The Tooth Fairy and Me

My kids have the worst tooth fairy EVER. Occasionally she'll come get a tooth the night after it's lost, but she's usually a night late. She's even been known to be two or three nights late. Oh sure, we make excuses for her--perhaps she had high volume tonight, she might get backed up on holidays, maybe she didn't get the message--but to be honest she is just lame and by the time she goes to bed has totally forgotten that she even has that job title.

Number 4 lost his first tooth the night before his 6th birthday, and she thankfully made a BIG effort to not forget. But he lost his second tooth less than a week later, and she was a no-show. And geesh, I am the one who has to look at those sad disappointed faces and think of yet another reason why she's late. I even overheard #2 telling #3 that there was one tooth that she never got money for at all. That could be true. I'm not sure.

It's interesting, because in a similar vein, I heard #4 excitedly tell #2 yesterday that mommy had promised to knit him an orange scarf and hat to match his coat, and he can't wait. I cringed. You know, I don't mean to lie to my kids. In this case, I have yarn. I've had it for months. The problem for me seems to be that the kids' requests rarely come with deadlines. I get their costumes made in time for Halloween. I'll get a pretty dress finished for #3s upcoming baptism if it kills me (which it may). But things like knitting scarves and reading books, setting up savings accounts and going to Chuck E. Cheese--well, there are no time frames for things like these. And I will ALWAYS find something more urgent than something else without a deadline.

I set up false deadlines for projects around the house I want or need to do. "I want to have the bathroom painted by the pool party in three weeks." "My sewing room must be clean for Valentine's Day." It can be the only way something makes it onto the list. It's clear I need to get the kids' things put on the list. Maybe even ahead of the baby afghan I need to finish crocheting for a baby who was born in October. Because I do not want to be a mom who's always letting her kids down. After all, I try to be reliable for everyone else.

Now, what was I telling you about?

Oh yeah, that stinkin' tooth fairy . . .

Love Song

On a Monday evening in October 1992, a group of fellow students were gathered in apartment 55, where 6 roommates were sharing residence for the school year. They carved jack-o-lanterns. Mormons may take added meaning from the fact that this was the first meeting of a newly-formed family home evening group in a BYU student ward.

Sharing one pumpkin were a large Samoan young man wearing the shorts and flip-flops that would prove to be his standard attire even in 18 inches of snow, a history major from southern California whose main interest at the moment was in fact not history, but his band, and a blond east-coat sophomore, desperately trying that year not to be insecure.

The musician had not remembered meeting the girl previously as she'd been one of six he'd introduced himself to, but she had him pegged as a very cute slacker. She'd thought he was at an age when he should have been out on a mission. That evening, with squash-y hands, she found out that he'd been gone and back. He wasn't a slacker--just a baby face. He found out she was from Massachusetts, and therefore thought it quite appropriate to tell a Ted Kennedy joke. She was not impressed. Being only 18, she'd not yet learned to temper a certain amount of emotion as a courtesy to new acquaintences. So she glared immediately with what he'd later describe as an "if looks could kill" look. Having once sworn off of ever dating an eastern girl, he let this largely roll off of his back and pursued another roommate.

He continued to spend a lot of time though in apartment 55, often bringing his guitar to sing to and with the girls. They were fun and he was relaxed around them. She was slightly jealous of the roommate he was dating, but continued to become good friends with him. They were both funny, smart, and artistic and, politics left aside, always had a great time together.

Back from Christmas break, and then another month or two of subtly throwing herself at him, he finally asked her out. Days before that first date he wrote a song. It would be his last for almost 15 years. Although she'd vowed she was NOT going to BYU to get her MrS, they married midway through her junior year, and their second daughter was 5 months old when she finally got that diploma.

For several years mutual friends would ask her if he'd written her a song, and it would hurt her heart to reply that he hadn't. But she'd tell them, and herself, that his muse being frustration and disappointment in love and life, he hadn't written anything since they started dating, and if he started now, she'd have to worry that something was wrong.

Last night he brought her into their bedroom to give her an early anniversary gift. When he picked up his guitar, she knew what it was and tried not to cry. Simple chord progressions and a beautiful melody sung by an out of practice voice told the story of their love from that first Kennedy joke to the uncertainty of plans they now find themselves in. An interruption from their 3rd daughter with a pinched finger seemed fitting. Neither had dry eyes by the end.

They are still best friends, still ridiculously in love, and still unsure how either of them were lucky enough to get the other to marry them. Looking back, it would appear that neither were entirely ready for what marriage would mean for them, but that fact hardly seems revelant now. Fourteen years have passed with joy and with sorrow but always with love. The next fourteen are sure to be even better.

Merry Christmas!

