Soccer Mom

Here is another post in my "rerun" series.  It was originally posted in 2009.

Today my girls had soccer practice. They're involved in a Parks and Rec team, a very low-key activity with the main goal being for the children to have fun. And really, that's about all I've seen so far.  I'm not seeing any learning of useful soccer skills, such as how to actually make your foot come into contact with the ball. But at least they're having fun, right?

Tonight, the soccer coach decided that at the end of practice, the children should play a scrimmage against their parents. In her words, she thought it would be "fun". Well I don't necessarily agree with her definition of fun, because in my estimation, it would be more in the category of torture. I hate playing sports. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I am deeply tormented by memories of any attempt at playing sports throughout my life. I had extremely bad experiences of gym class from the earliest elementary years all the way through 8th grade. You have no idea how heartily I rejoiced once I finished Junior High and I was no longer required to participate in Physical Education.

The year 1976 was an Olympic year, so our gym teacher thought it would be "educational" to set up gymnastics equipment. I really have no memory of any of the other equipment besides the rings. For some idiot reason, the rings were suspended about 20 feet off the ground. OK, so it was probably not quite that high, but I was in Kindergarten so I was only about 3 feet tall and everything looked really high to me. We had to climb up on a small platform to reach the rings. The platform was high enough to scare me, but then my teacher had to hoist me up on the rings and make me do a somersault. And I'm sure I was visibly terrified because I knew at any moment I was going to plummet back to earth with an ungraceful splat. However, the teacher made me do it anyway. You know I could probably go back and sue that gym teacher for all the emotional distress that he or she caused me, if I could remember his or her name.

In about 2nd grade, Ms. PE teacher had the brilliant idea to teach us basketball, and by teaching I mean she simply said "Play." So, I had no stinkin' clue how to actually dribble a ball or what responsibilities that players in different positions had. We just had to play, and it appeared to me that everyone else knew what they were doing except me. So, when we had basketball days in gym class, I would conveniently excuse myself to go to the bathroom until gym was over. I think my teacher eventually caught on, but it still never occurred to her to actually teach us some darn basketball skills.

In 5th grade, I tried to sprain my ankle during dogdeball season. I would run really fast down our gravel road and purposely step in the potholes. I used to deliberately irritate my older brother so he would inflict some kind of brotherly agony upon me, and then I would shout, "go for the ankle!" I once had to get a plantar wart removed, and I asked the doctor to write a note excusing me from PE for the rest of the year. He didn't. I even tried climbing up on our gigantic console TV set and jumping off. But it was all for naught, as I was still forced to participate in the misery of team sports.

Even in college, a friendly game of volleyball with my dearest friends would throw me into a panic. I could usually hit a volleyball with some degree of consistency as long as I was not involved in an actual game. But if the ball ever came to me during a game, I was either completely immobile, or I was flailing around like an injured animal. And then of course, I would say some dumb thing like "the sun was in my eyes," or sometimes I would choose the simpler option which was to feign death.

Suffice it to say, I have never had any desire to participate in team sports, even for "fun". Because although it may be "fun" to some people, I'd rather have one of my limbs severed.

My Loverboy

You think I've been too busy to write a blog post in over a month, but you're wrong. I've actually been letting you grow a craving for yet another fabulous, inspirational, tremendously entertaining installation of this blog.

But, wait, that sets me up for having to actually write something fabulous, inspirational, and tremendously entertaining.

So, yeah, I've been really busy, being a working mom and all. But today I will not regale you with tales from my adventures as a school secretary. Instead I will delight you with stories of a 5-year-old who seems to have a way with the ladies.

Ever since he started school, just a little over a year ago, my little guy has come home with tales of his "friendships" at school. . . mostly with little girls. I've shared this story before, but after the first day of Kindergarten, we were sitting at the dinner table, and Evan told us, "I like Amber. I like to be by her." My husband asked, "Is she cute?" To which he responded, "She's hot!" We then proceeded to shoot mashed potatoes out of our noses due to uncontrollable laughter.

Shortly thereafter, he moved on to Evelyn. He had a crush on Evelyn for quite some time. For at least a month, his morning prayer would be, "God, please let me marry Evelyn when I grow up." I made the mistake of telling Evelyn's father that my son had a crush on his daughter and I could see that he immediately began calculating how much a shotgun would cost.

Near the end of the year, Evan came home and told me that yet another little girl was always trying to kiss him. I asked him, "Why do you think she's doing that?" He thought for a minute and then he said, "Well, I always call her sweetie pie." (I think I'm going to have to give him lessons on how NOT to give a girl the wrong idea.)

So, now we begin First Grade, and it's a whole new playing field: a year of experience under his belt, and a whole slew of new girls to get to know. A few days ago, I was sitting with Evan while he was eating breakfast at school, and another little first grader came up to us - a female first grader. She asked me, "Is this your son?" I said yes, and then she said, "He's so cute!" I laughed at her precociousness and hinted that Evan should play with her at recess, since she's in a different classroom. I guess he took the hint because he came home from school on Friday and told me all about how he had played with Esmeralda during the whole recess and that they had made plans to meet under the slide on Monday. And the whole weekend, he did not stop talking about his upcoming rendezvous - he gives a whole new meaning to "play date!"

As you can tell, I'm really enjoying this phase of my son's life. Am I overlooking a potential problem? Is my son going to be a womanizer, or is he just getting it out of his system early on? Or do I just get to sit back and enjoy these sweet moments of my son's life?

Wretched Cats

You may remember how I gushed about my cats in the post entitled Annabelle and Payton.

Well, I'm not gushing today. I'm actually considering finding a 12-gauge shotgun to rid my life of the prolific poopers who defiled my basement.

