It's what's for dinner ...

Okay. So some things just should not irritate me. But they do.

#1 has a habit of asking what's for dinner. This isn't necessarily the problem. It's when she asks, it's how often, and occasionally it's about the annoying Phineas and Ferb accent she uses. Sometimes I've been gone all day, I'm tired, and the second I walk through the door I hear, "What's for dinner?" Sometimes I've answered this question of hers several times and yet again I get asked, "What's for dinner?" Sometimes I can see that she's looking AT THE MENU posted on the fridge in our pantry as she's asking, "What's for dinner."

And it makes me want to scream.

#1 is not a creature of habit, per se ... she's a creature of expectations. She simply wants to know what is going to be happening in her life on any given day or in any given week. It's how she processes the world around her. The problem isn't really that she wants to know what dinner is, the problem is entirely my response. I really do want to have patience with her.

Yesterday, while shopping for a family "jobs" board, I was inspired with a solution to this problem of mine. I found a little red magnet board, the perfect size for hanging an index card with dinner printed on it. I came home, hung it, made a cute magnet, and posted our dinner for the night. #1 came home, and I showed her, and told her how she can always look on this board for the correct menu item. (I will occasionally switch around my weekly menu, so it's not always accurate.) #1 seemed very excited about this.

I congratulated myself.

Today #1 came home, went straight to the menu board, and asked, "What's for dinner tomorrow?"

Good Taste

It was one of the most beautiful things I had seen. It certainly was the most lovely of our Christmas tree ornaments. My mother’s visiting teacher had given her a handcrafted cardinal whose intricate detail shimmered in the light.

Mom and I established a new tradition as we argued over the placement of this gorgeous bird. I wanted to hang it front and center on the tree, at my eye level, for everyone to see and admire. Mom was generally very flexible in the tree-trimming ritual, letting us help with very little censure. But with the cardinal, she was insistent. It was a gift to HER, not me, and she would hang it where she wanted. She explained that the perfect location for her decoration was nearer the top of the tree and toward the rear, so that passers-by could see its beauty from the front window. I had to admit that this made sense. Sharing this ornament with as many people as possible was indeed charitable. Yet I was left discouraged with the lessened opportunity for my own enjoyment.

This continued for years. I was in high school still trying to convince my mother to hang the cardinal on the front of the tree. I came to understand at that time, however, that mothers are entitled to possessions as well as children, and that mine loved her cardinal as much as I did. It was therefore only fair to let her hang her treasure where she pleased, no matter how silly a place it seemed.

Christmas break, home from college my freshman year, was a turning point. The tree was decorated upon my arrival, but I helped take it down, as was the custom at our house, on New Year’s Day. Perhaps it was because I had been away from home, or maybe it was one of the first times that I had actually handled the bird, but as I put it away, I looked at this thing with fresh eyes. In truth, it must have been the first time I had done so since about age 9 or 10. It was with a great deal of shock and some disappointment, not only in the ornament, but also in myself, that I saw that cardinal for what it was.

It was one of the ugliest things I’d seen. It was a bright red piece of felt, edges pinked, trimmed with metallic cording, perched on a green pipe-cleaner, and covered with a gaudy pattern of glued-on sequins--blues and golds and greens and more reds, creating the bird’s features. “Mom,” I exclaimed, “this thing is hideous.”

“I know, Merinda, why do you think I always hung it on the back of the tree?”

Wow. She'd known. All that time. She didn’t hang it in back to be generous to our neighbors. She did it to hide it.

It was time for some serious self-evaluation. Was I that lacking in taste? My whole life I had believed I had great taste. Yes, it had certainly evolved, matured. But for some reason that I still can’t place, the cardinal had escaped the notice of the greater refinement of my eye. It was as if my 6-year-old self had dressed my 19-year-old self for a party and I hadn’t discovered that fact until half way through the evening. I felt exposed. I had loved and adored this horrendous, cheap, ugly bird. The previous year.

A few years back, my mother gave me the cardinal. It spends all year with my other tree ornaments in storage, but spends Christmas alone, still in the bottom of the box.

People with no relation to myself now frequently compliment me on my good taste and talent in decorating. Last summer my design for a decorative flag for the city was selected. A friend recently enlisted my help in choosing the color scheme for his new restaurant. My shameful past is safely concealed in a red and green Rubbermaid tub.

Pencil it in

I keep myself organized with a wall calendar.  I like that everything is posted there for the entire family to see.  Of course, the youngest two kids haven't caught the vision of checking the calendar yet.  I'm also pretty sure that Larry never looks at it.  If he did, he'd not be so frequently surprised about our plans.  But #s 1 and 2 always have a pretty good handle on the schedule.

This method also has its limitations.  The biggest one is pretty obvious.  The calendar is on my wall.  At home.  It doesn't come with me to the doctor or the dentist or the hairdresser.  So as I'm setting appointments, I'm always hoping that nothing conflicts.  I'm also banking on the fact that I will remember by the time I arrive home to write the appointment on the calendar.  If I have errands to run first, I may be in trouble.

Years ago I bought myself a planner.  I really wanted it to work out.  I used it very sporadically with limited success.  For several years at least its only function has been that of address book.  Secondary address book.  I have a primary one, which I received as a graduation gift from my young women presidency, that contains most of my addresses.  There are only a few entries that are current only in the planner.  Fifteen minutes of transcribing would eliminate the need for it entirely.

