From North of Here

Blogging Again?

2009-11-24T13:36:00-05:00

Well, I can't guarantee the same quality of posts that you are used to, but we have had several people express their concern about why we haven't been writing lately. We've been so busy as a family that it has been difficult to get online and blog about it. Plus with Facebook, we put status updates and pictures on there that it almost makes duplicate work to post on the blog.

So with that, I will be updating our blog to new software and will be posting in December. Our new blog software allows for easier posting and lots of cool photo album features. Since I primarily did the pictures for the blog and Jolene did all the writing, I will probably post more pics (and captions) than stories. Jolene gets all of the good stories since she is with the kids more often, and I will try to get them online when I can.

So, all that to say... We're gonna be back online in December. Hopefully our new blog will feature more photos and features that will attract you back. If you would, please post some comments to let us know you're still coming by to find out what's going on "from north here."

Chris

Fairness of Loss

2009-05-28T09:44:00-05:00

A year ago I had the last telephone conversation ever with my grandmother. It was a year ago. And we used to talk pretty regularly on the phone, so when it rang and it was her there was nothing to announce to me that it was the very last time that ring would be her calling for me.

And that's not fair.

"Fair" is something that is a big issue in our house these days. Gigi is very concerned about being fair. Her new favorite thing to tell me is "No fair!" To which I pretend those words are unknown to me. To her having to carry her own baseball glove is "no fair". To me it's knowing that the phone rang a year ago and I didn't know it was the last time.

I'm big on beginnings and endings. I love that my very first college class and my very last final exam as a senior were in the same building. I love full circle. I love breathing in and acknowledging that something is ending. I understand life, death, and new beginnings and all of that crap that people send to you in cards meant to heal loss. But what I can't get past is that I never thought that was the last time. And I wish I had known. I wish the kids weren't running around yelling while I was talking. I wish I hadn't been folding laundry. I wish the dogs hadn't been barking. I wish I could go back and just listen - fully listen, undivided attention listening.

But I can't.

The thing is that the first year without her has been numb. I've ignored things that would hurt. I kept busy on holidays and especially on my birthday. I didn't bother checking the mail on my birthday because I knew the card and the $5 bill that came every year, without fail wasn't going to be there. I won't get anything with her handwriting on it any more. I won't have her telling me how much she loves reading about what Will and Gigi do.

And that's the reason I haven't blogged with enthusiasm. It just seems pointless. Everyone has a special audience they write for. Mine left last June. And I want to say "no fair", but I'm 31 and I should know better because there are a great many things that aren't fair - moreso than losing one's grandmother. There are other people, other relatives who have the right to grieve and feel loss more than I do. And I know she's in a better place, and she's not "lost" and all of the junk we're taught to console ourselves or each other. But that doesn't make it fair. Not to me. Because the immense feeling of loss and grief is just overwhelming.

Signs of her and things we would talk about are everywhere. The blooming of bluebonnets this year nearly killed me. It killed me to have portraits taken of Will and Gigi. It killed me when radio stations have Elvis marathons to commemorate his birth and his death. There's an unbelievable feeling when I wash or see the quilts she made me for my high school graduation and then for my wedding. It hurts when Gigi demands her Big Bunny to sleep with - my grandmother never saw how much Gigi loves that bunny.

Right before I became familiar with cancer, and painkillers, and hospice care in a way I never want to be aquainted with it again I had to fill out some paperwork that involved a personality profile and psychological evaluation. It was for a job that has since faded into the background, but I was specifically asked "How do you handle loss?" And I answered it with key phrases "acceptance, prayer, moving on, better places -" all of those things someone who has never experienced a loss can arrogantly and sophomorically state with 100% assurance. It's easy to deal with loss when you've never met it.

But Loss came. And Loss still lives. And Loss sits in a corner and waits for me to slow down, to not be busy, to catch me when I'm not prepared and it jumps out and reminds me that I do not handle Loss well. Not on the inside. Not that I'm ever going to talk about. I handle Loss poorly.

Not to say I don't move on. I get up every morning. I go to the gym. I teach. I play with the kids. I volunteer. I plan parties. I feed people. I put on lipstick. I function. I love. I laugh with my sweet friends. But there are areas that are painful when they bump into Loss.

The things she made. My son asking to hear the lullaby that she sang to three generations. Elvis. Bluebonnets. Potato Salad. Hot tea. And the most cruel - when I deliver meals once a month to ill and elderly people. I walk in and hand them their food, help them arrange their pillows, walk past their oxygen tanks and see the warning signs on the tanks... And I just want to yell that it's not fair. To be able to sit in the corner and break down for a bit. But you can't. You have to move on. You're 31, you have meals to deliver. You have a yard to beautify. You have carpooling duties. You have clothes to wash. You have people who ask you why you haven't blogged. You have cats who need a clean litter box. You have sunscreen to apply, nails to clip, milk to buy. You're still here and you have to just move on.

But that doesn't make it any easier when the phone rings and you know it's not her.

Old Habits

2009-04-16T17:01:35-05:00

There was a note on a stack of envelopes and papers waiting for me this morning.

"Please, if you get a chance, I need you to take care of my car's vehicle registration and run these photos to the post office."

Sadly, these instructions make me happy. The thing I miss most about work is being someone's "Right Arm". Chris pretty well takes care of himself. I don't get messages left on scraps of paper. I miss those. I miss the "Mail this", the "Call them", and "Bring us up to date with our payment" notes of the working world.

I was gleeful. I had errands to run. I made a list "Ballet. Vehicle Registration. Post Office." As I made the list I realized there were only three things on it. I didn't need a list for that. I didn't care.

I've been "unemployed" nearly a year. Does this go away?

Party Girl

2009-04-07T17:28:56-05:00

I am "Mom" to twenty two first grade children. In some ways it's a pain. In a lot of ways it's so much more rewarding than I think anyone else - including myself - realized it could be.

It all began last August. I took Will to his Meet The Teacher night. Still only three months in to my new gig as a Stay at Home Mom, I was coming to a point where I realized all of my days in this new gig involved a swimming pool and a picnic lunch. Knowing that even in Texas the weather will eventually phase out that style of parenting, I was trying to decide what to do with the time in my days that usually were spent running around creating reports, statistics, and databases.

On the wall was a sheet to sign up as Room Parent and Assistant Room Parent. I've spent my entire working life as "assistant" something or other, so I figured I was qualified to do that. That, to me, meant whatever Room Parent needed me to do I would do. And I'm a very good assistant. Personally, given the choice, I would always rather be First Runner Up than the star of the show.

The thing about First Runner Up is that if the winner cannot perform duties...

The thing about Assistant Room Parent is that if no one signs up to be Room Parent...

I found out a few weeks before the Silent Auction that I had gotten a promotion. I also discovered that not only did I need to flounder through putting together a basket for a silent auction that I needed to plan a party for Christmas. I needed to come up with snacks, games, party favors, and crafts for 22 first graders. I needed to fit all of those elements into a 50 minute party.

Anyone can wrestle a bear for a little while. Right?

Except there were two more parties. Valentines and Spring. And I am not a craft person. At all.

Somehow I've come up with enough crafts, games, and goodies to get through a school year. It's been costly - I won't lie. If you have to pick a time to be promoted against your will to Room Parent, I highly recommend doing so in a good economy. Because, chances are, people will want to donate to your party then. I'm having no luck. So I shell out my "walking around" money for parties.

Here's the thing, it's worth it. It's worth it to spend time preparing for the party, agonizing over the crafts, giving away my "walking around" money. Because I get to spend 50 minutes with 22 first graders who are hopped up on fruit juice, candy, and cupcakes. I get hugs. I get "thank you"s. I get "you're the best"s. I get more hugs. And some more. And they're all delighted to see me. For 50 minutes of that party I alone am the one they are happy to see. And my joy overflows because it's so unexpected and so worth it to see their sugar induced happiness as they delight over the world's crappiest crafts that the world's worst craft person made up.

And it's so worth it that I only have to take one of those sugared up, hyperactive, messy kids home.

Differences

2009-03-22T22:05:05-05:00

I think if two kids come from the same parents, they should be the same person. I know that's sort of one of the joys of parenting, but if I could have the same make and model for my two kids I think Spring Break would have been easier.

Waking Up - Will takes care of his breakfast needs and entertainment needs while letting Mommy sleep in. Gigi is up and ready to go at 6 am. She wants sausage, scrambled eggs, pancakes, orange juice, and pancakes. Since she is 3 this means Mommy will not sleep in.

