The Fine Print

One of the hopes and dreams that parents have for their children is that their kids will be good readers and will love the written word. At this house, we surround the kids with books (We go so far as to risk them being lost in the maze of their father's theology books (ahem), but that is another topic for another time.). We read aloud, we buy books on cd and mp3 because Mommy's voice give out too quickly, and they see us reading. Even as I type, Bams is rolling around in a big pile of board books. He picks them up, turns them over, pats them, turns the pages and studies them intently. He also chews on them, trying to fully digest their content, but he will learn and board books are chocked full of fiber.

The only problem with books is that they contain IDEAS which are pass on to susceptible little minds. And IDEAS have CONSEQUENCES, like stopped up toilet. But I am getting ahead of myself. My children have a flair for the dramatic. Where they got that from, I have no idea, but it is there in large quantities. They read something, then they must draw it, then they must. act. it. out. We have had numerous productions of Frog and Toad, Little Bear and the like. Richard Scarry is a favorite, but it has only gotten to the "draw teeny-tiny picture and have Mommy cut them out for magnets" stage.

Help, Mommy's hand has a cramp.

Keeping Boo interested in a book that does not involve trains can be a bit tricky. So we have turned to comic books much to the chagrin of my Charlotte Mason loving soul. I am pretty sure Calvin and Hobbes is not on the Ambleside 3rd grade reading list, but high interest it is. When the books came in the mail, immediately all activity stopped and the books were poured over. Giggles were heard, snatches were read aloud with great expression and questions were asked. Days later I heard a great commotion coming from downstairs. Boo was standing outside the bathroom door, pounding on it and yelling out threatenings to Snoo inside who, in turn, was giving it right back to him. When asked what was going on, they explained that they were playing "Revenged of the Babysat" where Rosalynn, the babysitter, is trying to get her study notes back from Calvin who is locked in the bathroom threatening to flush them down the toilet. You see where this is going, right? It seems hilarious and entertaining, but I just recently had to unclogged a toilet. So now it is ex nay on the Calvin and Hobbes productions.

Now some Garfield books are on the way. To the best of my recollection, there are no toilets involved in these books, just lasagna, sleep (maybe it will give them ideas) and spider splatting (which would be very helpful seeing as I hate spiders). Win-win-win. Oh, but there is the drop kicking of Odie. Foiled again. I wonder which one is going to be Odie.

To Everything, Turn, Turn

Mark today down in the history books, peoples, because today I took a spinning class. The instructor was a kind friend who was giving a free class to any takers. And I said, "yes, please." It is time to get rid of some of the baby padding.

Now in case you are not in the know, spinning is the equivalent of biking up the Matterhorn minus the scenery. Lance Armstrong, I am not. He does not have to worry about a challenge from me. The class is an hour long. You heard that right, an hour. I am expected to perch my adult size tookus on a toddler size bicycle seat for 60 minutes. My tookus will never be the same. Mercifully, the room is dark so the eyes of the person behind me do not suffer permanent damage and neither does my ego.

Our instructor is loverly and fit in spandex. I am not in raggedy yoga pants and a hot pink tee. But again, the darkened room comes in handy. We were told to listen to our bodies and not overdo it. Actually, my body was telling me to run far, far away, but I put a gag in its mouth and climbed up on that bike.

You pedal and pedal and pedal and think that you are almost done, when a voice informs you that you are now halfway through the class. Come again? Someone needs to get their watch fixed. At one point when we were standing and pedaling (which is a challenge for me because my knees don't work right), I had to sit down or fall off the bike. I was asked if I was okay. I nodded my head "yes" and replied that I was coasting. There has to be a little bit of downhill. Wheeeeeeeeee! There was a time when I though I wanted to quit, but I persevere and realized that in a situation like this my body has a point where, if I push through, it just gives in and finds that it cannot stop even if it wanted to. I have come this far, I can't. stop. now.

Hydration is a must. I had a bottle of water, but it wasn't quite big enough, so by the end of the class I had run out a few miles back, halfway down the mountain. It was a good thing that I was riding in front of the fan or I would have been cooking in my own sweat. I think I need to hire someone to wipe my brow and hand off drinks and snacks.

So that was my first spin class. I am now sitting comfy at home, and I hurt so good. This was one of the most difficult activities I have ever done. And I am going to do it again. And pay money for it. Crazy, no.

Renaming

Hunka-Hunka has been back for almost a week and yet this blog is still neglected. I guess I have just run out of funny for now .

I was going to say that I have been busy blowing up balloons for the kids and, therefore, have run out of hot air. But that excuse ain't going to fly. Get it. Hot air. Fly. Never mind.

