Boudica's Babies

Slacker Blogging Mommy

2007-03-13T08:15:00.000-05:00

Wow!

Has it really been over two months since I last posted?!?

So much has happened to cause this lapse. I think a lot of it can be attributed to the late winter doldrums. Also, there has been family turmoil. My step-son decided out of the blue to move back with his mom. I have been researching and planning what to do with the rest of my life (after the kids are all in school, I will go back to work, but not in human resources again). I have taught myself a new skill (kind of)--knitting--after "inheriting" my grandmother's supplies since her arthritis makes it impossible for her now (recently, Grandma became very ill and we almost lost her. She has since mostly recovered, but she is still somewhat weak. I think I started knitting--because it was something she loved and when I do it, I feel close to her in a way. The clicking of the needles is the one comforting sound I remember from a chaotic childhood). I have been reading many novels, feeding my literary addiction when I can. The old computer died and had to be replaced with a new one. And I have been working, which consumes more of my energy than I realized.

Speaking of my job, I must say I love it: not because it is challenging or rewarding, or even easy or pays lots of cash (it doesn't). No, I love it because it is a scientific study in human behavior. My co-workers are mostly poor, hardworking college students or "Lifers"--employees that have made the Club their lifetime career, having worked there for 15, 20, or even thirty or more years. It is interesting to contrast the attitudes and actions of us working stiffs to those of the Members. The Members are the upper 1%: the wealthy. Included in their number are politicians, judges, plastic surgeons, CEOs, professional athletes, and trust fund babies. The contrast is striking. One thing that truly amazes me is just how cheap these rich bastards are. They will save a buck any way they can. One sure fire way is not to tip. Ever. Yep, these elite owners of most of the GNP can't tip a buck to the driver (or waitress, or whomever) even though they probably wipe their asses with 100 dollar bills. However, their cheapness is just the tip of the iceberg. You would not believe the drinking and whoring and drugs these guys do. The Members' Dionysian festivals of sheer debauchery I have witnessed (not to mention some of the stories I have heard from the older employees) are astounding. They make regular old college frat parties look like child's play. Or what liberties these guys think they can take with the peons that serve them. I recently became involved in a battle of wills with one member who tried to persuade me to be his personal chauffeur and date to the clubs. The alpha male in a group he was taking out on the town--showing a good time, he tried to impress them with his authority over peons like me by trying to bribe and bully me with the promise of lots of money to haul his drunk, pompous ass around all night (as his personal chauffeur and escort, of course, a completely official job duty, "part of his membership dues" as he put it) and became pissy and hostile when I declined and stood my ground. I walked away without a tip (obviously) but my dignity and pride intact. Another time a guy (a kid to me, at least ten years younger than me) called me "honey cakes" or something similarly ridiculous, and I had to restrain myself from puking on his feet. Sometimes, when the shuttle is overloaded with drunk basketball fans and they are sardined up to right behind the driver's seat, I can feel them "accidentally" touching my hair (it is one thing to bump into the back of my head, another entirely to run your fingers through my hair--I may not make a lot of money and be working a service industry job, but that doesn't mean I'm stupid: I know the difference.). When this happens, it is impossible to tell who did it as the shuttle is crowded and I don't want myself or the passengers injured as I negotiate the heavy downtown traffic. Many of them feel the need to touch my arm or my back as they exit the shuttle--a pat on the back or arm that lasts just a moment too long. These guys have bought a higher level of piggishness with their money, a lack of manners and class that most men will never be able to afford and can only ever aspire to, I guess. In fairness, they aren't all bad. Just some rotten apples.

Do you believe that this wimpy paragraph of a post has taken me two and a half hours to write? Yes, my boys are high maintenance today. Many fights. Many tears. Many toys banished to the high towers of the entertainment center better known as Toy Heaven.

A twin story and some holiday memories

2007-01-05T12:21:00.000-06:00

Can I just say: Thank heavens the holidays only come around once a year. I am entirely spent and partied out. Thus my obvious blog neglect. I haven't even switched to the new improved highfalutin' Bloggoogle yet. For shame.

Anyway, I have a quick twin story to tell then it is off to my various jobs of fixing lunch, putting fellers down for naps and getting ready for work. I mentioned before my employer's rather tedious requirement of Showering--yeah, it's 12:30 PM and I haven't done that yet. Looks like I won't until around 2-3PM today. C'est la vie!

Okay, back to my twin story...

About four of five days ago, maybe longer (with all the celebrating and working and general running around we have done for the last two weeks the days are all blurring together), Boompas' eye started looking red and puffy. On Wednesday we noticed that it was only getting worse. In fact, as Hubz put it, he was looking rather like Rocky Balboa after one of his rare losing fights. Fortunately, there is a new walk in urgent care clinic in town for all of the inconvenient timing that childhood injuries and illness exhibit (when do kids ever get sick or need stitches during office hours???). So I took Boompas on his first solo (un-twined) outing to the walk-in clinic. It was very strange--for both of us.

At first, he was fine with it: flirting with the receptionist and hopping (his preferred mode of travel lately) around the waiting room. I caught myself several times saying "they're usually... they do this...they don't" when describing him--Boompas. Also, I slipped into every brief conversation I had with anyone that he was a twin. Why, why, why? Why couldn’t I just let him be Boompas in his one solo outing--why did I insist on dragging his twin into it? I tell myself all the time I am raising them as individuals, yet the first chance I get to prove it I immediately set out to diminish his individuality. Shame on me. And Boompas, by the time we actually got into the doc's office he was asking for his twin, "Where Stink? Stink, where are doo?!". In the car on the way home after sitting patiently in the backseat for about five minutes he said, "Mommy. I want Stink. I mit him. Where Stink?" My heart just melted for him. As soon as he walked in the door, the two boys ran to each other squealing with glee and Stink told Boompas, "Take your dacket off!" and unzipped his coat. The whole event really made me realize that even though they may tease each other, steal each other's toys, wrestle and fight they have a very strong bond that I will never fully understand.

