A few weeks ago I was taking a rare free moment and browsing some home school message boards. On there, a frazzled mom posted a plea of, "Please tell me it gets better, it gets easier!" and then at the end of her message qualified her plea with a "don't say anything if you can't reassure me."
Up until I saw that I was thinking sorry, no, it gets a whole lot harder chicky-beans. But I did take pity on her, remembering how desperate that time of life can be, and did not point out that the older children get the more emotionally taxing they are. The older they get, the more you feel like your car is your home. The older they get, the more your bank account develops an unaccountable drain -- groceries, extracurriculars, clothing, higher-priced gadgets.
I get a lot of "I know you're busy..." and inside I'm always cringing a little thinking am I really that busy or do I just whine a lot? I suppose maybe it's a little bit of both.
Take Saturday. I slept in till a lovely 830'ish in the morning. This was sheer heaven. I live for the weekends because I am not a morning person and Monday through Friday I have to pour myself out of bed around 5 am otherwise I wouldn't get any time at all to check email and do a little 'net surfing. I stay up ungodly late on Friday and Saturday nights just because I can.
So Saturday, I got up after the boys (this is definitely one of the few perks of having older children), I stumbled into the kitchen and got the coffee going. I sat down in my chair and flipped on the computer. I had plans to mow. To do some laundry and some cleaning, to study up on the geography program. What I wound up doing was some minimal cleaning, running the two oldest to the airport to go on an CAP flight, taking all four to the mall after the flights were done, made dinner, did some dishes, and did some writing. I write short stories and it's a wonderful outlet, but it's a hobby I don't get to indulge in as often as I wish thanks to school being back in session.
Sunday we tackled chores after I got up even later, around 9'ish this time, positively slothful. I hate housework, I truly do. I have resigned myself to it, and together with my ipod, I can do pretty good, but if the chance arises to pawn it off on someone else, I'm there. So I offered the boys the opportunity: clean the inside of the house and I'll do the yard. They snapped up the offer because they happen to hate mowing. Fine by me!
They cleaned their bathroom, including the toilets. They dusted and vacuumed. They picked up the living room and cleaned up the kitchen and Jacob even made my bed. Under their beds there wasn't a stray toy to be found. Was every cleaning job done to perfection, no, but it was a good effort so I was happy. I managed to mow the front yard, edge the walk and trimmed/mowed the ditch. This ditch...it's legendary. Anyone who talks to me knows how much I hate this thing. It's like running a marathon. It's like hefting a loaded rucksack on a 50 mile march. I hate the ditch. But now it's done for at least two more weeks.
Then I had to tackle the garage. In the beginning of August I put in another section of landscaping on the right side of the house. The boy's all got new bikes this summer. The spot in the garage that is normally for my van was taken up by planters, a bale of hay, a wheelbarrow, wagon, a couple of shovels, and the boy's bikes. The side of the garage where Dan's car is normally parked was occupied by the pool we'd taken down a few weeks back, cleaned, and laid out to finish drying. You so do not want to fold up wet plastic and let it sit in an attic for a year. It'd be fairly moldly, stinky, and furry next summer. The plan was to get it in the attic before Dan left but like so many things, we didn't get to it in time.
Now I was on my own. Just me and a very large pool. I messily folded it and stared at the bulky pile of vinyl and then at the small opening leading into the attic. Huh. I looked at Jacob and said, "I think I need to refold it." He just snorted at me.
I did refold it. I Figured it'd be a tight fit but it'd fit. I scoured the garage for the rope we used to get heavy things up in the attic without killing anyone and rigged a harness before dragging it back into the garage and calling for Mike and Jake to help. It took a lot of tugging, pushing and praying but we got that monster up there. Phew.
While I was storing a few other things up there, like the tents and camping chairs, Ben wanted to browse through the items previously stored but he wanted Brad to be up there with him. Ben, you see, is afraid of being alone. I totally take blame for this. We've let him watch Dr. Who and Ghosthunters and A Haunting...he thinks he's going to be grabbed by stone statues or brushed against by a poltergeist. The funny thing is, Brad is afraid of heights and went up the stairs and down the stairs no less than six times. Ben is all the time quailing for Brad to "hurry up!" Finally I was going up one last time to do some last minute arranging and said, "Let's go. If you're going to do it, let's do it now, because this is it."
Brad climbed, got all the way to the top, then said, "No. I can't do it. Let me down. My legs are turning to jello."
I subscribe to the school of, "Just do it." I was behind him and I pushed on his butt and said, "Get up there. I've got you." I knew he'd kick himself a hundred times over for wussing out repeatedly.
He finally realized I wasn't backing down and grumped, "Fine, just quit pushing me!"
He did make it up there. He walked around. He and Ben begged to bring down the karate gear (no), the big oversized white teddy bear (again, no). Then it was time to go back down and suddenly Brad realized a snag in his agreeing to go up. Now he had to go down. He sat at the opening and insisted, "No, really. Mom. I can't do this." At which time I very unsympathetically pointed out, "You really don't have a choice."
Thankfully Bradley, while being a little fearful, is intelligent. He realized that living in the attic wasn't an option. He was a little shaky, a little slow, but he got down.
And I got my garage back! It took a couple of hours, there was some very scary-sized dead spiders in dark places, but it cleaned up nice and both cars are back where they belong.
Some friends thought that was a busy day...today put that day to shame. Today I:
Re-set the alarm to 6 am. I was so dead tired.
Got up at 6 and woke boys. Checked email.
Made breakfast. Woke boys, again (two stragglers).
Graded workbooks really quick before we had to start.
Went over grammar mistakes.
Taught Ben English.
Jake spelling, Mike spelling, Brad spelling.
Ben vocabulary.
emptied dishwasher
did history reading
shepherded children through independent work
folded laundry
taught Ben math
helped Brad with vocabulary
reviewed math assignment with Jake from Friday
more ushering kids through assignments
folded more laundry
did dishes
cut up a pineapple
peeled potatoes and set aside for dinner
made lunch
sat down for a whopping 35 minutes at lunch time
taught math to older three
folded laundry
Ben spelling and grammar
Latin for all
science
more reading
Mike re-do math, didn't show work, oy vey!
kids put away laundry
prepare chicken, bake brownies
spritz fern
kick soccer ball with boys
weed landscaped area
cook dinner
harass Ben to practice guitar
go to my first guitar lesson (I'm going to learn along with the boys)
go to grocery store on the way home, note, teen boys eat A LOT
practiced first song once I was home after putting away groceries (boys helped)
Seriously, that is one long day. And tomorrow we go to co-op in the morning, we have art and music study, then we have music lessons in the afternoon, Civil Air Patrol in the evening...Tuesday's are long.