Here are my hang-ups with my planner:

1)  I'm not bad at writing things down in it.  I am bad at remembering to always have it with me.  I am also bad at checking it to see what I have going on that day as it simply becomes part of the clutter on my desk.  Or on the counter.  Or on my nightstand.  Like everything else.  

2)  I don't like seeing only one week at a time, I prefer putting my schedule in a larger context.   Perhaps I should have listed this first.  It's a big problem for me.  And yes, I know planners come with monthly inserts.  But then the little squares are too small to write more than one item in.  I often have four or more.

3)   When I use my planner, it becomes the place to jot down my  to do list.  This makes for a very filled up, hard-to-read, easy-to-miss-events calendar--even with the larger weekly sized squares.

4)  I can never get over the feeling that I need that wall calendar, so I end up recording information in duplicate.  That gets old pretty darn quickly.   And if I'm not perfect about writing appointments in both places ... well, I'm sure you can imagine the potential problems.  I think that if ever I want to make the transition once and for all I will need to give up the wall calendar.

For the gluttons for punishment still reading at this point, I will now share the story that necessitated this dry, wordy build-up.  It may not, in truth, be funny enough to have warranted this post.  What can I say?  The muse is still on holiday, I am assuming somewhere warm where she is sipping fruity beverages and getting a very nice tan.

Last summer I was given a small, paperback 2009 planner.  I thought, okay, not as bulky, cute--maybe this will work.  So far this year there are only three weeks that I've written in.  The first week of January, the second week of February, and the week before Easter.  I found the planner today, under a pile of papers on my desk, opened to that pre-Easter entry.  I chuckled to myself as I remembered filling in everything that had to be done that busy week and never looking at it again after that.  I checked out the page more closely.  The events happened three weeks ago.  But the dates read May 3rd through May 9th.  I hadn't noticed.  

The really funny part is that when I saw what I'd done, I was annoyed because I now cannot use the planner next week.  I'd written in pen.

Boys and Girls

Mina had finished cleaning the kitchen, dusting, and vacuuming with about 10 minutes to spare.  She headed upstairs to put on a bra and deodorant and brush her teeth.  Larry was in the shower.

"Hey, come on in, the water's fine," he tempted.

"Sorry.  My visiting teachers will be here at 10," was the matter-of-fact reply.

"And we'll never know if we're in the shower."

Owa Tagoo Siam

Have you ever done this singing exercise?  It's really a joke, demonstrating proper diction.  Sing it long and stretched out, all on the same note, connecting the syllables.  That will give you the punch-line.  And the proper title of this post.

#1 is preparing for high school next year.  This is not necessarily the straight-forward process that it is for most kids.  (Read why here.)  So we got an email last week stating that the transition meeting would be held at the high school on the 16th and 17th from 8am to 3pm.  The two-day time frame of the meeting led me to believe that this was open-registration style.  Which made some sense, because that's pretty much what we're doing.

So first thing this morning, with a sick #2 at home with dad, who was now also responsible for making sure the little kids exited the house in time for their bus, #1 and I headed over to the middle school to check out and then to the high school.

Reaching the HS office, the secretary greeted us in a slightly confused fashion.  She's usually notified about the transition appointments.  Uh-oh.  Appointments.  I didn't actually have an appointment--just this meeting time.  But I was positive it was today--the 16th and 17th.  I was trying to imagine what dates I could have confused them with, but we are on spring break the 26th and 27th and I only received the notification on the 10th.  She called the HS resource person.  No answer.  The vice-principal answered, but had no good information.  She tried to call the middle school resource person.  No answer.  So she very kindly said, "Wait here.  I'm going on a walk."  

I decided to call Larry to have him check my email.  Machine.  But he called me back quickly at which point I was glared at, likely because of the sign on the office door that reads: No Cell Phones.  I answered anyway, and Larry began to read over the email, "blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, April 16th and 17th."  What?  April?  Really?  Oh my goodness.  I am SUCH a dork.

So now, I had to explain to the student office assistant the situation, sending my apologies to the secretary through her.  I had to take #1 back to the middle school to check her in and explain there how I got the wrong month.  Talk about embarrassing.  It was in fact, a runner-up for a most embarrassing moment, except that everyone involved was so darned nice about it.  I'd made a comment to #1 in the car about what an idiot I am, and she even replied, "Mom, you're not an idiot!"  I appreciated the vote of confidence, but I must admit that in my head I vehemently disagreed.

At least I mistook the month for one earlier, rather than one later.  I'd rather look like an air-head than an uninvolved, unconcerned parent.

Spiritual Thoughts, Temporal Behavior

For those of you unfamiliar with my family or my religion, I will start with two author's notes.

1.  I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, better known as LDS or Mormons.  We send out young men and women for 18 months to two years to proselytize, preach the gospel, and baptize.  They put aside their regular lives for these missions and far from being compsensated for their efforts, they rather pay for the privilege to serve.  To help them out financially (and also to get to know them) church members are encouraged to feed the missionaries meals at least once daily.  That meal is generally dinner.

2.  I have four children, three girls and a boy, whom I refer to on this blog in birth order as #s 1-4.  They are aged 14, 12, 9, and 7.  Numbers 3 and 4 are just under 23 months apart.  They have a love-hate relationship.  If we're keeping score, hate is usually ahead.

Now to my story.  A few months back, a new elder (missionary) was transferred into our ward and announced to the congregation.  His last name grabbed my attention, being my uncommon maiden name.  I leaned over to my husband and whispered, "If he's from San Diego, we're cousins of some sort."  He was indeed from San Diego, and we are second cousins--our grandfathers being brothers.  I introduced myself to him after sacrament meeting and suggested we'd have to have him to dinner.