****

Some holiday memories I never want to forget:

1) Eighty-Eight Fingers' cover of Feliz Navidad complete with dance moves and singing from the solar plexus. His version rocks!

2) The Fellers Boompas and Stink singing and dancing to Stinkle Bells (their pronunciation) when Santa came to Great Grandma's Christmas Eve party and the smile this brought to Great Grandma's face (she came down with Bell's Palsy right before Christmas--a strange virus that paralyzes one side of your face--and was very depressed about it).

3) EEF helping me decorate the putzy butter cookies: painting on the egg white and sprinkling with (too much--like a mountain of) colored sugar and nuts.

4) The Feller's delight in the holiday. They are almost three now and starting to "Get it" about holidays and birthdays and reasons to have lots of fun.

Have I waited long enough, Doc?

2006-11-28T16:29:00.000-06:00

I have written here several times about my concerns for my middle boy, my whirlwind, my three-foot bundle of mischief, my Eighty-Eight Fingers. Never fear, trouble will find him wherever he goes. Just see my last post to update yourself to his latest antics.

So you can imagine my dread at seeing the school's phone number on my caller ID today. Of course it was his teacher. Of course there was another bus write-up (the to-school bus this time just to switch it up a bit) where he apparently scratched another child and left a mark. Of course he has also been showing signs of impulsivity in class including trouble waiting his turn, keeping on task, etc. Of course, none of this is surprising to me.

Very troubling to learn he is injuring kids in his ferocious joviality--for that is what it is to him. Around other kids in an unstructured environment he becomes almost manic in his playfulness, every time. He isn't violent--simply easily overstimulated and can't stop himself, loses control. He is really a smart, sweet kid. But it is like he has no volume dial, no gears, no off switch. He is either awake and full speed or asleep and off. And this world--his world is not equipped to handle that.

So I did the thing I have been dreading, yet I have known is inevitable. I agreed with his teacher to set up the meeting and go forward with the testing for ADHD. I called his pediatrician and she concurred. Do it now. As soon as possible, she said. Then make a follow-up appointment with her to discuss possible medications.

My heart is overwhelmed with sorrow for the boy, dread for him of the challenges he will face, fear for his future. I think this is the right thing, but I feel so uncertain. I mean the poor boy is constantly in trouble: EEF Sit down, EEF settle down, EEF slow down, EEF don't touch that, EEF don't do that, etc. That can't be good for his self-image. And he certainly can't be getting so overwhelmed that he is hurting other kids. Absolutely not. But I am so not sure of setting him on the path of labels and medication and psych evals at five years old, sentencing him to a life long struggle. It just seems so tragic. And it is my job--his mother--to impose this sentence, for I have no doubt what the outcome of the testing will conclude. It is a hard pill to swallow (no pun intended) for my boy and myself.

Pre-Thanksgiving fun

2006-11-27T08:36:00.000-06:00

This is not a Thanksgiving post. My Thanksgiving was nice but very anti-climatic. It was more like a Regular Day, except we spent it at my Father-in-Law's where my (step-) MIL made some truly scrumptious food. I am always thankful for delicious food especially when someone else cooks it!

Why was my Thanksgiving anti-climatic? Because it followed what proved to be a truly bizarre Tuesday. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving was fraught with events that alone would have made the day interesting and long and emotional. Taken all together and topped off with a (*thankfully* dead) night at work, it made for a most overwhelming day.

Event I:

Yes, this is another tale in what is becoming a Feller Preschool Saga. Is it any wonder I never leave the house alone with these three little men?

It started like any other Tuesday. The weather was mild, the sun shining. The Fellers were adequately cooperative getting ready for preschool. Everyone was packed in the car and destined for an on-time arrival. All in all, an uneventful trip to the preschool. The trouble began the instant we walked through the door.

I mentioned the Feller's preschool is in the high school where Hubz' teaches. It is a small suburban school, quiet--at least compared to a larger city school. Quiet, that is, until Eighty-Eight Fingers paid a visit. Tuesday was another day in the ever-growing list of days that EEF earned his moniker yet again.

It happened the instant we walked through the door. Boompas distracted me with requests leading to demands to be the one to open the automatic door, even though EEF had beat him to it and we were standing in the doorway in danger of the thing closing on us. EEF instinctively recognized his opportunity for action: Mom was distracted. It was now or never. He reached out his hand to touch the bright red and white devise mounted on the wall conveniently at eye level. The Principal of the school, walking by, sensed the crime and shouted out a warning: Young man, DON'T YOU TOUCH THAT! Of course, his warning fell on deaf ears. To EEF, the temptation was too great. His hand darted out and he pulled down on the appealing white lever. Instantly, a loud blaring noise and flashing lights filled the school. I looked from the principal to EEF, while my jaw dropped and eyes popped from my head, and spotted him just as he covered his ears and dove for the ground. Oh, the HORROR! My son, sweet blue-eyed blond boy, had just pulled the fire alarm. And I, as the mortified mother of such a monster, could not deny the crime, walk away, pretend it was someone else's monster (although, believe me, the thought crossed my mind). In such a small school the principal recognized the wife and children of one of his favorite teachers. Busted. Damn. I walked my brood down the long high school corridors muttering sheepish Sorrys, dropped off the Fellers, and marched EEF out again past the fire trucks and police cars and clusters of freezing students huddled in the entranceways, my head hung in shame. The thought crossed my mind to present EEF to the Fire Captain to confess his crimes, but my overwhelming desire to get the hell out of there overruled my urge to be a responsible parent. After buckling EEF and myself securely our respective seats as quickly as humanly possible, all set to burn rubber on out of there, a sweet little voice pipes up from the backseat: "Are we going to the indoor playground now?" to which I responded in a clipped angry voice that sounded a little as if I hit every word with a hammer: "No We Are Not Going To The Indoor Playground! You are going home and going to BED!" after which followed a twenty minute lecture about why what he did was bad, yada yada yada. Yes, I took him all the way home just to send him to bed and packed him back into the car when it was time to pick up the Fellers and commenced with my lecture. The thing is, he knows not to touch the fire alarm! He goes to school now where they teach him not to touch it. And the principal of the high school warned him not to touch it as he was reaching out his hand. Poor Hubz endured ribbing the rest of the day for being the father of the troublemaker, too.