And this is what I didn't want to tell this poor woman -- that yes, when they are little, you might feel tired, exhausted, worn to the nub, but when those children age, you start saying prayers every night that you're disciplining them well, that you are steering them in the right direction that you, Please God, are not screwing up. You take them to music and sports and class and you pore over assignments and help them learn, you fight against frustration when concepts don't click, you think how is this child ever going to make it in the world, and you begin to suspect that raising children is like shoveling the drive in a snow storm; it's relentless. You long for those early years when the most trying experience was getting them to use the toilet. While I can still appreciate the fear of having the only child that graduates in diapers, it is nothing compared to the fear of guiding your child to avoid drugs, turn away from alcohol, study so they can get into a good college, don't hit your brother even one more time, because if you do, your mother will not be held accountable for the words she snaps out.
The sad thing about all of the above is that in order to hopefully reap the rewards of successfully raising your child, you have to endure both stages: the physically exhausting years and the mentally challenging ones. Frankly, I'm amazed that there are sane parents left in the world and I marvel at how my parents survived.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Grey Matter is MIA
And a certain 9 year old boy, of whom I will not name, is moping. Grey Matter, for those of you not embroiled in the midst of raising young boys, happens to be an action figure from a show called Ben 10. The unnamed 9 year old loves this show, though I'm partially convinced it has something to do with the name Ben 10. For Christmas, he received Grey Matter and Heat Man or was it Lava Guy or Fire Strike (see me, see me not being a young boy and therefore really not caring what the red/orangish/brown figure is called, suffice to say, it isn't the one that is MIA).
For months, this ugly little grey action figure has been lovingly toted from bedroom to bedroom, from car to car, from bath to bed. It has gone to the mall, to the park, to Starbucks. It has rode in a child-sized Humvee and slept in a GI Joe tent. It has ridden miniature schnauzers and jumped from the tallest art easel in the house.
And now, sadly, Grey Matter is gone.
One day of, "Has anyone seen my Grey Matter?" turned into, "Mom, do you know where Grey Matter is?" because everyone in this house has come to realize if something is lost, Mom'dar is on the job. On day two and three, Mom (that would be me) promised she'd help the bereft 9 year old search for the lost toy, only to get busy and immersed in the day-to-day business of school, laundry, cleaning and of course, the important, feeding, of children, including the sad 9 year old.
Day four he reminds Mom with a very melancholic expression, "You never looked for Grey Matter last night."
Hmmmm.
So, realizing that I will probably forget if I procrastinate anymore on this, I set off in search of a toy that looks like grey sludge melted into a vague body-shaped mold with overly-large, beady craft eyes. I know it isn't in the toy box because I dug through it, in its entirety, just the other day searching for a small DS game that a sad 11 year old had misplaced (it was later successfully located by Mom'dar in older brother's room, on a desk, slightly hidden under a cleaning cloth). I know it isn't in the living room because it's only so big and Grey Matter is not that small. And again, the living room was scoured fairly well the day before. I search box one of GI Joes and come up empty. I search box two of GI Joes and come up empty. I suggest sad child look between the wall and his bed, under his bed, under his brother's bed. We search the van, we search the garage. I finally declare that Grey Matter has impolitely gone missing and that sad child should stop moping because at the very worst, I'll buy a new one and life will thankfully go on.
Later, a thought jolts through and I enjoy a moment of elation. Didn't I see it sitting in the Humvee in the hallway before I picked it up on Sunday and put it away on the shelf in the garage? I dash hopefully to the shelf, pull the Humvee down, look in and -- oh, no. It's a lightsaber, sitting happily in the backseat, cruelly slapping down my earlier misplaced hope and relief.
I trudge dejectedly back into the house and give the sad news. Grey Matter is officially MIA.
In a house of four boys, in a span of time totalling some fourteen years, he is our first official statistic. Not that we haven't suffered losses. Woody lost a leg and an arm. Woody version 2 lost an arm. Buzz lost his helmet, hands and feet. Buzz V2 fortunately fared better with just a partial helmet loss. The Master Chief has lost arms and legs. The submarine sank, the hovercopter lost its hover and the nintendo 64 (1 and 2) died along with the gamecube version 1 and playstation 2, versions 1 and 2. No, we are not strangers to loss -- we've seen plenty of KIAs, but never before has a child suffered an MIA toy for longer than one calendar day.
I'm beginning to have a sneaking suspicion that Loki may have finally gotten his revenge for the dive bombing incident.
For months, this ugly little grey action figure has been lovingly toted from bedroom to bedroom, from car to car, from bath to bed. It has gone to the mall, to the park, to Starbucks. It has rode in a child-sized Humvee and slept in a GI Joe tent. It has ridden miniature schnauzers and jumped from the tallest art easel in the house.
And now, sadly, Grey Matter is gone.
One day of, "Has anyone seen my Grey Matter?" turned into, "Mom, do you know where Grey Matter is?" because everyone in this house has come to realize if something is lost, Mom'dar is on the job. On day two and three, Mom (that would be me) promised she'd help the bereft 9 year old search for the lost toy, only to get busy and immersed in the day-to-day business of school, laundry, cleaning and of course, the important, feeding, of children, including the sad 9 year old.
Day four he reminds Mom with a very melancholic expression, "You never looked for Grey Matter last night."
Hmmmm.
So, realizing that I will probably forget if I procrastinate anymore on this, I set off in search of a toy that looks like grey sludge melted into a vague body-shaped mold with overly-large, beady craft eyes. I know it isn't in the toy box because I dug through it, in its entirety, just the other day searching for a small DS game that a sad 11 year old had misplaced (it was later successfully located by Mom'dar in older brother's room, on a desk, slightly hidden under a cleaning cloth). I know it isn't in the living room because it's only so big and Grey Matter is not that small. And again, the living room was scoured fairly well the day before. I search box one of GI Joes and come up empty. I search box two of GI Joes and come up empty. I suggest sad child look between the wall and his bed, under his bed, under his brother's bed. We search the van, we search the garage. I finally declare that Grey Matter has impolitely gone missing and that sad child should stop moping because at the very worst, I'll buy a new one and life will thankfully go on.