The dinner calendar in our ward is in high demand.  In Western Mass, where I grew up, we had two sets of missionaries assigned full time to our ward  because of the geographical size.  In Southern California we usually had one.  Here in the Boise area we have 5 wards sharing a set.  The end of each month a calendar with 8 available dates is passed around Relief Society, and it's often filled after it has passed through 8 pairs of hands.  So I approached the woman who manages the calendar directly and asked to be put on for February.  Last night they came.

It was great to get to know Elder K. a little.  There wasn't much to catch up on.  The only person he had contact with in my family line was my grandfather.  And I did not grow up in San Diego anyway, and really had very little interaction with my own first cousins.  He was surprised my granddad wasn't a baseball fanatic like his.  I can't picture mine with sports equipment.  My uncles liked basketball.  And out-jumping each other.  Out-anythinging each other.  We did find that harassment is apparently a family trait that crosses over through all of us.  

At the end of the meal, Elder K. asked us if they could leave us with a short message.  This is standard.  And truly, I enjoy the spirit that the missionaries bring with them into our home, and usually this is part of that.  Usually.

We adjourned to the family room where Elder K. asked if we had something to blindfold one of the kids with.  A bandana was produced and tied around #3s eyes.  He had her feel our family Book of Mormon and #4 set it somewhere out of the way.  He spun #3 around several times and then instructed everyone to make tons of noise, except me.  I was to be quietly giving #3 directions to find the book.  I'm sure we all see where he was going with this.  It was a good object lesson.  Or it was until #4 ran and slammed into his blindfolded sister, tackling her to the floor.  He thought that would be a more effective distraction than the yelling in her face that he was previously engaged in.  He was right.  But no one was hurt, no one even cried, and once we continued with the search, Elder S., who we'd learned earlier was #8 of 11 kids in his family, had a difficult time keeping a laugh suppressed.

Scriptures located, object lesson completed, Elder K. tried to make the message concrete by talking to the kids about listening to the Spirit and the Prophet and their parents rather than the negative influences of the world.  This is the point at which #4, who had been laying exhaustedly on the floor, rolled to the side and let one rip.  "Are you kidding me?," I quietly yelled.  (You know that quiet mom yell.  If you're a mom, you've done it.)  Elder S. lost it this time, the suppressed laugh, that is.  It was so embarrassing.  Luckily the missionaries were in a hurry to get on to their next appointment before my son could act even more the part of the natural man, or I guess the natural boy.

It was so bad that when they left it was Larry who started the lecture about behaving with company in the house.  Although, he added the caveat that it would be okay to pass gas if the visitor was Dustin (an employee and friend of Larry's) or Uncle Eric.  Nice.  I guess they never truly out-grow this, do they?  

Brooke, Kim--be warned.  #4 has permission from his father to act like a slob in your presence. 

I would really like to have my cousin to dinner again before he's transferred.  I assume he'll be happy to come.  But I won't be surprised if he has his companion give the spiritual thought.

Col. Mustard, in the Library, with the Candlestick

Ok, well, not exactly.  But we did solve the mystery of Stinky Pete.  I originally posted about this almost an entire month ago, and the, er, trouble had been going on for a little under two weeks at that point.  It's been a while, and I'm so relieved, if not a little grossed out, to have figured it out.

The solution reads like this:  "The previous renters' cats, down the heating duct, with the urine."

It now makes sense that we didn't smell it until we started running the heater, heating "things" up.  We contacted our landlord who reacted in a surprisingly unsurprised manner, and then called the heating and cooling guy who is coming Monday morning to replace that section of ducting.  Until then, we have closed #4's vent, and covered it with a huge, folded towel.  Larry bought a small space heater so #4 doesn't freeze.  

Eew.

Express Yourself

In an effort to maintain a fair and balanced blog, I am following my modesty post with a post about the boobie shirt.

Last week Larry and I were eating lunch at Taco Bell.  (Now before you all accuse me of having poor taste in Mexican food, I need to inform you that I in fact have excellent taste in Mexican food.  I also like Taco Bell.  I just don't categorize Taco Bell as Mexican food.)  We were sitting in a booth by the soda fountain, as this was the table with the most sun, and I was cold.  This was also a desirable location for engaging in one of my favorite pastimes, people watching.  I watched as folks waited for their orders, emptied their trays, and filled and refilled their drinks.

One guy passed back and forth several times.  He did not particularly catch my attention other than to note that he was not very attractive, and by that I mean that he was quite unattractive.  It wasn't until his last refill before leaving the restaurant that I happened to read his T-shirt.  "Boobies Make Me Smile."  Something about a thirty-something ugly guy wearing an article of clothing with the word "boobies" screen printed on it made me burst into hysterical laughter.  It was absurd.  They seemed words more fitting for a shirt on a lewd teen-aged boy or a tongue-in-cheek onsie for a breast-fed baby.

I began to imagine circumstances he'd find himself in during a day, and wondered how his, er, statement would be received.  I thought of him making a deposit at the bank, likely because Larry and I went to Taco Bell after making a deposit.  What if he was helped by a well endowed teller?  What if he smiled at her as he said hello?  Could she help but wonder if he was only smiling at her boobies?  

What if he encountered a large chested pharmacist?  A grocery checker wearing a 38DD?  A buxom state trouper with the power to ticket him for smiling at her boobies while going 50 in a 35?  That facial expression on him was now entirely tainted by his wardrobe choice.

