Leprechaun Trouble

 

 Last year Ellie set a leprechaun trap.  

She almost caught the little bugger.  I think we ticked him off.

This year he came back.  With friends.

The trouble started early in the day when it was discovered that not only was the toilet water green, 

so was the hand soap and the milk.

We realized we were in for it, though, when the dishes were all upside down in the cupboards, the DVDs were all turned around backwards on their shelves, and there were tiny muddy footprints all over the back patio.  It was clearly the work of two or three of the wee folk, and it looked to me like they had done a jig out there, just to rub it in.

There were stuffed animals that were dressed in people clothes, shamrocks on the mirror, and gold candy wrappers everywhere .  It was getting downright annoying by the time dinner rolled around.  Though we had set a newer and much better trap than last year -glitter encrusted and completely furnished- those Irish Scallywags only ate up the bait (gold wrapped Rolos, I can't blame them), slept in the bed, and left green pee in the teeny-tiny doll house toilet. 

Can you believe they even tried to steal the hamsters?  And they nearly got away with it, too.  It's just a good thing the rope they used to try to capture them with broke.  I don't know what they fed to those poor rodents, because I am telling you the truth that, as I snapped this picture, Nibbles pooped... green.  

 

(just in case you didn't believe me)

We tried to soothe those rascal spirits by playing some lively Irish music on ye 'ol Pandora Radio, and the heavenly smells of Guys magical corned-beef and cabbage with golden roasted potatoes should have fended them off as well, but Ooooohhhh, no.  They blew up my hand mixer with a big green flash of light, half way through whipping my green cream.  Have you ever tried to whip cream by hand?  It sure reduces the caloric impact come desert time, but it is quite a work out.  

We made Blarney Stones with piles of gold under each tiny rainbow, 

but at the end of the day, the only treasure I found....

Was in Jonah's diaper.  His green diaper.

 I certainly think I deserved more than eleven cents for my trouble.

Beware ye, Leprechauns.  

Ye have vexed me sore this year.  

Rest assured, I swear upon the grave of my good Irish grandmother, 

Mary Theresa Mooney, I'll be waitin' for ye next year.

Um, No, I'm not. But thanks for asking.

Last week I wore a dress to church that I could finally fit into and I was feeling pretty cute.  That is, until a lady walked up and asked me if I was expecting again.  Really?  REALLY?  Who does that?  Doesn't everyone know the rule?  Unless you see the water break, don't ask.  And maybe not even then. 

Melissa called tonight and asked if my last post was a sly way of announcing something.  Something big and round and 9 months in the making.  So, in case you were having the same thought, the answer is 

HECK NO. 

This is my baby:

And unless God has some other plan, he will be my last baby.  Even if God did have a plan, I wouldn't mind at all if he executed it in some other uterus, and then just let me know when it was time to start changing diapers.  I really and truly wouldn't mind having many more children, but I am kind of not that great at the many-children thing.  I love them, oh, how I love them, but dang, they're messy. 

No, the changes I am talking about have been a result of the choice we have made to homeschool.  At first I told myself I was not going to be one of those wack-a-doo mamas that lets homeschool take over her life.  You know the ones; time line around the living room walls, bookshelves in every corner, a mini-van that vomits library books, and food that doubles as science experiments.

Well, I have the shelves and the book-puking van, but don't have the time line.  Yet.

I rearranged the studio this week to accommodate the new bookshelves I bought at a rummage sale.  Jonah staked out the Core Phase shelves as his own little bed.

What is Core Phase, you ask?  It is where we start out.  It's the basics.

It is the time when we learn:

right and wrong

good and bad

true and false

relationships

family values

family routines and responsibilities

accountability

the value and love of work.

Those shelves will be filled with games and books and art supplies and, invisible to the naked eye, lots of one-on-one time with mama.

I am in Core Phase, too.  I have to strip down my way of being with the kids.

I am learning to listen to the kids as they teach me what they are ready to learn, 

which is way harder than you would think. 

I am learning to relax.  

Kids don't have to learn something all at once, only once.  

They can learn bits and pieces of it, return to it over and over, and put the big picture all together themselves.  In fact they are pretty great at it.   

I am learning how to inspire.

It is super-de-duper hard, but when done gently and without demands, it is magical.

  

So, yes, I am changing, but I am not, and hope never again to be, preggers.

Oh, and I'm never wearing that dress again, either.

Cocoon

(The painting I didn't take to the gallery)

There is a perfect storm brewing right now.  So much is happening, that to stop and write would be to miss something.  There are changes happening all around me and in me, and it feels like swimming fast, you have just a flash to catch your breath and your face goes back under the water again.  It's all business.

