I was trudging down the path to our little cabin in the woods, the tell-tale signs of labor intensifying with every step down that long, icy lane. Bo was at my side, and my sister-in-law, the midwife, awaited me in the warm, cozy cabin.
She had candles lit all over the room and my bed made up with my very favorite sheets. The kids were in bed and herbs were simmering on the stove.
I had purchased a special candle holder at Target as my birthing candle, my inspiration. It was a spiral holder with five tea candles in it, to signify the five children I would have.
I think I'll go light that candle holder right now, in celebration of The Baby.
Happy Birthday to The Baby
The kids just couldn't stand it. Bard was so incredibly ready to watch The Baby open her gifts, she just about yanked her off my lap. At first, The Baby seemed really confused. What's going on? Why are you waking me up? Why can't I just nurse and go back to sleep?
Then she saw the stack of presents.
Then she saw the cake.
And she was hooked.
Bard was so sweet, helping her open each gift by showing her the right place to start ripping it open.
Here's the part that I like--now all of my kids, regardless of age, are playing with The Baby with all of her toys. They're serving her the play food and making cookies with her play mixer. I can hear Bard saying, "Here's your five course meal. Here's the meat course with the tomato and french fries..." I hear Houdin saying, "Would you like a piece of corn, Baby? Here's a whole cucumber in the salad." The Baby is the center of attention. She's the princess. She's the star of the day.
It may only be a few minutes, but it will last in my mind forever.
A Last Minute Decision
We had two dilemmas--first, what to do for Sweetheart's date and secondly, what to do about The Baby's birthday.
The ever-popular and always-socializing fifteen year old daughter, Bard, is going away for the weekend on a youth retreat with her friend, Kat. Tomorrow is The Baby's birthday. As a matter of fact, as I write this, I'm remembering the day two years ago, about half an hour from now, when I realized that I was in labor. I know that everyone says it, but I just can't believe it's been two years since my baby was born.
The second dilemma, what to do for Sweetheart's date, had alternate solutions and problems. The movie was out, because of the whole crude humor thing. We talked about going to a special science storytime at the library, but, silly me, I had the wrong date. As I was discussing the possibility of celebrating The Baby's birthday early tomorrow morning, Bo offered, "Why don't we just have it tonight?" Seemed like a good enough idea to me.
We headed to Wal*Mart, armed with some cash and a couple of Wal*Mart gift cards that the kids got for Christmas from their Other Grandpa. It wasn't hard to choose things for The Baby. It was just hard for Sweetheart to focus on WHOSE birthday it was! I saw so many things that I thought would be "perfect" for The Baby, but I had to restrain myself.
We just started on a new budgeting system, which actually is very thrilling to me. I've been asking (read: "begging") Bo to take over our finances for many, many (read: "fifteen") years. I am SO incredibly PROUD and RELIEVED that he has now decided to take charge of our budget. It did prove a little frustrating tonight, though, because Wal*Mart has no shortage of cheap plastic crap that I didn't know existed but now my baby really, really, really needs in order to be happy, smart and well-adjusted.
If I were a good mom, I kept thinking, I'd buy her this. And this. And this. If I were a good mom, I'd have a party. We'd hire a clown. There'd be balloons all over the house. If I were a good mom, I'd make the cake myself, and we'd have the whole event professionally videotaped and mailed to each relative. If I were a good mom...
I thought of Tenn's post from School @ Home, and how most of the "junk food" that comes into her house is because she feels guilty for not giving her children what "normal" children have every day.
But my child is not a normal child. She's a very special child. And today is her very special day. So I'm thinking about this, about how to provide a much better legacy of her birth than just a few cheap toys from Wal*Mart and a grocery store bakery cake. It's making me depressed. The kids are now in the other room wrapping the presents Sweetheart chose tonight, and the gifts I've been collecting in the fruit cellar for the past couple of months. While I'm tempted to say, "It's not much," the truth is that that's just what I want it to be...not much. I want things to be simpler. My children really have no need whatsoever.
While the children were in the other room excitedly wrapping the gifts, The Baby crawled into my lap and demanded to nurse. She's now sleeping peacefully on my lap.
She has everything she needs.
The ever-popular and always-socializing fifteen year old daughter, Bard, is going away for the weekend on a youth retreat with her friend, Kat. Tomorrow is The Baby's birthday. As a matter of fact, as I write this, I'm remembering the day two years ago, about half an hour from now, when I realized that I was in labor. I know that everyone says it, but I just can't believe it's been two years since my baby was born.
The second dilemma, what to do for Sweetheart's date, had alternate solutions and problems. The movie was out, because of the whole crude humor thing. We talked about going to a special science storytime at the library, but, silly me, I had the wrong date. As I was discussing the possibility of celebrating The Baby's birthday early tomorrow morning, Bo offered, "Why don't we just have it tonight?" Seemed like a good enough idea to me.
We headed to Wal*Mart, armed with some cash and a couple of Wal*Mart gift cards that the kids got for Christmas from their Other Grandpa. It wasn't hard to choose things for The Baby. It was just hard for Sweetheart to focus on WHOSE birthday it was! I saw so many things that I thought would be "perfect" for The Baby, but I had to restrain myself.
We just started on a new budgeting system, which actually is very thrilling to me. I've been asking (read: "begging") Bo to take over our finances for many, many (read: "fifteen") years. I am SO incredibly PROUD and RELIEVED that he has now decided to take charge of our budget. It did prove a little frustrating tonight, though, because Wal*Mart has no shortage of cheap plastic crap that I didn't know existed but now my baby really, really, really needs in order to be happy, smart and well-adjusted.
If I were a good mom, I kept thinking, I'd buy her this. And this. And this. If I were a good mom, I'd have a party. We'd hire a clown. There'd be balloons all over the house. If I were a good mom, I'd make the cake myself, and we'd have the whole event professionally videotaped and mailed to each relative. If I were a good mom...
I thought of Tenn's post from School @ Home, and how most of the "junk food" that comes into her house is because she feels guilty for not giving her children what "normal" children have every day.
But my child is not a normal child. She's a very special child. And today is her very special day. So I'm thinking about this, about how to provide a much better legacy of her birth than just a few cheap toys from Wal*Mart and a grocery store bakery cake. It's making me depressed. The kids are now in the other room wrapping the presents Sweetheart chose tonight, and the gifts I've been collecting in the fruit cellar for the past couple of months. While I'm tempted to say, "It's not much," the truth is that that's just what I want it to be...not much. I want things to be simpler. My children really have no need whatsoever.
While the children were in the other room excitedly wrapping the gifts, The Baby crawled into my lap and demanded to nurse. She's now sleeping peacefully on my lap.
She has everything she needs.
The Seventh Hour: A Big Idea and A Big Fight...
I knew it would be trouble the moment I heard it.
Houdin invited the younger kids out to the snow fort to have a snowball fight. I thought about stopping it, but I decided to let it go. I was busy cleaning the kitchen and entertaining The Baby, so I figured a bit of fresh air would be good about now.
While they were out, I came up with a Big Idea. I don't know how this would go over, but I thought it would be kind of cool if you had a certain day, like Thursday for example, that we could refer to as Before and After Thursday. Yeah, Friday would sound better, but is usually pretty busy. Anyway, the premise would be that you would take a "Before" photo of one room in your house before you've cleaned it, and then you would clean it (like, duh) and take an "After" photo, and then post it on your blog. Whaddya think? Huh?
While I was having this epiphany, after I'd taken a "before" photo of my kitchen and had begun to clean it, I heard Sweetheart crying. Loudly. And then I heard loud footsteps. Very loud ones. And then a slamming door.
In stomps Monet, who is the child who most easily loses his temper, and he's half-crying, half-yelling.
"Houdin is being really mean to us! He's...he's..." he sputters.