Maybe I have just been using other things to avoid blogging. I call it renaming, and it's not just for the new math any more. I am very good at renaming things (a.k.a. excuses) to get away from the cold hard truth. It's not being behind on the laundry, the laundry is couch insulation. It's not being behind on cleaning the bathroom, it's a home school science project. It's not lack of meal planning, it's teaching survival techniques or the poor man's Chopped. Open the fridge. You have 20 minutes to fix a meal from...1) moldy cheese, 2) limp lettuce, 3) unidentifiable meat, 4) hoisen sauce. Go! (Oh, I love me some Chopped. Just don't ask me to eat anything that they fix. Throwdown with Bobby Flay on the other hand? Bring it on!)

Notice that I have excellent couch insulation.

I also use this technique to console myself on food that gets push to the back of the fridge (The Island of Misfit Food) and forgotten about. When I find said food I think to myself, "It's not meat or milk that I don't know if it is safe to eat, it's cat food." Or, "It's not vegetables that are wilted and moldy, it's compost." See, now it isn't food and money that has been wasted, it's premium cat food and green living that have been found.

So, I have been too busy with other things to write on my blog. I hope to get some stuff written soon or show some of the projects I am working on (more avoidance techniques). But I want to assure you that right now, at this very moment, I am not avoiding the bathrooms, the laundry, the meals or the dust, I am blogging.

And Great Was the Fall of It

Have you ever wondered what it felt like to do something crazy or scary? For instance, at the university I attended, we had chapel four days a week. It was held in a large auditorium that held 6,000 (I think). I would be sitting there wondering what it would feel like to stand up in the middle of chapel and start screaming, singing or just talking. Then I would start thinking “I could just stand up right now and there is nothing to stop me.” Then I would be afraid that I was actually going to do it, so I would sit there and grip the armrest tightly to prevent myself from standing up and making a fool out of myself.

Anywhoo, I always wondered what it felt like to fall off of a horse. I accomplished that task (though it was not on my Bucket List), and I am alive to relate that experience to you. But first a little background information for you as to our life with horses and why I am thinking about them today.

I always take news of an impending business trip with calm, grace and fortitude, but when I realize that this means I have to take care of the horse, to put it mildly, I get upset. Now I like the horse. But I just don't like to take care of it. I am not the pioneering type. For starters the barn is located up Mount Everest behind our house, and I am loath to climb up to it with a zillion cats swarming around my ankles. Let me draw you a diagram.

Invariably, I forget about the horse until about midnight, and then I have to trek out to the barn in the pitch black dead of night with every scary scene of every episode of Criminal Minds that I have ever watched racing through my mind.

I have to admit that I drove the van up there one day this week for a feeding. But alas, it has rained, and that steep a grade mixed with rain and my van do not a good thing make.

We did have two horses, a mother and daughter, named Babe and Penny. Though they were always referred to as a single unit, "BaveandPenny”, by Boo. Babe was a huge horse. Hunka-Hunka is 6'5" so he looked normal on Babe. The rest of us looked like we were atop an elephant. We acquired the horses, and indeed the farm, because of Boo and his autism. We wanted him to be someplace where he could be outside and run, jump and wander. We had read about using horses with autistic children and decided to try it with the Boo.

Now I said “did have two horses”. We are, unfortunately, down to one. About a year ago we lost Babe. Boo referred to her last week by saying, “When the dark brown horse rises from the dead, he will be alive again.” He is fuzzy on the resurrection bit. Babe was also a girl so he is also fuzzy on the gender bit. But Babe was a wonderful horse. The few times I rode her, she was so easy to direct. When she galloped, she slipped smoothly into her stride, and it was easy to match it.

Before Bams was a glint in Hunka-Hunka's eye, he had a dream of us riding together, the wind whipping through our hair with strains of "A Man from Snowy River" playing in the background. Okay, maybe not, but he did want us to ride together. at night. out on the road. We had no cleared, flat place to ride on our property (refer to diagram a). Now this was quite safe because there are very few cars on our road and at night it's easier to see them coming.

The opportunity finally arose during the months my parents were staying with us when they moved down and were looking for a house. Hunka-Hunka got the horses ready and met me at the house. I rode Babe because she was the calmer, steadier of the two even though she was so big. We rode off into the dark. It was quite exhilarating. The air was cool. You could see all the stars and hear all the night sounds. We galloped a bit, and on a horse like Babe, it was easy. We rode to the top of a hill and looked down over the houses in the small valley. As we turned to go, Hunka-Hunka asked me whether I wanted to go further or head home. All I heard was 'head home" and, being a good little wifey, I did just that. Well, he didn't have time to warn me that when Babe heads home, she means business, so you have to keep a tight rein on her. As I turned her head toward home, Babe was off. I was not worried at first. But as we came to the first turn, I became concerned about what would happen should a car be approaching.