Event II:

I live in a suburb (hahaha) that borders right on one of the worst parts of the city. The benefit for me is a nice house on a nice street, excellent school district, and responsive police force. The downfall is that the city's crime doesn't care that my house is in BlahBlah instead of the City. All the better to rob from you and deal drugs on your doorstep, my dear. On Tuesday another example of Why I Hate Where I Live and Wish I Could Afford To Move presented itself.

One of my friends, another stay-at-home mom which enables her to also have weekdays off, had stopped by for a rare visit because she lives over an hour away. I had just gotten EEF off to school and the Fellers down for a nap when an older red pick-up truck parked in front of the hospital parking lot that sits kitty-corner from my front yard on the opposite side of the alley (which is technically part of the City--the alley is the border--but the BlahBlah police still respond because if I, a resident of BlahBlah can see it from my house, then I can call the BlahBlah police). The baseball-capped guy pulled out a cell phone, talked on it briefly, and then commenced with flipping through a newspaper, apparently waiting for something. I said to my friend, Shit-drug deal (or something to that effect). How did I know this, you may ask? Sadly, through much experience--for whatever reason that is a popular spot for drug deals and I have proudly narced on many I witnessed there. My friend decided it would be a good time to go out for a smoke. She figured that would deter the drug dealer from completing the transaction with a witness sitting not fifty feet away. How wrong she was. The drug dealer boldly drove up in his silver Caddy, parked behind the truck, lumbered (he was a fat guy) over to the passenger side and accepted money from the driver, all of which my friend on the porch and myself through the window witnessed (except I did not specifically see the money exchange--she did). Silver Caddy drove off and Red Truck stayed, again flipping through his paper. My friend came back in, told me about the money exchange, and I called the cops--stat! I told them Red Truck was still sitting in front of the house. Within minutes, Silver Caddy returned cruising down the alley that borders my house. He had brought presents, apparently. As he lumbered back over to the passenger door of Red Truck, I whipped out my phone and hit redial to the police to inform them Silver Caddy was back. The police hurried over and were able to intercept Red Truck. Silver Caddy got away. My friend and I watched the dancing red and blue lights through my picture window (I bet the architects that designed this subdivision and my house in the fifties never envisioned a day when the picture window would be a tool through which we witnessed a drug bust). Soon after, a BlahBlah police officer knocked on my door and asked if we would be willing to be witnesses--they had busted Red Truck with a ton of Oxycontin--a very strong morphine-based prescription drug favored by the likes of Rush Limbaugh. My friend and I readily agreed and sat down with the officer and gave her our story. People I have told are surprised that I would volunteer so readily to be a witness. They ask, Aren't you afraid the drug dealers will attack you? Drive by shoot you? Harm your family? I think these people watch too much TV. More likely, the drug dealers will decide this isn't an ideal corner for business and take their trade elsewhere. Also, by not standing up I believe I am condoning it and giving the bad guys the nod that it is OK to take over my neighborhood too. No way. They can't have it, not as long as I have to live here.

Another side note to this drama: Silver Caddy had a kid in his car with him. How F**ked up is that?

Event III:

I delivered a long overdue lecture to my step-son where I informed him that my days of riding along in the passenger seat and letting his dad handle him (a strategy I adopted so he and his dad could develop a relationship--since my step-son had lived in a different state and only visited occasionally for summer and holidays--I did not want to interfere). Anyway, he had been here for more than a year, he has been making bad decisions lately, and I could tell he wasn't taking me seriously. So it was time for me to step-up. Just letting him know. I guess it went okay...time will tell.

Alas, my day was not over for I had a job to do. I had to drive richies around and around the glorious downtown of our fair City. Fortunately, it was a slow dead pre-Thanksgiving night. I was able to read a good chunk of one of the Dexter books Dad had brought over (excellent quick reads and now a Showtime Original series).

Another Post and Run...

2006-11-14T13:41:00.000-06:00

Another post and run:

1) We have completed another day of Feller Preschool. It was a good day because although there was crying on the way in, it wasn't one of my kids doing it. And no crying on the way out either--BONUS! In fact, I was greeted with smiles and Hey Mom! and Mommmmmyyyyyy!!! Another bonus, Eighty-Eight Fingers did not have an Epic Poop again this trip, completing a successful and heart-warming morning. It almost makes up for the fact that I have to spend this evening at work driving around pampered princesses and princes. Oh, and get this: I actually planned ahead for tonight since I have to work and Hubz has an appointment--I prepared a ravioli lasagna for the family to just toss (OK, set carefully or I will probably be the one cleaning up the mess) into the oven for their dining pleasure. You would think they were as spoiled as my clients, right?

2) My job: It is okay, fairly easy. And to answer your question Blue: Yes, I got a fancy schmancy pen in a faux velvet/vinyl case and a whomping three-ring binder of company policies that gives one all sorts of useful information about how to be a successful hoity-toity employee. Take this tidbit for example under the Personal Appearance chapter (I believe that it’s chapter V but who is counting):

Personal Hygiene

Personal cleanliness in not only a requirement of the ***, it is also a social standard. It is essential that all employees bathe/shower and use deodorant daily. Perfumes, colognes and powders that are heavily scented should be avoided (try telling some of the clients that!!!). Your smile is extremely important; therefore dental hygiene is essential. You should brush your teeth daily and use mouthwash as needed. Breath fresheners are encouraged and should be used as needed. Eating candy and/or chewing gum, however is not allowed in public areas of service.