For several months, I've noticed the faint smell of cat litter - "and then some" - wafting throughout our house. Most people either didn't notice it or politely insisted that they didn't when they actually did and then decided to never visit our house again. No matter how often we scooped the cat box and replaced the litter and sprinkled it with deodorizer and sprayed liberal amounts of Lysol Neutra-Air, the smell lingered.

Situation unacceptable.

"Luckily" (I think), my daughter and her buddy recently discovered the gruesome truth: the cats had found an alternate outhouse under the basement stairs. This is in a small room that houses the furnace. However, there is a small piece of drywall cutaway for access to the furnace from the outside of the room - this is where the kitties found their entrance.

I asked my husband to address the mess while I started dinner - partly because I'm allergic to dust and pet dander, and partly because I didn't want the disgusting job of chipping up dried cat poo.

My poor, poor husband then faced a grisly mess that he could only describe as a "ball pit". We had conveniently forgotten (for a day or two) that the smell of such things embeds itself into anything and everything, even after the initial clean up. So, even though the visible mess is cleaned up, we now embark on the formidable task of erasing the cat odor. Since the incident (or many, many, many incidents, I should say) took place in the furnace room, the smell does indeed pervade the entire house.

Today's task is to clean the basement floor - repeatedly - the goal being to get enough ammonia out of the concrete so that we don't asphyxiate ourselves when we bleach the heck out of the floor.

Wish me luck. And remind me again why I love my cats so much.

I Love My Hubby, But Sometimes I Want to Kick His Butt

I love my husband dearly. And most people who know me can attest to the fact that I don't bash my husband. I'm not into men-bashing of any kind, but especially not of my beloved hubby. He's too good to me, and I love him too much to speak badly of him. Of course he has his flaws, but *NEWS FLASH* so do I.

That being said, I'm going to poke a little fun at him in this post. I told him I was going to, and he laughed, so it's all in good fun.

Here is the scenario. I've wanted to buy a lawn edger for a long time, because I really like a neatly manicured lawn. We've never had one, (a neatly manicured lawn, that is) but by gosh, I decided this was the year I was going to make it happen, so I started by purchasing a manual edger and some "weed & feed".

I started using my edger on Mother's Day - what can I say? I was in the mood for gardening I guess. I managed to make it down one side of the front sidewalk and then practically collapsed in agony. I've also been nursing a sore shoulder for a few years now and that little gardening spree made it worse.

I mentioned to my husband that I needed his upper body strength to get the job done - yes, I used a little shameless flattery, but he is indeed quite strong in the upper body department, while my muscles resemble a limp rubber band.

One morning, I went off to a meeting and I came back to find this. I seriously thought that some neighborhood dog, or perhaps a rodent, had dug up our yard. Then it dawned on me. My husband had tried to do some edging. However, I made the natural assumption that he actually knew how to do it. I had made the mistake of thinking he had noticed many other nicely edged lawns, and was salivating to have his very own neatly trimmed yard. But I was wrong. I was so wrong.



I went inside and tried to casually ask my husband how the lawn had come to look this way. In my mind, I was wanting to yell, "What the hell did you do???" But I managed to maintain control and simply asked what was going on in the front yard. He flatly answered, "I started the edging". OK. . . .So, I waited for the rest of the explanation, perhaps something along the lines of, "but then aliens came and started to control me with their mind powers so that I ended up flinging dirt every which way". I would have understood then, but there was no further explanation. And he clearly expected some gratitude.

I responded, "Uh, thanks, honey. Do you want me to help you pick up the clumps of dirt lying all over the yard?" His response, "Nah, I'll just leave them there and let the mower chop them up when I mow the lawn again."

Naturally, I thought he was kidding, but when I asked him again (a little more impatiently, I might add), to pick up the dirt clumps when he went to mow the lawn the next day, he asked, "Why? The mower will get them." That's when I lost my temper, furiously went outside and picked up the stupid clumps myself, and ended up saying something a little snippy to him about how I know a little more about yard management and gardening than he does, so he should just do what I ask him to do.

Sadly, so sadly, those very words came back to haunt me. After the declumping and the mowing, I set out to apply the weed & feed. I carefully set the spreader according to the directions. However, I guess I didn't realize that I wasn't supposed to go back and forth over the same area 3 or 4 times. (I'm going to blame that on my 5-year-old helper, who really did insist on going over the same spots time and time again.)

Two weeks later, I have a nicely mown, nicely edged lawn, with nice big patches of burned, brown and dead grass. I was going to take a picture of that, too, but you get the idea. No reason to humiliate anyone else in our family.

Belated Mother's Day Blessings

Well, I wasn't planning to write a post about Mother's Day, but my faithful reader (and IRL friend), Cristin, said she was eagerly awaiting a Mother's Day post, so here it is.


It's kind of hard to write anything funny about my Mother's Day, because it was a very nice day, and in my world, nice isn't funny. So, be prepared - this may be not funny.


My mother's day began with sleeping in until 9:30; in fact, my husband and I both slept in. It was around 9:30 that I began feeling the pangs of caffeine withdrawal, so I stumbled downstairs, only to be greeted by, "MOM! We were going to make you breakfast in bed!" (Weird, because I'm not usually in bed until 9:30, so I'm not sure what they were waiting for.) I quickly remedied the situation, saying, "I just want some coffee - I'll start the coffee and then you can bring it to me in bed." I went back upstairs, dropping helpful hints behind me, like, "I like my coffee with cream only. . .no sugar, ok?", and then, "and I like toast with butter and cinnamon & sugar". (So, maybe I am a control freak, but I wanted to make sure I didn't end up with Froot Loops for breakfast.)