Breakfast - Whilst she demanded all of that food, she will eat only the eggs. Will, who ate a slice of bread on his own will come in and eat everything left over. Then, in 5 minutes he will ask "What's for Lunch".

Lunch - Gigi is happy with either a 79 cent nacho from Taco Bell or ramen noodles. Will wants lobster or steak - or surf 'n turf. He says he's not picky.

Getting Dressed - In the process of explaining to Will what time lunch is served around the house, both kids have dressed for the morning. Gigi is wearing her favorite shirt - her Las Vegas hot pink shirt - a leopard print skirt, play high heels, and a tiara. Will is wearing underwear. I remind him that sleeping in underwear is fine, but when one wakes up and gets out of bed, something else should be added to that outfit. He asks why. Gigi says "It's nasty." I say "It's depressing and bum-ish."

Clean Up - Will is a worker bee. Gigi sits with a play tea cup and yells about Will's bad attitude, which he has because he's the only one cleaning up the mess that I'm pretty sure wasn't his to begin with.

Lunch - Will is not a fan of Gigi's Ramen Noodles.

After lunch - no one can agree on "something fun". Gigi wants to play games or watch a tv show. Will wants to go to the park. Gigi doesn't want to go to the park. Mommy wants a nap.

Naptime - both kids want to nap with Mommy, which is the only thing they both want to do. Mommy makes both kids angry and chooses to share naptime with dogs because they're quiet and don't tattle.

Afternoon - Both kids paint on the porch. They have different artistic styles and they argue the finer points of "scribble-scrabble" and "copying". I bring the kids root beer floats and veggies and pretend like they're art critics and not squabbling kids.

Dinner - Chris arrives home and both kids are again in agreement that he is the parent who is the most fun, the most loved, and the most in demand. Mommy is relieved because for the next several hours, the first word out of their mouths won't be "Mommy!" yelled and spread into 10 syllables.

Sadly, I'm really going to miss having them both all day with nothing to do now that Spring Break is over.

Summer Breeze on the LP

2009-03-13T17:06:17-05:00

Because we're half-way through March I know any day now an e-mail from my mother is coming to let me know, once again, I have not written. Telling her stories of baking cookies, making dinner, cleaning the house, doing homework, and chauffering her grandkids isn't going to help. The woman knows it takes me ten minutes to write something.

The weather, until a few days ago, was warm, sunny, and beautiful. On beautiful days Gigi and I wait impatiently for Will to get off the bus and start his walk home. We three pile in the car and head to Sonic where every day is 1/2 price drinks from 2-4.

There's just nothing as wonderful as sitting in the car with the windows open, drinking a 1/2 price Diet Coke from the fountain with the kids. We three sit, watch cars, listen to music, and talk. Yesterday Seals and Crofts' Summer Breeze came on the radio.

Music is a time machine.

In the early 80s when the weather was nice we sat in the living room with the windows open. Mom gave my younger brother and I our baths and we would sit in the living room listening to Mom's LPs in our pjs. We had a stereo that was the first thing Mom bought with the paycheck from her first job. And, since we were listening to LPs from the 70s I suppose my mom never bought any new records once she married and had kids. She, I suppose, was "stuck". There was a time when she was into Lionel Ritchie, but I don't smile when I hear Lionel Ritchie songs. His music evokes long car trips with a dad who didn't believe in potty breaks. But Summer Breeze always transports me to the house on Oak Hill and to the open windows in the living room with my mom, dad, and my brother. Those days I remember she would clean the house (alright - she cleaned the house every day, who am I kidding?) and we would sit together after dinner listening to music and talking as a family. Eventually we would come to the Seals and Crofts record and we would sit and listen to Summer Breeze. Hearing it instantly transports me to those nights. You could see the fireflies in the front yard. You could hear the whippoorwill in the woods. I loved that song. I was probably the only four year old in the world who looked forward to Summer Breeze nights.

"I like this song." Will said we sat.

"Me too." I said. "Honey has this song on a record."

The boy looks at me blankly. Records...

"We used to listen to this when I was a little girl."

"When you were seven, like me?" He asked.

"No, I would have been younger because Aunt Amber wasn't born yet. Uncle Nate was there though - and Honey and Poppy. We sat in the living room and listened to this song."

"I want it on my iPod." He said. He closed his eyes and hummed. "Honey has good taste in music." Maybe one day he will hear the song and it will transport him to Sonic in Saginaw Texas. He'll remember sitting in the car with his mom and Gigi, drinking 1/2 price Diet Cokes and watching the trains go by. Maybe it will be a special song to him too.

Our drinks and the song are finished. It's time to go home. I turn on the car and smile at him, because if he likes her Seals and Croft music, I can't wait to introduce him to Honey's Iron Butterfly record.

Panic! At the Church Sign.

2009-02-18T23:27:12-05:00

When Will was little I always called him "My Treasure." That works out great, until you get another kid and then it's just downright unfair to call one "My Treasure" when the other one doesn't have a name. Fortunately, from the day she arrived Gigi has been "My Joy". She truly is. She drives me insane - so insane that I often just fall down laughing, which may be because she is "My Joy" or it could just be that I'm "Her Crazy". But that's not really what this post is about.

We were driving home Saturday from the grocery store. Gigi, "My Joy", is newly potty trained. We had ventured out sans diaper, sans change of clothes to the store. She said when we entered the store and when we left the store that she did not (NOT) need to go to the potty.

I leaned back in the carseat and closed my eyes. They are "My Treasure" and "My Joy", but it was Valentine's Day at the grocery store with two kids who wanted things. My head hurt. Chris was driving.

"Uh-oh. Is your joy leaking?" Chris said.

I popped up and was in the backseat before Chris knew it. I just knew Gigi was having an accident.

"She's dry!" I was slightly miffed because I was almost asleep in the car.

"What?"

"You said 'Uh-oh. Is your joy leaking?'" I said as I climbed back into the front seat. Chris started laughing, pulled a u-turn (illegally) and pointed. There was a church with a sign that read "Is your joy leaking? Share your joy in Jesus."

Nice.

Birthday Wishes

2009-02-17T19:27:48-05:00

Since Will's official birthday is on a Wednesday and Wednesdays are busy around here with homework, church, choir, etc, we determined to celebrate Will's birthday a day early. The four of us went out to eat at the restaurant of his choice - Chick-fil-a - and then came home for cake.

I lit the candles and then Gigi blew them out. I lit them again. Gigi blew them out.

"No Geeg! It's my birthday!" Will explained.

"Oh, ok." She sat back while I lit the candles a third time. "You make a wish, Willie?"

"Yeah." He said, still frowning at her for blowing out his birthday candles. There are few things more irritating to a seven year old than having ones birthday candles blown out by someone else, especially if that someone else is a 3 year old sister.

Gigi began singing "Happy Birthday" to her brother. When we finished singing he looked thoughtful and then bent forward carefully to blow out all of his candles. I took the cake and began cutting it. The kids made small talk while they waited for their cake.

"You make a wish Willie?" Gigi asked.

"Yeah." He answered.

"What was it?" Chris asked.

"I wished that Geeg would get a pony." He said, smiling.

"That's really sweet." I said, handing him a piece of cake. I hugged him. Gigi beamed. She loves horses. She loves ponies. And, since he used his birthday wish on her getting a pony, she loved her brother. A lot. She was elated with the idea of getting a pony.

"Oh!" She smiled. "Thanks! I love you!' She hugged him. As she was hugging him, Will's sweet smile turned into an evil smirk.

"And then," he smiled sheepishly, "I wished I had a dinosaur so it would eat her pony."

You've Got Mail. From Your Mother.

2009-02-14T11:46:00-05:00

You have not been writing on the web page. There is nothing for the month of Feb.!!!!

Planning on going to the farm this weekend.

Much Love,

Mom

The funny part is that the e-mail shows my mother's name in the From box, but just in case I don't recognize my mother's first and last name, she has conveniently titled the subject "Mom". I don't know what's funnier, that or that she tells me she's going to the farm for the weekend - which means she won't have internet access until next week. She's letting me know I have a few days to write something.

So...

Mom,

I wrote a few posts so you can read them when you come back from the farm. I've been busy with your grandchildren and their antics.

Much Love,

Daughter

Tooth Fairying

2009-02-13T18:06:53-05:00

Wilson was a year old before he ever got his first tooth. Seeing how it took him so long to get the teeth in the first place, I sort of thought they would hang around for a while. Not so.