Last week I completed and fine tuned several paintings, chose one and built the frame for it, typed up an application and in the eleventh hour drove to a gallery.  The gallery owner asked if I was there to submit for the big exhibit, so I handed him my painting.  "Oh, wow..." he smiled as he took it.  Needless to say, I was tickled.  There is no better compliment to me than that first reaction to one of my paintings.  I handed him my application, walked around for a bit, then headed home.  It is always strange leaving a painting.  Like leaving a very quiet child.  Back in the car, I realized I hadn't even taken a picture of it.  I drove home smiling.

Then I waited.

Yesterday the news came.  I have been accepted into a jury selected exhibit to be shown in Downtown Sacramento at the Kennedy Gallery.  I have to paint 25, 8x8 inch paintings.  I have three done, so that takes off a little pressure.  The show is the first of May.  There is a lot to get done.

But believe it or not, this is not the biggest thing happening for me right now, though it really feels like a representation of what is happening.  I feel like I am that caterpillar deep under a layer of silk, or a seed hidden by the earth.  There is so much happening right now beneath the surface.  I am not quite ready to pop out and show the world all the changes, and they wouldn't be that obvious at first look if I did, but things are changing.

Things are definitely changing.

Loaves and Fishes and Tender Mercies

There are many major miracles,
ones like partings of seas and loaves of bread that feed thousands, and those miracles make the big time; we all know about them.  But there are minor miracles, Tender Mercies, some call them.  We had one on Tuesday.  Allow me to share.

We were just wrapping up our semi-weekly Spanish lesson, wherein I painfully guided the children through the worlds slowest and most agonizing game of "Pesca!" (that's "Go Fish" for all you Americanos) (please, if you ever think it will be a great idea to share a language with a child, increasing both vocabulary and conversational skills, by playing "Go fish!"... just save yourself the trouble and go slam your fingers in a car door.  Yeah, it's that much fun).  I was tidying up, (actually, I was just sitting dazed in a chair chatting with Kathy) as 10 children ages Jonah-through-Adam had all run outside to play, dragging with them sundry costumes, hamsters, toys and granola bars.  From my living room window I could see little people in various stages of unstructured play, and all was momentarily well with the world (now, besides my snazzy use of alliteration with all of those fabulous W's, I must point out that in this context, the word "momentarily" denotes a certain foreshadowing.  Crafty of me, huh? bum bum bum baaaaahm...)

The next paragraph begins with "All of a sudden".  Now when I say "All of a sudden", please envision with me a serene, park-like back yard (minus half of the grass), children joyfully playing, ABRUPTLY shifting to a scene from an old Japanese Godzilla movie.   

All of a sudden, children began screaming, first one, then three, then ALL TEN.  And running.  Was it a swarm of bees?  Had a child flipped off of the trampoline and been disgustingly impaled on a yard tool? Was there a murderer chasing ALL of them?

I heard Adam's voice above the din yelling "Toby!  Drop it!!!" echoed by other big-boy voices saying the same.  Then I saw Toby, running with something in his mouth, a sock, perhaps?  A toy?  That wasn't like Toby... what could he possibly? ... The girls screaming reached fever pitch as they trampled each other to get through the door.  And then it hit me...

"HAMSTER!!!!!"  I bellowed and bolted for the door, tripping over sobbing, screaming little girl's along my way.  I didn't have to go far, because as much as Toby hates noise, he hates angry boys even worse.  He came running into the studio and I intercepted him at the stairs.  He was shaking so hard his fur was blurry, and hanging out of his mouth was the back end of a hamster.  A fat, white butt and two motionless little legs were all that could be seen of Charlotte, Tessa's gift from Santa (who we really should have waited to name until after learning She was a He).

My need to stop the carnage over-rode my terror at the thought of the mouthful of hamster guts I may be extruding from Toby's mouth, and I easily pried open his jaw and scooped out the wet fuzzball.  Cupping my hands over it to block the view from little eyes, I ran to the living room, all the while trying somehow to console a hysterical Tessa.  I have said it before, and I'll say it again, thank heavens for Kathy.  This time her heroism took the form of comforting arms for sobbing girls while I examined the some-how-still-alive hamster. 

Though his saliva drenched orange fur looked like  it was covered with blood, a slow and careful going-over revealed no such trace.  The hamster sat in my hands, utterly still and so very stunned, but apparently unharmed.  I checked little arms and legs (pets have arms, ask any five year old), and ever so gently pressed each rib.  No flinching, no wiggly bits that should not be wiggly.  One wet, freaked out, but otherwise alive rodent.

Charlotte, back in his cage, walked around like someone who had just had surgery.  He climbed into his hamster wheel, because, well, there in not much else to do in there, and oh...so...slow...ly...and...gin...ger...ly walked.  There was no nose bobbing, no whisker twitching, but he was alive.  Suspecting some possible internal damage, I told Tessa that Charlotte was not out of the woods.  "If he lives through the night, she will probably make it, and if she makes it through tomorrow, I think he will be fine."  I told her.  I know, we are totally giving this critter a gender identity complex.  It's a work in progress.