The  social scientist in me wished I had seen the shirt in enough time to take off my pea coat to see if he'd smile at my boobies.  Expressing this regret to Larry, he kindly offered smile at them for me himself instead.  

Maybe I have it backwards.  Maybe instead of inappropriate and offensive, this is a shirt that should be standard issue for the XY chromosome set.

Modesty is the Best Policy

I've been brainwashing my kids to be modest since they were walking and talking.  I mean, I don't mind sun dresses on babies, but once you're in kindergarten, you need sleeves, little sister.  Yes, I'm one of those moms.

Why?  Because I was allowed to dress less modestly than I am comfortable with, looking back.  I am embarrassed by photographs of myself with my returned-missionary, one-day-to-be-husband boyfriend, wearing tank tops and shorts with hems closer to my crotch than my knee.  I will grant that tank tops were not what they are now.  They used to have 2 to 3" wide straps.  Now, they look like lingerie.  And we girls were careful not to let our bra-straps show.  'Cause that's skanky.  Or it was.  Now it's "part of the outfit."  Ugh.

But back to my kids.

This brainwashing has produced some funny moments, as well as modest kids.  There was the day when #3 at age 3 shouted, "She's not being modest!" as we passed by a hussy mom dressed in hot pants, a push-up bra, and see-through camisole, picking up the kids from school.  Maybe she wasn't a hussy.  Maybe she was sweet and God-fearing and nice as could be.  But that's not the look she was going for.

Then there were the months when #4 (my only son) was about 4 and thought that "modest" translated into "wear a shirt."  I'm assuming this misconception came from the fact that in hearing my tutorials on modest dress he heard the common theme of covered shoulders and midriffs.  However it came about, no one was allowed to see him without a shirt.  He'd run from the bath to his room, wrapped in his towel to get that shirt on before his sisters saw him.  Underwear and pants, on the other hand, were optional.

Then this past Saturday I had a great conversation with #3.  Picking her up from her friend's birthday party, she was giving me the report.  She definitely loved the eating doughnuts off of a string, but being a fruitaphobe, she wouldn't even try to bob for apples.  I was gratified that she also found the bobbing for apples thing to be a little too "germy."  

According to #3, some of the boys who were bobbing for apples got their shirts wet, and removed them.  Apparently, they went shirtless for the rest of the party.  Number 3 was appalled by this.  She proceeded to get up on a little modesty police soap box (not at the party, although that would have been priceless--just for her mother) about how nasty it was to have shirtless boys at the party.  

"One of them, you could even see their underwear," she ranted.  "It was gross.  Plus, I mean, when they get big, with big, hairy chests, and they take off their shirts, it's like, no one wants to see THAT.  So get used to a shirt now."

You go, girl.  I have no use for big, hairy chests, myself.  I wanted to applaud and crack up all at the same time.  I did neither.  I chuckled, grabbed a pen and scribbled her words on the back of the party invitation, not at all distracted from my driving, and putting neither my daughter and I nor anyone else who may have been driving that country road in danger.  What can I say?  It was just too good to lose.  

Modestly lessons, check.  Driver safety lessons, ...  Aren't driving lessons the dad's job?

Stinky Pete

WARNING:  THE FOLLOWING POST IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF NOSE.

That may be a slight overstatement, but this is still a little gross.  About two weeks ago, maybe less, I went into my son's room to wake him up and found him curled up in a ball under his covers at the foot of his bed, his bared back revealing the fact that he was naked.  He's only 6, so though certainly curious, this wasn't the gross part, like it may be a decade from now.

As I roused him from slumber, I asked him why he was sleeping at the foot of his bed and where his jammies were.  He didn't seem to know.  The confused look on his face was a combination of residual sleep, a belief that this was entirely normal behavior, and maybe embarrassment.  I asked him if he'd peed in the night.  He answered no.  I only believed him because his bed linens were dry to the touch and odorless to the closely pressed nose.  I figured this was just a weird night, and hoped it was not the beginning of a phase.  The entire episode was quickly forgotten.

Early last week I entered my son's room to wake him in the morning.  He sleeps with his door shut to prevent Lucy from entering at night and absconding with something precious just to turn it into a chew toy.  I opened his door and was overwhelmed with the odor of stale urine.  I went over to my boy and checked him for wetness (this may look like a simple crotch grab to many, but the expert mom will always recognize the scientific information gathering move for what it is).  I felt his sheets, blankets, comforter, pillows, and they all felt dry.  I started sniffing them and none contained the stench that wafted through the room.  I then began to wonder if I'd really smelled what I thought I had.  The scent seemed to have dissipated, and I couldn't tell what I was smelling.  What it just a bad case of morning breath permeating the room?  Well, our mornings are busy, and I couldn't find a source, so I moved on.

Every morning this continued.  Bad smell, origin unclear, move on.  Once Larry got back from California, I had him sniff the boy's room early morning to see if it was just me.  He smelled it too.  I finally washed all bedding.  I figured this must be the problem, even though they really did not smell to me.  I figured he had indeed peed that night a week or so ago, and just did it early enough in the night that all was dry by morning.  But there was no blast of odor as the hot water in the washer hit the sheets, presumably drawing any dried up scents out of them.  And the laundry room didn't smell as the second load waited for the first.