Hmmmm, I am sure getting hungry for those garlic dill pickles in the fridge. Maybe I will fix me up a kickin' tuna sandwich before I leave for work...

Some other useful information includes colors you can dye your hair (Damn! Purple isn't allowed!), the size and amount of rings/other jewelry (no more than two rings a hand), no wrinkled/dirty uniforms (try telling that to my kids--stay away from the kool-aid!), and proper undergarments must be worn at all times. I would like to know if they check this one (Show me your panties--No panties! You are out of uniform and therefore FIRED!).

Coincidentally, I ran into one of my former professors on my first night (Friday-and it was a huge night for them, an open house shindig with over 500 guests) when I was working the extra coat check (their regular coat check room wasn't big enough for that night). He didn't remember me, but pretended he did, gave me the What the Hell Are You Doing Working Coat Check look (I should mention it was an Honors class teaching Dante, The Inferno), so I was obliged to tell him about my humungous family, twins, and necessity for a part-time night job, which caused his eyes to bulge out in shock, a fairly typical reaction to our family size and twin situation. I really should have told him I had Brain Wasting disease or something. That would have been more fun.

I apologize if this is stream of conscienceless rambling, but I have to get cracking. I work again tonight and I must leave early to mail some bills. And tonight I am going to really try to get my hands on and my stomach around some of the supposedly fab free food there. I have yet to try any of it (except the chocolate chip cookies they served at orientation--DIVINE! the best evah! However, I could have used a sandwich--it was over lunch time, I was starving half to death and cookies for lunch just isn't good--or so I always tell the kids).

a teaser and some randomness

2006-11-09T14:28:00.000-06:00

What is going on in my life today? (Please forgive the typos, run on sentences, and any other grammar faux pas...I have only minutes to write this before my brain self-destructs.)

1) My family is insane. Certifiable. The most current example of that insanity is a story that deserves its own space and when I ever am able to stop and breathe I will write about the House that Unkie Lost, and the Money--the hundreds of thousands of dollars, and Putting Granny Out on the Street...To Be Continued. I know: you are riveted. My dysfunctional family is a constant source of amusement to me, and soon I will share the wealth (of amusement that is, because the money is gone baby gone). I promise.

2) We had the second day of Feller preschool today. Last week Boompas was the *naughty one* asserting his independence by not wanting to pick up toys or cooperate for story time (the only screaming child in the room full of children when I came to pick them up) and Stink was the Star, the Cute One. So today they had to switch it up: Stink was screaming and uncooperative and Boompas the Star. You know: just so you don't confuse them. Did I mention that both times one of my darlings was the only kid in the room screaming his head off? I guess they like to stand out in a crowd. And the Mommy and Me Time that I get to (ahem: Read: Have To—KIDDING!!!) spend with Eighty-Eight Fingers? Well, let me tell you that is going just swimmingly. First of all, I have not done my homework on what to do and where to take a kid to entertain him for 1.5 hours (especially when it is the coldest day of the year like last week) on that side of town. Last week we spent the whole time driving around town trying to find a library or restaurant with an indoor playground or something--Anything!-- to do. Today we spent only about 15 minutes on the playground when EEF started jumping up and down because he Had to Poop NOW!! even though I took him to the bathroom at the Fellers' preschool right before we left--and by the size of the log he left in the toilet, the was no way it wasn't knocking on his back door at that time. So yes, we spent Mommy and Me Time dealing with the Poop Problem. So much fun.

3) Tomorrow I begin my fab new job with a scintillating three-hour general orientation. Yes, I am wondering what in the bloody hell they can go on about for three bloody hours. Because it is an Elite, Exclusive club, do they give us a lesson in manners--all Yes Sirs and No Ma'ams and where to set the salad fork? Oh, and for this grand spectacle of an orientation, we cannot wear jeans or loungewear (my typical uniform). No, we will be seen during the Tour so we must be all scrubbed up. I don't remember the last time I was all gussied up before noon...Is it a bad omen that I am knocking my new employer and I haven't even clocked and hour there yet?

Drive, Driving and Driven and the gifts we unknowingly give ourselves...or not

2006-11-05T08:30:00.000-06:00

Again, it has been almost two weeks since I have written. A lot has happened...

I saw a movie once (oddly I don't remember which movie, the title, the plot, nothing but this scene) where a couple of kids were filming an empty brown paper bag caught in a cross wind between some buildings. The bag was blown this way and that, up, down and in circles, battered and torn in the strong gale. That is how I have felt lately. There is so much happening, and I feel tossed about here and there, barely able to get my bearings. It is not all bad things going on: rather, it is bad and good and in-between--just a brutal onslaught of life from which I have been powerless to escape, merely reacting to the force of it like a helpless, lifeless sac.

Or have I, like the lifeless bag, allowed the forces of this earth to breathe life into me? Because it seems that in this ruthless flurry of activity, it has once again been decided, for various reasons as a proactive approach to resolve some lingering issues that have been brought to fever pitch in this recent storm of activity that I will get a part-time job.