Well Groomed

I tend to procrastinate sometimes.

But we are going to be in Idaho for a week during our Christmas break, and I needed to make sure Lucy had somewhere to go. I was assuming that Christmas time would fill up at the pet boarder quite quickly. It's a one-man show up here with the dog groomer who will actually take them to his home if they play nicely with others. Lu made that cut last August when we went to the river.

So I figured I best get in before Thanksgiving to secure our spot or find out I was already too late and have time to rethink my plan.

The cashier in the shop is #3's soccer coach, so we briefly discussed tomorrow's game, and then I told her the purpose for my visit. She peeked in the grooming room, where a dog was being washed, to ask the owner about taking Lucy. He very kindly asked that I call back after Thanksgiving because he is so booked grooming dogs for the Holiday. He added that he was sure that would be fine, and had me leave the info, so he'd remember when I called.

Hm. Too booked. That surprised me. Here's why:

I went in yesterday to my hair dresser to see if I could get in next week to have my highlights touched up. I haven't been in since May or June. I wanted to go next week because the kids are out of school, so I won't have to be racing to get #4 picked up from kindergarten. I thought that I might have trouble, though, with women wanting to get in before Thanksgiving, and so was willing to take a later appointment if she would open up a few minutes early so I'd be done before noon.

"No problem. Plenty of times still open. What day did you want to come in? Wednesday? Great. We'll see you at 10."

So dog groomer; booked. People groomer; nah. Well, call me crazy, but I think that's . . . well, crazy. I love my dog. And I have to say she is a mess right now--full of dust and pine sap. However my vanity takes my eyes to my own head first.

At least I know now not to procrastinate booking a pre-Christmas grooming.

Connected

Tonight my kids got themselves scolded by their dad (it's usually me!) for singing a middle school teacher's ring tone at the dinner table for the second night in a row.

It took a few minutes for the implication of their knowledge to dawn on me. I asked, "Do your teachers have their phones on in class?" Apparently they do. Some of them ALWAYS have their phones on, while others seem to have it on only when there is some issue of concern going on in their private lives. The kids offered examples of teachers who answered their phones frequently, and even of a music teacher who would give #2 a piece to practice during her tutorial and then would make calls. This same teacher is reportedly often on the phone as students are filing in for music classes.

I must admit that this surprises me. Most of these offending teachers are my parents' age, so it's not as if they've never been without this modern convenience. It's not like they are fresh out of college telling parents, "The kids were all crazy so I was like, 'Um, should you be doing that?,' and they were like, 'Um, no."" **

I need to acknowledge my bias. Very few people have my cell number. My family, the school (for emergencies) and two good friends (also largely for emergencies since we watch eachother's kids). I've given it to teaching artists for use on Art Fridays at school. If I want to be sure a doctor can reach me, I use that number. I will hand it out to contractors doing work on my house. That's about it. And I rarely get calls. Good thing, really, because after a call I have "The Tikki Room" going through my head all day. Unless Larry calls me, then it's the theme song to "Get Smart."

But I digress. I don't think teachers should have phones on during classroom hours. Period. It's not professional. They have a job that is all about ongoing interpersonal communication. They have precious few hours to teach an increasingly ridiculously large amount of material. To set themselves up for more interruption than is bound to happen naturally in a classroom is just plain silly.

Maybe I'm just a fuddy duddy on this one. Maybe it won't be long before going to school will be nothing more than logging on to gotomymeeting.com: "Now class, are we all connected?"


**On an unrelated note, Larry and I heard this actual account given by our son's teacher during Back-to-School Night. She is great, and I adore her, as does my boy. She just makes me feel old when I hear things like that coming out of her mouth!

Birthday Season

It's Birthday Season at my house. I had enough forethought during my child-bearing years to have my kids in the consecutive months of October, November, December and January. It's especially convenient now that this is not only the Holiday Season for the Western World, but also Soccer Season for our family. (I LOVE soccer, it's my favorite thing. I'm sure glad I let all FOUR kids sign up this year--although 6 days a week is just NOT enough. I wish there were more days for MORE soccer!)

The first birthday of the season is a week from today, but her party will be this Friday. 12 girls at my house for a pizza and movie night. We're going to watch "Little Manhattan." (Great movie, I highly recommend it.) Best thing about it is that as I type my kitchen is being demolished! Tonight I'll have to paint behind where the new cabinets will go, once I get back up the hill from soccer, and Larry will need to do a little electrical work. The cabinets will be installed (with plywood counter-tops and a temporary sink) tomorrow and Wednesday, meaning I have Thursday to reload my cabinets. Thursday evening is a PTA meeting and Friday morning I have smARTS until noon.