Charlotte lived.  It's been 4 days.  Tessa learned many valuable lessons.  She knows now, that dogs can't tell the difference between a squirrel and a hamster.  She knows that if Charlotte has to poop, she should NEVER put her on the ground to do her biz-nis.  And she learned that God is good to little hamsters.

All that screaming curdled my milk.

It was a Tender Mercy that our little Charlotte lived.  Some credit must be given to Toby, who, having been trained as a soft-mouthed hunting dog, somehow knew not to bite down.  But really, I give all the credit to He who knows each sparrow that falls.  The tragedy that this would have been to a little girl I know would have been just beyond heartbreaking.  But you see, we officially reached our quota for chaos in the month of February by the 18th.  We are all full up on crazy here, thank you very much.

As I write this, Charlotte is trying out a new name.  Nibbles.  I like it.  I think the middle name should reflect his warrior spirit and his good fortune.

How about Lucky?

Seeking Direction

 

I got a bee in my bonnet a few weeks ago that I wanted to find a salvage yard.   I wanted to dig in junk and get dirty and find a cool treasure to bring home with me.  Adam was totally on board.  

We found the place.  I knew the minute I walked in that I had struck scrap-metal-gold, because the place smelled like a cross between my dad and every old hardware store I have ever been in in my life.  My hands were black in the first two minutes, that's how good it was.  We bumbled around inside the small store without much inspiration.  Then we stepped out the back door into the elephant-graveyard of all dead metal (insert lame 80's-hair-band joke here).  A giant warehouse loomed before us with rusty gizmos and cool thingamabobs that I had never seen before.  There were piles and shelves and palates of STUFF.  Glorious, stinky, oh-so-dirty stuff.  I became the daughter of the picker that deep down I have always been, and I got that excitement that some women get when they see a BOGO sale on shoes.  

Off in a corner of the warehouse there were a few dozen giant metal drawers.  Like - morgue sized drawers, minus the corpses.  They stood in about 20 rows, and were stacked clear to the 20 foot ceiling.  I was only tall enough to see into about 3 or 4 drawers high, so I managed to get a kid who worked there to bring me one of those rolling staircases.  I began going through the drawers like a paleontologist, with careful enthusiasm and a gambler's drive, sure that my treasure would be in the next drawer.  

Soon I found an amazing, old brass weather-vane.  

It was coated in a gorgeous natural green patina and a healthy layer of dust.  

It seemed like it had been waiting for me.

I asked the one legged guy who owned the place (I don't make this stuff up) how much.

"How bout ten bucks?"  he said, dragging on his cigarette.  

"Sold." I smiled.

There were several other things I wanted to bring on home with me, just because they were weird, but I resisted the urge.  I am more in a season of releasing than of gathering, and I am trying to make lasting changes in my behavior so that I can be happier in my home and with the way I spend (waste?) my time.

Still, just for kicks Addy-boy and I wandered around the yard outside.  The huge racks and piles of junk out there made me feel like an ant on an alien planet, but there was still an amazing beauty in the peeling paint and rainbows of rust and age.  It was fun to be there with Adam and listen to his ideas for all the big strange metal boxes and shelves and cages.  Several of them included locking his sisters inside.

We would have stayed lost out there for a few days, but time called us back to our duties and we made our way back through the place to pay for our loot.   We were already planning our next adventure as we walked out to the car.  There is magic in finding something forgotten by all the world.

***

My weather vane has been sitting on a little table in our entry since it came home.  I want to find the perfect place for it, but I don't want it to be put away and forgotten.  And each time I look at it I think about the direction(s) that it points.  I have tended to let myself be blown by the winds that come up in life, and to let that wind choose my path for me far too often.  It is hard to walk against the wind, but sometimes we need to.  We really need to.  For me, the wind that blows hardest is often my nature, my tendency towards certain behaviors.  I would tell myself that the things I do choose me, rather than the other way around, because of my character (or character flaws).  I would tell myself that this is just the way I am.

But it doesn't have to be.

So I have begun to shed that old belief, and to step into the wind.  It is manifesting in the tiniest ways, but I see it.  And as I walk into my particular wind, I am feeling a little stronger each day.  

Homeschool -deciding to do it, then deciding how to do it, then re-deciding each week and month as I learn more-, has become truly life altering.  I knew I was doing this for my kids, but I never knew how much it was going to change me.  I guess I kind of thought I was all done changing in big ways.

But I am just at the beginning of this particular journey, 

and the wind is only beginning to pick up speed.

 

All Tuckered Out

I could tell you about this week,
but then I'd have to kill you.  Or maybe you would kill yourself.  So I will save you the drama and sum up, in general terms, what will go down in the dim recesses of my cluttered memory as: The week from "What-was-I-thinking-ever-becoming-a-parent-?"