I want to take a moment to interject how strange, how funny, life is. When you are a young adult, no more than a grown up child really, and you make certain choices, who could know that those choices in one way or another open up or close so many doors for you in the future? Despite having a child just after graduating high school, I went to college. During my final years of college, I married a man who married me despite the fact I had a child out of wedlock (I really hate that term, but there it is embedded in this language of ours). When we got married, I thought I was so lucky to have found a guy who would take in damaged goods like me. Little did I know I married a guy with a work allergy. So I went to college full-time and worked two to three part-time jobs at any given time to make ends meet because my husband was always off work for some imagined work injury or some such boloney. And I was apparently the only one capable of cleaning the house, also. So I worked hard when I was married: I wanted the family, I wanted the degree, and I wanted my employers to like me. In my senior year, I found a part-time job with perfect hours for me and paid decently even if it seemed somewhat unorthodox--School Bus Driver. The bus company tripped all over itself to hire me. Let's just say that although there are a few retired old ladies and men driving bus, the majority of drivers are people who for some reason or another can't hack it in a real job. And there is a very high turn over rate--meaning, it is a job that goes through employees with a quickness. It is not a very glamorous job. Think about it: you are driving around a self-contained three-ring circus on a sugar high. Spit balls, paper airplanes and dozens of children teasing and fighting for the whole two-hour shift twice a day--what could be worse? For the bus company to get their meat hooks on a real live Magna Cum Laude college grad....well, it was like pennies from heaven. They soon took me under their wing. After I graduated, I worked as a stand-by driver for a while, then as trainer, then an assistant in the dispatch office, then the Charter Dispatcher/Payroll person, salaried, full-time. I did not immediately apply to graduate school, as I should have to get the credentials I needed to practice in the field I earned a degree in. Instead, as I achieved in school, earned my degree plus honors, and earned promotions and praise at my job (even if it was just at the bus company), I also earned something else, something priceless--a sense of myself--self confidence. In my newly discovered self-confidence, I realized my marriage was a farce. I was carrying too much of the load; it was holding me back. I finally realized he did me no favors when he married me and I was not damaged goods. I had something--many things: talent, a brain, and a desire to win. So I moved on. Unfortunately, it wasn't back to grad school--it was into full-time employment with the bus company so I could support my daughter, and myself but eventually, it was away from the bus company. Don't get me wrong--I have occasionally taken some steps backwards and far off the track (such as Eight-Eight Finger's so-called-father). But even as I walk backwards on the path, get lost and make wrong turns, I have the value of the correct choices I did make to bolster me, to be my platform and key to something better. I was pregnant in high school, yes: but I graduated at the top of my class nonetheless. I was a single mother, then married to dead weight in college: but I graduated at the top of my class, landed a career (kind of) and shook off the baggage nonetheless. I have chosen to not only succeed, but to be the best I can at whatever happens to be buttering my bread. The funny thing is, it is like an unconscious drive. I don't remember ever consciously saying: hey, I'm a winner. Of course, I do remember berating myself for being a loser on occasion, and it was well deserved. I have made some grievous mistakes. But I think I am going to take a minute and say: good job MacBoudica; you've done all right.

Why am I recollecting about all this at this particular time? It is because it is my history, the platform I built for myself, that I landed this particular opportunity. I never would have scored this new job if I had given up, dropped out and sunk into the depression of a failed marriage. I put some hard work into this life (haha and on my birthday on a whim I paid the extra $20 to renew my long-dormant CDL). And it seems I am reaping some small reward for that now. I applied to this job soon after it was posted on a local job board. By the next day, the Human Resources manager had called me three times, leaving frantic messages for me (wouldn't you know it was the one day I am out of the house with the little guys--their first day of preschool. I think the first time he called I was in the process of freezing my ears off on the playground with EEF thoroughly enjoying mammy and me time). The guy called again (his fourth or fifth attempt) just as I was getting the little guys back in the house to schedule an interview for Friday. I checked on the job board later and the ad had already been removed. Strange. And the interview was the strangest I have ever been to. Like any interview, I drove to it anxiously, taking deep breaths and rehearsing the pat answers to typical interview questions. But he did not ask me any questions, really, not any of the typical interview questions. Actually, he spoke to me as if it was a second interview, as if I was already hired. He was merely explained everything he could think of about the company. And half-offered me a promotion to front desk and veiled references to management somewhere in the future in the process as I sat and nodded and made the required uh-huh, uh-huh, oh, of course! noises that signaled my understanding and interest in what he was saying. It was like it was understood and already decided I would be working there. Weird, really weird. What is the job? Well, it is not rocket science, and even the HR guy said he knew I could do the job in my sleep (hopefully not literally as that could prove quite dangerous!)-- A chauffeur/shuttle driver for a high end, elite health club/hotel for the wealthiest of the wealthy. It seems like it is going to be a really low stress job, just keeping the customers happy, driving them to and from events in town and whatever. Lots of ass time, free food (the chef used to work for the Queen of England). They provide the uniform. Perfect hours--the shift doesn't start too early or end too late. And tips in addition to wages. It is not official, of course, the background check must come back clean, but he made it clear that if it did I could start as soon as next week Friday for their big open house event. Wow.

Why me? Let me put on my Recruiter/Human Resources hat (my last professional experience before divorcing from professional work to stay at home with the Fellers) for a minute here: because I have a degree, professional experience, I can talk to big-shots without embarrassing management (hopefully!). So, a payment long ago when I was such a child--how could I know that the degree and driving experience, enduring and excelling in those areas that seemed like such a little thing, just what I had to do to get bye then, has opened the door to a perfect opportunity for me now? Spoken like a real B.S. college grad: I have a really good feeling about this job....

Has the wind died down, or just shifted direction? Because for the first time in quite some time, I feel like I have some direction, there is some foundation beneath my feet. We will see...If nothing else, I will no doubt gather some interesting stories from my clients. And I love new stories.

Hopefully now that I am done looking for work and have shopped for all the birthday presents and planned and executed all the birthday parties and events for the time being, I will have some time to post some Feller/ EEF stories this coming week.