So, I ask, When do I clean? The Birthday Girl's room is a disaster! (As are the others' for that matter.) Don't forget all of the soccer and a horseback riding lesson. Larry also invited the missionaries to dinner Tuesday--very nice. Plus I have acupuncture on Thursday morning, chiropractic that afternoon, and I am really hoping to get in a yoga class sometime since I missed last week.

Well, I actually have a small reprieve--I was telling all of this to the woman who cleans my bathrooms this morning, and she has a spot on Friday to come help me mop, dust, vacuum, etc. That, I think, will be my saving grace.

Remind me please, in my next life, to have my kids in the summer.

"I'm telling!"

We've just finished up our third week of school. It's been one of those periods where I'm busy and time is flying on the one hand, but on the other I've crammed so much into such a short time, that 3 weeks has felt like 2 months.

My baby boy started kindergarten. With another set of mixed emotions, I am now a free lady from 8:15 until 12:noon. Of course how do I spend most of that time? Either at the school or doing work for school. Two mornings this week I've devoted a couple of hours to cleaning the house, so that's good. (I like to clean with no one here, because then it actually stays clean--until someone else gets home!)

Back to my boy. Twice last week I picked him up from class in tears. "It wasn't a good day, Mom." The first day, I couldn't ever figure out the problem. The second day he told me. A little boy in his class who my heart is currently breaking for has a difficult time not trying to destroy or eat my son's lunch. That second day #4's teacher saw the tears and came to ask what was wrong. The discovery resulted in more trouble for this poor little boy and an admonition to #4 to "tell me if something like this happens again." The teacher reiterated to me that I should convince him to tell her if there is trouble with this kid.

When I was a girl, I never understood when to "tell" and when to not. Sometimes adults were surprised by silence and encouraged openness, and others a kid could get in as much trouble for tattling as for doing the bad thing. There was always an explanation that if it wasn't your business, if you weren't directly involved, keep out. But then sometimes, adults didn't even want to hear if one sibling had hurt another. And others, you could get in trouble for knowing a bad thing a classmate did without informing a teacher. It really seemed to depend on the mood of the grown-up you decided to tell or to not tell.

Of course, now that I am an adult myself . . . I'm still as confused as when I was a kid. My own patience for tattling indeed depends on my mood, and the recent frequency of such behavior, sometimes the severity of the actions being told about, and sometimes even on which kid is telling and which kid is misbehaving. So how do you set a standard for when to tell and when not? When I explain it to my kids, and I usually drift off into thought, trying to make it clear to myself what my expectations are. It's so subjective that I can't make my own rule.

So for now #4 has permission to tattle on his classmate and used that permission today after his banana got smushed in half. #4 was praised for doing the right thing--telling teacher so that she could take care of it. I think I agree with that in this situation. But I can't help but wonder whether we're training my boy to stick up for himself or to be Johnny Stool-Pigeon. Maybe at 5 it doesn't matter. Maybe I have a few more years as a parent to figure it out. Maybe #4 wll grow up and explain it to me. If he does, I'll be sure to tell.

Cabinephobia

Growing up I was never afraid of cabinetry. I could get any item out from behind any door in the kitchen of our apartment. I have to say I rarely got things out of the cabinets at my dad's N. Silver Lane house. Looking back, those might have scared me. Even in college, I lived in a dorm (no kitchen) and then another apartment. Nothing scary about that. In fact, I don't believe it even crossed my mind that cabinets could be scary until I got married.

We found a cute little place to live in Provo. A free standing unit behind the larger house which had been turned into two units, making us apt "C." We called it The Cottage. It was white, a little dirty, with a purple door under a green heavy-duty plastic awning. There was a living room, with a fireplace hidden behind the huge heater unit, a bedroom and bathroom, an eat-in kitchen and a little laundry room. New teal-green carpet which I wasn't even big on in the early 90's, and cute balloon shades on the windows. All for $400 a month. It was a good deal.

We all know there is a difference between walking through a place and living in it. It didn't take too long for Larry and I to realize we'd moved into a place not originally meant for human habitation. Because of this, our home was also home to many insects and critters who belonged out doors. Practically every time I went to take a shower, there was a huge black spider in the tub. Both Larry and I are afraid of spiders. That was not good planning on our part, but who thinks to ask, "Of which creatures are you too petrified to even kill?" Not us, anyway.

Well, the kitchen was pretty good sized, and had a door to the outside which would have dumped you about 3 yards tops from where you exited the living room. So we put some storage shelves up in front of it to help house all of our newly received appliances. The cabinets right next to that shelf had grass growing up in it. Yes, grass. It was rather sickly looking from lack of light, but it was pretty tall. More than once I pulled a pot out only to find a spider or beetle in the bottom, sending me into a virtual heart attack. So I quickly came to fear getting anything out of those cabinets. It was that way the entire 8 months we lived there.