The week was peppered with the joys of a 12 year old having a Homeschool-Chernobyl (oh, you just wait, there's a post in there somewhere) and seasoned generously with the thrill of an insurance company calling me about my car being involved in a hit and run in San Diego.  Yah, because I have time to buzz down to SoCal and commit a felony.  Between Rocketry class and Anglo-Saxon Literature class, I just drove the 20 hour round trip for kicks.  Then a few days later there was the real hit and run,  - courtesy of a "blue Toyota" (thanks, witnesses, you really outdid yourselves on that one) - in the grocery store parking lot.  A word to the wise, if you ever walk out of sliding glass doors and are followed to your car by a police officer, it won't end well.  Officer Bradshaw was nice, and called me "Sweetie" and "Hun" and told me to have a better day.  I wanted to hug her, because there were other things that happened this week, the kinds of things that parents of teenagers spend long, fret-filled hours talking about behind closed bedroom doors, but I only shrugged, "It's got to get better, right?".  I surveyed the damage, and by the grace of the hit-and-run-gods it was over the top of the dent I put in the fender 7 years ago.  Let's call it an embellishment and leave it at that.

Somewhere in between teenager-drama and bumper-rama, the plumbing backed up next door.  This month I get to earn my keep as the property manager.  More advice... don't put rice down the disposal, apparently it swells.

My Jonah baby hit a milestone this week that matters to none but those of us in Mormon-dom.  He turned 18 months old and graduated from mama's lap to Nursery, that special place at church where goldfish crackers are consumed in Costco quantities and germs are shared freely.  He hit the door running and never looked back.  "Oh, WOW!" he said in his most blown-away voice at the sight of blocks and cars.  "OH, WOWWWW!" He blurted again, tossing a car aside to grab the bright macaroni noodles for making necklaces.  I faded from his line of site.  I just couldn't compete with all the toddler bling.  I lingered at the door and called a feeble and unappreciated goodbye.

"He'll be alright." one of the nursery leaders consoled.

"I know he will, but I won't." I whimpered to the closing door as it severed a little string from my heart to that fat, precious boy.

My arms felt so heavy with their emptiness as I sat in endured my class. 

That settles it.  Clearly, he can not grow up.  I am putting my foot down.  I simply will not allow it.  Make a note.

So, you see, I'm all tuckered out.  But I only have one day left to get my paintings ready for an art show I am trying to get in to.  Little things, like Jonah spilling a pint of white gesso on the rug while the dog simultaneously vomits ten feet away, have created a few delays.  Tomorrow I plan to paint - between tending the teen, helping the homeschooled heart, and scaling the mountain of laundry that was neglected last week in the hazmat that is my life. 

Break out the yellow suits and gas masks, sweethearts.  This is not a drill.

Something to be grateful for

I had been contracting 100 times a day for 5 weeks when I finally went into labor with Jonah.  I started labor already totally fatigued.  About 15 hours into active labor, there came a moment - an eternal, agonizing moment - when I felt like there was no way I could go on.   I knew that the more I focused on my pain, the more consumed I became, until (as almost every woman feels who has ever labored naturally) there came a moment when it seemed I might actually die from the pain.  

In that moment I realized that I must look for something, 

somewhere in my body where the pain was not reaching.  

I found it.  

It was my earlobe.  

For a whole contraction, I thought only about my earlobe.  I kept chanting in my head, "My earlobe doesn't hurt, my earlobe doesn't hurt!".  That got me through one whole contraction, but by the next surge, just thinking about it wasn't enough.  I began to rub my earlobe between my finger and thumb, and as though I was discovering it for the first time each moment I thought of it, each little moment that I rubbed it, I realized that there was that one tiny place on my body that did not hurt.  I began to pull on my earlobe so hard that it was actually a little uncomfortable.  But even that new sensation was comforting in it's own way, because I could REALLY feel my earlobe, then, and that made it easier to focus on it.

***

It has been hard for me lately.  I am struggling with so many things.  Things that may or may not be too private to share, but that I am too tired to even think about again in this particular moment.

The other day I found that the toothpaste had been left out and open, and a second tube had been crunched beyond function or recognition.  I was irked.  I was tired, no,  I was... (deep breath, looooong sigh)

weary.

So I had to find something about that moment that didn't call up for me all my failures (have I not taught them well enough?), all my disappointment (how many times have I told them?) all my angry self pity (I swear, no body cares about all the work I do around here!).

I had to find an earlobe to pull on.

And I did.

And here it is:

Somebody brushed their teeth without having to be told.

Then, in that moment, a tiny angel sang a song in my head, that turned into a teensy angel chorus.  Itty bitty beams of sunlight broke through my cloudy sky,

just for a moment.

And just for a moment, I found something in my toothpaste smeared world

 to be grateful for.

A Mesozoic Birthday

 

Who: Miss Ellie and half a dozen prehistoric pals

What: Celebrating Nine Years since she hatched

Where: All the-heck over the house

When: From the dusk of the Late Triassic til the dawn of the Early Cretaceous

Why: Because I am daffy, that's why.