Breakfast arrived - coffee with plenty of cream, eggs and toast. And a napkin. And a little white vase full of lilacs. And 2 kids lying on my feet, saying, "do you like it?" (I'm not sure where the other 2 were. They were playing Mario Kart, I think. Later, when I thanked the children for breakfast in bed, there were a few quizzical looks and one, "you had breakfast in bed???")


When I finally got around to dragging my rested and fed body out of bed, I came to the living room to find that my children had prepared a space for me to veg on the on the couch while they rubbed my feet. And then they rubbed my legs. And my hands. And my ears. And my hair. It was actually quite relaxing, but I had to stop them before they got to my nose. And then they rubbed my back. . . for as long as I wanted them to. And as if I wasn't pampered enough, I then proceeded to take a hot bath. No bubbles, just a hot, relaxing bath.

I sent my husband away for the afternoon, however, which was a small downside to an otherwise perfect day. I sent him to honor another mother - the mom of one of our close friends passed away and the visitation with her family was on Sunday afternoon. (I went to the funeral this morning - a wonderful, sorrowful, beautiful and blessed celebration of the life of a godly woman. But, that is a story for yet another post.)

When my husband returned from his trek to Ann Arbor (about an hour away), we hopped in the car and drove across town just in time (um, well not exactly) for 5 PM Mass, since I had spent the morning being appropriately lazy. We rushed in at 5:20, just as the priest was honoring mothers during his homily. I've come to realize, at my wise old age, that I have to let go of concern about being judged by others for walking in late to Mass, or having my children humiliate me during Mass, or whatever. Ten years ago, I would have been exceedingly self-conscious to walk into Mass 20 minutes late. Yesterday, I was only mildly self-conscious. Yay for me!

On the way home, we got my favorite food in the whole world - Nachos! - and Death by Chocolate ice cream from Quality Dairy (for which there is NO substitute).

So, a nice, relaxing, low-key Mother's Day. Sorry I couldn't come up with anything more witty or funny, but hey it was Mother's Day, and it takes a little work to conjure up some humor.

Stupid Things That Moms Do

Disclaimer: I am not admitting to doing any of the following things, but if I had done them, then they would have been really stupid.

1. Assume that your children will do what you have asked them to do, the very first time you asked.

2. Clean the house. And fall into the delusion that "this time, kids, we're going to keep it clean!"


3. Smell the underwear lying on the floor to find out whether it's clean or dirty. (I mean, come on! One more pair of underwear in the washer is not going to destroy the planet. I have come to the conclusion that it's not worth it.)


4. Tell your kids not to use your entire bottle of shampoo as bubble bath and expect that they will obey.


5. Smell the blankets on your kids' bed to see if they need to get washed along with the sheets after your kid wet the bed. (OK, so blankets take up a whole washing machine and I would rather not have to wash them unless absolutely necessary.)

6. Make brownies "for your kids" and eat the whole pan, and then tell your kids that the brownies got burned so you had to throw them down the garbage disposal. (Don't say it's in the trash, because they will look there.)

7. Try to camouflage mashed cauliflower as mashed potatoes because you will not fool your kids. And your house will stink like cauliflower, which you personally hate, as well.

8. Accidentally reveal to your kids where you hid your private stash of chocolate.

9. Forget to lock your bedroom door at night.

10. Start the day without coffee.

Oral Fixation

I don't ordinarily give much credence to Sigmund Freud's philosophies. But I have to wonder about the oral stage and "oral fixation". I nursed all of my children, and the girls didn't wean until they were about 18 months old. My son was the one who weaned himself at around one year. (Yeah, it was the boy who lost interest in breasts the earliest, go figure.) I was reading, according to Freud's theory of the oral stage of development, babies derive the most pleasure from their mouths in the first 21 months of life. So, maybe I weaned the girls too early. There may be a lot of people out there who think I nursed too long, but hey, give me some credit - I did manage to get them to knock it off before they were able to sit down next to me and say, "Mother, dear, I'd like to have a sip, if that's OK with you."

The reason I'm wondering about this? My girls all seem to have some kind of "oral fixation." One wants to eat all the time. One chews on wads of paper or anything else she can get her mouth on. One maims Barbie dolls and other toys because of her oral habit.

Exhibit A: Normal Barbie

Exhibit B: Maimed Barbie

And while we're talking about rendering dolls quadriplegics, let's talk about other cruelty to toys, as we see in this example. Poor Buzz. He was minding his own business, when all of a sudden, he finds himself swaddled in a giant diaper. Can you imagine his shame?

Exhibit C: Humiliated Buzz Lightyear

I've found Polly Pockets tied up to bed posts, lain across railroad tracks, and even dismembered.

Maybe I should get my kids into therapy.

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Mom Whose Children Are Late for School

By late, I don't mean 5 or 10 minutes. That kind of late usually irritates me. Or even 15 or 20 minutes. By that time, I'm starting to get really annoyed. 30 minutes late - which has never happened before, except for the time I got stuck in the snow in the driveway - makes me quite furious.

But, oh, no no no. You have no idea what I mean when I say "late". This morning, one darling child made us thirty-eight minutes late for school. Yes, you read that right - I pulled out of the driveway 38 minutes later than I normally do. "Livid" is the only way to describe my feelings.

This particular child is the one who always makes us late. Always. But never this late. This morning, it was, "My boots are wet". So, wear your shoes. "My shoes are wet, too." Then wear your church shoes. "My church shoes are too tight, and besides I have PE today." Too bad! Wear them anyway and bring your tennis shoes and hope they dry by the time you have PE. And yes, these were her only 3 options. She is the queen of picky when it comes to shoes (and most other clothing, for that matter). I can -without exaggeration - visit 10 shoe stores in an afternoon with her, and she will still walk away empty-handed because "this one's too tight" or "this one's too loose" or "this one is too low at the heel" or "this one pinches my toes", etc. etc. etc. (And believe me, I could go on with the etc.'s, but you get the point.)