"I have a loose tooth." He said last Sunday.

"No you don't." I said.

"Yeah, I do." He said. And he came over to where his father and I were sitting to show us. Chris winced and looked away. Apparently Chris doesn't do loose teeth.

"Do you want me to pull it?" I asked. Chris got up and walked off.

"Yeah. I guess so." Will said.

"The Tooth Fairy will come." I said.

"Alright then." He said.

I got a washcloth, the boy, and the special tooth holder for the Tooth Fairy. I pulled the tooth and he held the washcloth in his mouth. We checked out the tooth.

"Will, you haven't been really flossing."

"So."

"So - you need to do a better job here."

"It doesn't matter." He said. And then he looked at the washcloth, saw blood, and freaked out a bit. I got him settled and he went to bed, tooth in special holder under pillow. Chris and I began discussing the going rate for a central incisor in 2009. It was decided that we'd pay out a dollar.

The next morning Will showed up in my bathroom.

"Hey bud." I said.

"Hey." He was unenthusiastic.

"Tooth Fairy come?" His dad asked.

"That fairy only left me a buck." Will said, clearly disappointed.

"Brush better." I said. "You get paid for quality and your quality is lacking."

He wasn't motivated. The thing is that I know what motivates. My brother found a picture of some guy dressed up like a fairy. A very dirty fairy with a yellow stained t-shirt, a pink tutu, a monobrow, chatting on a cell phone, wearing work boots and a bowler hat. My brother said "Tell him not to complain about the dollar because it could be this gentleman leaving him the money. He should just take it and be happy."

Will came home that afternoon with a second central incisor.

"I lost another tooth!" He exclaimed. "I'm making MONEY!"

"Here's the thing Will," I said when I noticed this tooth, too, probably only earned a B+ on the brushing and flossing. "There's a Tooth Fairy Union. You get assigned a fairy based on your brushing habits."

"So?"

"Let me show you the photo of your fairy." I said. I pulled up the picture. Will looked worried.

"That's not my fairy." He said.

"Yeah he is. You're not doing a great job of brushing and flossing, so this is the fairy you're stuck with until you do a better job."

Will eyed the picture. He studied it.

"He looks like he smells bad." He said. "And why is he on a cell phone?"

"Um... You know, they have to call him when they have a tooth for pick up."

"He looks smelly."

"Uncle Nate says he smells like old hot dogs." I said.

"Yuck." Will said. A few minutes later I heard him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. Later I walked by his bathroom and saw him flossing away.

As I tucked him in later that night we put his tooth under the pillow.

"Mom, if you hear a cell phone ring and smell old hot dogs, please can you shoot my fairy?" He asked.

"You can't kill the Tooth Fairy."

"I just hope I don't see him." Will said as he snuggled into his blankets. "We're out of floss by the way. I'll need some for tomorrow."

The next morning a dollar was left along with a note scratched out in poor handwriting that said "Hey buddy - you're lucky I left a dollar because you need to do a better job on your teeth. See you later, I'm off to get a hot dog. Your Tooth Fairy."

The Female of the Species is More Deadly than the Male

2009-02-13T17:47:00-05:00

Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem in 1911 called The Female of the Species. I don't know if Kipling ever had a daughter, but his words ring true as we have a three year old female of the species in our house.

I want to start by saying and stressing that Gigi is my joy. My absolute joy. But she is a three year old female. A female who, I don't care what you say, is not cut from the same cloth as her mother. This presents some problems because I have a son who is cut from the same cloth and that allows me to read and predict actions, emotions, motivations. An inability to predict those in Gigi is killing me. Very slowly.

Gigi turned 3 and it took her 35 minutes to decide on a cake for her Princess party. 35 minutes. It took me three minutes to pick out a wedding dress ("That one, there, on sale. Great.") and it took a photo and a "whatever" to get my wedding cake done. 35 minutes for a cake for a 3 year old's birthday party was giving me an ulcer.

Gigi also has become a kleptomaniac. I suppose she needed a hobby. She has an amazing ability to climb my dresser and get into my jewelry box. We've found a lot of my things - necklace in the DVD player, wedding band in the rocking chair (we found it after we took the chair apart), and earrings in a box in her play kitchen. Still missing, of course, are my engagement ring and my mom ring. My brother said she probably saw one of those "Cash for Gold" commercials and decided to take advantage of a bad economy to get herself a financial nest egg. At any rate, I still have jewelry missing that I can't afford to replace. On the other hand, I now have a new hobby to accompany her kleptomania - metal detecting.

In her most brilliant moment since turning three she took advantage of my potty break to make me win "Bad Mommy of the Year" award. In our defense, we childproofed this house because unlike her brother, Gigi needed us to childproof things. Unfortunately, if you have a child with enough maschivious ingenuity to want to get into things that are dangerous, the child locks are not going to stop them. And when you combine maschivious ingenuity with outrageous independence and a dry chest cough you have a recipe for disaster at 9 am.

To begin with, I make scrambled eggs for breakfast every morning for my kids. Every morning. And the thing is that I hate eggs. I hate the way they look. I hate the way they smell. I don't eat eggs. But I make them, every morning, for my kids who love scrambled eggs because I love these kids so much that I stand there, making eggs while holding my breath so I don't have to smell the eggs and want to throw up. That's love. But this particular Friday in question I woke up and I just didn't feel like making eggs. It was a Friday and we had chocolate chip cookies. So I let the kids eat cookies and drink Diet Coke for breakfast. You all without sin may cast the first stone.

This particular Friday was also my first day as a volunteer to deliver meals to elderly people in our area. I had to be at the drop off at 11:30 am. At 8:30 am I went to get ready for the day and realized there was an open bottle, nearly empty, of children's night time cough medicine. I now know, for a fact, that in a crisis situation with my kids I am rubbish. Complete rubbish. Freak out ensued. I called Poison Control and I was so upset it took me a while to get out the words "Three year old. Cold medicine. Help!" The woman was extremely calm, helpful, reassuring. She said it happens and not to worry. Ha.

Then, it happened.

"Ma'am, did your daughter have breakfast this morning?" The woman asked.

"Yes." I said.

"Good. That means she didn't have an empty stomach. What did she have for breakfast?"

Dang, dang, dang, dang, dang. "Um, two and a half chocolate chip cookies and some Diet Coke." I said.

Silence.

"Ma'am, what did she have for breakfast though? Not snack, but breakfast?"

"Two and a half chocolate chip cookies and some Diet Coke." I said. In my mind I was imagining her hitting a button under her desk that lights up a warning for the state to know a bad parent was on the phone. I imagined them pulling up, surrounding my house in unmarked vans, SWAT style.

"Well..." The lady didn't know what to say. "I'd say give her something to drink, like milk, and watch her. She'll either be really tired, really hyper, or really agitated. And there's a chance, a slim chance, for seizures."

I called Chris, hysterical. I could not deliever meals to the elderly and take care of a seizing child! So Chris came home and helped out. Good man. And there were no seizures, no sleepines, no hyperactivity. Nope, Gigi goes all out agitated. All out. As in do not look at her. Do not talk to her. Do not talk about her. Don't think about her. She was a nasty little thing.

Finally when she detoxed we had a good, long talk about drugs - an intervention, if you will.

"I was sick." She said.

"Then you tell Mommy next time."

"Fine." She said. "But I'm a big girl."

"Not that big." I said as we put all medicines in a tackle box with a combination lock on it.

"You look sick Mommy." She said, eyeing me.

"Yeah." I said.

"I'll take care of you." She said. The phrase angel of death crossed my mind, because the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Why Potty Training Was a Bad Idea

2009-01-29T23:09:35-05:00

Chris and I left for a week for a business trip. My mom stayed with the kids. I told Mom "We're working on potty training so, you know, make sure she uses the toilet." And the great thing is that my mom knew my definition of "working on potty training" meant that I'd bought Gigi big girl panties and she'd worn them a few times. The other great thing about my mom is that if you drop off a 2 year old for a week, when you get that child back he/she will be toilet trained. God bless my mom.

So I take Will and Gigi to Wal-Mart on the snow day. Most of the ice had melted, but it was still pretty cold outside and there were still some ice patches. Ice puts me in a frantic mood. Mostly because I just know I die because some Texan in a big deisel truck and a large cowboy hat is out there on the road at the same time as I am. Laugh if you will. It's one of my biggest fears.