How: Sugar, movies, streamers and balloons, and then more sugar.  Dinosaur shaped sugar.

I think she must have asked me 

while I was on the phone or in a comma or something, because witnesses later told me I said yes to a sleepover birthday party for Ellie.  Somebody should protect me from myself.

I threw some tacos at the beasts and tucked them in on the hardwood floor for a dino-flick as soon as cake and presents had been adequately massacred.  At 1 AM I threatened them with extinction if they didn't settle down and go to sleep.  I put on a really boring nature program, and they turned into a herd of Slumbersaurs.  It looked like a bomb went off.  A big, pink, sleeping bag bomb.

By morning, excavation revealed several missing socks and shoes, but stealth archeologists located all missing parts, packed them in plaster and sent them off to their respective museums.

Tessa's already making plans for her b-day in April.  

Be assured, there will be no pillows involved.

Jurrasic House

I know you can't tell, but those used to be dinosaurs.  A T-Rex and  a "Long Neck", if you must know.  A pair of short necks after Jonah finds them.  It just stinkin' serves me right for trying to get all Martha Stewart up in here.  

I think next time I'll leave the candy making to Hershey's.

I don't know what it is, I just have this thing in me that tries to be a cool mom.  But being Cool-mom takes so much energy that Thinking-ahead-mom goes offline, leaving Cool-mom alone in the kitchen (play shrill stabbing music here...  "wrrre wrrre wrrre!").  Cool-mom tries to make a volcano birthday cake with pudding lava, while she is also making homemade tacos and dinosaur suckers in a lovely shade of old-chewing-gum-grey .  Had Thinking-ahead-mom been here, Jonah-saur would have found his cocoa-cranial rampage preempted.

Oh, the carnage!

***

Tune in next time, boys and girls, when Cool-mom says,

"Yes, Ellie, you may have a sleep-over for your birthday."

 

Thinking-ahead-mom has left the building. 

The Door

This is the door that Laine bought.

This is the door that goes in the wall that Guy and Laine built.

This is the door that goes in the wall that makes a room where there wasn't one before.

This is the door that goes in the wall that makes the room that hopefully will bring some peace to the house.

Fingers crossed.

And eyes and toes.  And legs, but only 'cause I have to pee.

***

Tomorrow is Saturday.  I will spend the day finishing the wall.  Apparently blankets hanging over the studs isn't quite up to code.   I view this wall as a wall for me.  For my peace of mind.  So I can shut a door on the mess.  So I can send a certain somebody to his room.

Where he will, I am sure, slam the door.

The door in the wall of the room that Guy and Laine built.

Last night...

 

...I had a dream.

I was in a car with one of my children.  We were driving along a highway that had water on both sides of the road.  It was dark and raining, and the water was rising.  It spilled over the sides of the road, and the white line in the road faded away under the rising flood.  The car began to slide off of the road and plunge into the water.  Our car was swallowed by the black, murky water.  I wanted to protect my child.  I leaned over him to try to shield him, when the front window imploded.  Shards of glass and cold, dark, muddy water poured in onto us.

I screamed and woke up.

Dreams are so symbolic.

I hope it was only a dream.

Post-poning

 I used to post a lot.  I really liked it, too.  I liked having my life recorded, because being as forgetful as I am, I seriously can't remember yesterday.  

I think it was Tuesday.  

Seriously, was it?

So it turns out that I can't keep up.  

Hence, I can no longer wait until there is time to write.  

In fact, now is the perfect time not to write 

because it is 1AM and I am so tired there is a buzzing sound in my head.

*

I am trying to get into an art show.  If I make the cut, I will have to paint 25, 8"x8" paintings before the end of May.  The application painting is due in a little more than two weeks.  

I got an early start because I wanted to have plenty of time.

Jonah had the same idea.

He found the painting, pulled the plastic wrap off the palette and personalized my art work with his own distinctive style.  I will have to start over.

It's not the first time one of my toddlers has ruined one of my paintings, though hopefully it will be the last.  And it isn't the first painting that bit the dust this week, either.  A commission painting that I have been putting off for an embarrasingly long time sat for too long with the latex masking medium on it, and the latex turned to something that resembles chewing gum in a parking lot on a hot day.  I will have to start that one over, too.

*Sigh.*

Adam is not entirely happy with homeschool.  He misses his old friends.  I am having to rethink how I approach all of this for him.  Um, you know, sort of start over.

*Sigh. Whimper.*

Ethan has crossed over into that land where: all adults are an embarrassment, all assignments are pointless, all rules are to be broken and all that I say is to be argued with or ignored.  I'm not sure where to even start with him.

*Sigh.  Whimper.  Sniff.*

I guess I haven't written much, partly because there hasn't been much that is nice to write about.  And you know what Thumper's mom used to say; "If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say anything at all."

Fine for her.  Her kid was done with adolescence in like, six weeks.  I will have SOMEONE being a teenager in this house for the next - count them - 16 and one half years.