What happened next was one of those happenstances that happened too fast. I pulled on the reins to slow Babe down. As she changed strides, my foot slipped out of the stirrup and I was bounced sideways. Providentially, I let go of the reins which at that time were not wrapped around my hands, my other foot did not get tangled in the stirrup and I was bounced away from Babe and not under her feet. The fall was surreal and, I like to think, graceful. It actually seemed like it was happening in slow motion. My only thought was “I'm falling off of a horse. I always wondered what that would be like.” It never crossed my mind that this was going to hurt. And then I hit the road. Yes, the road, not the soft, springy grass at the side of the road.

Babe stopped for a bit, but when Hunka-Hunka caught up to us she took off again. At first Hunka-Hunka, who had no clue what was going on, saw me lying in the road and thought I was a dog from one of the nearby houses. Ummm, thanks, Hon. But in his defense it was dark, and he did not say “I thought it was a massive, ugly, rabid mutt”. Small mercies.



He implored me to arise and walk because he did not want me to be squished like a bug by any oncoming cars. I, on the other hand, had the breath knocked out of me so hard that I thought I would never draw breath again. All I could manage was a very quiet “aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”. Then I remember looking up at the sky and wondering at all the bright stars. Like I said, surreal.

I finally was able to take a blessed gulp of air and slowly get to my feet. When I was up Hunka-Hunka took off for home. He needed to get to Babe before she ran into a car, and he needed to get the van to come get me because there was no way on this earth that I was crawling back on another horse even if I was physically able (which we were unsure of at the time). I started to walk toward home thankful that it only hurt when I breathed, thankful that I was alive, thankful that the night sky was so pretty and wondering what in the world was taking Hunka-Hunka so long.

It really didn't take him long to arrive in the van. We went home, told my parents and then went to the emergency room. No broken bones, no bruises, just unable to move for about a week. That's when I decided that since I was a mother with small children, I needed not to do such things again.

So to sum it all up, falling off a horse is easy and painless. It's hitting the asphalt that hurts. You're welcome.

Edited to Add: Like I said in the comments, I look back on the experience fondly because, for a whole week after, I got to sit in a chair the whole time and be waited on hand and foot. It was like a mini vacation. That didn't even happen after my last c-section. Win-win.

Temporarily Out of My Mind

Hunka-Hunka is out of town. AGAIN. That is why posting has been and will be, at best, sporadic. I have forewarned Hunka-Hunka's boss that if another business trip is planned in the near-to-distant future, it will be on like Donkey-Kong. I know many, many wives and moms have husbands and fathers gone for far longer, and that there are many, many single moms who are doing it alone for the long haul. I respect and revere them.

But I also know that we each have our own unique set of circumstances that bring its own set of stressors. Mine involves an autistic little guy who loves his father beyond measure, inquires several times a day to said father's whereabouts, breaks out into tearful and mournful little "now I will never see my daddy again"s, and does not sleep well. At. All. And he has a cold which, for some reason, requires him to wake up at 3 am excoriating his sister for sleeping in the boys' room. There is also a little girl whose energy and vocal cords know no bounds and a baby who still wakes up at least two times during the night to nurse. Rare is the night that I get over five hours of sleep. When Hunka-Hunka is here he tries to give me as many naps as possible. So what I am saying is I may or may not be firing on all cylinders. Pity me, people! Or more likely, pity my children.

Now the logical thing to do would be to call in the reserves, but logic has never been my strong suit. Many people graciously offer help by saying "just call if you need anything." And I know that they sincerely mean it. But I have a strange irrationality that gets in the way of that call. It is almost physically impossible for me to ask for help. In my diseased imagination, if someone really wants to help they will say "don't call me, I'll call you", but in a good way. Or, if you look like you need help, then they will automatically be giving you a date and time that they will be there saying "what do you need right now?" and will not take the old "nothing. We're fine," for an answer. For them to say "call if you need anything" signals to me that I don't look stressed out enough. But here is my rule of thumb, if I am breathing, I need help. Simple, no.

But the fault is all my own, and the laundry piles up, the dishes pile up, the causes and/or cures of sixteen diseases continue to grow unfettered in my bathrooms, and my already tenuous grasp on reality slips farther afield. Rome burns, and it refuses to use a lifeline.

But should someone break through the nonsense and set up a date and time to come to my house, I will be sent into a mad panic of cleaning. By the time they arrive the house will be spotless and fresh baked cookies will be ready on the counter for our tea and tete-a-tete. They will leave wondering why they though I needed help, and I will have prolonged a visit from Hoarders and the DSS for yet another day. Then in a few short minutes, the delicate balance will be tipped and all the junk that I have stuffed into various closets and hidey holes will be disgorged back onto the floors. I will be back where I started. But at least there will be fresh cookies.

There is, however, a glimmer of hope. Day follows night until Friday arrives bring in Hunka-Hunka on the Red Eye. Life is good.

So this week, I will rock the baby and treat the kids. These years will not last forever. This is a good thing and bad one. Life is good.