So, for 38 minutes, she chose to simply NOT put on shoes or boots. I tried to put them on her feet for her, but she kicked them off. And she's too big for me to carry her out the door. So, I fought, struggled, bribed, argued, for 38 minutes. I finally called my husband and asked him to talk to her. He did. He told her she had to wear her boots. She hung up and still refused.

I'm not sure how I finally got her into the car, but I did. We usually pray together on the way to school, but I told everyone I was far too angry to pray so they had just better be quiet on the way to school. And pray that I don't purposely run into a telephone pole.

In all seriousness, I would appreciate input on how to deal with this kind of defiance. She is our toughest kid in terms of discipline because she is never a peaceful recipient. And I realize that most kids don't enjoy punishment and probably make some fuss about receiving it. But if your kids throws a tantrum, then my kid has a thermonuclear meltdown. Yes, it's really that bad. And it's not that we don't punish her, but we have yet to find something that actually works long-term AND that doesn't threaten our hearing because of the violent screaming that results.

What was worse about this AM was that I had been up for 2 hours in the night with extremely uncomfortable indigestion, and then the coffee I made this morning was weak: Double Whammy! (I never make weak coffee! What the heck???)

Anyway, after I dropped off the kids, I drove through Tim Horton's for medicinal purposes. It's a good thing that I had let my anger cool a little, though. The way I felt when I left the house - did I mention we were 38 minutes late!!! - I could have easily screeched into the drivethrough lane and yelled, "Give me some damn coffee and no one gets hurt!" However, I was settled enough to drive in like a sane human being, which is a very good thing, since there were 4 or 5 police cars in the parking lot. (My first thought was, "what the heck is going on here?", but then I quickly realized, "Ooohh, it's a donut shop.")

So, I got my strong coffee, the best breakfast sandwich in the world, a blueberry muffin, and some OJ.

That was 2 hours ago.

I think my blood pressure is finally starting to come back down.

Oedipus Complex?

I've been wanting to post a picture of this cool craft my kids did. They spent an entire morning working on this quietly. It was quite amazing that they collaberated without any fighting. It is a family mail center, and they even put moving flags on each one to signal when family members have mail. Once they had their mail center up and running, the kids wrote several notes to each other and put them in envelopes and put them in each other's mailboxes. It kept them busy for a good part of the day. It also drew them closer, I think, because they were writing nice things to each other.

Here's the funny part. Evan wrote a letter to me today, put it in my mailbox, and then told me that I had mail. I opened my letter and this is what my 4-year-old wrote to me:

YOU R HOT

I have to laugh because I know where this came from, and it's definitely nothing "inappropriate". A few days ago, Joy came in from playing outside and her face was beat red from running around. I told her that she was too hot and that she should sit down and drink some water to cool off. Evan took his cue from this interchange and wrote her a note about it the next day. His note said, "You R Hot." We all laughed maniacally at this because it seemed such a funny thing for him to say. Evan matter-of-factly said, "Joy was hot last night." But of course, since he got a laugh out of us, he continues to write notes to everyone in the family with the same message:

YOU R HOT

Road Trip. . . .With Children

The phrase strikes fear in the heart of most parents. A road trip. . . .with my children? You have got to be joking. And without my husband to administer the necessary discipline? Stark. Raving. Mad.

I’m here to tell you that it IS possible. I've done it and I survived. Just barely, but I survived.

5 a.m. We were up and at 'em, ready to travel 425 miles to Grandma's house. 5:20, we were making last bathroom trips and piling into the car. 5:30, I turned the key…click, click, click. Crap! I called my husband who was fortunately only 10 minutes into his commute to work. Around he turned and came back, pushed the van back in the driveway, drove his car onto the lawn, and hooked up the jumper cables - all in the pouring rain. What a guy! So, we got on the road around 6:10 - not too bad, considering past experience, I didn't think we'd have it all together until and get out the door any earlier than 10.

Ahhh, once we were on the road, I was much more peaceful. And extremely tired. I never get up at 5 a.m. NEVER!!! Unless I am coerced by a 4-year-old who threatens to continue pulling at my eyelids until I get up and go downstairs with him. And then I only stay awake long enough to talk him into watching a movie or give him some matches to play with. So, about an hour into the trip, I was failing miserably at staying awake. I was so sleepy, I actually wanted the little turkey to hold my eyelids open. What the heck was I thinking??? We stopped at a rest area and I closed my eyes for about 20 minutes - tremendously helpful.

Still, it was a long trip. I kind of miss the diaper days. Back then, we could schedule 2 stops total, and take care of soiled diapers at the appointed times. This is so not the case any more. I estimate we stopped about 13 times - I lost count. Evan was the primary culprit. We had just crossed the Mackinac Bridge, which is our half-way point. We had just eaten lunch and used the bathroom. 20 minutes later, Evan said, "I really need to use the bathroom." Now, if you've never had the privilege of traveling through the Upper Peninsula, US 2 is pretty much THE major highway - 2 lanes through extensive stretches of wilderness. 55 mph speed limit. The most barren section is just west of the bridge, and 20 minutes into it, Evan had to go, and it wasn't the kind of bathroom issue he could take care of on the side of the road, if you know what I mean. So, I was gently encouraging him, "Don't worry, we'll find a place to stop soon," and "Try to hold it." Meanwhile, I was hoping he could actually isolate the muscles necessary to keep the stuff in his body for a few more minutes as I was frantically scanning the trees and small animal carcasses for some sign of a restroom in any type of public establishment. I didn't care if it bore a name such as "Bubba's bar, tanning salon and tax services" (and believe me, there are these types of businesses strewn throughout the UP). This kid needed to go and I could tell by his occasional grunting and whining. Finally, we found a rest area, which was miraculously open (most of them are still closed this time of year). Whew! Disaster averted.