*Waaa-haaa-haaaaaaaa!*

Tears and Valentines

 Um, so yeah.  I can do it aaaaalllll.  I can cook (weenie-beanie XEIO soup, last night), I can clean (I think if you swept my floor right now, you could roll the contents of the dust pan in a little Elmer's glue and get a puppy), I can homeschool (Did you know there was a solar storm this week?), and I can, uh, um... I can... what was I saying?

So, it looks like keeping up with posting about my life, returning phone calls and, apparently, shaving my legs, have all taken a serious back seat in my life, as in last-bench-in-the-mini-van back seat. These are a few high-lights and low-lights of the week:

***

Tessa begs to say the prayer every night, every meal.  This week she sweetly asked God to bless "all da people in all da hostibles (hospitals) and all da people who are homeless, for that the people in hostibles will get houses an the homeless people will get better."

***

Ethan: "Do I have to take Spanish?"

Me: "It's a graduation requirement."

Ethan: "Why?  I'm pretty happy with English.
It's gotten me where I've wanted to go."

***

Sweet Adam wept in my arms this week when he realized that his female lizard, Dr. Jekyl, was sicker than we thought.  She died when I was away shopping, and he didn't tell a soul.  He just took her outside in a box he made at camp and through his tears he dug a little grave for her.  Two nights ago, he came out of his room at midnight.  When I asked what was wrong, he simply said, "I can't stop thinking about her."  I held my big boy on my lap while he grieved his first loss.  I talked about cycle-of-life-stuff.
It wasn't helping.
So then I just held him.

***

Ethan thought it would be a terrific idea to feed a pinkie to his bearded dragon.
A pinkie is a baby mouse.
A live baby mouse.
He did it in front of Ellie.
And Tessa.
And a four year old neighbor girl.
I spent the next hour explaining more life-cycle-stuff to two sobbing little girls.  It turns out that it does not, in fact, help to include in your explanation that we eat chicken.  Now, I am also actually a murderer.
Yup.  I kill chickens.  And if Tessa is ever put in charge, lions and tigers will eat salad.

***

I took the girls to the movies tonight.  I had a ball explaining The Muppets to them.  I sang along.  They thought I was weird and a little bit cool (I already knew the songs, so how cool was I?)  And Ellie excitedly said "This is prob'ly the first time I 'ever been to a movie on time!" (Sadly, she is not only right, she didn't realize we were actually late and we missed the little cartoon feature at the beginning).

***

My sweetheart gave away about four of his nine lives this week
helping Ethan with school work.

*** 

I gave away many, many tears that my son will never appreciate.

***

I made valentines.  

And it's not even February.

Softer Focus

Ellen told me a story the other day.

A woman she knew was sleeping one night when her house caught fire.  She ran from room to room in her house, gathering her five children and getting them out of the house safely, all the while oblivious to the fact she had gone to bed nude.  As she stood on the neighbor's lawn, her five babies gathered safely around her, she watched in horror as her house was engulfed in flames, looking on as everything she owned was eaten by the fire.  In that moment, a firefighter approached her and offered her his long coat.  And in that moment she discovered that she, indeed, 

was not covered.

She hurriedly accepted the coat as a rush of embarrassment overcame her.  So great was her shame that she retreated to the emergency vehicle with her children, keeping her eyes downcast.  Consumed by her shame, she no longer thought of all that she was losing, but focused on avoiding eye contact with the firefighters.

I can't stop thinking about that story.  How could someone's focus be shifted so instantly from something that was literally all consuming, to something that truly, in the grander scheme, did not really matter?  

I have been examining my life trying to see where my focus is. 

Is it where it should be?  

Is my house on fire while I fret over my naked insecurities?

As I played with Tessa's picture in the photo editor tonight, I cropped out everything that wasn't her sweet face.  I brought out the light that was already there, and then, last of all, I softened my focus, so that what really matters 

is what I can see most clearly.

Car School

The days are short, 

but long. 

Laundry piles rise and crest and fall, 

but just like the tide, 

always return.  

The baby poops.

The floors are dusty.

It's cold. 

We read and paint.  We experiment.

We homeschool.

I find myself driving a lot these days.  

To electronics class.  

To Medieval History class.  

To Ancient Times class.

To Lego Engineering class.

To Fairytale class.

To Gymnastics.

To piano lessons.

I guess we really car school.

 

Sometimes we sit and wait.

I read to Tessa if she is not in class, while Jonah naps.  

It is not quite what I had expected it to be.

My life is set by a different kind of clock.

One that runs on stories that lead to more stories,

and on questions that lead to more questions, then still more.

A clock that stops suddenly when cooking becomes science

and science becomes art

and art becomes history

which, of course, is story time,

after all.

And, in case you are still wondering, 

No.  I am not worried about their socialization.

They are doing just fine.

 

Three Stories of Christmas: Part Three

Sorry I made you wait.

