Mind Your P's and Q's

I had an odd conversation today with one of Dylan's teachers.

"I overheard Dylan say the P word in class today."
"Um, the P word," I say, racking my brain for all possible cuss words, or inappropriate language.

 Perhaps

Pontificate

Proliferate

Populate

"He said he was pissed," said the teacher, lowering her voice to a whisper during the first syllable and vaguely pronouncing the rest.


"Oh, I said." Because really, what does one say?
"You don't think there's anything wrong with that?"
"No, not really," I blurted, not thinking that obviously SHE thought there was something wrong with that otherwise she wouldn't have whispered it.

"You don't see anything wrong with vulgarity," she asked me, quite frenzied.

Clearly, there's no way to win this argument. Of course I don't approve of vulgarity. I just didn't know that the P word was on the list. Among 13 year old boys, I've heard a lot more than the p word, the possibilities are endless. And no, the  word wasn't possibility.


"What is wrong with the world if a swear word that used to be a swear word is not a problem," she said. Here's what's wrong with the world:


Our school is inundated with sexting issues. Lewd text messages, nude photos being passed from cell phone to cell phone. Kids are causally having sex with multiple partners, girls are sexually aggressive toward the boys, kids are coming to school high on pot. alcoholism is rampant, kids are being arrested for assaulting law enforcement. And this is at a Christian high school.

I don't think the P word is the battle I'm willing to die for, the sword I'm willing to fall on or the battle I'm willing to pick, whatever the cliche is.

One generations' swear word is another generation's' adverb. As parents and educators, we can stick our head in the sand and try to fight past battles or we can concede defeat with the p word but look the ugliness and sin of this generation straight in the eye and refuse ignore it.

We can correct behavior and form a 'perfect' child on the outside, but if we don't acknowledge that the war has intensified and the vocabulary is only a part of the problem, we are at best annoying and at worst, worthless.

Our problems are but a small part of their present battle. These present problems are but a foreshadowing of future horrors if we don't get active.

Forget minding your p's and q's.  Maybe we should stop correcting their speech so we can hear what they are saying.

Teen Driver in the House

 

In the words of Ethan, "It's the end of the world as we know it, I feel fiiiiiiiine." Ha, I'm just kiddin'. Pretty soon I'll have another chauffeur in the house, what's not to like? In the great state of Ohio when a young person reaches the ripe age of 15.5, the youngster is bestowed a driver's permit. This means that for another 6 months, he can drive with his mom and dad right beside him. Thank you Buckeye State. 

I'm kidding again. This will be a good thing. It's just that he's had it for a grand total of 3 hours. The ironic thing is, that he read and studied for that permit test like it was the SAT. The kid won't study Latin but throw in a key chain and and a whiff of independence and suddenly he's a scholar. 

I won't write about the typically sentimental experience that I'm having, simultaneously along with thousands of other parents. Sure, he's the first born and I can still remember when he was afraid of Big Bird and when he would cry when I tried to sing him to sleep. Sure, its this crazy, exciting, longing for time to slow down. And, it's a little scary. He did kick it up to 45 mph and nearly drove us into the ditch. But, those are life experiences I want to cherish.

I would like to know, however, how to get through the next six months. Every time he hears the car keys jingling, like Pavlov's dog, he comes running. Someones driving somewhere? "I'll drive, Oh, please, oh, please, can I drive?" Now, how does one say no to enthusiasm like that? I mean really, if I'm just running errands around town, what's the big deal? Sure, my body will be releasing an abnormal amount of adrenaline on a simple trip to Walgreens, but, other than that, what's the big deal?  I shouldn't be so selfish. Errands that once took 15 minutes may now increase in time expnentially, but, hey, I'll learn to pack emergency snacks.

I suppose it's like anything in life, and the excitement will pass, much like the cars behind us who wish to drive at speeds greater than 35 mph. The experience will come and my adrenaline will regulate. I'll have to wait for Dylan to turn 15.5 to experience the excitement once again. And again. Again. And again.

