Well, things have been a little crazy around here the past few days. My darling husband, hereafter known as the dh, has decided to move the whole blooming crew to New York. Quite a change from Texas. He was very considerate this time: every other move has been on short notice (2 weeks or less), I've been pregnant, or receiving life-changing medical diagnosis on a child. Why New York, you may ask? I am convinced it's because he grew up in the mountains of Colorado and misses the snow. Snow is a rare commodity in Texas for some reason. I am frantically trying to find down coats and snow boots for three growing children in a climate that hasn't seen snow since the ice age. I am sure excited about this move.
On the bright side, at least we don't have to worry about moving or finding homes for pets this time. When we moved to Texas from Idaho, we had over 65 Peruvian guinea pigs to find homes for. Most people don't really need 65 guinea pigs, but I had two home school kids who decided to make their 4-H guinea pig project my life's work. Actually, half of them were mine, because baby Peruvians are the cutest things going. Any idea how much it costs to feed, house, and clothe 65 guinea pigs? Not to mention vet bills, because we were the bleeding heart breeders who couldn't bear to let anyone go without a fight. Which is how we got Junior Barnes, the $100.00 baby. I got up every two hours every night for two weeks to hand feed that baby, because he was so big he almost killed his mother being born and she was too tired to care for him. And we had to take them both to the vet (the only one in Idaho who even had a clue about caring for guinea pigs), pay for kitten milk replacer, syringes; we stopped keeping track after the first $100.00. I sold him when he got big and strong for $10.00. Not the best investment I ever made, except that he was such a cute little rascal, and awfully sweet. We had some of the best show pigs in Idaho, thanks to the great advice from knowledgeable friends. You didn't know there were guinea pig shows? Neither did I, until I went down the street and viewed the caviary (thats guinea pig facility in fancy show-talk, because guinea pigs are called cavies) and fell in love with the ones that had such long hair you couldn't tell which end was which.
One little guinea pig was what I bought my son for his eigth birthday. Sweet, cute little Amaro, who 4 1/2 years later is still going strong. Only one. Until 5 year old sister wanted one, too, so we got a girl, because the babies are so cute. And then we went to our first guinea pig show, and brought home a couple more for 4-H. And Amaro was a daddy not too long after that, producing our first grand champion (yes, there are guinea pig grand champions). By the time we were at full tilt, we had tortoise shell and white, black and white, roan, blue, dilute, and almost every other color of Peruvian guinea pig, with at least 10 that had to have there hair done every two days. Show Peruvians have coats that are conservatively at least 10 inches long or more, and if you don't keep their hair rolled up and tidy, they chew, pee, and poop on those beautiful coats hourly. If not more. I have to admit, I loved playing guinea pig beautician, like having one of those oversize Stylin' Barbie head sets or something only cuter.
Of course, when we moved it was a herculean task to place all those pigs, and if it wasn't for a dear friend who housed and cared for about 30 of them until their new owners could pick them up or arrange delivery, I would still be paying "pig support" back in Idaho. Since they were such good quality show cavies, it wasn't hard to find people to buy them, but they still traveled to places like Oregon, Utah, and Arizona, so it was time consuming to make all the travel arrangements, etc.
This move all I have to worry about is the service dog for my 5 year old son. Remember the "life changing medical diagnosis" comment a few paragraphs back? My youngest is autistic, diagnosed formally the day the packers arrived in Idaho, allergic to everything, and has a service dog now, named Willis. And today is the day I received notice that he tested positive for celiac disease. Not only do I have to get a house ready to sell while the dh goes on ahead and leaves me to single parent, but I have to radically change the diet of an autistic child at the same time I am moving him. I just know God has a sense of humor. If I wasn't so panicked, this would be really funny. I mean, this kind of thing just doesn't happen to real people, does it? At least I'm not pregnant. When we moved from Maryland to Idaho, I was seven months pregnant. That was really horrible. And great for another story; the airplane ride to Idaho will go down in annals of truly terrible, horrible, really bad days.
Well, I'm out of whine time for now.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Blogs and babysitting
I have discovered something very interesting about blogs: they are fascinating! Now, it may seem a little strange that I am just coming to this conclusion only now, but until I was emailed Dawn Mehaan's Pokemon card ad from eBay, and followed the link to her blog, I had never actually read one. Dawn is honestly the funniest person I have ever not met. Her blog is at mom2my6pack.blogspot.com. I laugh myself silly every time I read something she wrote, even if I'm reading it for the umpteenth time. Then I found out that some of my friends had blogs, too. And they recommend blog sites from other people. Imagine that! It seems to me that the writers of 6 Degrees would have had more seasons if they had just done the rounds through the blogging world(of which I have realized I am woefully ignorant). Just think, we are all just blogs away from the person we would most like to meet. . .it could be fun!