Later, a thought jolts through and I enjoy a moment of elation. Didn't I see it sitting in the Humvee in the hallway before I picked it up on Sunday and put it away on the shelf in the garage? I dash hopefully to the shelf, pull the Humvee down, look in and -- oh, no. It's a lightsaber, sitting happily in the backseat, cruelly slapping down my earlier misplaced hope and relief.
I trudge dejectedly back into the house and give the sad news. Grey Matter is officially MIA.
In a house of four boys, in a span of time totalling some fourteen years, he is our first official statistic. Not that we haven't suffered losses. Woody lost a leg and an arm. Woody version 2 lost an arm. Buzz lost his helmet, hands and feet. Buzz V2 fortunately fared better with just a partial helmet loss. The Master Chief has lost arms and legs. The submarine sank, the hovercopter lost its hover and the nintendo 64 (1 and 2) died along with the gamecube version 1 and playstation 2, versions 1 and 2. No, we are not strangers to loss -- we've seen plenty of KIAs, but never before has a child suffered an MIA toy for longer than one calendar day.
I'm beginning to have a sneaking suspicion that Loki may have finally gotten his revenge for the dive bombing incident.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Good Dental Care is Not For the Faint of Heart
Three weeks ago my miniature schnauzer had dental surgery. His teeth were cleaned, some were pulled and the vet cum dentist said, "You have to start brushing his teeth, 4-5 times a week would be great." Then he handed me the care sheet with instructions and said come back in three weeks.
So, as instructed, I waited. You aren't supposed to brush right away as they put some microbiotic up in their gums to promote gum growth and health and brushing will get rid of all that expensive medicine -- and here we whine about fluoride treatments. I bought the doggie toothpaste and the doggie toothbrush. I read the instructions and then read them again.
I let Loki taste it. He liked it. I felt pretty self-assured. Loki's good about holding still. He never runs out of the house and he's always sat when I said "sit". I felt confident. I felt ready for this. I started pushing the toothbrush into Loki's mouth thinking, "I can do this," and that's when every good, happy, positive thought I had flew out the window. He clamped down and gave me this wild-eyed look like I'd just violated him somewhere.
This...this was not what I'd bargained for. I pulled the toothbrush back and looked at it skeptically, then at Loki's clenched mouth. Ruh-roh, Raggy, this might be a problem.
He's a schnauzer so he has a cute beard. Something I've always been very fond of. Something I wanted to cut completely away after only a minute or two because, note to the unwise, brushing a reluctant dog's teeth who happens to have a lot of hair in the facial region just makes your job a hundred times harder. Possibly a thousand. I thought this like a hundred-and-one times while wrestling with his mouth. Fat lips, hairy beard, they were all against me. It was a conspiracy of the most devious kind.
I had bought one of those toothbrushes that you slip onto your finger. Looking at it, I vaguely wondered if he might be having a few proctology fears because there was more than a passing resemblance; I gave Loki the benefit of the doubt,and set that one aside and sent Jake on a search for a small, kid-sized toothbrush.
Yeah. That didn't go over any better, and in fact, he just started making pitiful gagging motions when I tried to reach those molars way in the back. Do you have any idea of just how far back a dog's mouth goes? We're talking Sarlacc pit, imported straight from Jabba's desert. It never seems to end and when it does, it convulsively tries to chew down on anything in biting distance.
Eventually, after having suspicions I might be OD'ing my dog on toothpaste, I pronounced Loki, "As done as you're going to get and boy do I have some questions for your vet tomorrow!"
That was when I shifted my attention to Frodo, the white poodle mix with a mouth even smaller than Loki's.
For the record, we're talking way smaller.
I think they make cat toothbrushes. I think I need one of those.
Frodo thought the toothpaste was crap, and that was pretty much his opinion of the entire idea as a whole. I managed to get a few back-and-forths in along the front; the back so wasn't happening, not unless I wanted to wear Frodo's lunch. Did I mention I need to get a cat toothbrush? It's not bad enough we already suspect he's the first dog-cat hybrid, but now I'm contemplating buying cat gear for him!
Loki's never going to let him live this down.
The Guilty One:
The Braver One:
So, as instructed, I waited. You aren't supposed to brush right away as they put some microbiotic up in their gums to promote gum growth and health and brushing will get rid of all that expensive medicine -- and here we whine about fluoride treatments. I bought the doggie toothpaste and the doggie toothbrush. I read the instructions and then read them again.
I let Loki taste it. He liked it. I felt pretty self-assured. Loki's good about holding still. He never runs out of the house and he's always sat when I said "sit". I felt confident. I felt ready for this. I started pushing the toothbrush into Loki's mouth thinking, "I can do this," and that's when every good, happy, positive thought I had flew out the window. He clamped down and gave me this wild-eyed look like I'd just violated him somewhere.
This...this was not what I'd bargained for. I pulled the toothbrush back and looked at it skeptically, then at Loki's clenched mouth. Ruh-roh, Raggy, this might be a problem.
He's a schnauzer so he has a cute beard. Something I've always been very fond of. Something I wanted to cut completely away after only a minute or two because, note to the unwise, brushing a reluctant dog's teeth who happens to have a lot of hair in the facial region just makes your job a hundred times harder. Possibly a thousand. I thought this like a hundred-and-one times while wrestling with his mouth. Fat lips, hairy beard, they were all against me. It was a conspiracy of the most devious kind.
I had bought one of those toothbrushes that you slip onto your finger. Looking at it, I vaguely wondered if he might be having a few proctology fears because there was more than a passing resemblance; I gave Loki the benefit of the doubt,and set that one aside and sent Jake on a search for a small, kid-sized toothbrush.
Yeah. That didn't go over any better, and in fact, he just started making pitiful gagging motions when I tried to reach those molars way in the back. Do you have any idea of just how far back a dog's mouth goes? We're talking Sarlacc pit, imported straight from Jabba's desert. It never seems to end and when it does, it convulsively tries to chew down on anything in biting distance.