A Matter of Speaking

Me: "Wow Jackson, you're starting to fill out and get more muscular. You starting to look like a teenager instead of a little boy."

Dylan, age 10: "Does that mean he's going through poverty?"


Puberty, poverty, it's all in the perspective.

Give Me the Finger

It's been a long week. It began with me thinking I would give up sugar. It ended with me not being able to fit into my fat pants. I decided to go back a ways and dig up some old stuff about being grateful. No matter the size of my thighs.

We listen to math and counting CD’s in the car so it’s not a big deal to hear counting sequences from the back of the car. Today the math skills were uttered with particular delight. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11! 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11!!

Over and over I heard this. Finally, with great exuberance the proclamation came from my preschool age son. “Yessss! I have 11 fingers! I have 11 fingers. I’m so grateful!” The heraldry and pageantry that followed such a discovery was contagious as his twin brother, whose computation skills are suspect, confirmed the discovery and they both whooped it up in the back seat.


I’m fairly certain that in the few years since his birth he hasn’t grown another finger and I’m definitely certain that he was born with only five on each hand. The result of duplicating fingers while counting was, no doubt the cause for such joy. I guess this gives new meaning to “double digits.”

For most people, growing an additional appendage would be the thing of tabloids and alien TV shows. Generally speaking, growing an additional anything is not a cause for holiday. Not so for my son. It was genuine gratefulness for something so generous. Had I announced ice cream and Cheetos for dinner, the delight could not have been greater. Oh the things one can do with an extra finger or two!

When was the last time that I was truly grateful for a circumstance deemed “terribly unfortunate” by others? No, I don’t have genetically warped DNA that causes such growth spurts. However, as a family, we have gone through some trying times together-a job loss, a house fire, a mediocre Buckeye football season-but the best joys are the simply profound revelations that are seen only by the beholder of such beauty.

The next time a dire circumstance looks bleak and unbearable, look through the eyes of a four year old. The beauty is there, just waiting for a grateful glance. Go a head, whoop it up, even in the bad times. People may look at you like you’ve grown an extra finger, but being able to count your blessings in every circumstance is living better than you can imagine.

Five little snowbound kiddies jumpin' on the bed...

Did I say a snow day would be "heavenly"? What Norman Rockwell-ian hallucinogen was I smoking? Nobody under the age of 50 wants to snuggle in bed reading Robert Frost on a day off school. What was I thinking?

Note to self: Boys must move. I cannot stop them. I can only hope to contain them.

We did manage to get outside for a wee bit, until it starting raining. Then freezing. I saw what happened to "Chuck" so I didn't let the kids stay outside indefinitely. We did manage to make some disfigured snow people...

Mutated two-headed snowman.


Self help for snowman not widely embraced.

I'm Christina, I'm 35 and I have a teenager. Is there a self help group for this?

*My oldest, Jackson, turns 13 tomorrow. I didn't think I'd have a hard time with it, but it turns out I do.




I’ve been sitting here for hours, holding you in my arms. You sleep. I watch your eyelids float up and down. I watch your sweet, toothless mouth form a smile. I smile back at you. You make me laugh. I breathe in your new baby smell and feel your oh, so soft breath. It’s satin against my face. You remind me of a closed, white rose; smooth and pure and perfect.

Your contented sighs are promises of things I can’t even imagine. Every flicker, every twitch, every wrinkle, every curve, I know. I study you while the world functions without my participation.

My involvement is right here, on this couch where I sit, holding my world. I ignore the phone, the doorbell and the TV sits in silence. I listen carefully for a deep sigh or gurgle or the rare whimper.

This is my new world, the one my mother told me about. My understanding is clear now. Yesterday I saw in the mirror dimly, but now face to face. I’m so filled with richness through this child.

Because of this child I can become a better daughter, a better sister, a better friend.
He is my firstborn, the one who will teach me how to be a mommy.