I know, I am done with Christmas, too.  But I told you there was one more story.

Here she blows.

The night before The Great Hamster Escape we headed out to deliver goodies and a few other items to friends.  I had an art order that needed delivering, so we decided we would kill two turtledoves with one fruitcake and drop it off as well.

Upon arrival to the beautiful home of our friends, we found no one home, but oddly, their keys were hanging  in the door.  We felt like we couldn't just leave them hanging there like a big ol' invite to steal Christmas, but while pulling them from the lock to hide them, I heard a click sound.

"You better check to see if it is locked or not."  Guy said.

(This makes the following events his fault, by the way)

I checked the door handle, and the door popped right open.  I pulled the door shut, locked it with the key and then began to look for a good-enough-to-hide-from-criminals but not so-good-they're-lost-forever place to stash the keys when,

(did you see it coming?  Yep, you did...)

The burglar alarm went off.  We bumbled around on the porch for a moment and then decided the go to the van and try calling our friends.  Four calls later, all we had for our efforts were two hysterical girls in the back seat who were begging us to "please drive away before the p'leece come to put us in jay-yol".  I couldn't hide my giggles.

Oh, on a side note: it turns out that not one neighbor even so much as peeped through a curtain in our direction.  Nice, eh?  Ho, ho ho... Merry Christmas.

We figured we had some 's'plainin' to do, Lucy, so we hung around for over 10 minutes for the police to come.  Apparently they were otherwise engaged, because they never did show up.  

It felt weird, but we finally just drove away.

I don't know if it is so much a story as it is a lesson learned.

Leave the breaking and entering to Santa.  He's better at it, 

and committing felonies at Christmas seems to upset the children.

(This was one of those moments that you didn't have to look back on to find funny, and thankfully our friends were as entertained as we were!)

Three Stories of Christmas: Part Two

Adam plays Rudolph with a lazer pointer up the nose

while we go to deliver Christmas goodies.  

Eh-yup.  That's my boy.

Three days before Christmas I was excited to attend my very first "Cookie Exchange" hosted by my hubby's co-worker.  If you have never heard of one, the point is that you make a booty load of one type of cookie, and trade all around with other folks so that by the end you have half a dozen different kinds cookies for your holiday-googie-tray giving.  I got a late start at making my goodies (my fabulous Toffee Bars that are more like candy than cookies), but even so, I decided it was more important that I go, than to have everything perfect.  I spread the melted chocolate topping on the bar cookies that were still warm in the pan, Googled the directions and headed out.  I was hungry for the brunch that would be served, and as I drove I tried to imagine how a Cookie Exchange goes down.  I suddenly got stage fright.  I imagined myself entering a room full of gorgeous strangers who were all tall, slim and tan, wearing flowing, trendy clothes and holding adorably packaged bundles of cookies with hand crafted tags and elegantly stamped recipe cards that matched.  I glanced at my old jelly roll pan and photo copied recipes and got a lump in my throat.

Fast forward one hour:

I am still driving.  A certain road had split and become two.  Thanks for the warning, Google.  You're a peach.  Phoneless (has anyone seen my phone?  It' been missing for 2 months.  If I have been to your house, will you check in your sofa?), I asked directions twice (I swear the first guy  I asked was just makin' crap up) and was now driving on several streets that showed up in the directions as intersecting.  However, apparently while no one was looking, some madman rearranged these streets to all run parallel to each other.  And in the scariest place I've been in since I took my last late night jaunt to the local Walmart.  Seriously, Freaky People, do you all have to shop at Walmart?  There s a creepy little Kmart not two miles away.  Go there.

You know how some stories have a last straw?  Well here it comes: upon finally reaching a street with the name of the street I was supposed to be on, and two blocks later hitting a dead end on said street just two blocks from the house number I needed, I flipped a U-turn - at which point my un-lovely recipe photo copies, along with my dang Google map and ultra-helpful directions, gracefully slid across the dash and landed in my semi-melted semi-sweet chocolate topping.

Just for kicks, let's fast forward a little more, saaaaay... one half hour?

Here you see a sad, sad girl driving aimlessly through the city, seeing the freeway just above her and not being able to find the blankety-blank on-ramp.  There are tears streaming down her cheeks.  There is chocolate smeared on her hands from the recipe rescue.  She is yelling.  Oh, yes, my friends, yelling at the top of her sad little lungs.  Oops, look away; she is wiping her nose on her sleeve.  Well, lookie there!  A two-year-old temper tantrum, complete with steering wheel pounding!  I hope, as she drove along, she landed on someones surveillance tapes along the way.  Just for kicks.

  Good times.  Good times.

Shall we time travel one more time?

Two hours from the time I left the house, I kicked the door open, chocolate coated papers in one hand, cookie bars in the other.  Oh, yeah, and hungry.  So, so, hungry.