Citizens of the World

My children have always been a bit confused geographically speaking. They are confused in other ways as well, but that is another topic for another day. Today it's all about geography.

I have always wanted geography to be an organic part of the kids' life. To that end maps of the world and of the United States were placed at eye level for them to explore and find locations that we would talk about. Now this is all well and good, and even, dare I say it, brilliant. We started out identifying Italy because it is shaped like a boot, and kids find that fact to be wonderful. But somehow along the way the kids have forgotten where they are from or have started not to care. Instead, they have just started picking out places where they claim to be citizens.

For Boo it started out to be, not surprisingly, Italy. He would claim that he and his father were it fact from Italy. And he could point to it on the map. Now, his father is German. Boo knows this. He knows that Daddy, Oma and Opa speak German. But he was, for a time, convinced that they were Italian. Maybe it came about because of their mutual love of all things spaghetti. Now he wants to live in Chicago because he is "a city kid, not a country kid" and, of course, Chicago has every kind of train imaginable. He is also in love with California because Lightening McQueen goes there to race. Greece is high on his list, but I think this is because he believes it to be overrun with colorful Mini Coopers, thanks to a history dvd in which the host zooms all over the place in the jaunty Coopers.

They also are a little shaky on the time and space thing. When we go on a trip to visit Grandnanny in Louisiana, they always want to know where we are. If you tell them Alabama, they will shout out "No, this is Atlanta, GA." They get themselves so confused, and it provides them with hours of material to argue about. Not that they need any help in that department.

This geographical oddity has spilled over into their language. Snoo is convinced that she can speak German. They are learning the language and will, no doubt, in the near future be able to carry on conversations that I cannot understand. But, as of now, the skill is limited. That does not stop the Snoo. She told her father one day that she knew how to say "volcano" in German. It sounded something like "Vaaaalcaaaanoooooo". They love the books "Frog and Toad" and were delighted to learn that "frog" in German was "Frosch". Then they wanted to know how to say "toad". I told them that I didn't know so Snoo decided to educate us all. "Mommy, it's 'Frosch and Toasch'." (It is actually "Kroete" but once she has set her mind upon something, she cannot be dissuaded.) Now they can't be faulted for this language complication. It's hereditary. As a child I believed that if I added an extra "a" or "o" sound to the end of every word, it amounted to being bilingual on my part. Ia hava skillza. Voila! That's French.

To further complicate matters, my children can speak with perfect British accents and vocabulary should the situation call for it, which they frequently think it does. I blame this all on Winnie the Pooh, Kipper, Frances and Dame Edna Everage. They have expansive memories so books and programs full of British dialogue has been committed to memory. Flashlights are torches. Vacations are holidays. Lollipops are lollies. Many the sideways glance we have received while they hold forth in character.

I hope to travel abroad with these characters some day, to explore new places together. We will see if the world at large knows how to deal with these AmeriGermItaltish children.

Something's Gotta Give

I have had it, and so has Markus. That's when you know it's bad. We have tried and tried to keep the playroom from becoming "The Pit of Despair", but so far it's Kids: 1 googleplex, Parents: 0 . I have seen with my own eyes, children standing by the bookshelf, looking at a book and then letting the book drop from their hand and land with a plop on top of the pile of previously dropped and plopped books. They have taken clear containers of toys, opened them up just to "see" what's inside, and then dump them out of the floor moving on to the next container. The end result is that it looks like Toys R Us barfed on the playroom floor. Wait a moment, I lie. There are toys in Toys R Us that will never ever make their way into my house. Toys, such like Bratz dolls, anything Hannah Montana, WWF figures or any toy pet or doll that require me to take care of their poopies, will have be banned from the premises.

So the plan is to teach the children to pick up their toys and put them away after use by turning the guest/storage/exercise/ironing room into the toy keeper room. (Though I am sure the children will refer to it as The Toy Jail.) This room will be locked, and we will have the only key. They can get one thing out at a time to play with and then they have to put it up before they can get another toy. Eventually, so the theory goes, they will be in the habit of putting their toys away so we will no longer have to lock the door unless they relapse into their evil ways.

Markus is the one that came up with this plan, though I have seen other households that have implemented similar ideas. I am on board with this plan, but I do have a few misgivings that I shall spell out below.

1.) Since I am the parent at home all day, this means I am going to have to get my tookus up and down the stairs every time someone wants a toy. Maybe this plan is also a sneaky way Markus came up with to get me to exercise. Have to keep an eye on that one.

2.) I am envisioning fussing children draped over my person or banging on the bathroom door begging for me to open The Sacred Portal to Toy Joy. I might have to get them timers to wear to put some time limits on things like whining and toy exchanging or how long they have left until mommy loses it.

So there you have it. Our mission is clear. We just need a name for this mission. How about Operation Mommy Sanity Saver. That has a nice ring to it.