You walked into the kitchen yesterday. “I’m almost 13. Doesn’t that deserve a great, big party?” You grinned.

Yes, yes it does. Thirteen years? How I’ve squandered those years! Fussing over the dirt you tracked in or the messy bedroom. I only have a few years left with you. I want to pause, to slow life down, to somehow pick and choose which moments I want you to remember about us.

When did you learn to do things without me? You used to need my help to climb stairs or take a bath. Now you talk about soccer and games and girls. And you definitely don’t want my help in the bath.

If only I hadn’t taken those moments for granted. If only I could sit on the couch and hold you and watch you sleep. If only you needed me to hold you.

Yesterday I yelled at you to get your stinky soccer shoes out of the kitchen.

You found a book. Freight Train by Donald Crews. You remember it, you said. You remember me reading it to you. I remember it too.


Tonight you left your stinky soccer shoes in the kitchen again. They’re bigger than my own shoes. I picked them up and carried them to your room.

I watch you sleep. It’s my breath I hear now. I’m panicked. I can’t control this burdensome passage of time. It can’t be 13 years ago that you called me to you with a small cry. I was all you needed.

I watch you sleep. I try not to cry. I don’t want to wake you.

Parenting Tips from American Idol

Imagine life in the times of *Nero. The Roman Coliseum is filled with blood thirsty fans, chanting, frenzied, awaiting the public humiliation extravaganza a year in the making. The excitement is palpable; dusty air mixes with hairspray and stage makeup. Instead of Nero in the box seat, it's Simon Cowell, Paula and Randy-I have-a-limited-vocabulary-Jackson.

With wicked anticipation, America awaits the first volunteer gladiator. How disappointing if it turns out to be someone with real talent!


Seriously people, we are the reason Jerry Springer will never go off the air.

What is it about enjoying someone's embarrassment that is so darn fun? I swear every year I'm not going to get sucked into watching it, but sure enough, the tap dancing George Michael gets me every time.

Is it really evil and malevolent to laugh if the guy voluntarily steps onto the nationwide stage to perform Islands in the Stream with sign language?


Shame, shame on you! These are mere children we're talking about. Perhaps you ought to examine your motives for watching the American Idol auditions, and cleanse your impure thoughts. But do it during a commercial break.

Educationally speaking, I can justify my decision to watch the American Idol auditions. Perhaps unwittingly, the producers provide a vibrant example of parenting gone wild. Good parenting class material.

Example 1: Teach your child to obey, happily. If Simon says get out, you get out. Maintain some dignity and release the security guard.

Example 2: If you don't get your way, accept that decision, STOP WHINING. And for Pete's sake, leave Paula alone. You're not even old enough to remember the '80's.

Example 3: If you don't get your way, keep your mouth shut, you little %$#@!. Nobody wants to hear that kind of language.

Example 4: Unless you've given birth to a verified vocal phenom or Charlotte Church, don't let your kids grow up thinking they are ALL THAT.

Sooner or later they will face Nero and it won't be pretty.


*History disclaimer. I don't that Nero actually sat in the coliseum, it just sounded good.

All Roads Lead to Body Fluid

Trying to converse with a 10 year old:


Me: Have you seen my winter coat?
Dylan: What's it look like?
Me: It's a black pea coat.
Dylan: A pea coat? Does it have a built in catheter?


Y-e-a-h. Why do I bother?

Five minus One equals FOUR!

I always head count. 1,2,3,4,5. 1,2,3,4,5. 1,2,3,4,5. It's a reflex. It only occurs to women. There is no cure. This weekend, us Presbyterian churchgoers made a guest appearance at my sister's Pentecostal church for their Christmas program. As is usually the case, some sort of minor catastrophe forced us into plan B: Separate departures in separate vehicles.

Kevin and I drive separately so at least one of us can give the impression of being on time. Thankfully, they are Pentecostals so the starting time is a suggestion for 'whenever the Spirit moves.' So we walk in and there's still singing and movement and we can find a seat relatively undetected.