All of which just goes to show how little I seem to understand the technology we all take for granted. Although, unlike my nine year old, I do know enough not to experiment with cooking in the microwave with metal containers. . .what? Oh, yes, that was one of the stories that got me started blogging. See, I called my great homeschooling friend Heidi and began to regale her with the lengthy list of my woes this last Friday. The "Leave scissors where the 5 year old can find them and cut his own hair" story, the "Buy the nine year old her own pudding mix to cook in the microwave because she'll have so much fun" story, and the "We must experiment with physics and the newly opened bag of chips" story caught her fancy, and she really wanted me to start a blog. Why she would want to read them quickly and impersonally on the Internet when I am perfectly happy to spend hours upon hours, day after day, repeating the same stories to her over and over, I really don't know. No accounting for taste. But I can read what Dawn writes quite quickly, and I read much faster than I can listen (probably because my ears have to process so many things at once and I can really only look at one thing at a time---my ears just have a slower clock speed), so my suspicious mind is beginning to think that Heidi suspects I might be spending too much time on the phone. Perish the thought! Anyway, Heidi told me how to start this blog, and even posted the first (and so far, only!) comment I have received. Which is kind of cool; she wasn't trying to distract me with the computer and get me off the phone, after all, she really is reading this. Hi, Heidi!
Well, the "Leave the scissors where the five year old can find them" story is really not so original. Everyone I have bitterly bewailed my fate to has a similar story about one of their children, even my dad. No need to ask which kid of his made a disastrous personal foray into the unforgiving world of "I will cut my own bangs, since Mom has no time, because it will look just as good as if Mom did it and, besides, it'll be fun!" The night before kindergarten pictures.
My oldest son has been watching his little brother from time to time as my husband and I take very short jaunts to nearby places to run errands. Never more than a few minutes away because, as I have indicated, I have a suspicious mind, to date there have been no major disasters as he takes his temporary position of power and supervision quite seriously. His almost ten year old little sister is quite good with little brother, as well, and they make an excellent team when keeping an eye on him. Most of the time.
This particular errand was to the local bookstore to pick up a copy of Farmer Boy for a home school book study unit. Somehow the last copy was not on the shelf with the 2,000 other home school titles, including every other title penned by Laura Ingalls Wilder and a few by her daughter. But the one we really needed was Farmer Boy, and as my husband has this dreadful Book Habit, he decided to keep me company as I went to the local used book store. After rooting around in all the wrong places, I had just located the copy of Farmer Boy that would actually match and fit into the book jacket with the unlost Little House on the Prairie books, when, right on cue, my phone rang.
"Mom? We have a big problem here. . ." My first instinct was to fling my newly found prize to the floor and flee wildly into the parking lot in an attempt to beat the firemen to my house so they wouldn't trip on the laundry my kids flung down the stairs when attempting to clean their rooms. Or any of the other man traps of shoes, junk, or unidentifiable objects they lay, lose, or toss willy-nilly throughout the house on any given day. Then I remembered the advice of dear friend, whose darling granddaughter will tell her in times of stress, "Breathe, Grandma, breathe!"
I took a deep breath, and in a voice that sounded almost calm, I said, "Oh? What happened?" Visions of flooded toilets, exploding eggs in microwaves, couches on the roof, filled my active imagination. "James cut his hair." At first I didn't quite know what to say. It seemed pretty minor compared to what I was imagining. "What do you mean?" "Well, Mom, I was reading Carry on Mr. Bowditch, and K.T. was in the bathroom, and James was really quiet. Then I saw that he was cutting his hair." I breathed out loudly, thinking we had dodged the bullet. A little bit of missing hair. . . not so bad, really. Nothing had prepared me for what I found when I got home a short while later.
My beautiful five year old, with hair so fine and silky it doesn't even tangle, had four inch long hair in a kind of Greek-looking page boy all the way around his head. He had managed to cut the hair from the front of his face to the back of his head, with a pair of blunt pointed children's school scissors sister left out when she ran to the bathroom. A voice sounded in my head, "Breathe, Grandma, breathe!" Who knew those useless little scissors could cut baby fine silk when they won't even dent construction paper. What I really think is, my youngest child is so talented, he could shear sheep with a butter knife.