My other big fear is a newly potty trained child, a full shopping cart at Wal-Mart , and being alone with both kids - one who is too old to go in the ladies room.

"I gotta use potty." She says. And she's calm about it. Problem is, Gigi is calm about everything, creepy calm, so you know, she might be able to hold it and she might be on the verge of an accident. You just don't know. I push the cart by the Greeter. I promise her I'm not going to steal the things in my cart, that I just need to take my 2 year old to the restroom. The Greeter looks at me, like I might be lying. In this economy even housewives could steal romaine lettuce, polenta, eggs, face wash, and Valentine cards. She skeptically agrees to let me pass to go to the restrooms.

I park Will outside the ladies' room. I instruct him to yell if ANYONE approaches him. He agrees to watch the cart. Gigi runs in the restroom. She runs into a stall and before I can follow her in, I hear her flip the lock.

I peek in. She's dancing and laughing.

Bang bang bang. "Gigi, sweetheart, open the door so Mommy can help you." I say, you know, sweetly and without panic.

"NO!" She sang. SANG.

The woman next to me, holding her daughter's door shut, smiled sympatheticly.

"Gigi. I need in to help you. I need to take your coat off and help you."

"No THANK YOOOOOOUUUU!" She sang. I could see her dancing through the edge of the door which I was pressed up against.

"Gigi!'

A screaming child entered the restroom. I looked over and saw our beloved preschool director from church and her upset daughter.

"Hey!" I said.

"Hey!' She said.

"How are you doing?" I asked. The sympathetic lady looked at me like I was stupid. The preschool director's daughter was mid-tantrum. Only a moron asks how someone is doing with that sort of evidence.

"Good! How are you doing?" The director asked.

"Great! See you at church tonight." I said. Then I turned to bang on the door. "Gigi. Gigi, I need you to unlock this door right now. I need to get in there."

"No Ma'AM!" She laughed.

The sympathetic woman will not be visiting our church. I feel confident about that. The preschool director offered her daughter to send under the stall and unlock the door. I thanked her, but then said the floor was wet and nasty. She agreed. Right then I saw Gigi take off her coat and throw it on the floor.

"Nasty." The three of us said.

"Gigi!" I banged on the door a few more times. "I need you to open this door. Right. Now. Your teacher is here and she'll be sad if you don't come out."

"I'm using the potty!"

"No. You're not. You're dancing. You need to let me in!"

"No Maaaa'aaaaammmmmm." She flushed the toilet a few times and then spun around, giggling.

I checked out the mechanics of the door and decided one swift kick, SWAT team style, would break down the door. But, you know, that might mean we were banned from Wal-Mart. Finally, I just decided we'd gone at this long enough. Sooner or later someone was going to either take Will or think he was an abandonded child and the thought of someone thinking I would abandon my firstborn at the Wal-Mart was breaking my heart.

"Gigi. Open the DOOR!" Bang, bang, bang.

"No thank you Mooooommmmmyyyyyy!"

"Alright. Well, I'm leaving. I'll see you later." I backed away from the door. Sympathetic Mom turned to Disbelief Mom - she looked at me like I was horrible. Suddenly the lock flipped and there Gigi stood.

"Don't LEAVE me! I LOVE you!"

And then she did her thing on the potty and we went out to where Will waited for us.

"Do you know how long that took?!" He asked.

"Yeah."

"Why do girls take forever in the bathroom?" He asked.

"Our's have doors." I said. I frowned at his little sister who was singing Jesus Loves Me.

He looked at me funny.

"Really? You don't have it on the side of the wall?"

"No. We don't."

"Why?"

I decided that was a discussion not to have on an icy day at Wal-Mart, so I threw some candy into the cart and promised if we could get out of there without another word about the bathroom facilities, there were goodies in the kids' futures.

Taking a Break

2009-01-15T22:11:18-05:00

The last month has been a much needed break. No school, no football, no gymnastics, no tap class, no ballet, no children's choir, no ladies Bible study... So when it all got started back up again I was so thankful! I miss busy. I think it's biproduct of leaving the working world to stay home. I realized I have a problem with taking a break and taking time out to breathe and relax last weekend.

For Christmas my husband purchased a gift package for a Day at the Spa. There's a spa not too far away from our house. He purchased a lovely gift for me. Lovely. My friend Misty called and set us up so she could use her Christmas gift at the same time. So we headed off to Day at the Spa.

First up on the agenda was the massage. Then a break. Then a facial. Then a break. Then a pedicure and some spa food. Then a break. Then a manicure. The whole process took several hours. And it was all lovely, wonderful - I highly recommend it. BUT as I was getting the massage I kept sneaking peeks at the clock on the bookcase wondering "How much longer?" and "When do we move to the next thing?" and "How long is this all going to take?" Who does that? Who in the world worries about places to go, people to see, things to check off a list during a Day at the Spa?

Me.

Apparently I cannot get out of "go mode" even for a day that is supposed to give me a break from the constant go-go-go. I think, in the back of my mind, I have a fear of sitting still. I might miss something. Someone in our house might miss something.

But today after ballet class Gigi asked me to take a nap with her. At first I looked at the floor that hasn't been mopped in a few days and the dishes sitting in the sink. I looked back at Gigi in her "snuggle pants" holding her blanket. And for the first, but not the last time, I decided to take an afternoon nap.

I might need to give that Day at the Spa thing another try.

Nativity

2008-12-19T16:17:57-05:00

I get tired - really tired - of the kids leaving the back door open. The weather is pretty nice outside here, so the kids are in and out, in and out, in and out. And apart from that stupid beeping noise that alerts me to the fact that someone has just gone in and out for the one millionth time, the most annoying thing in the world is when I know they have not shut the door because the lack of beeping lets me know that a door is still open.

So I fall into the trap of yelling typical mom things at the kids: "Shut the door! Were you born in a barn?!"

I suppose it was just a matter of time until one of the kids got smart about a retort to that question. It happened today.

"Will! Were you born in a barn?!"

He didn't hesitate. "Jesus was and that worked out pretty well."

Ornamental Artifacts

2008-12-10T21:18:11-05:00

Many Christmases ago, many more than I first realized, my parents took us to their friends' house for a Sunday School Christmas party. I remember it pretty well - the highlight of the night was when we kids got to open presents. I was extremely excited, until I opened the gift and saw I had received an ornament. I was ten. Ornaments didn't really wow me, I suppose. First of all, you only see it once a year, and at the age of ten I didn't have my own tree. So I handed the ornament over to Mom and said "Thank you" to our host who said "I chose this special ornament for you."

I found it sort of hard to believe. There wasn't anything terribly special about the ornament. It was a white carousel horse. It was fuzzy. It had a red saddle with gold trim. I tried to imagine what was special about it, but I just couldn't see it. At all. For one thing, I wasn't the sort of kid who liked horses. Or carousels for that matter. Each year the tree went up and I looked at it remembering "there's something special about that horse", but never figuring out what that was.

In 1999 Chris and I had been married for about two weeks when Christmas rolled around. Mom packed up all of my Christmas ornaments and sent us off with them. The carousel horse came with. Each year it hangs on the tree with all of the other ornaments.

This year I hung it on the tree. Will helped me put it up. Every day I sort of see him over there by the tree, looking at the carousel horse, touching it's fuzzy white mane and twirling it around by the stick.

"Mom," he said tonight, "this one is my favorite."

"The carousel horse?" I was shocked.

"Yes. I like it. It's special." He said. I blinked hard several times.

"Why?"

"It's special." He said and shrugged, like if I couldn't see why it was special than it was my problem, and he didn't need to justify the carousel horse's specialness to me if I couldn't get it on my own. "Whose horse is this?" He asked.

"Look at the bottom." I said. My mother wrote our names and dates on every ornament we kids ever received. I think it was because she wanted to make sure those ornaments left her house when we all did. Never before in the history of motherhood has a woman been so determined to get all kids grown up, successful, and out of the house with all of their stuff. Not that she doesn't love us, she just doesn't like us storing our things in her basement.

"It says 'Jolene 87'."

"That means it's mine and I got it in 1987." I said.

"When was that?" He said.

"Twenty years ago" I said, not believing it myself. "I was ten."

He touched it more carefully now, like it was not only special, but worth something.