To make a long story more complicated, we don't really meet until after the service where we're reunited just in time to separate and depart for home, which we do. I take my EXACT same entourage. Kevin takes his riders, or so I assume.

I arrive home a few minutes before Kevin's trolley. When he walks into the house with one less family member than is expected, I immediately ask the obvious question, "Where's Dylan?" And with that complex inquiry the communication begins to break down.

"What do you mean where's Dylan?" he says.

I, thinking this is an elementary inquisition which should not confound, ask another obvious question, only much louder than the first.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'WHAT DO I MEAN?' That question may look like a grammatical quagmire but those who have argued extensively with a man know what I mean.

Kevin: "I thought YOU had Dylan." {said loudly}.

Me: "No, I thought YOU had Dylan." {said not only louder but also much s-l-o-w-e-r so as to enforce comprehension}.

This is the first time in 12 years we've left a kid somewhere unintentionally. It's really quite miraculous we don't do it more often. Anyway, Dylan lucked out and went out to lunch with my sister, who saw him wandering the church. My family got a little chuckle out of it and it will become a joke with no expiration date.

At least it was at church. There's a lot worse place to leave your kid. For instance, my sister was left at a funeral home. Can you imagine going to lunch with that company?

It's All in the Interpretation

Thanks to my cousin Holland for pointing out that if you misread the word 'long' in the below post and mistakenly interpret it as 'thong' it becomes a completely different story. I was not shopping for a thong with fringe for my mother.

Speaking of interpretations, I attended the kids' Christmas program at school last week. This has become, shall we say, a labor of love, to attend year after year. (No, I'm not the Grinch, I take pictures and applaude and smile but come ON).

This year we have a new elementary choir director and she didn't know the program was supposed to be 2 1/2 hours long. She thought it was supposed to be 45 minutes. The audience was visibly giddy when she announced the closing number a mere 110 minutes earlier than anticipated.


The children provided excellent, quality music, spiritual refreshment and unintentional entertainment. The highlight of my night was watching the adorable kindergartener in the front row with giant pink bows in her stubby, blonde pigtails. She clearly did not appreciate having to spend her Friday night singing Christmas carols.

She continued to sing, however, loudly and demonstrably, with her arms folded across her chest and her cute little face all cinched up into a scowl that lasted most of the night. It was kind of like an elastic drawstring. It started off fine but then someone pulled the string and everything tightened up into one giant scowl. It could not be undone without significant effort.


When it came time for "Go Tell it on the Mountain" she sang as loudly as her little mouth would open, keeping her eyebrows furrowed in the drawstring scowl, arms across chest, one on top of the other. She scowled to the right, scowled to the left and scowled at the audience. But she was still singing, doggone it.

When I looked at her and she was telling me to, "Go Tell it on the Mountain," I got the impression she had an entirely different interpretation.

"Meat, please."

For the record, I have survived yet another atrocious Feast Day. Having recycled last year's costumes, I squeezed one more use out of them. The only faux pas came in the eyes of my six-year old son, Hudson. It involved face paint.

I have the artistic skills of Al Gore; I can barely draw stick people, let alone intricate cave drawings on human cheeks. But I make do. My speciality is arrows and stripes. After just finishing an exciting series of dots, suns and dashes, Hudson steps up and requests...meat.

I sit there with my row of brightly colored paints and a little paint brush in my hand, staring at this strange child with the stranger request. What do you mean?

"Meat. On this cheek."

"What do you mean, like a T-bone or a hamburger patty?" Seriously, where did this kid come from?

"Both."

So I attempt to draw some sort of meat gathering. It looks like Frankensteins spleen.

He looks in the mirror and disapproves. "That looks like a bridge."

I found myself apologizing for my lack of carnivorous painting skills, but promise to practice for next year. After some smooth talking on my part, he was good with the bridge, this year.