Eventually, after having suspicions I might be OD'ing my dog on toothpaste, I pronounced Loki, "As done as you're going to get and boy do I have some questions for your vet tomorrow!"
That was when I shifted my attention to Frodo, the white poodle mix with a mouth even smaller than Loki's.
For the record, we're talking way smaller.
I think they make cat toothbrushes. I think I need one of those.
Frodo thought the toothpaste was crap, and that was pretty much his opinion of the entire idea as a whole. I managed to get a few back-and-forths in along the front; the back so wasn't happening, not unless I wanted to wear Frodo's lunch. Did I mention I need to get a cat toothbrush? It's not bad enough we already suspect he's the first dog-cat hybrid, but now I'm contemplating buying cat gear for him!
Loki's never going to let him live this down.
The Guilty One:
The Braver One:
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Is self-flagellation a defense mechanism or just very smart manipulation?
I had my dermatologist's appointment today. First, before the funny, my atypical cells are not a concern. The margins were free of anything bad so I'm relegated to frequent check-ups and nothing more. Yay me!
But getting to my appointment, oy! (And I'm not even Jewish).
First, I want to preface that I'm one of those ridiculously early people. I do not like to be late. Being late, and running late, raises my blood pressure to ridiculously high levels and I prefer to not stroke out on the way to commitments. This means I usually plan my trips accordingly. Today I needed to be at the dermatologist at 320 so it being an hour trip, I had to leave no later than 220. I grew engrossed in an article I was reading, we had already finished our work for the day and the two children left were finishing their math. Bradley walks in and says, "What are you still doing here? Didn't you have to leave?" I glance up from my reading and sight on the clock. 216. Ruh-roh raggy. You're probably thinking what's wrong, that's plenty of time...but no, it really isn't. Not when you forgot to write down the street address to oldest son's piano teacher since Dad was stepping into the Mom Taxi shoes and you have to a)dig through an email inbox that has less order than entropy and b)scribble said address down c)put on shoes d)find wallet -- left in the office from the scramble to pay a forgotten bill the day before and e)write down the titles for the books you wanted to look for at Barnes and Nobles and f)guzzle some water because it's of course when I'm walking out the door that I'm struck by how thirsty I am!
I pull out of the drive at 236. I look at the gas guage. It takes 1/4 of a tank for the round trip. I have 1/4 of a tank. Great. I'll need to fill up but there was no time en route so that got set aside for when I was coming home.
Newton's first law is that objects in motion tend to stay in motion...except when you're running late for an appointment. I hit every. Single. Red. Light. I even ran one; I swear, completely unintentionally as it was either run the blasted thing or brake and wind up with the nose of the car half-in the intersection and then I'd just look like a total dweeb and have to reverse, holding everybody up anyway. Really, running it was the less painful option. And in this world of "blame everyone else", it was the semi-truck's fault in front of me, for a) being so slow I had to tailgate in the first place and b)hauling a trailer high enough that it blocked my line of sight for the traffic light!
All that stress and I could just feel the veins in my head beginning to pulse. I wind up getting there only three minutes late. I go back. One hour of driving like Andretti equaled less than five minutes of getting stitches removed, and for the record, it hurts far worse than the punch biopsy. I told the nurse that. I don't think she appreciated it. At least I didn't say something like, "Hey, why don't you just rip it out really fast, like a band-aid, instead of drawing out every ounce of burning pain, every time you tug so not-delicately on my not-quite-healed wound!"
The good news, I went from there straight to Barnes and Nobles. This is always something to cheer up the soul. My goal: Choose Your Own Adventure books for Jacob, a new Case Closed novel for Bradley, a vague idea to buy something for Ben and Mike that actually requires reading, two coffees from Starbucks and a request from Ben to get him a, "Lemonade!"
I also had a book I was looking for. Refined to Real Food: Moving Your Family To Healthier, Wholesome Eating. This is yet another desperate attempt to eliminate all that extra sugar, preservatives -- there is definitely something disturbing when you consider there are foods on supermarket shelves that will live far longer than you will -- and to steer our diets into a habit that just might let us live a few years longer, all things considered.
I browsed the science fiction section. It's mandatory, every trip. I'm sorry. I have no excuse. It's just a compulsion. However, I did walk away without succumbing to an impulse buy. I already have a backlog of ten or more books to read and have told myself no more until I catch up. Period. ::sigh::
One manga novel, book 18, as they were out of 16 and 17. Manga is annoying, but at least Bradley chose a series that is big on logic and problem solving. All is not lost, and hey, the book is written in typical Japanese style, the back is the front, so that counts as a little bit of cultural exposure!
I found the Choose Your Own Adventure books and pulled out the next in the series. Jake has read all the Series of Unfortunate Events and latched onto these. Not exactly grade level for him but he reads plenty in our school day so it doesn't fall into the "big deal" radar. The down side is, the last time I bought these they were like $4. Now they've jumped to $6, and I'm sorry, these books just aren't thick enough to warrant $6. I buy two and resent the publishing industry the entire time I'm browsing.
Now I'm thinking what can I get Ben. I briefly consider the Captain Underpants series. My oldest got a couple of these in public school and liked them. I, of course, couldn't stand them. Talk about waste of paper. Yes, it's a personal thing, but the exposure to crass pop culture abounds as it is, why shove it in through yet another route? I set the book down and continued on. Eragon. Huh. He loved the movie, so, I added it to my arms and carried on. Mike is a hard one. He likes to read technical manuals or theory. He loves to program graphics. Oh, hey, we'd talked about getting him started on html! I wander over to the computer section and stare uncertainly at the plethora of HTML, CSS, and XTML! I call hubby, the computer geek. He says no on the CSS, "Just go with plain html, start simple." Okay, problem is, almost all the books combine the programming styles. I find one that looks visually appealing while not being a "4 dummies" as hubby also said those are atrocious and don't really teach anything. I'll let you know if we actually get programming from this or yet more viruses on the family PC. He currently infects it at about a rate of 2.3333333 times a month. Possibly more, we only know when we get errors and pop-ups. We've said repeatedly, "No, you won't really win that ipod and no, if you click there, you won't get a new xbox 360, so PLEASE, STOP CLICKING!"