The first morning with the clean bedding, I entered the room to the scent of dryer sheets.  Ah.  Good.  Guess that was it after all, I figured.  Number 4 confessed that he had peed in bed the day I found him disrobed.  He had been scared to tell me the truth.  That must be because I routinely lock up and torture bed wetters in this family.  Anyway, problem solved.

The second morning with the clean bedding, the stale urine was back.  I began to be very frustrated.  I began to get short with my son, questioning him about the source of this odor, and what pee pee garments he may have hidden where.  My husband implicated Lucy, and even though she hasn't peed in the house in well over a year and a half, I sniffed out the carpet.  Nothing.  This is an elusive smell.  The more you look for it, the less you can smell it.  And you can't really smell it much during the day, even though #4 keeps his door shut then, too.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was preparing my home for the arrival of 8 & 9 year old girls from church for a service activity, I offered five dollars and one cent to the child who could produce the source of the odor.  After a few minutes, I restlessly joined them, sniffing out individual toys.  Two stuffed animals were found to be harboring some urine smells.  They were removed to the laundry room.  I found the toys.  But I didn't get paid.

I need to go in this morning to wake up that little man.  I've already sniffed his room and the laundry room.  Laundry room, clean.  #4's room, stinky.  My sniffer is sniffed out.  My dog is no reliable bloodhound, because I've thought of bringing her in there to see where she'll gravitate.  I think I have no choice but to burn the contents of the room and start over.

Post Script:  A few years back Larry and I went to Seattle for a breathing technique tutorial for Larry's asthma.  We brought back a T-shirt with a little boy pirate named Stinky Pete for #4.  Stinky Pete's speech bubble read, "We don't take no stinkin' baths!"  #4 loved this shirt, and quoted it frequently, except that he pronounced it "stinksin'."  Very adorable.  

When hell, er, Boise, freezes over

The time is 6:53 am.  It is still dark.  The temperature outside is about 27 degrees Fahrenheit, which is exactly what it was at 6:10 when I first checked it.  A cold front is coming in, and we may even get snow flurries on Saturday.  

I've been asking my kids to dress warmer for a week or two, to which I've received replies of, "We're fine, Mom."  They probably were.  I am a cold person.  Even in the summer I get cold after I've eaten, or in an air conditioned store.  Or looking at a picture of frolicking penguins. 

Yesterday afternoon, #3 actually asked me to make her wear a coat in the morning, because they got cold walking to school.  Imagine.  Exercising AND cold.  Welcome to my life.  Anyhoo, I felt like the Negligent Mom of the Year because I had indeed quit pestering them about the jackets.  After checking out the front window for CPS, which I was sure her teacher had tipped-off, I dug out our outdoor thermometer from the boxes in the garage, and hung it on the back porch.  A mom armed with information is ... well, still going to face a fight from some.

So this morning, I gleaned my precious information, aroused the middle school set, and went about the task of digging those winter coats out of the boxes in my closet.  Each child's coat was updated with our current phone number and hung on the back of her, or his, dining chair.  

Number 2 was the first to see hers.  Amazingly, her coat had morphed into the spawn of Satan as it hung on her chair.  More amazingly, she was the only one who could detect this transformation.  Doing what any red-blooded American would upon seeing the spawn of Satan right there in her dining-room, she instantly tried to kill it with her laser-vision-evil-eye-glare.

My unfeeling response?  "You ARE wearing that to school today."  

"Wha-at?"  (as in, geesh, mom, what is your problem?)

"You are glaring at your coat like it's evil.  It's not even 30 degrees out there."  (See how helpful it is to have information?)

"I'm wearing a sweatshirt."

"And you have to stand at that bus stop for almost 10 minutes.  Do you not understand how cold it is?  30 degrees, as in, it would snow if it was raining.  Snow!  You are wearing that coat."

"oKAY." (as in, geesh, mom, what is your problem?)

Luckily #1 came down not to the spawn of Satan, only to a coat she did not want to wear to school.  And doing what any red-blooded teen-aged girl would do, she started complaining.  I'll spare you that conversation, which went remarkably like the conversation with #2, only at a higher decibel.

Mom did win this round, if you call producing two long, pouty faces winning.  As they were walking down the drive-way, #1 sulkily remarked to #2 that it was warmer today than yesterday.  "That's 'cause you're wearing your coats!," I yelled after them.  If they heard me, they didn't acknowledge the fact.  Of course, if they didn't hear me, I should get their hearing checked.  This afternoon.

Well, the sun is coming up, the temperature has dropped a few degrees, and I've just woken up the elementary school set.  I anticipate a better response.  Being warm is still cool in 1st and 3rd grade.

Back to School Night

Parents will be familiar with the concept of "Back to School Night" where moms and dads go to meet their children's teachers.  At elementary schools this is often accomplished in an open house or multi-session format to accommodate parents with more than one kidlet attending.  In middle school, however, parents spend a couple of hours following the schedule of their child on an abbreviated clock, thereby hearing from each teacher.  Fortunately, although we have two kids at the school, we also have two involved parents.  Unfortunately, one of those parents is in California on business.

My #1 is mentally disabled, therefore I feel the need to be extra visibly concerned and involved in her schooling.  But #2 is a self-motivated learner, and if I don't make the effort to become informed, I get left out of the loop.  Being the fretter that I am, I spent several hours pouring over the two schedules in front of me, trying to meld them into one super-schedule which would give me optimal accounts of each girl's educational experience for the year.  I even emailed my oldest daughter's resource teacher for her advice on the matter.  The end result was a balanced product of four core classes of each daughter.  Not ideal, but under the circumstances, not half bad.