20 minutes later, "I gotta pee!" Again, I tried to reassure him and tell him to hold it, which he literally did. When we found yet another rest stop, he ran in, holding his little self so he wouldn't pee all over.

So, what about those closed rest areas? I cursed several of them as we passed their smug, barricaded entrances. "Closed for the season" was the most common reason, although one had a hand-painted sign saying something about Myron and his pet raccoon that he was trying to fish out of the pit. But let's get back to "closed for season": hmmm, why on earth would they close a rest area, the only one of its kind on a barren 50-mile stretch of highway. Oh, yeah, it's a well-known fact that humans don't have to use the bathroom during the winter.

The other interesting portion of our journey was road kill. I'm assuming that road kill exists in every state, but the majority of road kill in Michigan is deer. And I was quite surprised to witness dead, decaying deer carcasses in lower Michigan approximately every 2.37 miles. Then, in the Upper Peninsula (UP), which is a much more wilderness-oriented area, I only saw deceased deer every 40 miles or so. That got me to wondering, "why the heck would there be so many dead deer in the Lower Peninsula, but only a few in the Upper Peninsula. One theory I arrived at was that Lower Peninsula deer must be insanely stupid. Oh wait, scratch that theory: all deer are insanely stupid. All you have to do is think of the term "like a deer in the headlights" and you'll comprehend how dumb they are. Yes, they really do stand there, frozen, when they see headlights approaching, wondering in their little deer brains, "WTF?" Only when the car is about 10 yards away do they realize that it might be something dangerous, so they decide to run. . . .in the direction of the oncoming headlights. Not the most brilliant animals in God's herd. OK, so back to the question at hand: why so much more road kill in the Lower Peninsula? Another theory I had, which is probably a lot more accurate, is that when a Yooper (this is the official term for people who live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan -I'm explaining this for the benefit of my non-Michigan readers) hits a deer, he or she knows they've just scored a free meal - or several depending on the extent of the damage to the animal. If you live in the UP, you NEVER leave a deer on the side of the road to rot. It's crime against nature. You've got to go out, slit it's throat, and throw it in the back of your pickup. "What if I don't have a pickup truck?" you may ask. If you don't, then you are obviously not a Yooper. If you are a recent immigrant from one of the other 49 1/2 states and truly do not own a pickup yet, you would go to your nearest friend, neighbor, or family member and borrow their pickup truck so you could bring the deer home, butcher it and freeze the meat for many tasty venison meals. And what if you don't do your own butchering? Oh, please, you really don't know anything about the UP, do you? And what about the deer that were left lying on the side of the road? Clearly, they were hit by foreign drivers (foreign, meaning anyone outside of the UP). I live in fear that one day I will hit a deer and go to look for help from local law enforcement officials, who upon discovering that I am a native Yooper, will require that I slit and butcher my own deer. I know, I’m an embarrassment to Yoopers everywhere, but I do not hunt, fish, wear flannel, or own a pickup truck. That's why I live in the Lower Peninsula. That's why I have to make this insane drive every time I want to visit my parents and get back to nature.

The Yoopers kicked me out.

Minty Fresh Feet

I would like to take this opportunity to lovingly thank my children:

For the rotten apple cores and wads of gum I find buried deep in the couch.

For the candle wax that is now a permanent part of our new carpet.

For lassoing our ceiling fan with a barrette and a string and causing it to come to a sputtering, sparking halt.

For the many food splatters on our dining room wall.

For the unidentifiable splatters elsewhere in the house.

For losing the remote control 83 billion times.

For eating all of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch in one sitting.

For using an entire bottle of shampoo in one shower.

For the writing on the walls. . . and cabinets. . .and stairs.

For scratching your name in the paint in the wall by your bed.

For practicing your cursive on the desks in the school room - with no paper.

For stealing my gum, my socks, and my hair clips.

For letting the upstairs sink overflow until the water streamed down the basement walls.

For pouring liquid soap into the electrical outlet.

For the chewed up pieces of our Life game and for the wrinkled Monopoly money.

For cutting a hole in our shower curtain with a pair of scissors.

For gobs of toothpaste that end up all over the bathroom, including the floor of the shower.

If I didn't have all these little messes to look forward to every day, it would only mean one thing: I wouldn't have you.

This is the Story of My Life

This is what happens when I don't get enough sleep. I don't know how other mothers do it because we're ALL sleep-deprived, I'm sure. But I can't figure out how to function with insuficient sleep. So, now that my children are older and can watch a movie or play by themselves for a long time, I can snag a nap, which I did today.

My son does NOT comprehend that he wrecks my sleep every night because the very first time he wakes up, he climbs in bed with me. If I put him out, he sleeps on my floor and then he wants to hold my hand, which is really uncomfortable because our bed is high enough that I have to be on the very edge, with my head smashed up against my dresser, in order to reach him. I know he must need that connection with me, or the reassurance, but it's driving me nuts. I have awakened Al before and asked him to deal with Evan. And he usually does this by saying, "Evan, go back to bed!" and then promptly falling back to sleep. And I mean promptly - I think he's usually asleep again as the last word tumbles out of his mouth. Sometimes Evan obeys and sometimes he doesn't. I know it's not the right thing to do, but when I'm trying to sleep, my resolve is very weak, so I usually let him hang around if he puts up a fight.