After all that, my healthier us book is out of stock. The nice lady placed the order for me and it'll arrive at my house eventually. I forgot to ask when. Seeing how I've recently purchased The Adventures of Bullwhip Griffin, Dear America The Winter of Red Snow, Apples Daily Spelling Drills for Secondary Students and Apples Phonics Review for Secondary Students and one plush Mario coin block (complete with sounds, aren't I lucky!), it's not like I'm going to care at this point. I do a lot of shopping online at any one time I usually have something on the way.
So, now I'm ready to leave. My phone rings. It's Bradley.
He says, "Where are you?"
"Barnes and Nobles."
"Oh."
"I got you book 18."
He sounds a little excited, "Okay." Then he kind of makes a huff, "Can you talk to Ben? He's crying and calling himself a stupid child."
I frown. "Put him on."
Sobbing child comes on. Lady standing in front of me is finished being checked out. I ask Ben, "What's wrong."
Sobbing. ::sigh:: Ben is known as Emo!Ben in our house. He's Mr. Sensitive. Mr. I -can-cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat and Mr. Some day I will win an Oscar. I tell him, "I'll call you right back." If he was dying, Brad would've told me. I pay the nice lady and head over to order my coffees. I grab the lemonade. I order a venti cafe mocha with whip cream and a venti carmel machiatto with whip cream. The chocolate's for me, the carmel, for hubby. The venti is for my earlier close call with a stroke. I see the nice, cute halloween specialty gummi worms and toss them next to the lemonade. Boys like gross. It's a little contagious.
Then, while I wait for my brain juice and valium in a paper cup, I call back and ask Brad to put Ben on the phone. Dad is driving Jake to his lessons and Mike is on babysitting duty though they're all at an age where there isn't a clear cut chain of command when we're gone. Not so long as Mom is 7-pushed numbers away.
Ben gets on and the sobbing is gone. Like it never ever existed. I press and remind him he mentioned something about "break" and he tells me how when he opened the refrigerator, one of the shelves on the door fell off. Ah. I ask, a little apprehensively, "Is there any broken glass on the floor?"
"No."
"Oh, okay then. No big deal. It happens all the time. Any other major catastrophes or is that your quota for the day..." Okay, I didn't say that last part, but I thought it!
I'm still trying to figure out how the youngest child has learned the best way to deal with Things That Might Make Mom Mad. He berates himself, cries, then waits for the comfort. Did I mention future Oscar winner here?
Fortunately for him, I encourage their extracurricular activities.
But getting to my appointment, oy! (And I'm not even Jewish).
First, I want to preface that I'm one of those ridiculously early people. I do not like to be late. Being late, and running late, raises my blood pressure to ridiculously high levels and I prefer to not stroke out on the way to commitments. This means I usually plan my trips accordingly. Today I needed to be at the dermatologist at 320 so it being an hour trip, I had to leave no later than 220. I grew engrossed in an article I was reading, we had already finished our work for the day and the two children left were finishing their math. Bradley walks in and says, "What are you still doing here? Didn't you have to leave?" I glance up from my reading and sight on the clock. 216. Ruh-roh raggy. You're probably thinking what's wrong, that's plenty of time...but no, it really isn't. Not when you forgot to write down the street address to oldest son's piano teacher since Dad was stepping into the Mom Taxi shoes and you have to a)dig through an email inbox that has less order than entropy and b)scribble said address down c)put on shoes d)find wallet -- left in the office from the scramble to pay a forgotten bill the day before and e)write down the titles for the books you wanted to look for at Barnes and Nobles and f)guzzle some water because it's of course when I'm walking out the door that I'm struck by how thirsty I am!
I pull out of the drive at 236. I look at the gas guage. It takes 1/4 of a tank for the round trip. I have 1/4 of a tank. Great. I'll need to fill up but there was no time en route so that got set aside for when I was coming home.
Newton's first law is that objects in motion tend to stay in motion...except when you're running late for an appointment. I hit every. Single. Red. Light. I even ran one; I swear, completely unintentionally as it was either run the blasted thing or brake and wind up with the nose of the car half-in the intersection and then I'd just look like a total dweeb and have to reverse, holding everybody up anyway. Really, running it was the less painful option. And in this world of "blame everyone else", it was the semi-truck's fault in front of me, for a) being so slow I had to tailgate in the first place and b)hauling a trailer high enough that it blocked my line of sight for the traffic light!
All that stress and I could just feel the veins in my head beginning to pulse. I wind up getting there only three minutes late. I go back. One hour of driving like Andretti equaled less than five minutes of getting stitches removed, and for the record, it hurts far worse than the punch biopsy. I told the nurse that. I don't think she appreciated it. At least I didn't say something like, "Hey, why don't you just rip it out really fast, like a band-aid, instead of drawing out every ounce of burning pain, every time you tug so not-delicately on my not-quite-healed wound!"
The good news, I went from there straight to Barnes and Nobles. This is always something to cheer up the soul. My goal: Choose Your Own Adventure books for Jacob, a new Case Closed novel for Bradley, a vague idea to buy something for Ben and Mike that actually requires reading, two coffees from Starbucks and a request from Ben to get him a, "Lemonade!"
I also had a book I was looking for. Refined to Real Food: Moving Your Family To Healthier, Wholesome Eating. This is yet another desperate attempt to eliminate all that extra sugar, preservatives -- there is definitely something disturbing when you consider there are foods on supermarket shelves that will live far longer than you will -- and to steer our diets into a habit that just might let us live a few years longer, all things considered.
I browsed the science fiction section. It's mandatory, every trip. I'm sorry. I have no excuse. It's just a compulsion. However, I did walk away without succumbing to an impulse buy. I already have a backlog of ten or more books to read and have told myself no more until I catch up. Period. ::sigh::
One manga novel, book 18, as they were out of 16 and 17. Manga is annoying, but at least Bradley chose a series that is big on logic and problem solving. All is not lost, and hey, the book is written in typical Japanese style, the back is the front, so that counts as a little bit of cultural exposure!
I found the Choose Your Own Adventure books and pulled out the next in the series. Jake has read all the Series of Unfortunate Events and latched onto these. Not exactly grade level for him but he reads plenty in our school day so it doesn't fall into the "big deal" radar. The down side is, the last time I bought these they were like $4. Now they've jumped to $6, and I'm sorry, these books just aren't thick enough to warrant $6. I buy two and resent the publishing industry the entire time I'm browsing.