"Well, walk away," I say. I try not to get tied up in blame and judging, but just try to help them cope with the situation by removing themselves. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't. Houdin is directly behind Monet, a sure sign that he wants to be there to clear up the story, ie: defend himself.
The story: Houdin is 13. The other two are 9 and 5. They both come in crying, their faces red, rubbing parts of their bodies. They've been attacked. They've been hit. Hard.
Houdin doesn't understand the problem. It was a snowball FIGHT, he says. FIGHT being the operable word here.
Monet is inconsolable. I see him angrier than I've ever seen. He pushes his brother, screams at him to get away, and then...he says he hates him. And he really meant it.
See, the thing is, I tell Houdin, that you have a reputation for instigating, and in this case, you really, really hurt your siblings. He doesn't get it. It doesn't make sense to him, he says.
Look, I tell him, you're almost fourteen. They're nine and five.
Yeah, he counters, which is fourteen. And I was outnumbered.
I remind him of the time that he was having a water balloon fight for his thirteenth birthday, how he and his friends were having a great time outside the garage, and how Dad got this great idea to throw a water balloon from the second floor window. The balloon landed square in the middle of Houdin's chest. It scared him. And it hurt. I ask him, Do you remember that?
He remembers.
It's not the same.
He just doesn't get it. Dad's much bigger. They knew they were having a snowball fight. It doesn't make sense, he says.
Ice balls, I say, can hurt very badly. Like a baseball to the chest. Would you like me to demonstrate?
No, he answers. But he's still angry. He's not remorseful. They're just wrong, he says.
Well, they might be wrong, but they both hate you now. If that's the way it works, I don't think I'd want to be right.
Monet comes down with his journal and opens it to a page he's just written.
Bo just came home. I guess we'll be going on the date together.
The next blog you get will be AudioBlogged.
Houdin invited the younger kids out to the snow fort to have a snowball fight. I thought about stopping it, but I decided to let it go. I was busy cleaning the kitchen and entertaining The Baby, so I figured a bit of fresh air would be good about now.
While they were out, I came up with a Big Idea. I don't know how this would go over, but I thought it would be kind of cool if you had a certain day, like Thursday for example, that we could refer to as Before and After Thursday. Yeah, Friday would sound better, but is usually pretty busy. Anyway, the premise would be that you would take a "Before" photo of one room in your house before you've cleaned it, and then you would clean it (like, duh) and take an "After" photo, and then post it on your blog. Whaddya think? Huh?
While I was having this epiphany, after I'd taken a "before" photo of my kitchen and had begun to clean it, I heard Sweetheart crying. Loudly. And then I heard loud footsteps. Very loud ones. And then a slamming door.
In stomps Monet, who is the child who most easily loses his temper, and he's half-crying, half-yelling.
"Houdin is being really mean to us! He's...he's..." he sputters.
"Well, walk away," I say. I try not to get tied up in blame and judging, but just try to help them cope with the situation by removing themselves. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't. Houdin is directly behind Monet, a sure sign that he wants to be there to clear up the story, ie: defend himself.
The story: Houdin is 13. The other two are 9 and 5. They both come in crying, their faces red, rubbing parts of their bodies. They've been attacked. They've been hit. Hard.
Houdin doesn't understand the problem. It was a snowball FIGHT, he says. FIGHT being the operable word here.
Monet is inconsolable. I see him angrier than I've ever seen. He pushes his brother, screams at him to get away, and then...he says he hates him. And he really meant it.
See, the thing is, I tell Houdin, that you have a reputation for instigating, and in this case, you really, really hurt your siblings. He doesn't get it. It doesn't make sense to him, he says.
Look, I tell him, you're almost fourteen. They're nine and five.
Yeah, he counters, which is fourteen. And I was outnumbered.
I remind him of the time that he was having a water balloon fight for his thirteenth birthday, how he and his friends were having a great time outside the garage, and how Dad got this great idea to throw a water balloon from the second floor window. The balloon landed square in the middle of Houdin's chest. It scared him. And it hurt. I ask him, Do you remember that?
He remembers.
It's not the same.
He just doesn't get it. Dad's much bigger. They knew they were having a snowball fight. It doesn't make sense, he says.
Ice balls, I say, can hurt very badly. Like a baseball to the chest. Would you like me to demonstrate?
No, he answers. But he's still angry. He's not remorseful. They're just wrong, he says.
Well, they might be wrong, but they both hate you now. If that's the way it works, I don't think I'd want to be right.
Monet comes down with his journal and opens it to a page he's just written.
I let Houdin read the note. "So?" he says.Dear Mom,
I'm so sorry I lost my temper at Houdin. Please tell Houdin that I'm
so sorry.
Love,
Monet
Bo just came home. I guess we'll be going on the date together.
The next blog you get will be AudioBlogged.
Today's Soundtrack
Here's the music we've been listening to today, courtesy of Rhapsody.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op. 325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Bat" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vienna Blood" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Roses from the south" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Trisch-Trasch-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Emperor Walz" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"A musical joke" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Blue Danube" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Thunder and Lightning" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Voices of Spring, Op. 410" - Johann Strauss, Jr
"Die Fledermaus (Overture)" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Lagunen-Walzer, Op. 411" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tick-Tack-Polka, Op. 365" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Wein, Weib und Gesang (Walzer), Op. 333" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka, Op. 117" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Rosen aus dem Suden (Walzer), Op. 388" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Auf der Jagd (Polka), Op. 373" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kunstlerleben, Walzer, Op. 316" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Unter Donner und Blitz, Polka, Op. 324" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Neue Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Freut euch des Lebens, Op.340" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vom Donaustrande, Op.356" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"G'schichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Op.325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Persian March, Op.289" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Liebeslieder, Op.114" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kreuzfidel, Op.301" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Schatzwalzer, Op.418" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Das Spitzentuch der Königin" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op. 325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Bat" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vienna Blood" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Roses from the south" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Trisch-Trasch-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Emperor Walz" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"A musical joke" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Blue Danube" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Thunder and Lightning" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Voices of Spring, Op. 410" - Johann Strauss, Jr
"Die Fledermaus (Overture)" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Lagunen-Walzer, Op. 411" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tick-Tack-Polka, Op. 365" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Wein, Weib und Gesang (Walzer), Op. 333" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka, Op. 117" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Rosen aus dem Suden (Walzer), Op. 388" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Auf der Jagd (Polka), Op. 373" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kunstlerleben, Walzer, Op. 316" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Unter Donner und Blitz, Polka, Op. 324" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Neue Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Freut euch des Lebens, Op.340" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vom Donaustrande, Op.356" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"G'schichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Op.325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Persian March, Op.289" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Liebeslieder, Op.114" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kreuzfidel, Op.301" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Schatzwalzer, Op.418" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Das Spitzentuch der Königin" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
The Sixth and Seventh Hours...
Headache = Very Yes.
I call these my Titanic Headaches. The reason is because I had my very worst headache when Bo and I went to see The Titanic on the big screen for the first time. It was winter, snowy and blustery. We'd been in and out of shops, cars, and the theater. Therefore, I think my headaches are caused by sinuses. Only Motrin for Migraines and a sinus mask will help. I've tried drinking caffeine, not drinking caffeine, taking hot baths, going into cold air, sleeping, eating...nothing works except the Motrin and a sinus mask, heated up muchly in the microwave and placed directly over my eyes.
I finally made it downstairs to the kitchen, which was partially a mess, but not bad. We've been listening to classical music during meal preparations and, sometimes, into mealtime. I took a vote...Johann Strauss won. We started out listening to one of my very favorite pieces, Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op 325, which most people know as The Carousel Song.