I know this, I really do: If Al and I make a concerted effort to get up and bring him back to bed, comfort him and reassure him, he will eventually be able to get himself back to sleep, knowing mom and dad are right across the hall. But I JUST DON'T WANT TO GET OUT OF BED!!! So, I suffer with chronic sleep loss because of this little guy.

If it were up to me, I would probably just let all my kids sleep with me. Al is the one who doesn't like to be next to anyone in the night. If I even get close enough that he can feel my body heat, he will wake up and say, "Is someone in our bed?" This, from the guy I have to poke and prod about 5 times before he wakes up to deal with the culprit in the first place.

Wow, I'm really rambling here. What does this have to do with my messy living room, as shown in the photo? Back to the nap. The kids are beyond that stage of being enthralled with movies as their eyes glass over for a nice hour-and-a-half or two. That is mostly fine with me since I'd rather they don't care too much about movies or TV anyway. But here, indicated in the picture, is what happens when I don't get enough sleep, the whole schedule is thrown off, and the kids have the run of the house -they trash it! Then I wake up from my nap with more to do than when I went to sleep, quite honestly, makes me feel like crawling back into bed again.

(I do realize that my living room probably doesn't look that messy to most people. But I'm a perfectionist, and for me, it is a living hell to have my house looking that way!)

What it probably boils down to is a lack of discipline and training on my part.

But it's so hard to be disciplined without sleep. Waaah!

Romantic Date

Here is the summary of my romantic date with my husband.

As soon as the sitter arrived, we left the children in her charge so we could enjoy each other's company for a few uninterrupted hours.

First stop, a tiny cafe that was just about to close. I had a cup of decaf and he had 2 cookies. You gotta know my husband - he does NOT drink coffee. I have tried just about everything to get this man to enjoy coffee, but to no avail. I have tried loads of sugar - just the way he likes his tea - but he could still taste the coffee. Flavored creamers don't do it for him. I've even kissed him with coffee-flavored breath. . . nothing. I've always been slightly insulted that my father could get him to drink light beer, which he swore he would never do. But in 12 years of marriage, I have not been able to enjoy a single cup of coffee with him. This has been a great sadness for me since coffee is so social for me. I leap for joy when our home is graced with a coffee drinker, for then I can brew an entire pot and look forward to that relaxed discourse that only coffee can foster.

But I digress. The date. My husband and I were able to talk a good bit about things that we had been meaning to get to. After coffee 'n cookies, we walked over to the pharmacy to get a few needed items. Then I had to pick up a pencil sharpener for school. Then a photo print cartridge.

Have you figured out yet that our wonderful date was at none other than MEIJER?! Woohoo! (Meijer is like a WalMart Supercenter - grocery and every other department conceivable under one 180,000 square foot roof, the epitome of commercialism, catering to unbridled lust for material goods.. . . . you get the picture.)

I love Meijer. However, it's not typically the place we would choose for a date. But this wasn't necessarily a date. We just happened to have a free night and Al suggested we go out for "coffee" (which in his vocabulary means "cookies"). So we got a sitter, but being that we had NO bread, NO eggs, NO milk, NO cereal, and NO cheese (basically NO food whatsoever) in the house, our choices for the coffee date were pretty much narrowed down to the one place where we could sit down and have a cup of coffee AND get the lowest price in town on toilet paper.

I personally enjoy shopping with my husband. I enjoy going anywhere with him. I love him and I don't spend nearly enough time with him. I am reminded of the 80's brat pack movie "Pretty In Pink" where Blaine (the rich guy) and Andie (the poor girl) are sitting in the stable at his swank country club, and he says to her, "If I were in a Turkish prison, I'd have a great time with you." That's how I feel about Al.

I don't necessarily think he feels the same way. I mean, of course he loves me, but I'm pretty sure next time he's going to decide where we go for a date.

Dreams DO Come True

Prepare to be amazed. And prepare to hear some serious bragging about my children!

Yesterday when I told the children I was going back to bed because I had a migraine, I fully expected that they would simply put in a movie or go out and play in the back yard. I called my husband at work to see if there was any way that he could come home early because I knew I would be out of commission for the whole day. I mean, I knew I could still function in case of an emergency, but the children were pretty much going to have to fend for themselves.

But what happened over the next several hours was nothing short of astounding. And I promise you, I am not embellishing any of this. My children rose to the occasion and completely took over. They cleaned up breakfast, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher and started it. They took out all the trash in the house. Faith cleaned up the entire living room by herself. Evan got me a cold wash cloth to put on my head, a cold cup of water, and he brought me some yogurt with a spoon when I told him I was hungry. Hope helped Evan get dressed and swept the floors. Joy made grilled cheese for lunch for everyone and served me in bed. Hope came in and collected all the dishes after I was done eating, and they all cleaned up lunch too. Joy and Evan made me get well cards and brought me flowers from outside, and Evan even tucked one behind my ear.

And, most amazingly, they did all of this cheerfully, without fighting or arguing. I am convinced that I witnessed a true miracle yesterday.

How funny that, in my last post, I was just writing about having to back track and correct some discipline problems, and then I received this wondrous display from my children. It was as if God inspired them and wanted to show me how well they are really doing.

It seems that most of the time we spend with our children is a rehearsal - constantly training them, teaching them, encouraging them and correcting them, tweaking their performance just a little bit here and there. Yesterday, my children gave me a flawless performance, and I couldn't be more proud.

Commander Space Cadet, Reporting for Duty

I had to laugh at myself about this one.

A few days ago, I had a very busy morning. My plan was to drop Evan off at his once-a-week learn and play group at 9:30 AM. Faith likes to help out at the play group, so she went along. Then I had to drive across town (10-15 minute drive) and drop Hope off at a math tutoring session. Finally, I had to go to Meijer to get groceries, and my daughter Joy would come along with me. After all that, I would reverse my steps and pick up Faith and Evan at 12:30 PM.