Unfortunately, it was a busy day.  Errands and an appointment in the morning, and a church activity, which I jointly lead, for the 8 & 9 year-old girls in the afternoon, finishing at 5:30.  Fortunately, I was prepared.  House was picked up, dinner was in the crock-pot.  Instructions for the evening were given to the older kids.  I arrived at the middle school at ten to seven.  

Unfortunately, nearly EVERY parking space was already taken.  Fortunately, after driving around the bus route to the rear of the school I found ONE spot on the curved driveway.  Unfortunately, I would have to parallel park, which I stink at.  Also unfortunately, this was one of several spots that a revolving sprinkler was hitting at regular intervals.

I pulled in.  I backed up to try to maneuver myself closer to the curb.  No change.  I am sure all of you good parkers are at this moment knowing exactly how I should have steered to get in closer.  Myself, after three backups and pull forwards, I decided to check the curb to see if I was close enough to call it a night.  Put it in park.  Opened the door.  Okay, not bad.  Grabbed my purse and class schedules.  Checked the sprinkler.  Enough time to run.  Locked the door.  Shut the door and ran for it. 

Unfortunately, over the noise of the sprinkler and the music playing (don't YOU function to constant background music in YOUR life?) I couldn't hear the engine running until I was to the back of the Suburban.  Engine running?  Seriously?  Unfortunately, yes.  Unfortunately, no AAA or "OnStar."  And there is no "fortunately" coming.  

Trying to fight off the panic that set in, I called Larry, who as you will recall is in California, to think for me.  I've never locked my keys in the car, let alone with it running.  He suggested I call his brother to look up the number of a towing service to come let me in.  My sister-in-law answered and kindly gave me several numbers to try.  Unfortunately, I had no pen in my purse, which I had noticed earlier in the week and had never remedied.  Fortunately, I had lipstick.  Try, however, writing legibly in lipstick.  Not as easy on a half sheet of paper as it is looks on a huge high school bathroom mirror.  Unfortunately, the first guy was an hour away.  Fortunately, the next guy was a little closer.  

So I waited.  I called my sister back to let her know I was okay.  I tried to call my husband back to let him know I was okay, but I got his voicemail.  I called my kids to check on them, because I felt like a dork just standing there.  All of that time and thought and energy and worry over which silly classes to attend.  All of that, just to stand there, missing them all, and wait.  Larry finally returned my call, and I cried.  I'd been holding it back, but when I heard his voice, that was it.  And the last thing I had wanted to do was cry.  

Fortunately, the guy had hurried as best he could and got there sooner than I'd feared.  He got me into my car quickly, wrote up a bill quite slowly, I paid and thanked him, and was off.  Unfortunately, I'd missed a full half of the night.  Fortunately, I was able to spend some one on one time talking about #1 with her resource teacher, with whom I was actually quite impressed.  In the end all was not wasted.  Fortunately, I feel pretty good about being back to school.

The Birds and the Bees

Yesterday on the way home from school #4 was complaining that he didn't like being the youngest kid and the only boy in our family.  The obvious solution was for us to have another brother.  I tried to let him down easy.  We aren't having more kids.  That bridge is burned, if you will.

A few minutes later he asked me, "Mom, how do you do flex?"

How do you do flex?  I had now idea what flex was.  Let alone how it's done.  So I repeated his question to him, clarifying that I had heard correctly.  "Yeah, flex.  How do you do flex.  You know, how we get babies."  Oh, THAT flex.

"Do you mean sex, son? How do you have sex?"  "Yeah, sex."  It would seem he thought the problem with getting that little brother may find it's solution in this answer.

"Well, ..."  I then tried to give my best calm, truthful, but simple and 6-year-old-appropriate answer to this.  I ended by saying that it was a private thing between a mom and dad.  His response was not what I was expecting.

"So if you do it in the bathroom, I guess you better lock the door."

Tipping

On Friday, #4 and I ate lunch at a local café. We sat at the counter, which gave us a unique view of half of the restaurant as well as of the servers as they worked. They were in the middle of a large rush, and it looked as though they were at least one waitress short-handed. The two that were there hardly had time to check customers out, let alone bus the emptying tables. It was easy to sense their stress amid the busyness. A family with two boys was done with their lunch and ordered some pie and a chocolate shake for dessert. I felt for the waitress who now had to make that hand scooped shake, though she did it with a smile. Then before it was even set down on the table, the mother sheepishly made a request. I couldn't hear it, but the waitress smiled, turned abruptly around and threw the shake, whipped topping and all, back into the blender to add malt powder. I hope they gave her a big tip. I know I did, and our order was straightforward.

It was as I was preparing to go off to college that my dad started giving me tipping lessons. I don't recall that any were restaurant-oriented. I guess he figured I knew about that. He started pointing out to me service people who should be tipped, and about how much I should tip them. This mostly concerned tipping skycap workers at the airport.

I was instructed on the proper amount of tip per piece of luggage, but more importantly, I was shown how to tip discreetly. "People around you shouldn't be able to tell that you've given a tip." This involved having the tip money ready beforehand, bills folded together into fourths. A close-up "thank you" with what could be interpreted as a handshake, and there you have it. Tip given.

After having watched my dad do this a time or two, the tip money was handed to me ahead of time so that I could show I'd understood the method. As I recall, I was very smooth at this even that first time. I was a little nervous, but it was fun--almost like a game. My dad was impressed. I could now go off on my own, tipping away, without bringing him embarrassment. Game won. A good life lesson learned.