Right now, my cousin Holland is cringing with embarrassment, probably wondering how the genetic "Martha Stewart" gene completely skipped me. This Halloween she posted pics of her girls dressed in their cotton pickin' HOMEMADE, handwoven costumes. Holly Hobbie, Raggedy Ann and some sort of princess taffeta thing I can't remember because I was so dazed by the craftsmanship of the first two. I'm sure if her kids asked for meat on their face, she's whip up some highly detailed fillet mignon wrapped in bacon with a side of veal.

Note to Holland: next year the girls should be savage Indians. Then ship those
costumes to me.

A mother who is proud of her work would take lots of pictures and post them on her blog. Which is why you'll see none here.

Clean Up on Aisle 'What was I Thinking?'

Phew. It's a few minutes after midnight on the day of Feast Day. Costumes are presentable. The house is not. There's unwashed dishes and a broken vacuum leering at me. My nine year old daughter is having a birthday slumber party tomorrow (no school). I should probably start preparing for it but instead I sit here in a tête-à-tête with my monitor and cordless mouse thingee.

Starting to panic now...excuse me while I inhale whipped cream straight from the can.

Time Flies When Your Life is Hard Cheese

I'm so happy to be back in cyberworld! It's been a looooong time; I'll write more about that later. It involves a giant beaver, two car repairs and my mother on a motorcycle.

For awhile there my life seemed like one empty roll of toilet paper. I was trying to find a synonym for 'bad luck' so I consulted a thesaurus. Perhaps I really am lactose intolerant but I've never used 'hard cheese' as a synonym for bad luck. I will now though. You should too.

Anyway, tomorrow is the school Feast Day. Elementary kids are encouraged (read universally exiled if you don't) to dress up as either a Pilgrim or Indian. Unfortunately for my children, they have the hard cheese to have a mom who HAAAAATES crafts or crafty things.

The Indian costume seems to be the simplest. One year I tried the loin cloth route. Nope, not enough costume. Once I tried the small pox blanket route. Nope. Too hard to explain to kindergartners.

So now I've resorted to recycled Halloween costumes. Indian costumes I can find, Pilgrims-not so much.

A couple of years ago, when I had to make five costumes (I started sewing fringe on everything) I wrote a letter of protest to the school administration. I'm including it below. It got no results but I do think I garnered some sympathy for my kids.



To; Joyce J-----, elementary principal
From: Christina -----, mother
10/25/2005



Proposal to Disseminate the Traditions of Feast Day

I saw the announcement in the school newsletter. The words made my blood run cold. It’s beckoning so casual and carefree: “Children may come dressed as a Pilgrim or Indian at school today.”

These words so inviting to a child only camouflage the social injustice that is about to take place in the halls of an institution that prides itself on education and edification. It is a crime perpetrated against the most loving mothers and paid for by their innocent loved ones. The costumes themselves become a tool by which all measure of womanhood is measured.

“Children may come dressed…” Naïve mothers beware. This is not a suggestion. Your child must come dressed as a Pilgrim or Indian or become fodder of “the gifted” about maternal impostors.

For those among us who have no home economics skills this is not Feast Day but Beast Day. Those we counted as friends will rise up around us to flaunt their superior craftsmanship and mock our paltry attempts. We must clothe our children in futile replications of the first days and throw them in front of the slanderous offspring of the Beasts themselves.

They, who live by the code, “Craftiness is next to Godliness” parade their wares in animal skins, loin cloths, moccasins, tomahawks, papooses with newborn children all speaking fluent Iroquois.

Worse, my children will be made to feel inferior, less valuable and lowly of thought next to the children whose mothers have raised sheep, sheered them for wool and then spun on a homemade loom, blankets of vibrant school colors. Their spotless and shiny black shoes with perfect gold buckles are family heirlooms passed down from the first Pilgrims.