Body count

2006-10-24T12:41:00.000-05:00

I just found the most interesting site called Iraq Colition Casualties. This site lists the casualties and injuries for the US and British troops and civilians in Iraq. According to this site to date 2803 American soldiers have died and 44,779 have been wounded. Isn't that something? So far we have wasted the lives of almost 3000 people to supposedly avenge the death of 5000 civilians killed in the 9/11 attacks ~ when in reality Iraq/Sadam did not have anything to do with 9/11. A site that links to the Iraq Colition Casualties site, www.IraqBodyCount.org estimates that anywhere between 44,661 to 49,610 Iraqui civilians have died in this non-war. These statistics are staggering and, to me anyway, infuriating.

Weren't we supposed to be making their lives better over there? How can that be when we are killing them by the truckload on a regular basis?

When will the death of innocents end?

Hello again!

2006-10-24T08:40:00.001-05:00

Hello, Blog World! I bet I fooled you into thinking I dropped of the face of the blogosphere, didn't I? Well, I did, kind of. I have been dealing with some fairly sucky shit here in the real world that I can't write about because much of it revolves around the whole custody battle for my step-son, so I have basically thrown myself headfirst into the land of denial as a fairly decent coping mechanism. Despite it's bad press, denial really can be great when you have those pesky long-term problems ~ you know ~ the No End In Sight variety. I highly recommend it. Plus, who wants to read a bunch of wimpery-whiney bologna anyway, right? You probably want to read it as much as I want to put it to ~ um ~ paper (digital paper anyway), and that is abaout as much as I want to stick a pin in my eye, so onward with some fun stuff!

It was recently Eighty-Eight Fingers' fifth birthday, and I truly was meaning to write something for him until I found myself immersed in a shit storm. And I will write EEF his ode. He deserves it, and it is coming, I promise. Basically, his birthday has been a huge distraction in a good way from some of the negativity and stress around here. I spent hours shopping online for the most awesome present I could find for him. I finally settled on a wooden castle with knights on horses. He and the Fellers (the two-year old twins) love it! They have been waging wars on dragons, mastodons, dinosaurs, cows, pigs, Shrek's Puss 'N Boots minus his hat and ears and some GI Joe-like guys on motorcycles. Also, I managed to get EEF alone one day, leaving the shadows (fFellers) with Daddy, and we took Great Grandma shopping. We went to Toys 'R Us and signed EEF up for the birthday club. He got to be a king cruising around the store with his tricked out cart complete with horn and a paper crown on his head that kept falling off. Never mind the presents, the cart and crown was a blast! It felt good to let him be the star of the show for a change. With all the kids in this house, he unfortunately sometimes gets lost in the shuffle.

However, soon he will be getting much more Mommy and Me time because I enrolled the Fellers in preschool at the high school where Hubz teaches (He teaches at a small school and the students are very excited to have Mr. X's twins in class). There are thirteen 1 1/2 hour sessions until the semester ends in the morning before EEF goes to school, which works out perfect schedule-wise. The challenge for me is to get three boys dressed, bundled up, buckled into car seats and ready to go by 8:15 AM two days a week. Yikes! The pressure! It takes me almost twenty minutes to load the car with Fellers, and we don't move too quickly in the mornings here anyway (Mommy must be fortified with gallons of coffee before rapid movement is even a remote possibility), so getting out the door so early should be interesting. One funny thing about this is it is for a child development class, so there will be a test at semester time. Apparently, in one part of the test the students must name the child from a picture. Boompas and Stink are identical twins. While I have no trouble at all telling them apart, most of their relatives have to guess when the see them and give themselves a pat on the back and a big hoorah if they get it right, so it is unreasonable to expect kids who will only see them for a grand total of thirteen sessions to get it right from a picture (2-D is much more difficult. I even have to think a little when presented with a picture). The teacher is thinking of only putting one of their pictures down and accepting just a last name. I don't know how I feel about that. I mean, it is her class, obviously, and she can do what she wants, but this class is a two period elective for juniors and seniors. For them to devote that much time to the class, one might assume that it is a potential career choice or at least a major interest for many of these students. One might also assume that if it is a career choice, that this is not only a unique opportunity to experience twins and learn first-hand that even though they look alike they are two astoundingly different people, but also that they will potentially experience twins in the future and must figure out how to distinguish them. In any event, I will have my first real opportunity to give my schpeel that although they are twins, they are individuals ~ please treat them as such and do not expect them to be alike or clump them together as a set. They are not always going to want to play together, stand together, or do the same things. In fact, they might be happy to have a break from one another and that is okay. Please don't treat them as "twins", but just as two different people, kids, who happen to be the same age and have the same bad haircut.

***

I love Halloween, so another distraction for me lately has been constructing costumes for they little guys. This year, they are going to be knights (yes, I know I just gave the whole individuality speech but in this case all three must have similar costumes or there will be a fight guaranteed ~ the compromise is a different colored t-shirt/tunic). I found a website that gives instructions for making a helmet from poster board. I made the helmets and painted them silver. Too bad they weren't really metal ~ keeping paper helmets safe from this set of knights until Trick or Treat is like trying to keep a dog from wagging his tail. Wish me luck! I also painted their wooden swords and shields. They will dress in gray sweats and hoodies for the "armor" and have oversized t-shirts with a cool dragon crest I designed as the tunic. I can't wait to display the finished product here! I will (hopefully) also display some pictures of our jack o' lanterns. *Hopefully* is the key word here because my digital camera is acting sort of hokey and is probably dead. The odds of replacing it any time in the next five years is slim to none.

Edited to add: Four of the pumpkins we grew in our own garden, so that made carving them all the more special...

***

Apologies for being all over the place here ~ I have a lot to say and not so much time to say it. In fact, I have to get moving, get this sucker posted so I can fit in another load of the never-ending heap of laundry before Feller Lunch Time so we can get EEF of to school on time...