Now I'm thinking what can I get Ben. I briefly consider the Captain Underpants series. My oldest got a couple of these in public school and liked them. I, of course, couldn't stand them. Talk about waste of paper. Yes, it's a personal thing, but the exposure to crass pop culture abounds as it is, why shove it in through yet another route? I set the book down and continued on. Eragon. Huh. He loved the movie, so, I added it to my arms and carried on. Mike is a hard one. He likes to read technical manuals or theory. He loves to program graphics. Oh, hey, we'd talked about getting him started on html! I wander over to the computer section and stare uncertainly at the plethora of HTML, CSS, and XTML! I call hubby, the computer geek. He says no on the CSS, "Just go with plain html, start simple." Okay, problem is, almost all the books combine the programming styles. I find one that looks visually appealing while not being a "4 dummies" as hubby also said those are atrocious and don't really teach anything. I'll let you know if we actually get programming from this or yet more viruses on the family PC. He currently infects it at about a rate of 2.3333333 times a month. Possibly more, we only know when we get errors and pop-ups. We've said repeatedly, "No, you won't really win that ipod and no, if you click there, you won't get a new xbox 360, so PLEASE, STOP CLICKING!"
After all that, my healthier us book is out of stock. The nice lady placed the order for me and it'll arrive at my house eventually. I forgot to ask when. Seeing how I've recently purchased The Adventures of Bullwhip Griffin, Dear America The Winter of Red Snow, Apples Daily Spelling Drills for Secondary Students and Apples Phonics Review for Secondary Students and one plush Mario coin block (complete with sounds, aren't I lucky!), it's not like I'm going to care at this point. I do a lot of shopping online at any one time I usually have something on the way.
So, now I'm ready to leave. My phone rings. It's Bradley.
He says, "Where are you?"
"Barnes and Nobles."
"Oh."
"I got you book 18."
He sounds a little excited, "Okay." Then he kind of makes a huff, "Can you talk to Ben? He's crying and calling himself a stupid child."
I frown. "Put him on."
Sobbing child comes on. Lady standing in front of me is finished being checked out. I ask Ben, "What's wrong."
Sobbing. ::sigh:: Ben is known as Emo!Ben in our house. He's Mr. Sensitive. Mr. I -can-cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat and Mr. Some day I will win an Oscar. I tell him, "I'll call you right back." If he was dying, Brad would've told me. I pay the nice lady and head over to order my coffees. I grab the lemonade. I order a venti cafe mocha with whip cream and a venti carmel machiatto with whip cream. The chocolate's for me, the carmel, for hubby. The venti is for my earlier close call with a stroke. I see the nice, cute halloween specialty gummi worms and toss them next to the lemonade. Boys like gross. It's a little contagious.
Then, while I wait for my brain juice and valium in a paper cup, I call back and ask Brad to put Ben on the phone. Dad is driving Jake to his lessons and Mike is on babysitting duty though they're all at an age where there isn't a clear cut chain of command when we're gone. Not so long as Mom is 7-pushed numbers away.
Ben gets on and the sobbing is gone. Like it never ever existed. I press and remind him he mentioned something about "break" and he tells me how when he opened the refrigerator, one of the shelves on the door fell off. Ah. I ask, a little apprehensively, "Is there any broken glass on the floor?"
"No."
"Oh, okay then. No big deal. It happens all the time. Any other major catastrophes or is that your quota for the day..." Okay, I didn't say that last part, but I thought it!
I'm still trying to figure out how the youngest child has learned the best way to deal with Things That Might Make Mom Mad. He berates himself, cries, then waits for the comfort. Did I mention future Oscar winner here?
Fortunately for him, I encourage their extracurricular activities.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
So, I'm abnormal and I really dislike the folks at the DMV in California
A couple of months and some change ago, I went to see the dermatologist because I had an area of blue discoloration return on my lower lip. The reason it drove me in was a previous year or two I had another dermatologist diagnose a pre-cancerous area in the same spot. While I was there it was a, "Hey, the doctor said I should probably have you look at this mole, too..." Turns out, the blue-ish area was a venous lake, totally harmless, but I left with that "by the way" spot cut off. The report: benign! Heal up and you're good to go.
Fast-forward a couple of months and my husband said, "Huh, you know, you should go back and have this looked at."
I did. The dermatologist was a little surprised. It seems my benign mole regrew via some missed cells from the shave biopsy. Something I understand as being not all that uncommon. He also took it out, again, this time via a punch biopsy.
At the same time, my husband happened to be retiring from the Air Force. When you go from active duty to retiree, you have to actually re-enroll in Tri-Care. We had been to the Tri-Care office several times during the decision process of what plans to use, and at that time they said that the referral I was using would be transferable. "Just bring it in when you enroll and we'll do the paperwork then!" It's only when we're sitting at the desk, doing the paperwork and I have three stitches in my back that this other lady says, "Oh, no. The referral expires automatically when you retire. No, you need to go to your PCM and get a new referral."
Uh. Right. Anyone in the military world knows this isn't a process that takes place overnight. Especially not when they have to process the enrollment paperwork and assign us a new PCM and oh, by the way, Monday is a holiday so...
Despite those hurdles, we did get the enrollment processed today (no, it had not been done prior to my husband following up with it today), we did get a PCM assigned to us, and though the PCM stuttered a bit about, "You're not in our system yet," which of course, we wouldn't, as everything has been done literally in hours today but if I call the dermatologist and just get the report results over the phone, my PCM's office will take out the stitches for me. So, I call, and explain the insurance issue with the referral, and they say that suture removals are free so there won't be a bill generated from that visit but make sure the doctor doesn't do anything else until a new referral is generated at which point I'm thinking...hmmm, if the report was benign there would certainly be nothing to do. I ask and do find out that it was irregular. Abnormal. But no mention of cancer so I'm not all that worked up over it. Abnormal cells are a part of living in this world and if anything, it just means I'll be less likely to have skin cancer run rampant because now I've earned a "follow closely" note in my record. I go back on Thursday to get my stitches out and this time I will actually try to ask questions so I know what to tell everyone in the family. Bottom line though, I'm not dying. That's always good to know.