"So it's an artifact." He breathed the words in awe. I have to admit, I don't think anything in the 80s is really ancient, but apparently he does. He kept looking at it and admiring the ornamental archaeology on my Christmas tree. I watched him while working at my laptop so he didn't notice me watching him. He doesn't like to be "studied" by his mother these days, but I couldn't help it. I felt overwhelming joy that after twenty years the ornament, for me, had finally reached its "specialness".

"Tell you what," I said to him "I'll let you have it."

"The carousel horse?" He smiled. "You'll give it to me?"

"It's yours. And when you leave home you can take it with you. It's yours now."

"I can take it to college?"

"Sure. You can take it to college... Though I doubt the eighteen year old you is going to want some silly old carousel horse." I tried to imagine him packing for college and me bringing in his carousel horse and the look the 18 year old Will is going to give me for suggesting he take that off to college. I tried to imagine my future daughter-in-law's horror when she saw the carousel horse and the pain of putting it on her perfectly decorated tree.

"I am too going to want to take it when I'm eighteen." He proudly stated. "It was yours when you were a little girl and now you've given it to me, your little boy. It's special."

"Ok." I said.

Gigi came bounding down the stairs. Will moved the carousel horse up a few branches, out of reach of the two year old ornament toucher.

"This one is mine." He told her. "This is my carousel horse. Mommy is giving it to me. And when I leave for college it comes with me. I'm going to take it to the very first Show and Tell I have in college." He said.

I don't have the heart to tell him that they don't have Show and Tell in college. I also don't have the heart to tell him that there's no way an eighteen year old boy is going to give a second thought to what will then be a nearly 40 year old carousel horse with "Jolene 87" written on the bottom of it.

But this year, and maybe for a few more Christmases, it will be the most special ornament on the tree for him. And that makes it forever the most special ornament for me. Finally.

Carded

2008-12-08T22:44:00-05:00

During High School my AP Lit teacher brought in a box. He explained for the previous 30 something years he designed his own Christmas cards. The truth of the matter was that he didn't "believe" in Christmas - I'm not sure why he used hand parenthesis when he stated that to us, but he did - so he created his own Holiday Cards. Well, I "believe" in Christmas, but I loved the idea of creating ones own cards. I filed that away with things to do with my own family one day.

Ten years later I told Chris we were going to make our own cards. He seemed to like that idea and he created the first one, a photo of an evergreen tree. Since then the creation of the Christmas card is something we start working on around Halloween - the idea, the concept, the how and the why of it. This year, however, I started thinking it's a pain.

It's a pain because we have to come up with an idea, we have to make the kids participate, we have to have them printed. And it's not cheap. I decided this year we were going to buy cards at Wal-Mart.

Like all time saving, easy, economical ideas I have, this one ran into a problem. My mom.

"What's your Christmas card this year?" She asked over the phone.

"Whatever is on sale at Wal-Mart."

Silence. The thing is when there's silence on that other end of the phone, it means my mother is trying to come up with a way to tell you what you're doing is stupid. She doesn't just come out and say "That's stupid". She words it in nice, supportive, motherly persuasion.

"But, you know, people look forward to getting your cards." She says.

"Who?" I ask, knowing full well the only person on earth who collects these cards is her. Everyone else tosses them at the end of the season with all of the other cards. No one keeps Christmas cards.

"Lots of people." She says after a while.

"Name three." I say. I'm smiling because I know she can't.

"I do." She admits.

I get off the phone with her and sketch out the card design. I tell Chris. We get the props ready. We buy hay. We turn the garage into a photo studio. We move ladders, cameras, drop cloths. Then we take a deep breath and prepare for the work ahead.

Problem 1: Gigi doesn't want to change clothes. Too bad. We explain she has to do as we tell her for the Christmas card.
Problem 2: Chris and I move a large wood planter filled with dirt, strawberry plants, and mint from the backyard to the garage. It's heavy. I have back strain.
Problem 3: Chris opened the hay and started setting up the props. Immediately Chris, Will, and I start sneezing and can't quit. Will's eyes start swelling. Will can't breathe. We have to break for a breathing treatment.
Problem 4: Field mouse living in the wood planter runs out wondering why his house has moved. Gigi sees it and wants to keep him.
Problem 5: Gigi doesn't want to cooperate. Gigi wants hot chocolate and wants to hold the blanket that we're using as a prop. Hostile negotiations take place to get child card model to cooperate.
Problem 6: Will decides since he's "being professional" he should get paid by way of allowance increase because he's not causing problems and Gigi is. He begins contract negotiations.
Problem 7: All negotiations are set, photographer gets ready.... Batteries in the flash are dead. Quick break.

Eventually we got the cards made. Next year we're buying cards and Will can color a special card for Mom.

Party Central

2008-12-04T13:27:10-05:00

Satellite radio is wonderful. Our family loves satellite radio. We listen to all sorts of music together. Will and I were folding laundry the other night with the 80s station.

"Mom, can you turn the station?" He asked.

"What?" I was clearly singing and dancing to the song. He was exasperated.

"Mom, I don't like this song. It's too loud."

"Will, how can you not like You Gotta Fight For Your Right To Party?"

"I don't get it."

"You know, it's like turning the song up really loud and singing loud with it and telling your parents that you've got a right. You've got the right to paaaaarrrrrrtttttay!"

I sing and dance and fold the laundry to the anthem of the Right to Party. He puts the socks in the laundry basket while looking at me, his 31 year old mother, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt that says "Mommy". My hair was in curlers. My feet were in fuzzy slippers. He hitched up an eyebrow and watched me sing for my right to party.

"Will, you gotta fight for your right to paaaaaarrrrrttttay!" I sang. I tried to get him to dance with me.

"Um, you know -" he looks at my outfit and the laundry. "I don't know that you really need to fight for a right to 'PAR-TAY' if your Mom is at that party. And not if that's what your mom wore to the 'PAR-TAY'". He picked up the laundry basket and left the room.

I looked at what I was wearing. Oh well. It's better to be told by your grade school aged son that you're too old to party than having someone else tell you that, I reasoned.

Later I caught him singing and dancing. He was really into "1999". He sang at the top of his lungs "Tonight we're going to party like it's 1999!"

I continued folding the laundry as he sang and danced. The song ended. He collapsed on the bed.

"Mom, when do we get to party like it's 1999?"

I smirked at him.

"You're about 10 years too late for that party." I said.

"So - you want to change the station now?" He asked.

"Yeah. What do you want?" I asked him.

"That Big Band stuff is fun. We can both dance to it."

"Amen."

Passing Notes in Prison

2008-11-19T14:42:00-05:00

One bi-product of Will entering the literate world is how much he loves to write and sketch. I bought him a notebook. He sketches and writes in what, I'm sure, is his very own graphic novel (comic book). I'm proud of him.

Last evening the Will/Gigi relationship was at a low point. Both kids were seperated until they could behave. I noticed as I passed Will's door that there were scraps of paper in front of it. I picked up one.

"I'm in here." It said. I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. Minutes later I passed by again. Another piece of paper was on the floor.

"Help me." It said. I shook my head and threw it in the trash. Later I passed the door again. I saw a third scrap of paper.

"I'm here and I want help." It said.

"Will!" I hollered through the door. "I don't know who you think is reading these 'Help Me' notes, but I'm the only one home. That means, your prison guard is reading these and I'm not inclined to help!"

Silence from the other side of the door. A while later I passed by his shut door. A larger piece of paper was now out in front of the door. I looked at it. A drawing of a mother hugging a child and several large hearts were on the paper with the words "I love you Mommy. You are the best!" I smiled.

He really is a sweet little boy, I thought. Just as I was about to open the door a scrap of paper was pushed out from underneath. I opened it and read "Now can I get out?"

Sneaky.

A Funny Thing Happened at the Bookstore

2008-11-18T15:30:43-05:00

We went to gymnastics this morning and Gigi behaved. It's hard to behave in gymnastics because there are two teachers and 11 two year olds in a room full of things to jump, dance, and play on. It's always an exercise in temptation for Gigi to behave, sit on her spot and wait her turn with so many trampolines and balance beams in the room. But she did wonderful and we left on our next errand.

We stopped to see Norita and friends at the old workplace. Gigi behaved - at least, I think she did. Norita and the office staff may think differently, but there were no fires set and no meltdowns. We said goodbye and I decided to hit up the bookstore there on campus for a new book I've been dying to get my hands on.

This is where common sense should have kicked in, but you know me and common sense... We're not on speaking terms all of the time. Logically I should have realized we only have so many "good choices" in a two year old each day.