When I tried to make Pilgrim shoes for my sons, the displaced giant buckles made them look more like giant Leprechauns than Pilgrims. It is a painful memory.

They that languished with Martha Stewart while behind bars, gear up for this competition all year. The showmanship, the pageantry and the parading of all skills culminates on Feast Day each year. The least among us are made to slink off in the halls, weeping over the homemade Indian costume sheet with a head shaped hole, covered with what looks like a giant Tic Tac Toe game.

We are shoved into the cinder block hallway, nearly trodden in the stampede to gather around the mother that gently caresses her cultivated Petri dish of the “first small pox pandemic.” Of course, her daughter has translated the Mayflower Compact into an easy to ready haiku.

For mothers, who during the year, hem their sons pants by rolling them under and securing with duct tape, Feast Day is a day to dread and disparage, when all one’s insecurities are forced into the light of day for all to critique.

There should be a 12 step recovery program offered to those who must suffer the atrocities of Beast Day. It is my proposal that we abolish the traditions of representing the people groups present at the First Thanksgiving. Or, secretly provide underprivileged mothers with access to fabulous costumes.

Please help.


Signed,

Christina ____
-On behalf of Victims of Beast Day.

Shift Happens

Did you see that Tammy Faye Bakker Messner died? Wow, that brings back memories. I remember watching the last half hour of their televangelist show every day after I got off the school bus. It came on right before my favorite show, Kidd Video. Watching Kidd Video was the only way for me to hear the devil inspired rock music I was banned from hearing. At the end of each episode, they would play almost an entire rock song, which usually meant something by Genesis.

The only other time I heard rock music was when I'd sneak the radio into the bathroom and scan for every Michael Jackson song I could find. Being the product of Christian conservative parents, rock music was thought to be the demise of moral mankind. Proof of this is when Satan himself left messages in the music, backwards. So if you played the record backwards, you could hear a voice say, "OOOWWWWWWWWOUDRINKBEEROOURAAGH." Of course, promising to only listen to music in the forward position was not enough to grant me musical freedom. Forget the public school, television or my naughty neighbor, access to subliminally immoral messages would be quashed. That highway to hell was closed. Did anyone really listen to music backwards???

Anyway, I digress. Tammy Faye. I was enamored with her eyelashes, even though my mother wrought my admiration with doubt with her logical ripostes, insisting they were fake. I refused to believe it. Anyway, I always caught the end of the show where Tammy Faye was usually crying and singing at the same time and Jim was announcing how much money was needed for Prayerland or Bibleworld, or whatever the name of his amusement park was going to be. Why does God need a roller coaster, I'd wonder.

It is pretty sad, when you consider that she was only 65 years old. What started out as a great life took some pretty sinister turns for her. I'm sure she never thought she'd end up the butt of late night jokes or her makeup application would spawn t-shirt logos.

Weird how life shifts, both imperceptibly and tragically. She probably lived the life of an upstanding citizen, wife and mother, completely unsuspecting of her tumultuous future. Then again, maybe she listened to rock music.

Summer School

Speaking of summer reading, I usually try to concoct some sort of educational project for the kids and me to do together. I try to down play the academic aspect so as not to be accused of teaching in the summer.


I've tried a couple of things each summer...drawing class, grammar lessons (slight dip in popularity with that choice), zoology, astronomy...some worked, some are fodder for this blog.

There was the summer that I bought Latin workbooks and audio tapes. We had a great time trying to learn the basic construction of a dead language. We listened to the voice on tape pronounce the letters and sounds and we would repeat. It took almost an entire workbook to realize there was a very big reason these tapes were priced so low. Apparently, the narrator giving the Latin pronunciation spoke with a lisp, so the pronunciations weren't completely accurate. Instead of learning to speak Latin, we were, in actuality speaking Lathin.