Now, bear in mind, all of the above was done while I'm driving to and fro, dropping children off at music lessons and picking up children. Then I had to take child #3 to orthodontist and deal with yet more insurance hassles as our dental insurance changed. His appointment took less than five minutes. I was there for over thirty waiting to get the receptionist free to deal with the insurance issues. Hurry up and wait, if you don't know this mantra yet, learn it. Fact. Of. Life. You will be that much better off if you just accept it now.
I finally get home and find an envelope from the California DMV. Back in the end of July I mistakenly sent off my registration and a $91 check. Completely forgetting that with husband retiring we had to do a local registration. The sticker arrives right as we are processing the SC registration and titling. We contact the DMV and explain the mix-up, explain we never even put the new sticker on. She said, "Submit the paperwork and you'll probably get it back, but I really can't say for sure." I figured, come on, we never even used it! We sent the paperwork in August, early August at that. So, like only a week or two after we got the new registration.
Do you know they denied the refund because it was after the time-of-effect for the new registration. The meany, money-mongering bureaucrats didn't even pro-rate it! I had a mad impulse to phone them and mention something about highway robbery and I hoped they enjoyed my $91 with extra helpings of guilt on the side.
Anyway, Tuesday -- we spent the morning doing art and music. Afternoon consisted of music lessons. Husband left with oldest two boys for Civil Air Patrol leaving me and the two youngers for some quiet time. Eureka is on tonight and I need the laughs!
Comments: I'm still learning how to use this blogger and I can't seem to see a way to actually reply to the comments, so a) Help! and b) I'll answer them here for the time being.
Christine: You know the saying, misery loves company, from one chaotic home to the other. ::shameless grinning::
atlantisfannew1: Thanks for the offer, unfortunately, I'm about tapped out on free time. Good luck with the forums!
Fast-forward a couple of months and my husband said, "Huh, you know, you should go back and have this looked at."
I did. The dermatologist was a little surprised. It seems my benign mole regrew via some missed cells from the shave biopsy. Something I understand as being not all that uncommon. He also took it out, again, this time via a punch biopsy.
At the same time, my husband happened to be retiring from the Air Force. When you go from active duty to retiree, you have to actually re-enroll in Tri-Care. We had been to the Tri-Care office several times during the decision process of what plans to use, and at that time they said that the referral I was using would be transferable. "Just bring it in when you enroll and we'll do the paperwork then!" It's only when we're sitting at the desk, doing the paperwork and I have three stitches in my back that this other lady says, "Oh, no. The referral expires automatically when you retire. No, you need to go to your PCM and get a new referral."
Uh. Right. Anyone in the military world knows this isn't a process that takes place overnight. Especially not when they have to process the enrollment paperwork and assign us a new PCM and oh, by the way, Monday is a holiday so...
Despite those hurdles, we did get the enrollment processed today (no, it had not been done prior to my husband following up with it today), we did get a PCM assigned to us, and though the PCM stuttered a bit about, "You're not in our system yet," which of course, we wouldn't, as everything has been done literally in hours today but if I call the dermatologist and just get the report results over the phone, my PCM's office will take out the stitches for me. So, I call, and explain the insurance issue with the referral, and they say that suture removals are free so there won't be a bill generated from that visit but make sure the doctor doesn't do anything else until a new referral is generated at which point I'm thinking...hmmm, if the report was benign there would certainly be nothing to do. I ask and do find out that it was irregular. Abnormal. But no mention of cancer so I'm not all that worked up over it. Abnormal cells are a part of living in this world and if anything, it just means I'll be less likely to have skin cancer run rampant because now I've earned a "follow closely" note in my record. I go back on Thursday to get my stitches out and this time I will actually try to ask questions so I know what to tell everyone in the family. Bottom line though, I'm not dying. That's always good to know.
Now, bear in mind, all of the above was done while I'm driving to and fro, dropping children off at music lessons and picking up children. Then I had to take child #3 to orthodontist and deal with yet more insurance hassles as our dental insurance changed. His appointment took less than five minutes. I was there for over thirty waiting to get the receptionist free to deal with the insurance issues. Hurry up and wait, if you don't know this mantra yet, learn it. Fact. Of. Life. You will be that much better off if you just accept it now.
I finally get home and find an envelope from the California DMV. Back in the end of July I mistakenly sent off my registration and a $91 check. Completely forgetting that with husband retiring we had to do a local registration. The sticker arrives right as we are processing the SC registration and titling. We contact the DMV and explain the mix-up, explain we never even put the new sticker on. She said, "Submit the paperwork and you'll probably get it back, but I really can't say for sure." I figured, come on, we never even used it! We sent the paperwork in August, early August at that. So, like only a week or two after we got the new registration.
Do you know they denied the refund because it was after the time-of-effect for the new registration. The meany, money-mongering bureaucrats didn't even pro-rate it! I had a mad impulse to phone them and mention something about highway robbery and I hoped they enjoyed my $91 with extra helpings of guilt on the side.
Anyway, Tuesday -- we spent the morning doing art and music. Afternoon consisted of music lessons. Husband left with oldest two boys for Civil Air Patrol leaving me and the two youngers for some quiet time. Eureka is on tonight and I need the laughs!
Comments: I'm still learning how to use this blogger and I can't seem to see a way to actually reply to the comments, so a) Help! and b) I'll answer them here for the time being.
Christine: You know the saying, misery loves company, from one chaotic home to the other. ::shameless grinning::
atlantisfannew1: Thanks for the offer, unfortunately, I'm about tapped out on free time. Good luck with the forums!
Monday, September 3, 2007
Home school ramblings
The concept of home education, aka home school, or homeschool -- spelling varies by person, is met with various responses: you're crazy, you're crippling your children, are we actually doing it?
Ask this question to a hundred different home schooling parents and you'll probably get a hundred different responses. Despite that, there tend to be three main reasons: for better academics, a better social environment and to escape a negative situation. For us, it started as primarily reason number 3 for our youngest son (at the time halfway through first grade), but quickly morphed to encompass reasons number 1 and 2.
I've rehashed the "why" more times than I care to remember so I'm not going to do it again. The details have become mind-numbing, which isn't to say I won't answer questions, just be prepared for long answers. Remember, I have brevity issues.