After hiding all the butter knives, I sat James down with a sucker, stuck a 3/4 inch guard on my hair razor, and started shaving his head. No dice, his hair was almost down to the root in several places. Good thing those safety scissors can't cut skin. I tried the 1/2 inch blade with better success. My beautiful boy with the cherubic face and beautiful hair quickly became my beautiful boy with the cherubic face and sort of no hair. While I shaved his head, our conversation went something like this.
"James, don't you remember the rule about scissors?"
"Scissors are for paper, not hair. Mommies, and sometimes Daddies, cut hair. Kids cut paper. The paper Mommies and Daddies give them."
He obviously remembered the rules. What happened?
"What happened James? Why didn't you follow the rules?"
"I forgot. And I couldn't see, so I cut my hair."
That's a pretty good explanation for a five year old, I think. He'll get his next pair of scissors as a High School graduation gift.
And my oldest will be taking CPR, First Aid, babysitting, and underwater rescue classes next month. Just in case.
All of which just goes to show how little I seem to understand the technology we all take for granted. Although, unlike my nine year old, I do know enough not to experiment with cooking in the microwave with metal containers. . .what? Oh, yes, that was one of the stories that got me started blogging. See, I called my great homeschooling friend Heidi and began to regale her with the lengthy list of my woes this last Friday. The "Leave scissors where the 5 year old can find them and cut his own hair" story, the "Buy the nine year old her own pudding mix to cook in the microwave because she'll have so much fun" story, and the "We must experiment with physics and the newly opened bag of chips" story caught her fancy, and she really wanted me to start a blog. Why she would want to read them quickly and impersonally on the Internet when I am perfectly happy to spend hours upon hours, day after day, repeating the same stories to her over and over, I really don't know. No accounting for taste. But I can read what Dawn writes quite quickly, and I read much faster than I can listen (probably because my ears have to process so many things at once and I can really only look at one thing at a time---my ears just have a slower clock speed), so my suspicious mind is beginning to think that Heidi suspects I might be spending too much time on the phone. Perish the thought! Anyway, Heidi told me how to start this blog, and even posted the first (and so far, only!) comment I have received. Which is kind of cool; she wasn't trying to distract me with the computer and get me off the phone, after all, she really is reading this. Hi, Heidi!
Well, the "Leave the scissors where the five year old can find them" story is really not so original. Everyone I have bitterly bewailed my fate to has a similar story about one of their children, even my dad. No need to ask which kid of his made a disastrous personal foray into the unforgiving world of "I will cut my own bangs, since Mom has no time, because it will look just as good as if Mom did it and, besides, it'll be fun!" The night before kindergarten pictures.
My oldest son has been watching his little brother from time to time as my husband and I take very short jaunts to nearby places to run errands. Never more than a few minutes away because, as I have indicated, I have a suspicious mind, to date there have been no major disasters as he takes his temporary position of power and supervision quite seriously. His almost ten year old little sister is quite good with little brother, as well, and they make an excellent team when keeping an eye on him. Most of the time.
This particular errand was to the local bookstore to pick up a copy of Farmer Boy for a home school book study unit. Somehow the last copy was not on the shelf with the 2,000 other home school titles, including every other title penned by Laura Ingalls Wilder and a few by her daughter. But the one we really needed was Farmer Boy, and as my husband has this dreadful Book Habit, he decided to keep me company as I went to the local used book store. After rooting around in all the wrong places, I had just located the copy of Farmer Boy that would actually match and fit into the book jacket with the unlost Little House on the Prairie books, when, right on cue, my phone rang.
"Mom? We have a big problem here. . ." My first instinct was to fling my newly found prize to the floor and flee wildly into the parking lot in an attempt to beat the firemen to my house so they wouldn't trip on the laundry my kids flung down the stairs when attempting to clean their rooms. Or any of the other man traps of shoes, junk, or unidentifiable objects they lay, lose, or toss willy-nilly throughout the house on any given day. Then I remembered the advice of dear friend, whose darling granddaughter will tell her in times of stress, "Breathe, Grandma, breathe!"
I took a deep breath, and in a voice that sounded almost calm, I said, "Oh? What happened?" Visions of flooded toilets, exploding eggs in microwaves, couches on the roof, filled my active imagination. "James cut his hair." At first I didn't quite know what to say. It seemed pretty minor compared to what I was imagining. "What do you mean?" "Well, Mom, I was reading Carry on Mr. Bowditch, and K.T. was in the bathroom, and James was really quiet. Then I saw that he was cutting his hair." I breathed out loudly, thinking we had dodged the bullet. A little bit of missing hair. . . not so bad, really. Nothing had prepared me for what I found when I got home a short while later.