It's rough being two - think about it from her perspective, you know, take a walk in her size 6 crocs: She's been up for six hours, she's eaten a muffin, she went to gymnastics, she's been in an office and had a piece of candy. She's hungry, it's naptime, and she's done everything she can to be a good girl all morning. But then, Mommy decides "It's on the way home" and swings into the bookstore. That means she's going to have to behave some more and wait longer for that lunch and naptime. She followed me in the store, mentioning to me that she would like to eat and then take a nap. I told her "That's nice." She looked at me.

Sometimes I know she looks at me and wants to say something like "You gotta ask yourself, do you feel lucky? Well, do you Mommy? Do you feel lucky?" But she hasn't seen Dirty Harry yet, so I don't know if she'd use that exact line. But Mommy was feeling lucky. It's just that in the game of Hungry versus Lucky, Hungry is going to win out.

I found my book and then flipped through some others. I should mention this is a Christian bookstore. Gigi looked around and asked what was in the boxes.

"Communion wafers." I said.

"Wafers?" She eyed the box. "Nilla Wafers?" She inched closer to them.

"No. Not Nilla Wafers. Communion wafers. You know, for Lord's Supper."

"I'm hungry Mommy."

"Just a minute."

I walked us to the check out register. Christian bookstores are like grocery stores in that the register has candy in front of it. And Gigi decided she needed a piece of candy. She picked one up and headed for the door.

"No." I said. The lady and I were messing with the card reader that decided right then and there to quit working. And for some reason the register I was at couldn't take cash. Really? Cash is universal, I thought.

"I'm hungry! This is my candy!"

I want to point out that if you're going to get a piece of candy, a piece of candy with a Bible verse or Christian symbol on it is probably not the way to go. I think, if I'm honest, more has gone into getting the verse or symbol on the candy and less attention has been placed on the yummy factor of the candy. It was overpriced (sorry) and probably not very good tasting (sorry, again). It wasn't, you know, a Snickers bar or something worth throwing a fit over in the Christian bookstore. But Gigi had a perfect storm brewing - two years old, tired, and hungry. She started to throw the fit. The woman behind the register started praying the card reader would just work already so we could leave and quiet and serenity could return to the Christian book world.

"Gigi, I said no."

"I said yes."

"I need you to put that candy up. Right now. No candy."

"It's MINE!"

I started to tell her that if one is going to shoplift candy it should never be candy with a Bible verse stamped on it from a Christian bookstore. That's just wrong on a lot of levels.

I pried the candy out of her hand and smiled at the lady. I saw her eyes glance over my book - I know she was thinking I needed to turn my rear end around, put my book choice up and get one on parenting. That's the great thing about having a two year old, smiling while your kid is throwing a fit because you know everyone else has an opinion on how to deal with the situation - the reality of it is I know a secret. No one deals with a tantrum while exhibiting serenity and finesse. No one. Once the tantrum is a go, you might as well go along with life and smile at those around you. It's one of those things that will pass, and you just have to wait it out. Sort of like riding out a tornado in your bathtub.

Finally I was able to pay. I want to point out that I had been offering cash payment for 10 minutes, but that register doesn't take cash. I suggested that was funny, since it is called a "Cash Register" - the lady wasn't in a laughing mood. I was. I giggled while Gigi sobbed on the floor. I looked at her.

"Don't look at me!" She yelled.

"Ok." I smiled.

I picked up the bag with the purchased book in it and turned to leave. Without looking at her I reached out my hand to the insubordinate, tired, hungry child lying on the floor. She stopped yelling.

"Mommy?" She was still sobbing. "Will you hold me please? I need to be held."

I hugged her close and she hugged back. Some people, I'm sure, have children who don't throw fits or who obey all of the time. I'm sure that's great. But God didn't give me kids with that kind of personality. He chose the kids I have specially for me. And that's why, even when she's throwing a fit about some nasty, overpriced candy in the Christian bookstore I can smile at her and think with a huge sense of pride, "She's mine".

Later, at home, we shared a cookie and snuggled for her nap.

"I love you Mommy." She said and closed her eyes.

She's Mine.

Sick Day? Anyone?

2008-11-13T23:28:45-05:00

The one thing about staying home full time with the kids is the loss of sick days. I mean, I still get sick, but now there's no one to watch the kids when I am. So this week I'm sick. Some sort of cold - and all I want to do is sleep until the headache and the fever go away.

But there's a two year old "nurse" and she has decided it's her duty in life to "take care of Mommy". Sweet, yes. I think, however, we rather have a difference of opinion of the definition of "taking care". My idea would be for sleep. I want to sleep. She seems to think the best way to make me better is to demand I play My Little Pony with her. She's something of a bully: "You fix their hair Mommy!" "You play with the yellow one Mommy!" "Make the horsey sound Mommy!"

And although I'm sick there's no one else to drive the kids to their junk. (When I'm not sick, the "junk" is referred to as "extracurricular activities". Since I feel terrible, anything that requires me to get off the couch is "junk".) That means I have to get everyone and their gear to practice. My head spins as I look for missing fooball cletes, an absent tap shoe, a lost pair of workout pants, and a MIA leotard.

Today, however, I decided I felt just bad enough that Death was probably camping out in the front yard. The morning started off poorly and went rapidly downhill. By 9:30 I decided Dance Class was NOT going to happen. I put Gigi in her "snuggle pants" and a t-shirt. I gathered up a stack of books and every stuffed animal I could think of. I turned on PBS and left out a bowl of cheerios and a muffin for her. She patted my head and held my hand.

I fell asleep. So did she. Rather unfortunately she woke up before I did. I knew she was awake, but I couldn't drag myself out of bed. I just resolved myself to prayer - praying she wouldn't set anything on fire or ruin too many walls in the house.

Later I was amazed to find she hadn't set fire to the house, colored anything with a permanent marker, cut anything to pieces, nor had she bothered anything she isn't supposed to. Sweet, wonderful child.

As soon as she saw I was awake she brought a herd of My Little Ponies to me. Oh well.

Election Story

2008-11-04T08:23:47-05:00

In honor of Election Day here is how my voting process went. I voted early. For one thing, I don't really like crowds and I hate waiting in lines. I also didn't want to wait and have to take two kids to stand in a long line. I know you think that is whimpy and un-patriotic, but I had a hard enough time voting early with both kids in tow.

I explained to the kids last Wednesday that we were heading over to the nearby junior college so I could vote. Will's school, his dad, and my mom are political junkies. That translated into me having the world's most rabid, passionate first grader in the county when it came to voting and voting for his candidate of choice. I explained to Will that 1. A lot of people died so everyone had the opportunity to vote for the candidate of their choice without being bullied, and 2. That meant he needed to keep quiet about his opionions in the polling place.

I parked and told both kids that it was important to be quiet in the polling place. I explained this was a serious activity. They both said "Ok." We walked in reverently to the already packed voting place.

I handed over my voter registration card. The workers checked it thoroughly. The man passed it back and smiled. That was all it took for Gigi to leave my side and go to the other side of the table to greet every single election volunteer with a hug and her life story. And since Gigi was so friendly and since they all loved her, the workers then turned their attention to Will. They asked him how he was doing and he militaristicly told them "I cannot talk to you about the vote we are casting. It is our business and no one else's. You can't talk to me about who to vote for." While Will was all business, Gigi was still making the rounds, greeting people, shaking hands, giving hugs.

They looked somewhat amused.

"She'd be great on the campaign trail. She makes good connections with voters. I'd vote for her." A man said. I shrugged. I'm not ready for the Presidency of Gigi.

I pulled Gigi away from her voting place hug fest and went to the open voting booth. Despite going to early voting, the room was still packed. I logged on to the voting system and Gigi was gone. I looked down the row and saw her greeting people at the voting stations. "Hi! I'm Gigi. I'm two. How are you?" She said. Luckily people didn't seem upset with an overly-friendly two year old wearing all pink and a hairbow as big as her head. I nervously looked around, half expecting some government voting agency to charge us with disrupting voting. She came back and I voted - quickly - and we got out of there.

Will said "I thought you said this was an important activity. That was really quick."

"It is important."

"But if people died for it, why was it so fast?"

"People died so it would be easy for each of us to vote. In a lot of countries it's very dangerous to try to vote. Some people in other countries don't get to vote at all."

He looked around and smiled. "Gigi would hate living in that kind of country."

Me too.