So, onward to the pictures. We bought our home in 2005 with the knowledge that we'd be moving in about 2-3 years. As it turns out, we are not moving for a little bit longer and I've found myself longing for a dedicated school room. Until that time, we make do with what we have. Here are the pictures of our "school" the day before we started this fall.
These are our supply cubbies.
*yes, yes, you've correctly spotted a sad layer of dust on the desk. It's there in order to help the entertainment center feel more confident and self-assured in its dust-covered status. I take very seriously my furniture's state of mental health!
Individual bins for each child's books.
This is our book station. Books being used by everyone go here and they tend to shift out. Currently, the almanac and atlas along with the globe and a copy of The Great Horn Spoon reside there.
The master cabinet. Here rest the novels for the year's study, teacher books, DVDs, and any workbooks that will be used throughout the year but are not currently in use.
Now, it's almost noon on this Labor Day holiday, and as we spent the bulk of yesterday with friends and not home (aka not cleaning or being productive in anyway), I must run and begin to attempt to restore order to the chaos that is my home on an almost scarily daily basis.
Ask this question to a hundred different home schooling parents and you'll probably get a hundred different responses. Despite that, there tend to be three main reasons: for better academics, a better social environment and to escape a negative situation. For us, it started as primarily reason number 3 for our youngest son (at the time halfway through first grade), but quickly morphed to encompass reasons number 1 and 2.
I've rehashed the "why" more times than I care to remember so I'm not going to do it again. The details have become mind-numbing, which isn't to say I won't answer questions, just be prepared for long answers. Remember, I have brevity issues.
So, onward to the pictures. We bought our home in 2005 with the knowledge that we'd be moving in about 2-3 years. As it turns out, we are not moving for a little bit longer and I've found myself longing for a dedicated school room. Until that time, we make do with what we have. Here are the pictures of our "school" the day before we started this fall.
These are our supply cubbies.
*yes, yes, you've correctly spotted a sad layer of dust on the desk. It's there in order to help the entertainment center feel more confident and self-assured in its dust-covered status. I take very seriously my furniture's state of mental health!
Individual bins for each child's books.
This is our book station. Books being used by everyone go here and they tend to shift out. Currently, the almanac and atlas along with the globe and a copy of The Great Horn Spoon reside there.
The master cabinet. Here rest the novels for the year's study, teacher books, DVDs, and any workbooks that will be used throughout the year but are not currently in use.
Now, it's almost noon on this Labor Day holiday, and as we spent the bulk of yesterday with friends and not home (aka not cleaning or being productive in anyway), I must run and begin to attempt to restore order to the chaos that is my home on an almost scarily daily basis.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
My first post and I'm almost late walking out the door
Isn't that typical! So, I have another blog but it's my personal space. I have family, and as the child who bore the only grandchildren so far for my side of the family tree, they often like to know what's going on with our beasts...er, children. Then there's my husband's side of the family -- they just like to read and laugh at my travails. I try not to take it personally.
I'm either walking out the door, teaching, cleaning, or driving. Occasionally I get to read, go to the lake, or just escape to the city to pick up a cafe mocha (large, because, really, it's a mercy thing).
As I'm supposed to be in the car and driving, my first entry will be rather short. I'm sure many people in blog-dom thank me. Brevity is an art I rarely employ. I have four children, all boys (Yes, Virginia, God does have a sense of humor). They are the incredible ages of 14, 13, 11 and 9. Note, see the sense of humor when you gape at the ages. Eventually I will take responsibility for that and until I do, I blame The Man upstairs for the Irish triplets. There's no way that was my fault. Not until they're grown and self-sufficient.
I've been married for 16 years. Despite the children. And the dogs. And we even occasionally get to leave the house together, alone, now. It's really surprising. We're still prone to driving to the Shoppette (think Kwik-E Mark for those non-military folks) and one of us will run in while the other sits in the car. Until the person returns to the car and leans in, waving absently, "You know, you don't really need to sit there. The kids are home. You can...you know...come with." Oh. Yes, it's usually me, waiting in an empty car out of habit from those days when the back of the car was filled with car seats.
Anyway, time's up! So to finish -- we home school, Dan (the husband), is recently retired Air Force, he's from Texas, I'm from Alaska, and yet we're transplanted to South Carolina thanks to the military machine. He is now a civilian contractor and I'm...still teaching, cleaning, raising and generally holding on for dear life. In the back of my mind a constant litany of Obstacles to Survive before the children can leave home runs in polyphonic glory.
This blog will be about that. About the dogs. About the husband. And maybe, occasionally, me.
Till next time!
I'm either walking out the door, teaching, cleaning, or driving. Occasionally I get to read, go to the lake, or just escape to the city to pick up a cafe mocha (large, because, really, it's a mercy thing).
As I'm supposed to be in the car and driving, my first entry will be rather short. I'm sure many people in blog-dom thank me. Brevity is an art I rarely employ. I have four children, all boys (Yes, Virginia, God does have a sense of humor). They are the incredible ages of 14, 13, 11 and 9. Note, see the sense of humor when you gape at the ages. Eventually I will take responsibility for that and until I do, I blame The Man upstairs for the Irish triplets. There's no way that was my fault. Not until they're grown and self-sufficient.
I've been married for 16 years. Despite the children. And the dogs. And we even occasionally get to leave the house together, alone, now. It's really surprising. We're still prone to driving to the Shoppette (think Kwik-E Mark for those non-military folks) and one of us will run in while the other sits in the car. Until the person returns to the car and leans in, waving absently, "You know, you don't really need to sit there. The kids are home. You can...you know...come with." Oh. Yes, it's usually me, waiting in an empty car out of habit from those days when the back of the car was filled with car seats.
Anyway, time's up! So to finish -- we home school, Dan (the husband), is recently retired Air Force, he's from Texas, I'm from Alaska, and yet we're transplanted to South Carolina thanks to the military machine. He is now a civilian contractor and I'm...still teaching, cleaning, raising and generally holding on for dear life. In the back of my mind a constant litany of Obstacles to Survive before the children can leave home runs in polyphonic glory.
This blog will be about that. About the dogs. About the husband. And maybe, occasionally, me.
Till next time!
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