Next we moved into a nice apartment complex, second floor. Nothing abnormal. But after a year and a half there, we moved to an old duplex, which gained us a garage and a fenced private back yard. Unfortunately that back yard contained an old big grapefruit tree which, while very useful for grapefruit, seemed to house a colony of cockroaches. This tree was feet away from--you guessed it--my kitchen wall lined with CABINETS!!! Talk about gross. We used roach baits, and they worked quite well, but it meant that every morning I'd come out to a kitchen floor and maybe a drawer or two scattered with dead roaches. Better than live ones to be sure, but still yucky.

It's no kind of life, living in fear of your own cabinetry. Never putting items very far back in. Never being able to truly wipe them all the way down. Hardly being able to look inside for a missing pot. It's like you are an intruder in your own home.

Most thankfully, come September I will have lived 9 years without fear of my cabinets. I've had nice, newer kitchens, fully separated from nature by appropriate amounts of insulation and drywall. I can dig around them to my heart's content without a close encounter of the insect or arachnid kind. I am in control of my kitchen.

Well, except for the ants. . .

Forgotten Treasure

Have you ever taken a winter coat out of the closet for the first time in a season, only to find money in the pocket? I once found a twenty left from the previous spring. It's so exciting. Like free money. Or lip gloss. Which I have also found more than once in jacket pockets after months of searching in vain for that great new color whose name I can't remember.

Well, I had a variation on this experiential theme happen this month. We had come home from vacation.

(Moms everywhere don't even need an illustration here of what my life was like. For non-moms: it's laundry and unpacking times six and finding homes for newly purchased knick-knacks. It's getting everyones toothbrushes and shoes to their respective rooms. It's returning phone calls and making postponed appointments. It's trying to get back into some sort of groove, which, we moms know, requires almost another vacation period. But we don't get that second vacation and so uptight, type-A moms like me just stress out.)

Home from vacation about a day and a half, and I was unloading the dishwasher. I saw them. They were tucked in the bowl of my food scale. I had already shut the cabinet door before they registered in my brain.

M&Ms!!

A little over half of a pound bag. Purchased during my stressful vacation preparation period. I couldn't believe that I hadn't finished off the bag before we left. Or that since I hadn't, I hadn't remembered them. I keep track of my chocolate. But there they were. To be honest, I didn't take too long analyzing my forgotten treasure. I just enjoyed the loot.

Ahoy thar!

It's not every day a girl gets swept off her feet by a pirate.

We're back from holiday up in the Pacific Northwest. While on the Oregon Coast, we visited an aquarium. We saw all of the normal great stuff--jelly fish, sharks, crab, tide-pool critters, sea otters, and some fish, too. On the way out, Larry stopped with #4 at the gift shop to purchase a book about sharks.

We girls were standing outside the shop when a band of pirates came marching up the sidewalk. They looked fantastic, and I grinned a wide grin, knowing that #4 was going to have a hey day with this. It must have been that silly Cheshire smile that caught the attention of the "captain," who commented on my sea-faring shirt. When I realized they were going to be staying in the quad area, I ran in the shop to get my boy.

I returned to find the girls bestowed with pirate gold and the troupe entertaining the crowd with pirate ditties. #4 was duly impressed, and I shot some photos of the captain for his scrapbook. The singing finished, kids began asking important questions such as "Do you kill people?" The captain spied me a second time and asked me to join him in the center of the quad. He had #3 take my bags and handed my camera to #1, who snapped pics at an impressive rate.

He introduced himself as Captain ? (drat my poor name recall!) from Scotland and asked my name. "Mina," he replied, "sounds like minnow to me." (Not the first time this rhyme has been noticed, which fact may give you some insight into the name of my blog.) He asked if I'd ever been on a ship: yes. Cruise?: yes. Know the difference between starboard and port?: Well, it's left and right, but I can never recall which is which. So he gave me a great little way to remember that port is left. Then he asked, "Port or starboard?" And although I generally love random questions like that, this one make me nervous. But I firmly answered "Starboard."

"Starboard it is then," and he picked me up over his right shoulder like a sack of flour and spun me around several times before putting me back on my feet. I am embarrassed to say that I at first screamed like a little girl. I am also sorry to say that Larry missed the whole thing, as did my sister-in-law, who'd been video recording most of our adventures that day. But the kids saw it and got a big kick out of seeing mom twirled about by the captain of a pirate ship.

Larry asked if I'd pointed out the jewels on my left hand to him. There was no need really.

He'd have had only to worry had it been Johnny Depp in that costume!