Halloween - Who Are You (Who-Who, Who-Who)

2008-11-01T15:37:00-05:00

Will is an out-of-the-box costume kid. That means each year he tells me what he wants to be for Halloween and I have to tell him that no one is going to understand who he is supposed to be. So each year he goes dressed as something conventional and obvious and he spends the night heartbroken that he isn't what he asked to be.

This year I decided it's supposed to be about fun. He's supposed to get to pretend to be the person he's dressed as. Who cares if no one really gets what - or who - he is? So, this year I said "Ok" and dressed my child up as his favorite character. Doctor Who.

Will went as the 10th Doctor. You're probably not aware of who Doctor Who is. That's ok. Neither was anyone during our trick-or-treating adventure. However, since you're reading this on the internet I have the ability to guide you here http://www.bbc.co.uk/doctorwho/ so you can learn about the 10th regeneration of a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey. Last night people just said "You're a doctor? What kind?" And Will would roll his eyes and say "THE Doctor. I'm THE Doctor." People just smiled and passed over the candy and then said hello to Gigi who was dressed as a conventional cheerleader.

Some people assumed he was a stockbroker. Some thought he was a door-to-door salesman. I started to feel bad for him, but he never picked up on having won the award for Most Obscure Halloween Costume. He was in British Sci-Fi Trick-or-Treat heaven.

I have to say, this costume was pretty easy to put together. We had his Easter suit, Converse high tops, and we'd purchased a Sonic Screwdriver and Psychic Paper from a UK toy store online. (Everytime I say Sonic Screwdriver or Psychic Paper my Mom shakes her head and wonders why we can't just let the kid watch Spongebob.) We were missing a suit jacket and a wool coat, but the thing is that The Doctor fights bad guys in space and in London where it's not 85 degrees while you're walking around in October. So our Doctor Who dressed to avoid a heat stroke.

While a lot of kids want nothing more than be a Jedi, a ninja, a pirate, or a superhero for Halloween it's never been the case for Will. Here's a list of who he has requested for the past several years:


Arthur Dent The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy	Phillip J. Fry Futurama	Captain Malcolm Reynolds Firefly	The Tick The Tick	The 10th Doctor Doctor Who

I have to say, I love his creativity.

Gigi and the Pumpkins

2008-10-22T21:31:00-05:00

Gigi and I ran out to get the pumpkins for Halloween. Since the pumpkins were an incredible price I put three large, traditional Jack-o-Lantern pumpkins in the shopping cart and then entered the store.

Inside the store there were more pumpkins. White, grey, round, flat, and all other manner of variations one can make a pumpkin. I'll be honest - I love pumpkins. I always have. Apparently, Gigi loves pumpkins too. She picked out a white one and a grey one and said she must have them. Since they, too, were dirt cheap, I went ahead and bought them.

We arrived home, put up the pumpkins and the other groceries and I went about my business. Gigi, however, hung around the fireplace where her two special pumpkins were. After a while I noticed she was sitting on the pumpkins. She sat for a while, jumped up, and looked at it. Then she hit the pumpkin with her princess wand and sat back down. Her new favorite story is Cinderella and obviously she's waiting for that pumpkin to turn into a carriage.

It is the most precious thing to watch.

Migrations

2008-10-13T21:20:29-05:00

Every Saturday at either noon or 1 in the afternoon Will has a baseball game. This conflicts with Gigi's naptime. So every Saturday Chris watches Will play baseball and I walk with Gigi around the park until it's time to go home.

Monarch butterflies are migrating right now. Gigi loves butterflies. Last year we purchased a butterfly kit. We watched caterpillars turn into butterflies and then we released them in the front yard. So, naturally, when Gigi saw a field full of migrating monarch butterflies behind the baseball game, she wanted to see them.

There are things Gigi does that are so poetic and so ethereal we can only sit back and observe in awe. On Saturday she ran through the field causing the butterflies to fly around her as she ran, laughing. It was beautiful.

"I love butterflies Mommy." She said. "They dance with me."

Frantic

2008-10-06T21:36:56-05:00

For three weeks our home has been visited. It's an evening visitor that none of us want here. It arrives just around 9 pm and shows up all night long. It's a stomach virus. Everyone else in the family has fallen victim to it. There have been sickly assaults on our carpets. I've done an obnoxious amount of laundry. And through it all the thing I have come away with is that the next time we build a house there will be bathrooms located in the far reaches of the house since the kids are obviously having a hard time making it to a trash can, tile, or toilet. Also I will not go for the nearly white carpet. No. Next time I'm getting a dark carpet - I don't care if it "closes the room in".

Husband and kids are down for the count. They are medicated and put in beds snuggling trash cans and lying on top of the only sheets I haven't had to throw away - yet. I'm cleaning the house. Yes. I'm dusting, vacuuming, mopping, scouring, laundering. Mostly because I'm trying to stay so busy the virus can't get to me - like if I move around enough, if I stay active it won't attach itself. And partially because I figure once I do get sick it would be nice to know the house is clean - dusted, mopped, folded and packed up, and no dirty dishes or dirty oven. There might be some ray of happiness to be found if I get sick and I know my refrigerator and pantry are neat, clean, and tidy.

Mostly though, I'm multi-tasking while on hands and knees cleaning the baseboards. As long as I'm on hands and knees praying that I don't get sick like the rest of them, I might as well have clean baseboards too.

The Gift of Gigi

2008-09-24T22:35:00-05:00

Some days with a two year old are sort of like being held prisoner. Some days it's like having the world's worst boss who is never happy with you, who never likes what you do, and who routinely screams "I AM SO MAD AT YOU!" while you scramble around trying to figure out how to get someone else to take over your job. Not all days are like this because some days involve happiness, hugs, coloring done in coloring books, and reading and snuggling. But some days are like being a prisoner of war.

The cruelest part for Gigi and me is that she has to have these 2 year old meltdowns which are a part of growing up BUT she occasionally has them (GUYS: skip to the next paragraph please!) when Mommy has PMS, or as our Queen's English friends call it, PMT. I rather like PMT which changes the "Syndrome" out for "Tension" because it really is tension, not a syndrome as far as I'm concerned. When the two cycles align both of us end up yelling and crying and stomping off in either high heels or tap shoes. I realize that one day her PMS/T will correspond with "the change" so we'll be back in the same boat. Mothers and daughters never get a break when it comes to emotional breakdowns. The good news is that neither of us is alone in a breakdown, we have someone there on the other side of the slammed door feeling just as crappy. There is some comfort in that.

Welcome back to our male readers. So today we're going to have a bad day. And I know we're going to have a bad day because she told me so on the way home from dropping off Will.

"Mommy, I'm going to have a bad day today."

"Oh, but Mommy really needs you to have a good day today." And Mommy could use some caffeine, some chocolate, some mac n' cheese, a heating pad, and some kleenex...

"No. I'm in a mood." She stares resolutely out the window. And I realize her mind is made up and we're going to have a bad day because she's "in a mood". I can feel the pressure building on one side of my head as we drive home. I feel the urge to cry because it's only 7:30 am and I know it will be a long day. My back hurts. I'm going to have a bad day too because I'm quickly getting "in a mood".

"Gigi, it's not too late. You can still have a really good day. We can have a great day singing and dancing and coloring and snuggling. You can choose a good day." Please, please choose the good day! Don't go to the Dark Side!

"No. I make bad choices today."

Poop. I'm stuck. The thing about Will is that if he's "in a mood" he will exile himself and I won't have to be a part of the bad day. Gigi demands audience. She holds court, as it were, in a bad day mood. Not only will I be witness to this bad day, but I'm going to be the supporting actress in the drama.

"WHERE'S LUNCH?! I WANT MY LUNCH!" She's in my face now. I move away from her and say, quietly that's it's only 8:45 am and lunch isn't served until 11:30. She throws a fit. I know what you're thinking but I assure you proper lines of punishment were followed, but when she's declared herself "in a mood" we are talking emotional terrorism here. War has been declared on Mommy.

The day involved a toothpaste mess, a coloring mess on the toy chest, the destruction of a perfectly organized bookshelf, the wrecking of several child safety locks, numerous toy casualties, a two hour fight about the definition of "naptime" and several nasty comments about my cooking abilities.

At 4 pm I was enjoying my first chance at silence. And then, I looked up. She had a crayon and she was scribbling on something. "Oh well, she's not screaming at me." I thought. But then, you know, I got curious about what she found to color in the living room... I looked closer and found her going to town IN MY BIBLE! Is nothing sacred?!