When we first bought our property on which now sits our house, we would drive about an hour and a half to spend weekends at the cabin which sits nestled down in the thicket here (thus the name "Thicket Dweller"). On the ride, and often walking through the sun-spotted thicket, Bard and Houdin would sing these words to the tune of The Vienna Woods Waltz:
I threw together my own fresh greens for lunch to
day with grape tomatoes, cukes, broccoli, onions and sunflower seeds. I made an equally good salad for our Saanen
goat, Snowday, out of all of the peelings and stalks I didn't want to eat. A nice handful of shredded cheddar, and a nice dallop of bleu cheese dressing, and I was happy as rabbit. Are rabbits happy?
The Baby and Sweetheart were playing, dancing, singing about The Baby's approaching birthday, and then The Baby saw me. All smiles and running like her little life depended on it, she made her way straight into my arms, and we enjoyed sharing a good salad and some cottage cheese together. She's my cottage cheese eater. I'm so proud.
Monet sat at the table looking through the presidential flashcards. He determined that Abe Lincoln is his favorite. He seems to be popular in this house.
Sweetheart has asked me no less than eighty-two times when we're going on our date. I have to eat, I say. I have to clean the kitchen, I say. PATIENCE! I say.
I'm not sure what we'll do for our date, yet. I'm still thinking.
I was thinking about Racing Stripes, about my decision not to go see it because of the "crude humor," when I heard this exchange between my children.
Monet: "Sweetheart, are you wearing underwear?"
Sweetheart: "Yes. They're pink."
Houdin: "HO-okay. That was too much information."
Me: "Well, he did ask."
Houdin: "He didn't ask what color underwear she was wearing."
Me: "Yeah, but when you start a conversation, you have to realize that it's in motion and you can't always control it."
Houdin: "Monet, are you wearing underwear?"
Monet: "No. I don't have any."
Houdin: "HO-okay...you should have just said they were butt-colored."
Maybe Racing Stripes would be an improvement over the language here.
I call these my Titanic Headaches. The reason is because I had my very worst headache when Bo and I went to see The Titanic on the big screen for the first time. It was winter, snowy and blustery. We'd been in and out of shops, cars, and the theater. Therefore, I think my headaches are caused by sinuses. Only Motrin for Migraines and a sinus mask will help. I've tried drinking caffeine, not drinking caffeine, taking hot baths, going into cold air, sleeping, eating...nothing works except the Motrin and a sinus mask, heated up muchly in the microwave and placed directly over my eyes.
I finally made it downstairs to the kitchen, which was partially a mess, but not bad. We've been listening to classical music during meal preparations and, sometimes, into mealtime. I took a vote...Johann Strauss won. We started out listening to one of my very favorite pieces, Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op 325, which most people know as The Carousel Song.
When we first bought our property on which now sits our house, we would drive about an hour and a half to spend weekends at the cabin which sits nestled down in the thicket here (thus the name "Thicket Dweller"). On the ride, and often walking through the sun-spotted thicket, Bard and Houdin would sing these words to the tune of The Vienna Woods Waltz:
Hurry then away with me
To the forest pathways, free
Oh, the green world
Oh, the green world.
With the pretty wildwood flowers
Let us take the happy hours
And we'll crown every moment a queen.
I threw together my own fresh greens for lunch to
day with grape tomatoes, cukes, broccoli, onions and sunflower seeds. I made an equally good salad for our Saanen
goat, Snowday, out of all of the peelings and stalks I didn't want to eat. A nice handful of shredded cheddar, and a nice dallop of bleu cheese dressing, and I was happy as rabbit. Are rabbits happy?
The Baby and Sweetheart were playing, dancing, singing about The Baby's approaching birthday, and then The Baby saw me. All smiles and running like her little life depended on it, she made her way straight into my arms, and we enjoyed sharing a good salad and some cottage cheese together. She's my cottage cheese eater. I'm so proud.
Monet sat at the table looking through the presidential flashcards. He determined that Abe Lincoln is his favorite. He seems to be popular in this house.
Sweetheart has asked me no less than eighty-two times when we're going on our date. I have to eat, I say. I have to clean the kitchen, I say. PATIENCE! I say.
I'm not sure what we'll do for our date, yet. I'm still thinking.
I was thinking about Racing Stripes, about my decision not to go see it because of the "crude humor," when I heard this exchange between my children.
Monet: "Sweetheart, are you wearing underwear?"
Sweetheart: "Yes. They're pink."
Houdin: "HO-okay. That was too much information."
Me: "Well, he did ask."
Houdin: "He didn't ask what color underwear she was wearing."
Me: "Yeah, but when you start a conversation, you have to realize that it's in motion and you can't always control it."
Houdin: "Monet, are you wearing underwear?"
Monet: "No. I don't have any."
Houdin: "HO-okay...you should have just said they were butt-colored."
Maybe Racing Stripes would be an improvement over the language here.
Bard's essay thing
Hello, this is me Bard on this blog (Note from Mom...the previous line is an inside joke. It's something Monet says every time we record him. Hi, this is me Monet on this recording. Just thought you'd like to know). Mom wanted me to post this essay thing that I did for the local newspaper. I was supposed to write about my favorite president in 200 words or less. No brainer, for me anyway. I've been interested in Abraham Lincoln, and probably know more about him than your average 14 (almost 15) year-old kid. So without further ado, my essay/report/writing thing.
Did you know that one of the Presidents of the United States was barely formally educated? It's true. Abraham Lincoln was almost completely self-taught, even in law. He was an avid reader, despite the fact that he only went to school "by littles," and his entire schooling "did not amount to one year." Lincoln was hardly endowed with riches; he was, in truth, probably poor, especially by today's standards. One of the reasons for his relative poverty might have been because he was a failure as a shopkeeper. He would sometimes sit and read and not notice then a customer entered his store.
Maybe he was poor because he wasn't handsome. He was thought by many to be the ugliest man they'd ever met. He was also usually the kindest. He hated to tell people no, although he often had to do so. He tried to ease the blow of refusal with a clever, funny story. People probably left his office with a smile. He pardoned deserters, calling them "leg cases." They reminded him of a joke where a man said he was brave, but had coward legs.
Abraham Lincoln rose above his troubles by becoming President despite all handicaps.
The Fifth Hour: Planning the Date
After the bath (have you ever seen that Mary Cassatt painting? It's one of my favorites), Sweetheart gets all ready for her date. She has to change clothes, like, twice. Because my children have inherited a dry skin condition, they all have to lather up with expensive lotion really well each morning, afternoon and after every bath. It helps for a little while, but not completely. Sweetheart has a lotion that smells like cocoa butter. She applies it liberally.
I call Bohemian to ask him if he'd like to come with us on our date or if I should go now, during the day.
"Uh...um..." I can hear the keyboard clicking in the background. He's busy. He's distracted.
"I was just wondering...because I can go with her now, or I can wait until later and you and I can both take her out."
"Where are you...uh...um..." more keyboard clicking.
"Hello? Um, can I talk to my husband, please?"
"Yeah, uh. Today?"
"Yes," I answer, "I'd like to talk to him today."
"No, I meant that you can go today. Go ahead and go without me."
I hang up the phone and check the laundry in the drier. Jeans. Not dry.
I decide to check the movie listings on Fandango, entertaining the idea of taking Sweetheart to see a movie. The only thing I can find that might possibly be suitable is Racing Stripes. I check ScreenIt. Are you familiar with it? Excellent source of complete, detailed movie reviews. Do check it out.
After reading about the crude humor in Racing Stripes, I decide to forgo the movie. Not sure what we'll do.
Bard dressed the baby after her bath, and now she's with Grandpa. Headache still = not gone.
Currently, Bard is painting Sweetheart's finger and toenails and informs me, "Actually, her last toenail looks like she got her toe chopped off and it's all bloody. But, whatever."
I read http://schoolathome.blogspot.composts for today. I'm going to go downstairs and tape some freezer paper under the table. You have to read it to understand.
I call Bohemian to ask him if he'd like to come with us on our date or if I should go now, during the day.
"Uh...um..." I can hear the keyboard clicking in the background. He's busy. He's distracted.