My hubby hugged me.  He listened to me rant.  He watched as I dramatically threw the recipes into the trash and grabbed a knife to cut into the cookie bars.

I stuffed one into my mouth.

They were finally cooled off.

I, however, would not be for another hour.

*****

Chocolate Toffee Bars

Make your favorite shortbread crust recipe and press it into an ungreased pan.  Bake at 350 til just golden.

While that is baking, in a saucepan simmer: 1 can sweetened condensed milk, 2 tbsp. butter, 1/4 tsp. salt and 1 tsp. vanilla until it gets thick and starts to turn lightly golden.  Spread out on crust and then bake again until the top is a bubbly dark golden brown.  Remove from oven, spread a bag of chocolate chips on top and leave them to melt.  Spread melted chocolate evenly with a spatula or your Google directions.

Then get lost for two hours.  

Yes, that is part of the recipe.

They will be cool when you get back.

Cut and serve.  But not to the kids.  Give them the junky dollar store cookies.  

Save these in your secret hiding place.

Dang, I said too much.

Three Stories of Christmas: Part One

 

Five days before Christmas...

Santa brought a pair of hamsters for the girls so as to save them the long, cold flight from the North Pole.  Rodents don't fly well.  Guy and I went to a Petsmart to pick the puff balls up.  While at the store the cute-spunky-and-all-knowing rodent expert helped us select two tufts of fur and an extra habitat.  We had one on the way from the North Pole via US Air, but in case they didn't get along, we bought a portable and easy-to-assemble back up plan, then headed to Amanda's where she graciously agreed to watch over them for the week.

OK, this story is taking way to long.  Let's move it.

Day 2:

I get a call from Amanda.  The hamsters have been in a fight.  They have been separated, but one is bleeding.  Lucky for me the second habitat has just arrived in the mail.  I rush over.

The injured hamster didn't look great.  There was a cut above and below his little beady eye.  I follow the maddeningly simple, yet somehow impossible instructions to put together the cage-thingy.  There is a crash in the other room, followed by the barking of little Frodo, the family mascot.  The meany hamster had managed to walk it's temporary jail-box right off the counter.  

No harm done, but I think Frodo was plenty freaked out, walking boxes and all.  

Crisis averted.

Christmas Eve:

Amanda calls again.  She sounds downright dreary. 

"Uh-oh, did it die?"

"Worse.  One is missing."

"Missing?"

Somehow the hamster escaped.  Perhaps it was her sleepwalking son, no one was quite sure, but the cage was still closed, but empty as a cookie jar at my house.  An hour of looking had produced no furry fugitive.  

Two hours later, another call, the voice on the other end, dejected.

"Well, we found it."

"Uh-oh..."

The fur ball was hiding behind some plaques that were leaning against a wall when Frodo found him.  Frodo nudged into the corner, knocking the boards over, which scooped up the clandestine critter and flung him out into the room (did I mention that they don't fly well?  Well, in this case they do), where Frodo snatched him up.

Everyone screamed, and Frodo dropped his piliferous prize, but not unscathed.  

He was bleeding.

We waited a few hours.  

The bleeding was just a small scratch on his nose.  

He was fine.  

Well, as fine as a hamster that has been in a fight, 

fallen off of the equivalent of a four story building, 

and then was nearly puppy chow.

***

On Christmas morning, the kids came out into the living room to see what Santa left for them.  Amidst the squeals of delight, Tessa's voice reached my ears.

"Santa brought me a candy cane in my stocking!"

"Look some more, Sweetie.  What else?"

"My own bag of beef jerky!"

"Look Sweetie, a hamster..."

"AND GUM!!!!"

Oh, well.  Best laid plans of mice and moms.

I blame Santa and his darned planning ahead to avoid a last minute trip 

to the pet store only to find they were plum out of hamsters.  

He had to know that beef jerky would upstage a rat.

And gum.  I mean, really? 

Should'a just let Frodo have him.

He never stood a chance against gum.

Happy New List!

 New Years goals:

More writingg,, less editing (duh, I did that on purpose)

More authentic, less lying to myself, and therefore to others (um, not that I lie to you)

More listening, less blah-blah blah-blah BLAAAAAH

More cooking, less crap on their plates

More space, less stuff (um, yeah, that would also be crap)

More moments, less days-blurring-into-an-endless-stream-of-obligations

More seeing their faces, less seeing their messes

More flavor, less fat and sugar (insert whimpering sound here)

Less whimpering

More order, less searching

More smootchin', dang it!

More patience, ooohhhhmmmmmmm

More planning, less rushing

More sleep

More counting to ten, twenty, ... four million, whatever.

More present

More smiles

More prayer

More faith

More hope 

More charity

More love

More the woman I want to be.

*

Lucky for me there is a whole year to do it.

****

Photo:  Jonah playing with his Christmas gift, "The Toothbrush Chain".  No, no it has not made him stop stealing our toothbrushes and brushing the dog with them.  Thank you for asking.