My beautiful five year old, with hair so fine and silky it doesn't even tangle, had four inch long hair in a kind of Greek-looking page boy all the way around his head. He had managed to cut the hair from the front of his face to the back of his head, with a pair of blunt pointed children's school scissors sister left out when she ran to the bathroom. A voice sounded in my head, "Breathe, Grandma, breathe!" Who knew those useless little scissors could cut baby fine silk when they won't even dent construction paper. What I really think is, my youngest child is so talented, he could shear sheep with a butter knife.
After hiding all the butter knives, I sat James down with a sucker, stuck a 3/4 inch guard on my hair razor, and started shaving his head. No dice, his hair was almost down to the root in several places. Good thing those safety scissors can't cut skin. I tried the 1/2 inch blade with better success. My beautiful boy with the cherubic face and beautiful hair quickly became my beautiful boy with the cherubic face and sort of no hair. While I shaved his head, our conversation went something like this.
"James, don't you remember the rule about scissors?"
"Scissors are for paper, not hair. Mommies, and sometimes Daddies, cut hair. Kids cut paper. The paper Mommies and Daddies give them."
He obviously remembered the rules. What happened?
"What happened James? Why didn't you follow the rules?"
"I forgot. And I couldn't see, so I cut my hair."
That's a pretty good explanation for a five year old, I think. He'll get his next pair of scissors as a High School graduation gift.
And my oldest will be taking CPR, First Aid, babysitting, and underwater rescue classes next month. Just in case.
Why monsters
I am sitting at the computer, minding my own business, talking with a friend and typing away, when a small voice out of the blue, with a piercing question shot at a sibling, invades my space: "Why?" Every mom I know has, or has had, or soon will have a why monster at their house. This is the monster, whose identity can transfer from one child to another at the drop of the hat, that must know the "why" for everything, in the universe, right now if not sooner. It takes great delight in sucking the free time of everyone in the blast zone by asking the eternal question: "WHY?"
For instance,
"Don't shave the dog."
"Why?"
"Do not, and I mean it, do not close the garage door on my car!"
"Why?"
"Stop eating that paint right now!"
"Why?"
Or, my personal favorite,
"Do not run in front of the deadly moving vehicles!! (Does this one seem as obvious to everyone else?)"
"Why?"
There is no known cure for the Why monster. It appears and disappears without notice and any response you give, including "Why do you think?" is always followed by another "Why?" The unfortunate problem with the Why monster is that, not only is it contagious, it contaminates everything in it's environment. For instance, it turns normal siblings into "MOM!!!" monsters, ordinary moms into "Because I Said So!" monsters, and fathers into elaborate story tellers, which isn't necessarily monstrous, but the stories are guaranteed to get the little Why monster into trouble at school the next day.
It kind of goes like this *
*Any resemblance of the characters in this story to any members of my family is purely coincidental and inadvertent, as all characters in this story are entirely fictional in nature. Really!! Especially since anti-box comments tend to originate from the Mom monster.
Sibling: "Why monster, do your homework."
Monster: "Why?"
Sibling: "Because Mom said we both need to do our homework before dinner."
Monster: "Why?"
Sibling: "Because Mom said so!"
Monster: "Why?"
Sibling: "MOM!!!"
Me: "Darling, you need to finish your math homework."
Monster: "Why?"
Me: "Because if you don't, you'll miss recess tomorrow."
Monster: "Why?"
Me: "Because your teacher wants you to show a sense of responsibility and complete your assignments before you play."
Monster: "Why?"
Me: "Because I said so!"
Dad, whose ears are getting tired as the little Why monster starts circling lower for the kill, butts in uninvited and says something like this:
"Because if you don't go to school and complete all of the twaddle the teachers assign you, you won't pass onto the next grade, and if you stay in third grade next year, they give you more twaddle. And if you won't do what they say and do what everyone else does when everyone else does it, how can you grow up to be a properly socially engineered worker drone in the great socialistic/communistic/welfare state you're being programmed for? Don't you know better? You're not supposed to think for yourself. Just pipe down and do your twaddle...I mean, homework!"
Why Monster: Look of utter delight. Thinks quietly to self, "What great words to try out at school tomorrow!! Wonder who'll field this ball?" Quietly pretends to finish homework, smoke coming out ears as wheels turn inside original little brain, full of fun-filled plans for the Next Day.
Next Day:
9:05 a.m.: Sound of ringing phone. Individual on other line is an unmistakable, dyed-in-the-wool Establishment Grump Monster.
Establishment Grump Monster: "Mom, do you know what your little monster is saying in school today?"
Me: ( in my best phone operator imitation) "The person you think you are speaking to no longer lives in the real world. Please forward all inquiries to the loony bin. . . ."
