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.

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.

Pulling in the Welcome Mat

You know how when you go to Moe's and open the door everyone yells, "Welcome to Moe's!". Well, I have the feeling that the next time we go, they are going to yell "Not You Again!"

The kids and I were set to have a loverly lunch with Miss Meggie, a.k.a. The Tickle Monster. Well, Boo (my oldest) was already out of sorts having been made to give up The Precious (my iTouch) so his sister (Snoo) could have a turn. Bams (the baby) is in that stage where whenever I get out of eyesight, he turns into a snotty mess, but it is the cutest snotty mess you have ever seen.

This can't end well, right?

We start to eat. Both Boo and Snoo are inhaling their quesadillas so they can call dibs on The Precious. Bams is still recovering from the trauma of me leaving to purchase our victuals. In the midst of all the confusion, Boo knocks over his drink. Now the Boo has high functioning autism. Part of his special little cocktail of autism is various sensory issues. He is already wearing jeans the texture of which he detests, and wet jeans are just going to knock him over the proverbial edge.

We are trying to sop up some of the wetness and come up with a new seating plan that meets Boo's rigid standard of what is acceptable. While going to collect more napkins, Boo slips on a piece of ice from his spilled drink and wipes out on the floor. Major meltdown occurs. Ah, the joys of autism. I can understand any kid being upset, but we are talking weeping and wailing of apocalyptic proportions coming from what appears to be a neurotypical eight year old.

Now having a kid with autism has brought me to a place where I could care less of what people think of me and my parenting skills, because they can never understand the challenges of autism, and I could never explain it to them. But I do want to help bring Boo to a place where he can know the satisfaction of controlling his emotions and being able to function in society.

By the time we sooth the Boo and restore order to the scene, I am about ready to throw in the taco and call it a day. But Miss Meggie takes the baby and everyone calms down so Momma can finish her lunch.

Just thinking about it right now exhausts me. I do love me some Moe's. However, I don't know if Moe's or I can handle another lunch like that anytime soon.