Now, I have never found it difficult to keep track of my 4 children. . . .until that day.

You would think that after 20 years of living with my adult self, I would have a better estimation of how much time it takes me to complete routine errands. Wrong. I often plan to get 3 things done in the space of an hour when I should KNOW that I will only be able to accomplish one. I often tell my husband that I have to make a "quick" run to Meijer - "I really don't have to get much this time." - and he knows I will be back in 3 hours. He doesn't even bat an eyelash.

Well, on Thursday, after dropping Hope at her tutor at 10:00, I decided to make a small detour (5 minutes) on the way to Meijer so I could drop off a ton of donations at the St. Vincent de Paul store, mainly so I could make room for the groceries in the back of the van. But then Joy and I decided to make a quick run inside because she wanted to shop for Hope's birthday and she only had $4.50 to spend - better to try to find something at a thrift store on that budget.

So, of course, it took longer than we expected in St. Vincent. We made it to Meijer by 11. Joy still hadn't found something for Hope, so we had to look in every toy aisle, clothing aisle, and the jewelry section before she found something. I must have uttered the phrase, "Hurry up, we don't have much time," about 100 times. It didn't help. Finally she picked out what she wanted, and then it was on to groceries. At 11:30 AM. I had a LONG grocery list. My parents were coming into town on Friday for Hope's birthday weekend. I had to get it all done.

At 12 Noon, I was almost finished. In my mind, I was still thinking I had time. Oh how foolish. At 12:05, I got into a checkout lane. With 3 people in front of me, I was making friendly banter while I was becoming increasingly aware of how much time I didn't have left.

I exited Meijer at 12:20. Got the groceries in the van and got in the driver's seat at 12:25. Now, remember - 10 minutes back to the tutor to pick up Hope and then 15 minutes back across town to pick up Evan and Faith at 12:30. Yeah. . . you do the math.

I called the secretary where Evan was having his play group and asked if she could possibly arrange for Evan to get another ride home. Much to my relief, she called back quickly saying Evan was taken care of.

As soon as I hung up, Joy shouted, with tears in her voice, "What about Faith???" At that point, I broke out laughing while Joy was panicking, thinking her precious little sister would be left behind. I was not laughing at her - I was laughing at myself because I had honestly, completely forgotten about Faith! Yes, what about Faith? I knew the woman who was giving Evan a ride home only had room for ONE child besides her own.

So, I had Joy call the secretary again. Could she please find a ride for Faith, too? At this point, I really was feeling like a moron. She called back while I was inside talking to Hope's tutor - of course, this wasn't a quick in-and-out either because I had to get the scoop on what Hope had learned, etc. Joy came in and reported that Faith had a ride, too.

I don't remember the circumstances, but somehow we managed to call the secretary one more time and my darling daughter Joy, being infinitely concerned for her siblings' well-being, asked her, "Could you please make sure they get home at the same time?" I shouted from the driver's seat, "Joy, Shut Up!!!" Not the kindest thing to say, but this lady was bending over backwards to cover my a$$. She didn't need an 8-year-old telling her how to do it.

Well, we all arrived home safely. Myself with 2 children, groceries and birthday presents. Evan with Mrs. K and Faith with Mrs. Q. At least I managed to get home before them. After many profuse apologies and gushing thank-you's, all was well. And I really needed a nap.

A Thumbnail Sketch of Our Family

Let me walk you through the various disorders plaguing my family. This household contains Depression, ADHD, mild Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Insomnia, probable Adult ADHD, Hypothyroidism, Hypoglycemia, Obesity, Herpes Type 1 (That IS the cold sore virus, just so you know!), Adrenal Fatigue (or so says one borderline-quack-chiropractor), Perimenopause, Sciatica, Athlete's Foot, Hyper-emotionalism, Flatulence, Male Pattern Baldness, Overgrown Toenail Syndrome, Stretch Marks, and Overall Laziness.

You would think we would all be sitting around in straight jackets.

It's got to be a sign of the times. I mean, I'm sure the early settlers weren't suffering from all these maladies, right? They worked hard all day, grew their own organic food, enjoyed life's simple pleasures and lived off the land. Look at Caroline Ingalls - she was happy all the time, except for one episode, I think.

Sometimes I yearn for simplicity of life. Wouldn't it be glorious to grow all my own food, have a cow and a chicken for milk and eggs, have my husband go hunting for our meat, and have a small simple house that required only a daily sweeping? However, I don't think I could survive without the internet.

If I grew and ate all unprocessed, organic, homegrown food, I'm sure I wouldn't have health problems like a gall bladder with a low ejection fraction. If I worked / walked the equivalent of 15 miles each day, I would be the picture of fitness without annoying issues like plantar fasciitis. If I didn't have the dizzying array of responsibilities and distractions of modern times, I'm certain I wouldn't be suffering from Advanced Delusionary Schizophrenia with Involuntary Narcissistic Rage. (I stole that last one from "Me, Myself and Irene", a movie that has quite a funny premise but is disgustingly vulgar. If you haven't seen it, please wait until the non-vulgar edition comes out - it should be about 12 minutes long.)

All I'm saying is that I don't think God intended life to be this complicated, and I'm quite sure it's a product of modern times. And I have no intention of sitting back and letting it best me.

OK, well that's it for now - gotta go take my meds.

Struggling with Sin

Sin. I wish it had never been invented. If I see Eve in heaven, I'm really going to give her a piece of my mind.