"I was just wondering...because I can go with her now, or I can wait until later and you and I can both take her out."
"Where are you...uh...um..." more keyboard clicking.
"Hello? Um, can I talk to my husband, please?"
"Yeah, uh. Today?"
"Yes," I answer, "I'd like to talk to him today."
"No, I meant that you can go today. Go ahead and go without me."
I hang up the phone and check the laundry in the drier. Jeans. Not dry.
I decide to check the movie listings on Fandango, entertaining the idea of taking Sweetheart to see a movie. The only thing I can find that might possibly be suitable is Racing Stripes. I check ScreenIt. Are you familiar with it? Excellent source of complete, detailed movie reviews. Do check it out.
After reading about the crude humor in Racing Stripes, I decide to forgo the movie. Not sure what we'll do.
Bard dressed the baby after her bath, and now she's with Grandpa. Headache still = not gone.
Currently, Bard is painting Sweetheart's finger and toenails and informs me, "Actually, her last toenail looks like she got her toe chopped off and it's all bloody. But, whatever."
I read http://schoolathome.blogspot.composts for today. I'm going to go downstairs and tape some freezer paper under the table. You have to read it to understand.
The Fourth Hour: There's Too Many Kids in this Tub
Sweetheart has decided to take a bath in the Jacuzzi in my room in order to prepare for our date.
Yes, I have a Jacuzzi in my room.
Don't hate me. For three years, I took baths in an outside tub on the porch of a two-room cabin. In sub-zero weather. I deserve this.
Besides, I have five kids.
It's 2:00. My dad, who lives with us, comes upstairs to tell me that The Baby is still asleep. She slept with him last night, something she does sometimes when she gets too restless with me. He spoils her. She likes that.
"She was up 'til 2:00," he says. I'm amazed! She didn't have a nap and nursed and played most of the day yesterday. I figured she'd be totally ready for sleep by 10:00, tops. Since he spent many years working second and third shifts, nightime is his thing, anyway.
"Well, it looks to me like she's on a twelve-hour schedule, then," I tell him. "She's not napping. She's awake for twelve hours, asleep for twelve hours. I predict she'll wake up within the next ten minutes."
I was right.
The baby comes to me by way of Grandpa's arms, and she immediately wants to nurse. I wonder how many nurslings of this generation will find themselves hungry every time they see a monitor or hear the click of a keyboard. She nurses from one side and then, within minutes, decides to nurse from the other side. I don't know why she does this. No matter how hard I try to get her to stay on one side, she insists on switching. I guess I'm a softy, because I let her.
While she's nursing, Monet decides to harrass his little sister Sweetheart while she's trapped helplessly in the tub. He deftly grabs the spray bottle that I use to humidify Wilma, my one-eyed chameleon, and begins squirting Sweetheart with the cold water. She screams. He squirts. She screams. He squirts. My headache is getting worse.
"Monet, stop," I say. "That's not a toy."
He continues squirting.
"Put it down now," I tell him. I'm surprised by his disobedience. We haven't been having this problem lately. He keeps squirting. Now he's squirting it at the ceiling.
"I'M LOSING MY PATIENCE!" I shout. Great. Now I have to blog that I yelled at my kid. I should have very calmly but very firmly approached him and removed the bottle from his hands. Get-off-your-butt-parenting. It's too late for that. The yelling worked.
The Baby squirms from my lap. "Baff?" she asks.
"You want to take a bath with Sweetheart?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes," she says, giggling and pulling at her nightgown. I draw her nightgown over her head and take off her diaper.
"Can I take a bath, too?" Monet asks.
"Yep. Get in."
So, now, they're all in the tub. The tub toys that Houdin took out this morning are back in. They're taking turns holding their heads under water, counting to see how long they can stay under. Their own heads, that is, not each other's.
Too Many Kids in this Tub
Author: Shel Silverstein
There's too many kids in this tub
There's too many elbows to scrub
I just washed a behind that I'm sure wasn't mine
There's too many kids in this tub.
I read my e-mail:
- From Shannon, arrangements to meet so she can show me how to use a sewing machine.
- From my father-in-law, a snide comment: "I'm shocked to read that you're blogging!" He's a regular reading and snide-comment leaver.
- From my sister-in-law, an update on their lives and an explanation for why she hasn't written--my brother-in-law spilled coffee on their laptop.
- From my friend Steven: What do we do if we love you but we're too busy to read your blog?
- From Nesting Robin: I've been missing you.
Headache = still exists.
Third Hour (and then some): Spelling Lessons
First, let me clarify. I may not get this done every hour. I plan to try to start writing one hour after I post the previous post. It's taking me about 30 minutes to write each entry.
Now, on to the Third Hour...
Five-year-old Sweetheart comes into my room, the kitty-cat face that her sister Bard drew on her last night with eye-pencil still slightly visible. I wrap my arms around her in her morning hug and she giggles. When she pulls back, she looks at me very seriously.
"Is one nostril nose for breathing in an' the other for breathing out?"
"No," I answer, "they can both breathe in and breathe out. Look." I cover my nostrils one at a time and demonstrate. She does the same, and then hands me a pencil and paper and asks me to write the word "would." I do.
I hear silverware clinking downstairs. I hope it's someone putting the dishes away, and not throwing them around the kitchen. I later find that Houdin, indeed, put the dishes away.
Nine-year-old Monet enters my room, hands me the same piece of paper on which I wrote "would" for Sweetheart and asks me to write "those." Hmmm. I wonder what they're planning.
I check my e-mail. There are fourteen messages. Five are from Freecycle, so I check to see if there's any good stuff on there. A Hammond organ, dried roses, disposable nipples, large bouquet of artificial flowers, and a wanted for a mattress and box springs.
I get dressed, pulling on my favorite jeans. Gap, size 16, button fly bootlegs that I got at a yard sale for two bucks. I cut off the bottoms and they're so hip-ply frayed. I also pull on a t-shirt from the local coffee bar. I like the t-shirt because it's a cool color, it feels nice, and it's an indication to locals that I'm not a tourist.
I hear jump-roping downstairs. I feel a slight headache beginning. I take my vitamins.
It's time to get some things done. While I'm going about my business, the kids follow me around showing me things and asking me questions. Houdin is working on a new magic trick. He drops a quarter in a little green box and then magically produces it in his hand, shaking the box to show that there's no longer a quarter inside. I know how he does it. I tell him it needs more work.
Sweetheart appears again, with a new piece of paper.
"How do you spell 'can?'" She follows me into the laundry room, and I sing the "C is for cookie" song, and then explain all of the things that look like a C. She writes a C. She already knows "a" and "n" because they're in her name.
I pause from doing my laundry to take a picture of of Sweetheart writing her note, on which she has already drawn a little girl in a flowered dress and written the words, "Sweetheart (not her real name) and "Mom." As I finish clicking the camera button, she says, "You should take a picture of me eating ice cream." Houdin calls from his room, "Nice try, Sweetheart."
Monet is in his room, sitting at his desk writing in our journal. It warms my heart to see him there, his room so clean, writing in the magical book in which he and I share our thoughts of the day. I'm carrying his clean pajamas, which I would normally put on his bed for him to put away, but because I have such a wellspring of lovein my heart for him right now, I walk over to his dresser and start opening the drawers. "Third drawer," he says, smiling. Some days are like this. Other days are not.
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'we?'"
Houdin asks if he can play RuneScape. "Have you done your three things and your chores?" This is a reminder to feed the goats, guinea pigs, clean his room and do three helpful things that no one has asked him to do.
"I've done the chores, but not the three things," he answers.
"Okay. After you're done," I tell Houdin, "I want you to write a GOOD first draft of your Favorite President essay. It's due in a couple of days." He agrees. He doesn't care for writing, and he's the one who really has a hard time spelling, but he agrees without argument. He cleans the bathtub toys out of my tub, cleans off the kitchen table, and does a load of dishes. The phone rings as Houdin brings his journal into my room to write his rough draft on my bed.