Last summer I found a website called Teach Yourself Persian in 100 Easy Lessons. This became more practical than the Lathin. Having a working understanding of Persian, which is Farsi, a popular language spoken in Iran, carried over into matters of national security.
Believe it or not, when Mahmoud Ahmadinejad gave those caustic speeches to us Americans, I was the only one in the free world who could accurately translate his diatribe. Instead of screeching about oil and bombs he was actually auditioning for a spot on The View. Several key elements in his speeches were misrepresented in a malevolent light. Instead of bloodshed, he actually said, "I like to wear expensive suits," and "How can I get on Wheel of Fortune?" But nobody else really knows that.

Plus, when you don't have anyone to practice a language with, you lose it pretty quickly. So now the only word I remember in Farsi is frog, which doesn't come in handy on a daily basis, but if it's ever a Jeopardy! question, I'm all over that.

Six bedrooms, 2.5 baths, clothing optional..

Ethan and Hudson stood at the open kitchen doors, looking out into the cow pasture. A small spider must have swung in from a web above (outside the house, of course). The following conversation took place. The voices are real, not actors:

"Spiders, eeewww!"

"We need to move to town so we don't have spiders."

"Yeah, that's true. No spiders or flies. They're gross"

"But if we lived in town, we couldn't run around outside in our underwear."

"Oh, that's true. That won't work then, we'll have to live here."

"You're smart Hudson."

"That's what happens when you're eleven minutes older Ethan."

Realtors take note: To get "the edge" you're looking for in this buyer's market, don't neglect to advertise this obvious benefit:

The ability to run around outside in your skivvies.

Watch your profits rise.

Omne initium est difficile - Every beginning is difficult

The past is but the beginning of a beginning, and all that is and has been is but the twilight of the dawn. -H.G. Wells

February 13, 2001. (great scanning skills, I know)



May 29, 2007.






I thought I would be more distraught, but maybe that's a delayed reaction and it will hit me next week. The twins graduated from kindergarten this week. My youngest. The last of five. I kept thinking through the whole ceremony, how difficult it is to put this feeling into words. When you get to this point, do you just use all the applicable cliches? They grow up so fast, Enjoy it while they're young, Time flies, It seems like just yesterday...

It does seem like just yesterday.

But I can't remember all of yesterday, only bits and pieces. Then I wonder, am I too careless with the memories? Will they come and go through the years or will I eventually just lose the past all together? I remember incidents and accidents, but I can't recall their little voices, the smells, the feel, the intangibles that occured each and every day. The ones I swore I'd remember.

Believe me, I'm not missing the potty training days or the 'run from mom in different directions' days. But I do miss the "I can't live without mom" days. Maybe I'm sad because those diplomas represent the little piece of time that's creeping closer.

With each passing year, they seem to need less and less of me. And now, instead of wishing for one day to myself, I want less days with just me and more days with just them. It's a helpless feeling to watch your kids grow up. We're powerless to stop it, yet we anticipate it at the same time. It's death and life all rolled together.

We were at a restaurant the other day when Ethan grabbed a huge steak knife and used it to butter his bread. I was watching his new found independence out of the corner of my eye. When he was done he put the knife down, held up all ten fingers and loudly announced, "Look, I used the knife and I still have all my fingers."

That's one more step away from me.

These graduation days are coming too quickly. Enjoy it while it lasts, They grow up so quickly, Time flies...



Hudson, age 6. Life motto: "I'll play against you in soccer and I will school you, you understand."


Ethan, age 6. Life motto: "WOOHOOOOOO! Life is best lived mildly out-of-control."

Survival of the Wettest

I survived the party. The house is finally quiet. The party went relatively well even though I feel like I aged 20 years.

The day was a blur of squirt guns, barefooted boys running through the house leaving a trail of water behind them, tissue paper being flung from gift bags, birthday cake and ice cream melting on abandoned plates and lots and lots of squealing.

The next milestone birthday isn't for another 18 months. I intend to spend everyday until then in rehab.

*Note to self: Rethink the squirt gun/ water balloon idea.