I'm suffering with sin the way Paul describes it in Romans 7, when he says that, even though he wants to do what is good, sin is right there with him. I sin against my children, even though, of course, I don't want to. I hate it, but somehow I do it anyway.

My oldest is the toughest one for me right now. She's 9 going on 13. I swear she's been in pre-puberty since about age 6. She is so very emotional and so very irritable. I pray for her and I try really hard to be peaceful with her, to encourage the good in her, to correct her calmly and lovingly.

But tonight I blew it again. She was snapping at everyone and everything in her way, so I lost it. I didn't yell exactly, but I went on and on about how she needs to stop complaining and snapping at everyone and she needs to change her attitude and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. It was like words were coming out of my mouth and meanwhile, my brain is saying to me, "Will you shut up already?"

It is frustrating because I want to be a better mom. I could be a better mom if I had better children. (Of course, I'm kidding. . . .sort of.)

Believe me, I know that a lot of my children's issues come from my past mistakes. I also know that some of their issues come from being sinful human beings who need Jesus as much as I do. Some of their issues come from heredity. And some of their issues come from just being children.

A good bit of my struggle with depression has come from the fact that I've given in to self-condemnation when I've made mistakes with my children. Satan is crafty, so he uses something that is true - that I do indeed make mistakes and sin against my children, and twists it into an ugly lie that I believe - that I'm a terrible mom and all other moms in the world are better than me.

I have since learned to resist those lies and just fess up when I sin against my children. I ask their forgiveness and God's and I know that God forgives me - again and again and again (I'm pretty sure I passed the 70 x 7 mark about 2 children ago). I've found that it helps tremendously to internalize Scripture and use it as a weapon against Satan, the way Jesus did when He was tempted in the wilderness. But sometimes I wish I could just whack him upside the head with a big, heavy Bible.

In the end, it is most helpful to remember Paul's victorious proclamation: "Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God - through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

Hangin' Out with the Kiddos

So, I'm sitting here on my bed ready to do some serious blogging. In walks Faith. For some curious reason, she decided to slather some lotion on my leg.

"Hey, that feels good. Will you rub it all over my leg?"

So, she did one leg and then the other, with only a few odd comments like, "You should shave more often," and "Your legs smell like rotten pop." (Seriously.)

Soon, Evan wanted to join in, so I gave him the job of massaging my feet with the lotion - a job my husband wouldn't do if I paid him. Evan did a pretty good job, if you consider using about 3 quarts of lotion on my feet a good job.

Ahhh, this was turning out to be a nice and relaxing evening. A 4- and a 6-year-old, massaging their mother with complete naivete, like it was a treat for them. But then Faith caught on.

She even said, "Mom, we sit here and do all this for you and you do nothing!" Never mind the fact that I DID serve them ALL their meals in the living room while they watched TV. All day. (It was a sick day, remember.) And while they were recuperating all day, I cleaned the kitchen and dining room, did all the dishes and a few loads of laundry, and I even managed to squeeze in a nap (uh, wait. . .that last part probably doesn't help my case very much).

But I didn't say anything to Little Miss Smarty Pants. I just grabbed a blob of lotion and started on her feet, while Evan was still doing mine. Then she piped up one more time, "Hey, you're getting your feet massaged and I'm getting mine massaged, but who's doing Evan's?"

"Sssh. Don't say anything. Maybe he won't notice."

Bad News / Good News

So, the bad news is that my 2 oldest daughters have a fever and some coughing, sore throat, headache, etc. (I'm thinking influenza - we never got flu shots.) Faith is tired out and Evan has had erratic sleep, so we're all taking it slow today with the living room infirmary set up for the sickos. Their treat for sick days is that they get to watch movies all day and get waited on, hand and foot. So far, they've taken advantage of it to the hilt:

"Could I please have some tea? But bring me the water, tea bag and sugar, separately."

"I would just like some water with plenty of ice and a twist of lemon, please."

"I like my tea spicy. You have to leave the tea bag in long enough and add just enough sugar."

"Would you please get my pillow and blanket from upstairs and pull out the footrest on the couch?"

Yep, they know how to play it up. And of course, I'm happy to oblige. There's no one like Mommy when you're sick and need TLC.

Here's my bizarre confession (the "good" news): I like days like this. No, I do not like to see my children sick. I'm just thankful for the break in the busyness of life. Sickness usually means all of our obligations are cancelled. Being a homebody, I love not having to go anywhere.

I guess, too, in some way, it makes me feel most like a mom, when all my children are home and I can still meet all of their needs in a concrete way.

As time goes by, my children will need me less and less. I'm cherishing today, when I still get to be a Mommy.

Poison Control

Had to call Poison Control yesterday. That makes once for each child, so hopefully that's it for the rest of their childhood.

All of my girls take 3 vitamins / supplements a day (doctor recommended/approved). I have pill boxes divided into days for each one of the girls so I can keep track of them. I had the day's pills on the counter for Faith, my 6-year-old, and I told her to get some juice and take them.

I went back to helping Joy with science when Faith said, "Mom, I didn't take the ones for Sunday or Monday this week." I told her it was OK and just to take the ones for today. About 5 minutes later, she appeared at my side with orange juice streaming down her big smiley face as she announced, "I took yesterday's too."

I was mildly alarmed and told her she shouldn't have taken two days' worth, and then she confessed she had taken Sunday's as well!

I said, "Faith, you can't take all those vitamins at once!" To which Faith responded, "I didn't. I took them one at a time." (I still can't believe that little thing swallowed 9 pills!)

Since her multi-vitamin contains iron, I called Poison Control to make sure she hadn't taken a toxic dose. To my relief, she hadn't.

She was sufficiently freaked out at the possibility of having to go to the ER that I'm sure she will never do that again!