The phone call is from Bard's friend Kat.
"I have one question."
"I have one answer," I tell her.
"Is Bard still coming on the camp-out with the youth group?" I tell her that, yes, she is, and ask how much I owe for the trip.
"My mom's paying for it," Kat answers.
"Oh, no she's not," I say. This is a game that Kat's mom, Shawn and I play with each other. "I'll just have to find a sneaky way to pay her back. It's fifteen dollars, right?"
"Yeah, but she won't take your money," Kat tells me. I hear Shawn's voice in the background. "Don't steal my blessings!" She says.
"Tell her she's good," I say.
"You taught me well," she responds. I hand the phone off to Bard so she can chat with her friend. Now I have two kids asking me how to spell things.
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Franklin'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'go'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'scottie'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'on'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Fala'?"
Sweetheart: How do you spell 'date'?"
Monet comes into my room with his magical book. He has written me a wonderful note in response to my note to him.
My note:
His note:
Dear Mom,
That would be cool! with all of those picturers in my book. Oh and
Sweetheart helped with the snow fort so write her a note. And go back to the
last note I wrote you and read the thing that has the arow coming out of it.
Oh and my favorite part of the story is when she barows the tools from
Jake.
Well, that's all.
Love,
Monet (smiley face)
I go back to my laundry. I find $5.00 and some change, a $5.00 wal*mart shopping card, a few magnetix, a hershey's kiss wrapper, a tissue, a spider pin made out of pipe cleaners. I don't know what I didn't find. I won't know until it's too late.
I eat a Luna Bar for breakfast. This is not unusual.
Sweetheart hands me her note. "Can we go on a date," it reads. She's looking at me with hopeful eyes.
"Yes," I tell her. "Make sure your room is clean and you have clothes on that match." I'm trying to think about what we can do on our date, and I'm hoping this headache goes away soon.
But it's not. It's getting worse, almost nauseating, and radiating through my body. I may have to take something, or lay down with a warm sinus mask.
Visited Full Life. Left a comment and a shameless plug.
"How do you spell 'left?'"
"How do you spell 'taxpayers?'"
"How do you spell 'turn?'"
I write a note in Monet's journal as I wonder what would happen if I got a call from one of my Amish neighbors asking me to drive today. I'd be away for more than an hour. I guess I'd just audioblog. That'd be cool.
"How do you spell 'package'?" Houdin asks.
"P-A-C-K-A-G-E," I answer.
"No," he answers, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "It's B-O-X."
Now, on to the Third Hour...
Five-year-old Sweetheart comes into my room, the kitty-cat face that her sister Bard drew on her last night with eye-pencil still slightly visible. I wrap my arms around her in her morning hug and she giggles. When she pulls back, she looks at me very seriously.
"Is one nostril nose for breathing in an' the other for breathing out?"
"No," I answer, "they can both breathe in and breathe out. Look." I cover my nostrils one at a time and demonstrate. She does the same, and then hands me a pencil and paper and asks me to write the word "would." I do.
I hear silverware clinking downstairs. I hope it's someone putting the dishes away, and not throwing them around the kitchen. I later find that Houdin, indeed, put the dishes away.
Nine-year-old Monet enters my room, hands me the same piece of paper on which I wrote "would" for Sweetheart and asks me to write "those." Hmmm. I wonder what they're planning.
I check my e-mail. There are fourteen messages. Five are from Freecycle, so I check to see if there's any good stuff on there. A Hammond organ, dried roses, disposable nipples, large bouquet of artificial flowers, and a wanted for a mattress and box springs.
I get dressed, pulling on my favorite jeans. Gap, size 16, button fly bootlegs that I got at a yard sale for two bucks. I cut off the bottoms and they're so hip-ply frayed. I also pull on a t-shirt from the local coffee bar. I like the t-shirt because it's a cool color, it feels nice, and it's an indication to locals that I'm not a tourist.
I hear jump-roping downstairs. I feel a slight headache beginning. I take my vitamins.
It's time to get some things done. While I'm going about my business, the kids follow me around showing me things and asking me questions. Houdin is working on a new magic trick. He drops a quarter in a little green box and then magically produces it in his hand, shaking the box to show that there's no longer a quarter inside. I know how he does it. I tell him it needs more work.
Sweetheart appears again, with a new piece of paper.
"How do you spell 'can?'" She follows me into the laundry room, and I sing the "C is for cookie" song, and then explain all of the things that look like a C. She writes a C. She already knows "a" and "n" because they're in her name.
I pause from doing my laundry to take a picture of of Sweetheart writing her note, on which she has already drawn a little girl in a flowered dress and written the words, "Sweetheart (not her real name) and "Mom." As I finish clicking the camera button, she says, "You should take a picture of me eating ice cream." Houdin calls from his room, "Nice try, Sweetheart."
Monet is in his room, sitting at his desk writing in our journal. It warms my heart to see him there, his room so clean, writing in the magical book in which he and I share our thoughts of the day. I'm carrying his clean pajamas, which I would normally put on his bed for him to put away, but because I have such a wellspring of lovein my heart for him right now, I walk over to his dresser and start opening the drawers. "Third drawer," he says, smiling. Some days are like this. Other days are not.
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'we?'"
Houdin asks if he can play RuneScape. "Have you done your three things and your chores?" This is a reminder to feed the goats, guinea pigs, clean his room and do three helpful things that no one has asked him to do.
"I've done the chores, but not the three things," he answers.
"Okay. After you're done," I tell Houdin, "I want you to write a GOOD first draft of your Favorite President essay. It's due in a couple of days." He agrees. He doesn't care for writing, and he's the one who really has a hard time spelling, but he agrees without argument. He cleans the bathtub toys out of my tub, cleans off the kitchen table, and does a load of dishes. The phone rings as Houdin brings his journal into my room to write his rough draft on my bed.
The phone call is from Bard's friend Kat.
"I have one question."
"I have one answer," I tell her.
"Is Bard still coming on the camp-out with the youth group?" I tell her that, yes, she is, and ask how much I owe for the trip.
"My mom's paying for it," Kat answers.
"Oh, no she's not," I say. This is a game that Kat's mom, Shawn and I play with each other. "I'll just have to find a sneaky way to pay her back. It's fifteen dollars, right?"
"Yeah, but she won't take your money," Kat tells me. I hear Shawn's voice in the background. "Don't steal my blessings!" She says.
"Tell her she's good," I say.
"You taught me well," she responds. I hand the phone off to Bard so she can chat with her friend. Now I have two kids asking me how to spell things.
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Franklin'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'go'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'scottie'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'on'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Fala'?"
Sweetheart: How do you spell 'date'?"
Monet comes into my room with his magical book. He has written me a wonderful note in response to my note to him.
My note:
Dearest Monet,
I had such a good time watchng you and Houdin build your fort today.
It's SO cool! I took pictures. I'll try to print some out so we
can tape them into this book.
Do you like the book Mandy? What is your favorite part so
far?
I (heart) you!
Love, Mom (smiley face)
His note:
Dear Mom,
That would be cool! with all of those picturers in my book. Oh and
Sweetheart helped with the snow fort so write her a note. And go back to the
last note I wrote you and read the thing that has the arow coming out of it.
Oh and my favorite part of the story is when she barows the tools from
Jake.
Well, that's all.
Love,
Monet (smiley face)
I go back to my laundry. I find $5.00 and some change, a $5.00 wal*mart shopping card, a few magnetix, a hershey's kiss wrapper, a tissue, a spider pin made out of pipe cleaners. I don't know what I didn't find. I won't know until it's too late.
I eat a Luna Bar for breakfast. This is not unusual.
Sweetheart hands me her note. "Can we go on a date," it reads. She's looking at me with hopeful eyes.