Bad Trip Down Memory Lane

2006-10-10T07:36:00.000-05:00

This weekend I felt a sick sense of deja vous. I visited one of my very best friends for her daughter's sixth. I would like to say it was pleasant: all balloons and cake and children laughing with glee. Of course there were those things. But there was another scenario unfolding beneath the surface joy and laughter, a darker drama playing out that spoke of pain and disease to those who could listen. The main character in the co-drama was played by my friend's current-ex-fiancé/boyfriend/not-boyfriend (if that description confuses you, you are not alone--guys like that thrive on ambivalence because it means they are neither gone yet nor expected to actually do anything real about the shabby state of their souls). There he sat, stone faced and sullen, chain smoking and mumbling derisive comments under his breath when he was not flat-out ignoring the world--a big worthless blob of human flesh that occasionally made itself known with the nastiness that spewed from its mouth. He sat and stewed and ached for a drink--any drink would do. At least he didn't show up to this family gathering wasted. No doubt he thought that will earn him some points--manipulation via Caring for the Children, Doing Good Deeds for the Kids, is a big item in losers like his bag of tricks. The sad thing is that if my friend doesn't get her head out of her ass, she will credit him those pints and he will be back more permanently in her life soon for Round III + of this melodrama so he can administer the necessary emotional abuse that she is so sorely in need of since she has finally gotten her act together and kind of (at least with some small success so far) realized she can make it without him. She made a big mistake: she got sick of his drinking and gave him half of a boot. She told him "if" ~ If he stops drinking... Guys like him know that only means they have to pretend long enough, convincingly enough to get his foot back in the door. If is not a very strong world. If has no walls. And no walls means you can walk right back back in and start right where you left off.

This Blob was the love of my friend's life. Doesn't it bring a tear of joy to your eye?

The worst thing about the scene is the eerie feeling that I had been there, done that. I had co-starred in that play before. Unfortunately, I know the role like I know the feeling of the ridges of my teeth to my tongue running over them. I know it so well I could almost mouth the lines along with the whole rotten B film. Although I have only met the guy two times, I know him all too well. His motives and actions are as predictable to me as that since today is Tuesday, Wednesday will follow. No, I did not play the alcoholic, thank you very much. No, I played the dumb fool responsible for his drunk ass and lost soul, or who at least for some warped reason felt like she was. And my friend was there on too many occasions as I sobbed and fumbled through with my drunk ex, her arms around me as I cried, her shoulder beneath me as my tears drenched her shirt. She lived those darkest moments of my life with me. You could say she had a supporting role in that fiasco.

So she saw the film, was a key player in my recovery from him ~how then could she have fallen for the same type of man? That was such a rotten story, why waste your time and effort on a remake? There are never any winners, never any awards in a play like that, and it takes too much of your time, energy and strength. There is no return on investment, and actually, a story like that leaves you in a sucking, empty ruin.

But, as the story goes, you always think your situation is unique ~you are unique. You will fix him. He will get off the drink for you and you will be a family and everything will be shiny and new and you will have the big house in the ‘burbs with the white picket fence and the dog chasing the Frisbee in the back yard, the kids on the swings laughing and getting As in school. You will slay the big bad wolf like none of the other princesses before you could. Sure, you will take a few shots in the process. He will call you a whore for no reason, tell you you are worthless. He will take your pride. The disease, through him, will eat your soul. Small price to pay. But you are more powerful than a silly little thing like alcoholism and he is too wonderful deep down that none of those things will matter. He will get better and all because of you.

Yeah right.

What you don't know when you enter that fractured fairy tale is that in this case the demon is alcohol and the person who becomes its slave enters a partnership with it. Alcohol promises to make him the man he thinks he can't be without it. It makes him so strong. He can call you a slut and it takes away his pain so he feels nothing except the warm glow of his partner ~not you, the alcohol ~enveloping him and telling him everything is all right. You may think you are his lover; that is why he'll change for you. But you are never going to be half the lover alcohol is, no matter how much of your soul you pour into fighting for him. In fact, your job is to take is punches (figuratively and sometimes literally) to show him physical evidences of his all-powerful manliness brought to you by his lover, alcohol. You don't realize the warped thing is you don't have to slay the wolf or dragon, you don't have to fight the disease. No. The miserable fact is the only way to survive that battle is to close the door behind you with him on the other side and never look back. Leave him with his lover, his drink. You've got some living to do. Sadly, it is often easier to fight the alcohol, easier to say he has a disease and will get better, than to face the fact that you don't have the power to save him. It is not your battle to fight ~it's his.It is his. And most of the time, alcoholics stop wanting to fight it. Losing a girlfriend, a wife, a job, your home, the respect of your family ~those things are only a little bad, not nearly bad enough to give up his man-making lover, the alcohol. Most of the time, those guys have to crash and burn hard, harder that you can imagine, to finally give it up. It is not pretty.

So time has turned the tables on us. Little did my friend know she was looking in a crystal ball, holding her future in her arms as it ruined her shirt. Little did I know I would get through it alright and move on to happier times, happier than I could ever imagine, only to watch her take my role and suffer as I suffered, walking the dark road that I once travelled.

I have tried to tell her, to coach her through. But when you are in a situation like that the well-intentioned words of family and friends fall on deaf ears. As I said, you feel like you can fix him, you are the one in a million who has the power to straighten a loser like that out, and the feeling that you are not enough, that alcohol means more than your love is too much to bear since you have poured so much of yourself into the whole ordeal already. You think you don't have the strength to face that sad truth, although somewhere in your heart you know it is true. I know she is not hearing me right now saying her lines from so long ago. But I keep saying them. My role here is to wrap my arms around her tell her she is more than strong enough. My role is to tell her she can do it. A million times if necessary.

A little spoiler here for those of you watching a drama such as this: There are happy endings, but sometimes you need to take on a new role to get them.

Conversations with EEF #2

2006-10-02T09:10:00.000-05:00

Eighty-Eight Fingers (upon racing into the kitchen at top speed, running over the fat cat causing her to shriek with rage): That cat needs to go to the plastic surgeon and get some new ideas!