For instance,
"Don't shave the dog."
"Why?"
"Do not, and I mean it, do not close the garage door on my car!"
"Why?"
"Stop eating that paint right now!"
"Why?"
Or, my personal favorite,
"Do not run in front of the deadly moving vehicles!! (Does this one seem as obvious to everyone else?)"
"Why?"
There is no known cure for the Why monster. It appears and disappears without notice and any response you give, including "Why do you think?" is always followed by another "Why?" The unfortunate problem with the Why monster is that, not only is it contagious, it contaminates everything in it's environment. For instance, it turns normal siblings into "MOM!!!" monsters, ordinary moms into "Because I Said So!" monsters, and fathers into elaborate story tellers, which isn't necessarily monstrous, but the stories are guaranteed to get the little Why monster into trouble at school the next day.
It kind of goes like this *
*Any resemblance of the characters in this story to any members of my family is purely coincidental and inadvertent, as all characters in this story are entirely fictional in nature. Really!! Especially since anti-box comments tend to originate from the Mom monster.
Sibling: "Why monster, do your homework."
Monster: "Why?"
Sibling: "Because Mom said we both need to do our homework before dinner."
Monster: "Why?"
Sibling: "Because Mom said so!"
Monster: "Why?"
Sibling: "MOM!!!"
Me: "Darling, you need to finish your math homework."
Monster: "Why?"
Me: "Because if you don't, you'll miss recess tomorrow."
Monster: "Why?"
Me: "Because your teacher wants you to show a sense of responsibility and complete your assignments before you play."
Monster: "Why?"
Me: "Because I said so!"
Dad, whose ears are getting tired as the little Why monster starts circling lower for the kill, butts in uninvited and says something like this:
"Because if you don't go to school and complete all of the twaddle the teachers assign you, you won't pass onto the next grade, and if you stay in third grade next year, they give you more twaddle. And if you won't do what they say and do what everyone else does when everyone else does it, how can you grow up to be a properly socially engineered worker drone in the great socialistic/communistic/welfare state you're being programmed for? Don't you know better? You're not supposed to think for yourself. Just pipe down and do your twaddle...I mean, homework!"
Why Monster: Look of utter delight. Thinks quietly to self, "What great words to try out at school tomorrow!! Wonder who'll field this ball?" Quietly pretends to finish homework, smoke coming out ears as wheels turn inside original little brain, full of fun-filled plans for the Next Day.
Next Day:
9:05 a.m.: Sound of ringing phone. Individual on other line is an unmistakable, dyed-in-the-wool Establishment Grump Monster.
Establishment Grump Monster: "Mom, do you know what your little monster is saying in school today?"
Me: ( in my best phone operator imitation) "The person you think you are speaking to no longer lives in the real world. Please forward all inquiries to the loony bin. . . ."
Saturday, September 15, 2007
It'll be fun
I think I still remember my first comment about children to my husband, who was in graduate school at the time. The conversation went something like this:
Me: "You are almost out of grad school. I have worked my posterior off for almost five years, and I am ready to have kids. What do you think? Kids are great! It'll be fun!"
Husband: Deafening silence.
Me: "I have a degree in Child Psychology now. How hard can it be? Kids are great! It'll be fun!"
Husband: "I thought you wanted a horse."
I am sure, due to my advanced age and the process of deteriorating memory that my kids fondly call "Mom's revisionist history," that my little recap may be somewhat deficient in important details, but the gist of it is there. Needless to say, in my clock-is-ticking-better-have-a-baby-now frame of mind, the road was clear and first baby arrived about a year later.
That first "baby" now wears a man's size 10 1/2 shoe and assures me every chance he gets that, at the impressive age of 12, he towers over me by an inch and a half. I assure him frequently in return that towering over my vertically challenged physique is no great accomplishment. What is it about the preteen male that makes it their life goal to rest their arm on mom's shoulder and gloat about how short she is? Maybe I just have "Short Mom's Attitude."
A beautiful girl arrived exactly 2 years and 8 months, to the day, after that first little blessing. We were so excited; now we had the complete set! We bought our first house, only three bedrooms (because we were "done") and settled into the domestic tranquility of raising two perfect, I-have-a-degree-in-Child-Psychology children. Hee, hee, hee.
Three "This is Fun" years later I almost drove off a bridge when I called the lab from a cell phone for the official results of the I-can't-possibly-be-pregnant-I-used-birth-control pregnancy test. Yup. Child number three joined us eight months later and, as two kids bounced on my hospital bed and my husband cuddled our new little bologna loaf, he said, "Don't worry about three kids, honey. It'll be fun!"
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