"Yes," I tell her. "Make sure your room is clean and you have clothes on that match." I'm trying to think about what we can do on our date, and I'm hoping this headache goes away soon.
But it's not. It's getting worse, almost nauseating, and radiating through my body. I may have to take something, or lay down with a warm sinus mask.
Visited Full Life. Left a comment and a shameless plug.
"How do you spell 'left?'"
"How do you spell 'taxpayers?'"
"How do you spell 'turn?'"
I write a note in Monet's journal as I wonder what would happen if I got a call from one of my Amish neighbors asking me to drive today. I'd be away for more than an hour. I guess I'd just audioblog. That'd be cool.
"How do you spell 'package'?" Houdin asks.
"P-A-C-K-A-G-E," I answer.
"No," he answers, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "It's B-O-X."
The Second Hour: None of them are adopted
I've barely left my bedroom.
I'd like to say that this is not a normal occurrence in my life, but it's true that by 11:38, unless there is a fire or an Amish neighbor has called me for a ride, I'm still in my room, making my bed, doing laundry (which is never, ever done), and reading my favorite blogs.
Today is no exception.
And here's the thing. I actually LIKE it this way.
So, this morning I've been visiting all of my most inspiring bloggy friends and hoping for a little treat from the wisdom that is in their heads.
As I mentioned, I popped over to Guilt-Free Homeschooling, and then I made my way down my blogroll.
Confessions of a Happy Houswife. This is a blog by a gal that happens to live about forty-five minutes from me, and she found my blog in this great blogging universe. I've come to realize that we are twins separated at birth. Hi, Shannon!
I skip the next couple, because I've read all of their stuff, and I'm in a hurry today, but Real Live Preacher is one of my favorite reads. I usually save him for after midnight, though.
I keep going to The Happy Homeschooler, but the blog is never updated. Am I missing something? I consider taking the link off of my blogroll, but I'm too lazy and too optimistic.
I skip down and just read the ones that have been updated, like School @ Home. I'm touched by Tenn's realization that her family's nutritional intake is slipping a bit. I can totally relate. We've been on a mission to change our eating habits. So far, so good. I say this even though I have not yet had breakfast this morning. It's in process, though. I promise. (Side Note: I just went to Tenn's Site again to link the above and I see that she has linked to my audio blog by The Baby. Thanks, Tenn!)
I skip on over to The Big Yellow House. Chris is one of my favorite bloggers. She's funny, she's smart, and I'm still waiting for my half of the best friends necklace from Target. Chris, did I ever mention how very young and thin you are?
And then (and here's where it gets very pitiful), I spent a good fifteen minutes shamelessly plugging my blog. I sent an e-mail to all of the people I love telling them to check out twenty four hours in the life of me. I only wish I were kidding.
Bard, my fifteen year old daughter, came in to say good morning. She insists on her twice-daily hugs, and many daily hugs in between. I love them. Every one of them. They remind me of something...ah, yes. Motherhood.
My dear fifteen-year-old daughter reads over my shoulder, and I explain what I'm planning to do today. She disappears for a while. When she returns, she announces, "I commented on your blog." She then chastises me for the misuse of the word "nonplussed."
"It means bewildered, at a loss for what to say, totally perplexed. Geeze, Mom. I'm surprised at you."
"Well, I meant it to mean that I didn't respond."
"You used it wrong. Might as well say, 'bemused' instead of 'amused.'" She rolls her eyes at me.
Bard helps me make my bed, reminding me that she'll be gone on a campout with her friend Kat starting tomorrow morning. She also mentions that she'll miss The Baby's birthday and asks if we can postpone it. Given my current financial state, I tell her, I may not have a choice.
Houdin comes in to harrass Bard. They run out of my room throwing good-natured insults at each other. I can tell that these are good-natured insults because they are both laughing. When the insults are bad-natured, only one of them is laughing. Moments later, she comes in and begins to questions Houdin's legitamacy.
"Did you *mean* to have Houdin?" She asks, her eyes narrowed with skepticism.
I laugh out loud. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, the way he is, it's like you didn't really mean to have him. I mean, look at him. He's nothing like the rest of the family. Are you sure he's really yours? Were you awake when you had him? Are you sure they didn't switch him? I mean, look at that weird eye thing that he does."
"What are you talking about? What weird eye thing?" I look at Houdin, who has just walked in the room.
"That weird eye thing. That thing where he opens his eyes and mouth really wide and the eyelids actually separate from his eyeball." Houdin demonstrates.
"No, he's ours. And yes, I did want him. I didn't mean to have him, but I wanted him."
I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I braid my hair and put on makeup. I don't do this every morning but, hey, I'm being watched today. The entire time I'm getting ready for my day, Houdin and Bard are sitting in my room, exchanging clever comments. Eventually, as it always does, the conversation turns to Homestar Runner. I actually snort a couple of times while I listen to their re-enactments.
I finally have had enough. Which really means that it's time for me to blog again.
"Go make some toast," I say.
"He should have to make it. He's the Cinderella," Bard says, pointing to Houdin.
"That means you're the evil stepfamily. All of them."
"No, not, because, see, it's backwards. He's the step-person and he's evil."
I actually have to count to three to get them out of my room.
I'd like to say that this is not a normal occurrence in my life, but it's true that by 11:38, unless there is a fire or an Amish neighbor has called me for a ride, I'm still in my room, making my bed, doing laundry (which is never, ever done), and reading my favorite blogs.
Today is no exception.
And here's the thing. I actually LIKE it this way.
So, this morning I've been visiting all of my most inspiring bloggy friends and hoping for a little treat from the wisdom that is in their heads.
As I mentioned, I popped over to Guilt-Free Homeschooling, and then I made my way down my blogroll.
Confessions of a Happy Houswife. This is a blog by a gal that happens to live about forty-five minutes from me, and she found my blog in this great blogging universe. I've come to realize that we are twins separated at birth. Hi, Shannon!
I skip the next couple, because I've read all of their stuff, and I'm in a hurry today, but Real Live Preacher is one of my favorite reads. I usually save him for after midnight, though.
I keep going to The Happy Homeschooler, but the blog is never updated. Am I missing something? I consider taking the link off of my blogroll, but I'm too lazy and too optimistic.
I skip down and just read the ones that have been updated, like School @ Home. I'm touched by Tenn's realization that her family's nutritional intake is slipping a bit. I can totally relate. We've been on a mission to change our eating habits. So far, so good. I say this even though I have not yet had breakfast this morning. It's in process, though. I promise. (Side Note: I just went to Tenn's Site again to link the above and I see that she has linked to my audio blog by The Baby. Thanks, Tenn!)
I skip on over to The Big Yellow House. Chris is one of my favorite bloggers. She's funny, she's smart, and I'm still waiting for my half of the best friends necklace from Target. Chris, did I ever mention how very young and thin you are?
And then (and here's where it gets very pitiful), I spent a good fifteen minutes shamelessly plugging my blog. I sent an e-mail to all of the people I love telling them to check out twenty four hours in the life of me. I only wish I were kidding.
Bard, my fifteen year old daughter, came in to say good morning. She insists on her twice-daily hugs, and many daily hugs in between. I love them. Every one of them. They remind me of something...ah, yes. Motherhood.
My dear fifteen-year-old daughter reads over my shoulder, and I explain what I'm planning to do today. She disappears for a while. When she returns, she announces, "I commented on your blog." She then chastises me for the misuse of the word "nonplussed."
"It means bewildered, at a loss for what to say, totally perplexed. Geeze, Mom. I'm surprised at you."
"Well, I meant it to mean that I didn't respond."
"You used it wrong. Might as well say, 'bemused' instead of 'amused.'" She rolls her eyes at me.
Bard helps me make my bed, reminding me that she'll be gone on a campout with her friend Kat starting tomorrow morning. She also mentions that she'll miss The Baby's birthday and asks if we can postpone it. Given my current financial state, I tell her, I may not have a choice.