A couple of years ago, I came across a gentleman who could have used that lesson. Larry and I were staying at a hotel in Seattle with valet parking. It could become pricey. Getting your car in or out was $3 a pop. We started to run out of ones. At any rate, the morning that we checked out, we were waiting for service behind a couple who was, let's say, a bit on the boisterous side. Or maybe it's just that things echo a lot in a below ground parking garage. Though if that were the only problem, I'd have thought they'd have taken notice. The valet pulled up with the car, walked to greet the couple, at which point this gentleman handed unfolded bills at an arm's length and said loudly, "Here you are, sir." I cringed. I could feel my father cringe from 3,000 miles away. I somehow sensed that even the valet was cringing inside.

I had wished we'd been first in line. I'd have set a good example. Or maybe he wouldn't have noticed, and would have thought I was rude for not tipping.

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!

Grace

I think we've all encountered little girls who reply, "I know" to a compliment regarding her beauty. The perceived cuteness of this situation is, I believe, negatively correlated to the size of the girl.

Today, while picking up #4 from preschool, I had such an experience with an older, kindergarten age, sister of one of his classmates. I complimented her on her pretty shirt. "It's not a shirt, it's a dress." I could see she was right. It was a short, peasant-style dress which she wore with a pair of jeans. So I remarked what a pretty top the dress made when paired with pants. No big deal--still cute.

Her mother, however, was clearly mortified and began all of the little social corrections that we mothers make in public. We make them in private, too, but with less energy of heart. I will generally in this situation try to reassure a mother that I do not think she is raising her child to be an ungrateful slob by pointing out that I have 4 kids of my own, all of whom have certainly so embarrassed me in the past and will no doubt continue to do so in the future. This time, without any consideration, I let her know that I'd made quite literally the same comment myself in decades past.

I wasn't in kindergarten, however. I was a 6th grader who felt she had a lot to prove to her peers. I was wearing a long, tiered skirt and a sweater with, I believe, nylons and boat shoes. (Not quite as un-hip in 1985 as it sounds in 2007.) A boy named Alex came up to me in class and said, "That's a pretty dress you're wearing." And I replied, "It's not a dress, it's a skirt."

I came home and told my mother about Alex's silly blunder. My mother had a similar reaction to the mother I comforted today. First I was surprised. I hadn't thought of his comment as just a nice gesture. Then I felt horrible and stupid. Alex was a boy I liked. In fact, I like-liked him. He had paid me a compliment and I corrected him. That was clearly not a smart move. Of course, being in elementary school, I cannot now imagine that that move changed any course of events much. But I was beginning to learn then that this sort of thing only helped me to look like a know-it-all. My classmates didn't have the insight to see that I desperately wanted friends and thought "meticulously intelligent" was a good trait to show off to that end.

Twenty-two years later, some things are much the same. I am still insecure not only in making friends but about how those friends view me. I tend now, though, to say too little rather than too much, afraid to get it wrong.

Other things have evolved. I've gone from correcting a compliment to dismissing one, pointing out anything negative that I can find in myself to help disprove their point. I get home and I am mortified. I scold myself: "A simple 'thank-you' would do just fine!" Maybe one of these years I'll get it right.

At the Movies

A couple of my favorite comedies are "What About Bob?" and "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles." There is something about watching a character get annoyed to near insanity that amuses me highly. I am reminded of watching my dad as a kid, but having some control and perspective as an adult, it's entertaining rather than a little scary. It makes me hope that I am not quite as bad as he, when in reality at this stage in my life I may well be worse.

Nothing is better than witnessing life imitate art.

Yesterday we went to see a movie in a desert town that we are not overly familiar with. Our first impressions were not great--folks seemed to be dressed a little too country club-ish and act a little too entitled for our taste. Nevertheless, we purchased our tickets and had just cued-up in the concession line when a casually well-dressed fellow in his late 60s turned around with an open box, displaying a thin-crusted, slightly over-cooked cheese pizza. With surprising emotion and volume he announced to all in line, "You'd better watch out--they burn the pizzas here very easily!" It seemed like a level of indignation unequal to the small amout of brown cheese. I had to turn into Larry's arm to muffle my laugh as the gentleman turned back to the counter where he spent another 4 to 5 minutes concluding his business. As he walked past us he muttered loudly to his wife, "Well, THAT was torture!" I giggled again, imagining those same words running through the mind of the poor soul who'd waited on him. In another minute we were up.

A young man behind the counter retrieved each package of candy as I ordered it. I got to "M&Ms, " and he told me that there were big bags at the bottom. When I quickly replied that we didn't need a big bag, he brusquely grabbed a small bag of peanut M&Ms. "Um, I just needed the plain ones." (Don't peanut M&Ms require specification?) At that he threw the peanut bag back, where it landed quite out of place, and snatched a plain bag, tossing it in our pile. Trying not to laugh, we paid the bill.

It was truly bizarre. Was he annoyed to be getting 5 separate candies for us? Was he paid on commission and feeling gypped out of a bigger sale? It was not the kid who had helped Mr. Burned-Pizza, so that couldn't have been the problem. Maybe he was unhappy that we didn't order popcorn or soda. All I know is that this was so ridiculous, that not even I could get annoyed.

I, in fact, was so far from annoyed after having been treated to these two vignettes, that I laughed my way into the theatre, much more ready than usual to enjoy the main attraction.