She got into a lot of trouble. I separated us. I gave us both "time out" because after the Bible incident we were both needing Jesus. Neither one of us was a good woman at that point in time. The Proverbs 31 woman ran from our house, giving both my daughter and I up as lost causes. It was ugly at our home.

A few hours later I went to my Ladies Bible Study. Several noticed that I looked like I'd been in combat during the day. I shrugged every time one of them asked if I felt ok. My answer was always "I've been with an angry 2 year old girl all day." They understood. Our Bible Study got underway and I was really struggling to overcome my exhaustion from the day of combat. I opened my Bible to the Psalm we were reading in our Study only to discover that Gigi had gotten there before me. I was angry at first that she had destroyed a Psalm, but then to my amazement I saw the one she'd colored over.

Psalm 139. I won't write the whole thing for you but I did stop suddenly and choke up at the part she colored with the most effort: verses 13 -16:

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

How special and how beautiful that God knew Gigi's days - even the worst ones - before I even knew she was forming. How special to know that even on these days Gigi and I aren't in it alone. How awesome to get this word from God through the crayon of a child that just a few hours earlier I'd had it up to here with.

I hope you have revelations like this with your kids even on your worst days.

Pledging PTA

2008-09-24T15:07:35-05:00

I went to my very first PTA meeting of the year as a card-carrying member. The meeting was held simultaneously with the annual book fair. I picked up a few books for the kids and then purchased a book off of Will's teacher's Wish List. I meandered to the PTA meeting and sat close to the front in the middle. Since I volunteered to be a Room Parent I thought I was required to attend.

My most recent boss said I have an uncanny ability to find organizational disasters. That ability is then aided by my inability to say "No" to volunteering and going into Executive Assistant mode where I go in and clean everything up. I looked around the room and realized I was going to have to fight very, very hard to not volunteer to clean up this particular mess.

Everything I know about PTAs to this point has come courtesy of the song Harper Valley PTA. With that said, I was expecting some straight-laced business meeting where marching to a different drummer was not going to be tolerated and where we worried about the moral standing of the community. At the very least I expected some moms in mini skirts and go-go boots to call the board to the mat on certain things. I hate to say this, but there were no go-go boots.

The primary players at this meeting were wearing shirts that matched and read "It's a PTA THANG, you wouldn't understand". I don't like "thangs". Not because I don't understand since I'm completely empathetic to causes I don't understand, but because I rather prefer "things" to "thangs". I spent a few moments trying to understand what PTA THANG I wasn't going to understand but then I was interrupted by the spastic woman at the microphone yelling to the other board members in the cafeteria: "I think some parents are escaping through the back door out of the library! We need to cut them off there and make them come to the meeting! If they won't come with you, tell them you need their money!"

Why, I thought, were other parents escaping through the back door? Why, I wondered, was I here willingly and on time for this meeting? Where, I mused, was the nearest exit for me to escape from? No, I reasoned, I'll stay. I have to take an interest in my child's education.

A major flaw I saw in this meeting was that the PTA had purchased sodas, popcorn, and sticky cinnabuns for the meeting which, then, they placed in the back of the room for parents to eat. However, since this was the night of the family book fair a lot of smarter parents dumped their kids in the cafeteria with the free sugar snack and then they went, child free, to the library. The kids after a few sodas and cinnabuns were wild. And loud. And when the parents were done and had escaped from the back of the library they called kids on those little kid cell phones to meet them outside thus preventing the parents from returning to the PTA meeting.

The meeting was called to order and we were told we would say the pledge of allegiance to the flags. Plural. Flags - with a "s". I looked around the room trying to figure out what flags I needed to pledge to, but I only saw the U.S. flag and a state flag. I felt a little better, like maybe they weren't going to have me pledge to a foreign entity. We pledged to the Flag of the United States of America and then, to my complete shock and awe the room turned as a collective to the Texas State Flag. And, they proceeded to loudly pledge to it. Shock and Awe. Followed by an urge to bust into laughter, nervous and uneasy laughter.

I like Texas. I like it a lot. I like that we can swim until November in pools. I like that our small suburban town has a BBQ place that offers Homecoming specials. I love that everyone talks to you in line at the grocery store. I love that people always hold the door for you no matter how far back you are behind them. I love a lot of things here. But after thirteen years living in this state I had no idea they have a pledge for their state flag. I guess, you know, I sort of figured if you pledged at the federal level that should cover it.

Wrong. You must also pledge at the state level. If you don't you're going to be branded a communist, a socialist, a non-patriot, or worse.

I stood there, silent trying to convince myself that probably all states have a pledge. The kids in front of me turned around.

"You're not pledging." One kid said - loudly enough to make others look at me.

"Hm." I smiled.

"You're not pledging to the Texas flag." He said again.

"I don't know this pledge. I haven't lived in Texas very long." Thirteen years is relative I suppose so it wasn't really a lie.

"You illegal? Are you illegal?" He annunciated in case English wasn't my first language. I tried to fight the urge to whip out my Texas driver's license but then I wondered if it would be confiscated since I don't know the state pledge. Lucky for me the meeting turned from the pledge to the budget that still isn't ironed out, but not to worry because we can keep ammending it.

Ok. So I don't know what on earth is going on at that school where kids know the pledge to their state flag and identify anyone not pledging themselves to Texas as "illegals", but I have to tell you I'm filing that in with the PTA THANG I don't get.

I sat there through the rest of the meeting wondering about a lot of things - budgets that would repeatedly be ammended throughout the year because we don't know about some stuff yet, who the renegade Room Mothers were from last year, how people demanded to be reimbursed monetarily for volunteering, and I learned the important thing when trying to get people to join the PTA is to tell them they can always give money instead of joining. In fact, I'm supposed to tell everyone I know. Send money, it's what everyone understands.

Crazy

2008-09-23T15:51:40-05:00

We were working on math homework while Gigi took a nap.

"How was school?"

"Fun."

"What did you do at recess?"

"Played Ninja. Some of the girls who usually chase me weren't at school today so I got to play Ninja all recess instead of running away from girls."

"Why do they chase you?"

He looked at me. He takes a deep breath.

"They want me to be their boyfriend."

"And?"

"And I told them no. I keep telling them no."

"Ok." I am relieved. I am not putting up with a gradeschool romance. No way. We've had this discussion - me and Will - and I'm relieved he was listening. Unfortunately Will hasn't yet learned that when Mama is relieved Son should stop talking. He nibbles his brownie.

"Yeah, I told them 'I can't be your boyfriend. My mom is a little nuts. My mom will go crazy if I have a girlfriend.' I keep telling them they don't want to make my mom crazy."

So now I have a vision of homecoming 2019 and Will is unable to get a date because everytime he asks a girl she says "No - remember in 1st grade you told me your mom was crazy? No way I'm going with you."

Gigi and Chris

2008-09-19T08:22:35-05:00

Chris and Gigi share a love of football. They sit on the couch every Sunday and watch games. The thing is, Gigi doesn't come alone to the couch. Gigi brings Big Bunny and Pink Baby. I put photos in the album area of Chris and Gigi during game time.

Seven Years Ago Today

2008-09-11T15:48:53-05:00

On September 11, 2001 I woke up early for work. I put on a blue dress and black small heel shoes. It was going to be a day I was never going to forget, I knew that for sure as soon as I opened my eyes that morning.

Chris and I drove to work together. It was a beautiful day. The sky was so blue. I remember I loved that it was such a beautiful day. It was going to be such a special day. I had barely slept the night before. I cannot tell you how excited I was. I wore my favorite dress, my favorite shoes, I made sure to remember everything about the weather and the perfect color of the sky. I wanted to make certain that I never forgot what I was wearing, what the air felt like – I wanted to make sure I remembered everything, every minute of that morning.

At 9:30 am, 9/11/01 I was going to see my first child via sonogram. I remember everything about that day, not for any reason I could have possibly imagined when I woke up in the morning. The world was changing, but there on the screen in black and white I saw a heartbeat and little fingers – little feet attached to little legs.

“The baby is sleeping” the doctor said.

It’s been seven years since I saw Will for the first time on a black and white screen. Each September 11th I stare at him in the morning before I wake him up. Each year I watch him sleeping and I remember the first time I saw him, sleeping that Tuesday morning. A miracle in the middle of chaos.

It was love at first sight.