Houdin comes in to harrass Bard. They run out of my room throwing good-natured insults at each other. I can tell that these are good-natured insults because they are both laughing. When the insults are bad-natured, only one of them is laughing. Moments later, she comes in and begins to questions Houdin's legitamacy.
"Did you *mean* to have Houdin?" She asks, her eyes narrowed with skepticism.
I laugh out loud. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, the way he is, it's like you didn't really mean to have him. I mean, look at him. He's nothing like the rest of the family. Are you sure he's really yours? Were you awake when you had him? Are you sure they didn't switch him? I mean, look at that weird eye thing that he does."
"What are you talking about? What weird eye thing?" I look at Houdin, who has just walked in the room.
"That weird eye thing. That thing where he opens his eyes and mouth really wide and the eyelids actually separate from his eyeball." Houdin demonstrates.
"No, he's ours. And yes, I did want him. I didn't mean to have him, but I wanted him."
I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I braid my hair and put on makeup. I don't do this every morning but, hey, I'm being watched today. The entire time I'm getting ready for my day, Houdin and Bard are sitting in my room, exchanging clever comments. Eventually, as it always does, the conversation turns to Homestar Runner. I actually snort a couple of times while I listen to their re-enactments.
I finally have had enough. Which really means that it's time for me to blog again.
"Go make some toast," I say.
"He should have to make it. He's the Cinderella," Bard says, pointing to Houdin.
"That means you're the evil stepfamily. All of them."
"No, not, because, see, it's backwards. He's the step-person and he's evil."
I actually have to count to three to get them out of my room.
The First Hour: The Biggest Challenge
I awoke to my husband Bo standing over me, dressed for work and smiling.
"Good morning, Beautiful." I'm totally not making this up. This, God knows why, is how he wakes me up in the morning. Looking down at me, smiling, and addressing me in some flattering way. I've seen me in the morning. I don't know what the heck he's talking about. Maybe his eyesight's not so good before 10:00 AM
"Good morning," I answer. I ask him about his neck, which has been stiff since he woke up yesterday. I ask him what he's going to do for lunch, since I didn't make him one, there are hardly any groceries, and everyone ate the Toll House Cookie Bars I made last night.
"I'll get a chili and baked potato," he answers.
"Okay," I say cautiously, "but NO POP!" This is because we have cut all soft drinks out of our diets and are trying desperately to drink only water.
"No pop!" He says. "No pop! No pop! NO POP!" He repeats this over and over in a thick commie accent as he makes his way down the stairs. I hear the basement door open. I hear the garage door open. I hear the car start in the garage.
I't's 9:25 AM.
I lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about the best way to spend my day. I think about spelling. I think about reading. I have one child whose spelling is just atrocious (did I spell "atrocious" right?). Then again, Bard, my 15-year-old had atrocious spelling until I threatened to send her to boarding school. Her spelling drastically improved when she was about thirteen.
Still, I figure I should spend some time trying to figure out how to approach spelling with Houdin, my thirteen-year-old spelling-challenged child. I figure a good place to start is reading Guilt-Free Homeschooling, so I decide that I'm going to get up and start my computer, which is about three feet from my bed.
I can hear the garage door closing, and then opening, and then closing, and then opening. Bo is battling with the dogs and cats who keep running in and out of the garage, tripping the motion sensor on the garage door. I look out to see all four dogs romping around in the snow of the front yard. I see Bo's Jeep sitting in the driveway, and I watch to see if he'll look up at me. I send him a silent, telepathic message telling him to look up. "Look up here!" I think. "LOOK UP HERE AND WAVE AT ME!" I can tell from his hand motions that he's messing with his hair. He doesn't look up. He drives away. I say a silent prayer for his safety.
Speaking of dogs, I have to see a man about a horse. I only mention this because I have to tell you that the view from my toilet in my bedroom is so very awesome. I swear that I can see across three counties from my bedroom windows. As I sat there, I thought, "I wish my blog readers could see what I see." Ahem. I don't mean I wish they could see me sitting on the toilet. Oh, gag. What I mean is that I wish they could see these rolling hills, serene, peaceful farms, winter-bare trees. I think that's when I decided to do the 24-hour blogging thing.
By the time I finished my business, the computer was up and running. I'm so egocentric, my start page is Today's Lessons. I check last night's entries. No comments. Drat.
I navigate to Guilt-Free Homeschooling and read a few entries. I like what she had to say about having the kind of house where people actually live. I have to admit that I really struggle with this. Especially living in an Amish community, I feel like my home should be neat and clean at all times. It's not. Ever. This is when I decide to take pictures to go along with my twenty-four hour blog.
I head downstairs for the camera, and I find that Dog #4, Lewis, a one-year-old black lab, has made his way through dog #2, Jack's, tiny dog door and is hopping around at the bottom of the steps saying, "Check me out. Ain't I cool? I'm the man. Hey! Pet me! Love me!" I unceremoniously open the front door and tell him to go out. I see that one of the dogs has brought me a gift. On the front porch lies a frozen rooster. "Go play with the dead chicken," I tell Lewis. He goes out.
I grab my camera and make my way back up the stairs to my room. On my way, I turn off the light in the kids bathroom. I predict that I will be doing a lot of this today. You just wait and see.
Once back in my room, I take a few shots of my computer, my unmade bed, etc. And then I feed Wilma, my one-eyed chameleon who lives 
in a ficus tree on my tub deck. She eats live mealworms, and I keep them in the top drawer of my oak wardrobe, right under the computer I'm typing on this very second. Isn't that disgusting? Yeah.
Houdin walks in. He's disheveled and bleery-eyed with sleep. I get up and hug him to say good morning, an act I've committed to doing every morning for 1,001 days.
The phone rings. It's Bo. He's calling to tell Houdin to gather up the trash. The trash man might actually come today.
"Hey, did you get my secret, telepathic message?" I ask.
"Uh, I...yeah. Yeah! I got it! But what can I do about it when I'm driving?"
"You could have done it," I answer.
"Really? I can do that? While I'm driving?"
"You didn't get it," I answer, nonplussed (what does "nonplussed" really MEAN, anyway."
"Awwww...what was it?"
"When you were leaving," I tell him, "I stood at the window and sent you a secret message to look up. 'LOOK UP!' I said. You just fixed your hair and drove off."
"Awwwww..." he says. "I'm sorry."
"That's okay," I say. I don't believe in telepathic messages anyway. Not really. I think.
I've spent a half hour writing this post. If this continues, I know what I'm going to be doing for the next twenty-four hours.
"Good morning, Beautiful." I'm totally not making this up. This, God knows why, is how he wakes me up in the morning. Looking down at me, smiling, and addressing me in some flattering way. I've seen me in the morning. I don't know what the heck he's talking about. Maybe his eyesight's not so good before 10:00 AM
"Good morning," I answer. I ask him about his neck, which has been stiff since he woke up yesterday. I ask him what he's going to do for lunch, since I didn't make him one, there are hardly any groceries, and everyone ate the Toll House Cookie Bars I made last night.
"I'll get a chili and baked potato," he answers.
"Okay," I say cautiously, "but NO POP!" This is because we have cut all soft drinks out of our diets and are trying desperately to drink only water.
"No pop!" He says. "No pop! No pop! NO POP!" He repeats this over and over in a thick commie accent as he makes his way down the stairs. I hear the basement door open. I hear the garage door open. I hear the car start in the garage.
I't's 9:25 AM.
I lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about the best way to spend my day. I think about spelling. I think about reading. I have one child whose spelling is just atrocious (did I spell "atrocious" right?). Then again, Bard, my 15-year-old had atrocious spelling until I threatened to send her to boarding school. Her spelling drastically improved when she was about thirteen.