Although, a friend of mine let us borrow her life size sling shot, you know, the kind that takes three people to use and is made with surgical tubing. In a moment of brilliance, I came up with this killer game idea. I told the kids that if they could catch a water balloon as it was being launched 20 feet in the air at warp speed, they would win a prize. From the second story window, the "adults" in the house launched water balloons directly at the little devils for a good three minutes.

Is it my fault they don't grasp the concept of physics? That was good for a few laughs until the smart ones wandered off. Sissies.

Party like it's $19.99

Birthday Parties. They sure aren't what they used to be. What happened to cake and ice cream and red punch in paper cups? What happened to cheering wildly while some poor kid is forced to blindly stick something on a donkey's butt? What happened to opening a few presents and going home?

I don't think my mom ever spent more than $19.99 on any of my birthday parties. And that was the combined total for my entire childhood.

Today I will attempt a birthday for Dylan who is turning the big 1-0. Double digits. We told our kids that we would have one big party for them when they hit double digits and then another big one when they hit triple digits. We try to keep expectations low, that way they're surprised when we do something unexpected.

We have invited 20 fourth graders. It's the entire class because we didn't want to exclude anyone, even though I have a list of kids I'd like to personally hit with a water balloon.

The plan was to have water balloons, squirt guns, soccer, volleyball, outdoor games, outdoor food and outdoor bathrooms. HEY! We could use the port-o-johns that are in our front yard! Plaid Nation won't mind, they're on a three day weekend.

But, now it's supposed to rain. Now is when I'm going to officially freak out. Would it be wrong of me to stay inside with the doors locked?

I need some chocolate. Where are those goody bags? Those kids don't need all that chocolate.

The Things You can Learn from the Bible

My 10 year old son Dylan is a quirky child. His perspective on life is delightfully obscured. We spent the afternoon at one of his soccer tournaments. During the game I could see one 10 year old boy from the opposing team talking to Dylan throughout the game in a volume too low to understand but with body language universally understood.

He had to be the child of the obnoxious dad who kept snarling from the sidelines. I asked Dyl later what the kid was saying to him.

"Oh, he was gushing folly in my ear."

"Gushing folly? Where did you hear that phrase?"

"Oh, you know, the Bible."

Huh, who knew? I guess that is a more tasteful way to say, 'trash talkin'.

On a side note: What's wrong with parents? For the love of Pete, they're kids. I've heard kids being berated verbally from the sidelines, heard parents be screamed at by their little angels on the field, seen parents encourage their athlete to 'teach that kid a lesson,' 'give 'em an elbow to the head', 'show him who's in charge' and other such provocative threats. No one is exempt. I've heard coaches being belittled by their own players, heard coaches drop the F** bomb on their own 10 year old players and parents turn on each other.

What turns normally decent human beings into fanatically insecure and rabidly desperate spectators who use children as pawns to feed their own ego? (That's my own unprofessional assessment). To get a good dose of this epidemic, wander over to your local soccer field and sit amongst the parents of the kids who are playing. It will turn you stomach. Granted, it's not the English Premier League, but give it time and we'll be trampling the refs.

End of side note-

In another instance of biblical education, Dylan enlightened me as to the result of kissing when one is still an elementary school student.

"Why? What will I happen?" I ask out of curiosity.

"You can get an STD. So don't kiss because something bad will be transmitted, like the chicken pox or bad grades."

"Where did you learn that?"

"From the Bible."

Hmmm. Would I be bad mom if I let him believe that until he's 30?

I almost forgot-my favorite and most likely to embarrass him if he reads this. One day he was doing the universal male dance for "I got hit somewhere embarrassing and it reaaaaaally hurts." With four boys around the house, we have an assortment of names with which to refer to the male region most susceptible to pain.

"Owwww. He hit me in my man's weakness," Dylan squeals.

"Your man's weakness? Let me guess-you learned that from the Bible?"

"No. From school," with an incredulous look that obviously said, "duh."