The Price of Democracy

I volunteererd at the school Book Fair this morning. This meant that I had to get up eary, shower, make lunches, and get the girls and myself out of the house about 20 minutes ahead of schedule. Larry, who generally takes the girls, instead went to vote and take #4 to preschool.

My mom picked up #4 as she does most Tuesdays while I have accupuntcture. When I'm done I go to her store, get the boy, hang out, and then we pick up the girls. Today when I got to my mom's store, #4 was wearing a construction paper Indian headdress bearing his name hyphenated with "fast-runner" and a sticker on his shirt letting all of town know that he had voted.

As it happened, this was the time I had appointed to go vote myself, and upon hearing the change in plan, #4 whined, "But I don't want to go vote, it takes too wong!" Assuming they'd hit bad lines, I reassured him, "Oh, but Daddy doesn't know the fun line games that I know. We're going to play fun line games." Not entirely convinced, that promise at least took care of the whining. My next move was to rack my brain on what fun game we could possibly play waiting in line for the next available machine, all during the three minutes it takes to drive from my mom's store to the polls. Luckily it hit me. "Honey, Daddy voted at about 8:15. Lots of people vote then. It's 1:45 now--I bet there won't even be a line."

Feeling pretty confident that the mystery fun-line-game wouldn't be needed, I still felt great relief to see an open machine on my precinct's side of the room. Checked in, card inserted into the machine, the whining started up again. "This takes too wooong. I don't want to vote."

"Buddy, it's not going to take long at all."

"I want to go hooome."

As I touched each candidate I nervously checked my peripheral vision for signs of annoyed fellow voters and tried to quiet my bored son. Finally, everything voted for, I just now had to check the printout as it rolled under the viewing window to make sure everything had been recorded correctly. "See, buddy almost done. We'll go get the sisters in just a minute."

"Weawwy? Almost done? That was fast."

"See I told you there wouldn't be a line."

"We didn't have a wine, Daddy didn't know how to do the machine. But then he did."

I'll have to ask Larry what happened with his machine, because I'm pretty sure he knows how to touch a circle by his candidate's name on a screen. Good thing we don't live in a precinct with punch card ballot machines. As we all know from the 2000 elections, those are remarkably tricky and I'm just not sure #4 could have waited that long for his parents' voices to be heard. But hey, at least he now has TWO stickers on his shirt.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I've been collecting some little verbal gems from my #4 for a few months. Here they are, in no special order.

WORDS OF WISDOM FROM "BIG J"

• Boys are cool 'cause they wear awesome shirts.

• If you don't have a butt, you can't poop. That's why everybody gots to have a butt.

• Why does he (Rush Limbaugh) have a heavy voice?

• Real things are bigger than pretend things.

• Two boys are better than one boy. We're all the boys we've got! (said to dad about fixing things)

• Please means RIGHT NOW!

• Orange trees means we're down the mountain.

• If I was born on Christmas, Christmas would be December 23rd.

• Um, superheros don't really "pick up." (spoken to his un-hip mother while wearing Superman jammies, with a "duh" tone in his voice)

• Welcome back to summer. It's been a long commercial.

• When you're hurt, you need to be alone, unless you're at the hospital.

• Lilly Rock (a peak on our mountain) is heavy.

• If you're an old man and you have a stick, when you get married you have to put the stick back where you found it. If you remember, you can.

This last one was out of the blue. No idea! Maybe a commentary on how #4 loves collecting rocks and sticks, and though Dad--an old married man--thinks they're cool, he doesn't seem to have any of his own. It's so interesting to think about how the world appears to a kid. Things we say must sometimes sound very odd. Words often have different meanings, and adults sure are hard to figure out. I still have a hard time with some of them.

Officially Over the Hill

Late last year the camera that I got as a High School graduation gift finally died. Instead of opening the battery compartment, I opened the film compartment and then the camera thought it was out of film, which sent it into a mechanical panic. I got the film out, but it will no longer accept new film, and makes lots of atrocious noises at me when I try.

So right now "our" camera is in reality #1's camera. It's a not-too-expensive digital number which is perfect for her and her photography penchant. It does the job, and she has no problem letting us use it whenever we want or need. On Saturday, Larry was looking for agreement from me on how convenient it's been to have use of it. First off, I'm not totally sold on digital. I guess I'm not used to it, or maybe I just need a better camera, but I did just fine with film, thanks. But that is really a whole other topic. The big complaint that I submitted to Larry (for I MUST have a complaint!) is that the camera doesn't zoom, and so to get a good close up picture, I need to be right on top of the subject. Besides this being a little uncomfortable and sometimes impossible, it throws off the center of the photo significantly, the lens being below the view finder.

As I was saying this, nine year old #2 picked up the camera and within seconds was showing me how to zoom. I'm quite sure she had not tried it before. I laughed an incredulous, slightly embarrassed laugh. Larry reassured me that it was just a sign of being old (a very reassuring fact, indeed). He said that when he was a kid he could easily and intuitively set up any electronics that his parents brought into the house, and knew exactly how to work every aspect of it. Now, at 35, he has to read the manuals. Technology, he claims, is only instinctive for a relatively short segment of life for most of the population. And this, coming from my computer nerd husband.

I suppose I am in good company, at least. I must admit, though, that I was never very good at figuring out technology. I did have an easier time learning it when I was younger. Currently I am proud of the fact that I can usually remember with out being shown how to turn off the auto flash on #1's camera. It's helpful that there is a little lightening bolt by the button and I only occasionally don't notice it. However I AM going to have to have #2 train me on the zoom feature again.