Still, I figure I should spend some time trying to figure out how to approach spelling with Houdin, my thirteen-year-old spelling-challenged child. I figure a good place to start is reading Guilt-Free Homeschooling, so I decide that I'm going to get up and start my computer, which is about three feet from my bed.
I can hear the garage door closing, and then opening, and then closing, and then opening. Bo is battling with the dogs and cats who keep running in and out of the garage, tripping the motion sensor on the garage door. I look out to see all four dogs romping around in the snow of the front yard. I see Bo's Jeep sitting in the driveway, and I watch to see if he'll look up at me. I send him a silent, telepathic message telling him to look up. "Look up here!" I think. "LOOK UP HERE AND WAVE AT ME!" I can tell from his hand motions that he's messing with his hair. He doesn't look up. He drives away. I say a silent prayer for his safety.
Speaking of dogs, I have to see a man about a horse. I only mention this because I have to tell you that the view from my toilet in my bedroom is so very awesome. I swear that I can see across three counties from my bedroom windows. As I sat there, I thought, "I wish my blog readers could see what I see." Ahem. I don't mean I wish they could see me sitting on the toilet. Oh, gag. What I mean is that I wish they could see these rolling hills, serene, peaceful farms, winter-bare trees. I think that's when I decided to do the 24-hour blogging thing.
By the time I finished my business, the computer was up and running. I'm so egocentric, my start page is Today's Lessons. I check last night's entries. No comments. Drat.
I navigate to Guilt-Free Homeschooling and read a few entries. I like what she had to say about having the kind of house where people actually live. I have to admit that I really struggle with this. Especially living in an Amish community, I feel like my home should be neat and clean at all times. It's not. Ever. This is when I decide to take pictures to go along with my twenty-four hour blog.
I head downstairs for the camera, and I find that Dog #4, Lewis, a one-year-old black lab, has made his way through dog #2, Jack's, tiny dog door and is hopping around at the bottom of the steps saying, "Check me out. Ain't I cool? I'm the man. Hey! Pet me! Love me!" I unceremoniously open the front door and tell him to go out. I see that one of the dogs has brought me a gift. On the front porch lies a frozen rooster. "Go play with the dead chicken," I tell Lewis. He goes out.
I grab my camera and make my way back up the stairs to my room. On my way, I turn off the light in the kids bathroom. I predict that I will be doing a lot of this today. You just wait and see.
Once back in my room, I take a few shots of my computer, my unmade bed, etc. And then I feed Wilma, my one-eyed chameleon who lives 
in a ficus tree on my tub deck. She eats live mealworms, and I keep them in the top drawer of my oak wardrobe, right under the computer I'm typing on this very second. Isn't that disgusting? Yeah.
Houdin walks in. He's disheveled and bleery-eyed with sleep. I get up and hug him to say good morning, an act I've committed to doing every morning for 1,001 days.
The phone rings. It's Bo. He's calling to tell Houdin to gather up the trash. The trash man might actually come today.
"Hey, did you get my secret, telepathic message?" I ask.
"Uh, I...yeah. Yeah! I got it! But what can I do about it when I'm driving?"
"You could have done it," I answer.
"Really? I can do that? While I'm driving?"
"You didn't get it," I answer, nonplussed (what does "nonplussed" really MEAN, anyway."
"Awwww...what was it?"
"When you were leaving," I tell him, "I stood at the window and sent you a secret message to look up. 'LOOK UP!' I said. You just fixed your hair and drove off."
"Awwwww..." he says. "I'm sorry."
"That's okay," I say. I don't believe in telepathic messages anyway. Not really. I think.
I've spent a half hour writing this post. If this continues, I know what I'm going to be doing for the next twenty-four hours.
A Day in the Life
Everyone's just pounding on my door asking me how I do it. "If I could just live with you for one day, Thicket Dweller, I would be the smartest, most creative, easy-going, wisest homelearner in the whole world! Please, please be my friend!"
Alright. So that was just a fantasy. The truth is, I just thought it would be way mobie cool to blog through the day to keep track of what I do in a twenty-four hour period. So I plan to come in once an hour for twenty-four hours and give a quick blogging of what I've done that hour.
IF I remember to do it.
The next post you read will be about what I've done for the past hour. And then, I'm setting my timer, doggone it! :-)
Alright. So that was just a fantasy. The truth is, I just thought it would be way mobie cool to blog through the day to keep track of what I do in a twenty-four hour period. So I plan to come in once an hour for twenty-four hours and give a quick blogging of what I've done that hour.
IF I remember to do it.
The next post you read will be about what I've done for the past hour. And then, I'm setting my timer, doggone it! :-)
Ice Castles
"I'd say, let those kids play as long as they want..."
These were my husband Bo's words as he was leaving for work this morning. It was a wonderfully freeing suggestion and I was all too happy to comply.
He was referring to the fact that three of our five children had awoken early, eaten breakfast, cleaned up after themselves, dressed to go outdoors, and were in the yard making snow forts before he and I even opened our eyes to the new day.
So, I did just as he suggested. I let them play, play, play. They were being productive. They were getting along with NO arguing at all. In fact, Houdin and Monet were actually--GASP--cooperating!
I stood at our second floor window overlooking their work-play, afraid to move too quickly or make a sound for fear they'd see me and it would break the magical spell under which they were operating.
I watched Houdin fill plastic box after box with snow, pack it down with his gloved hands, and stack block after block to build his fort strong and high.
I watched Monet replenish Houdin's materials supply, pushing large boulders of snow uphill to the site of the fort so that Houdin could use his shovel to slice off bits of the snowball and pack them into the plastic boxes.
I remembered yesterday's promise that I would not only look at their creation, but that I would photograph it. So I went for the camera, pulled the screen out of Houdin's bedroom window, and started snapping photos. Monet eventually heard the whirring of the camera's lens and looked up.
"Hi, Mom!" he called, waving to me from his castle-like creation.
"Hi," I returned. "You know, you could make that fort really strong if..."
"If we spray it with water. I know. Dad told us already. About a hundred times."
"Oh." Well, I guess I don't have such original ideas, then. I guess I should just stick to taking photos.
"Let me get one of you together," I called down. The boys edged closer to each other. They were proud of their work. They looked handsome, healthy. The air was chilled, but they were warm. So very warm.
Their faces smiling, the camera clicked. This is what I live for.
These were my husband Bo's words as he was leaving for work this morning. It was a wonderfully freeing suggestion and I was all too happy to comply.
He was referring to the fact that three of our five children had awoken early, eaten breakfast, cleaned up after themselves, dressed to go outdoors, and were in the yard making snow forts before he and I even opened our eyes to the new day.
So, I did just as he suggested. I let them play, play, play. They were being productive. They were getting along with NO arguing at all. In fact, Houdin and Monet were actually--GASP--cooperating!
I stood at our second floor window overlooking their work-play, afraid to move too quickly or make a sound for fear they'd see me and it would break the magical spell under which they were operating.
I watched Houdin fill plastic box after box with snow, pack it down with his gloved hands, and stack block after block to build his fort strong and high.
I watched Monet replenish Houdin's materials supply, pushing large boulders of snow uphill to the site of the fort so that Houdin could use his shovel to slice off bits of the snowball and pack them into the plastic boxes.
I remembered yesterday's promise that I would not only look at their creation, but that I would photograph it. So I went for the camera, pulled the screen out of Houdin's bedroom window, and started snapping photos. Monet eventually heard the whirring of the camera's lens and looked up.
"Hi, Mom!" he called, waving to me from his castle-like creation.
"Hi," I returned. "You know, you could make that fort really strong if..."
"If we spray it with water. I know. Dad told us already. About a hundred times."
"Oh." Well, I guess I don't have such original ideas, then. I guess I should just stick to taking photos.
"Let me get one of you together," I called down. The boys edged closer to each other. They were proud of their work. They looked handsome, healthy. The air was chilled, but they were warm. So very warm.
Their faces smiling, the camera clicked. This is what I live for.
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