***

(Fragment of a conversation with EEF where Mommy is enquiring about his friends at school...)

Mommy: EEF, do you have any friends at school?

EEF: There is a girl on the bus who always tells me to shake my booty, booty! and I don't like that very much!

Mommy: Is she your girlfriend?

EEF: No I don't like her because she always tells me to shake my booty (shaking his booty). I like her friend the other girl.

Mommy: Oh, you like the other girl. What's her name?

EEF: I don't know but she doesn't want to be my girlfriend.

Mommy: She doesn't? How do you know?

EEF: I asked her and she said No.

Apparently to EEF, names just aren't important in the whole relationship business.

Welcome, Fukuoka!

2006-10-01T08:19:00.000-05:00

Today's post was going to be another Conversations with EEF--he said something absolutely hilarious yesterday, but, due to my head exploding the other day, I completely forgot what it was.

So in lieu of Conversations, I would like to take this opportunity to welcome the visitor from Fukuoka, Japan who found my site when he or she came here searching for the answer to the question, "Why are babies crabby?" This is a very important question to the aspiring parent or caretaker, the answer to which can assure hours of peace and tranquility. It is an answer that I, as an experienced parent of--er--way too many children to count (especially as they are zooming through the house, climbing the draperies, chasing the cats, and frantically knocking furniture out of their paths), happen to know to the very marrow of my being. And today my dear readers, on this monumental occasion where some poor lost soul from across the globe came to my lowly site seeking answers, I will share the answer with you.

Babies are crabby because...

It is a conspiracy. That's right--a conspiracy! When Mom or Dad or whoever the primary caregiver happens to be, the child will choose the moment when that person has the lowest energy, spirit, and endurance to become insufferable. It amuses them to see Mom/Dad/Other dragging our asses, hacking up a lung, bags under our eyes hanging down to our toes fulfilling their slightest whim. The louder we sigh, and beg and plead for them to please be quiet, settle down, be happy, please be happy for the love of GOD!!! the more amused they are and, therefore, the crankier they become~like some kind of warped cyclic phenomenon. They know that we will do anything, anything, dear lord!, in those weakest moments for precious, precious quiet. And that is the absolute last thing they will let us have.

So, if you want my assvice, the next time your wee ones are crabby appletons, I say let them. Find yourself a good pair of earplugs, crank up the tunes, and let the little rascals scream it out. The storm will blow over in no time, and you will get your much-deserved rest.

Hah! And if you believe that, I have some prime ocean front real estate to sell ya...

***

I am sorry about this, all of you who come here in search of mature intellectual stimulation, but did you happen to notice that Fukuoka could be broken down to this:
Fuk
u
oka
?
I think we need a town on this side of a globe named Fuk-u-oka. Maybe our capital city? Replace Washington DC with Fuk-u-oka? It definitely has a ring to it, don't you think?

Terrible horrible...you get the idea

2006-09-29T09:49:00.000-05:00

Have you ever had one of those days when everyone (and in this house there are a lot of everyones)woke up on the wrong side of bed. Early.

Yeah, today is one of those days. The Feller's bedroom is a revolving door of Time Outs. I have heard their mantras, "Mine! MINE!!!" and, " I a bub boy!" screamed incessantly at 120dB all morning so far. My head hurts so bad right now that if they open their mouths just one more time it will explode and rain brain juice all over them. Heh. That might be worth it~parental justice.

Do you think I can get away with feeding them lunch at 9:45AM so they can all take early naps? Just asking...

Accident on Interstate 3

2006-09-25T10:18:00.000-05:00

What we don't do for excitement around here!!!

Rather, the crazy things I actually find exciting around here...

We experienced a three car pile-up in the short hallway that links the living room to the kitchen area this morning.

It happened like this:

I decided to treat the kids with muffins for breakfast this morning. I woke up early, whipped up a batch and got them in the oven before the Fellers (the two-year old twins) woke up. They conveniently awakened and required assistance with their morning routine just after I shoved the muffins in the oven. It was like we orchestrated it or something, so smooth was the timing!

After taking the little guys to the bathroom, changing them and filling their sippy-cups, I had a few spare minutes before the muffins were done to check my email. As I was reading/sorting through all the junk, spam, and forwarded jokes the buzzer gleefully announced the muffin's completion. Knowing my oven is kind of on the cool side and, therefore, a little slow, I knew that I did not have to rush to yank the muffins out--the chances of them charring before I finished reading the last sentence was slim to none. However, the Fellers and EEF did not know that, or, more accurately, did not care, so great was their desire for fresh, hot muffins. So, when the buzzer sounded, all three boys ran into the kitchen like a miniature freight train to gather around the oven at the buzzer's insistence. When I did not immediately drag my butt to the kitchen to unload the oven in what they considered a timely fashion, the Fellers rushed as fast as their stubby toddler legs could carry them back through the door to the hallway to come and fetch me. Unfortunately, that was when I finally rounded the corner from the living room into the hallway myself to unload the muffins. Since the hallway is very short, maybe a little over ten feet, you can imagine the physics lesson that is two speeding toddlers colliding with a mom headed in the opposite direction. First Stink slammed full speed into my legs and bounced backwards, slamming into Boompas, who also bounced backwards--unfortunately, he bounced backwards so hard that he lost his balance, landed on his butt on the kitchen floor and slid into the cat food which sent cat kernels scattering here and there and everywhere. Bump, bump, crash!

Of course, Boompas was not nearly as amused as I was--in fact he was quite loudly upset, embarrassed and indignant. I had to swallow my laughter and try to soothe him with my words as I demuffined the oven. Finally, a bargain was struck: his silence in exchange for an Indiana Jones movie and a fresh muffin.

F is for Fail

2006-09-21T12:37:00.000-05:00

Gah!

I have been a mom for almost fourteen years now, so when do you think I will finally get my act together and figure this whole job out? Thirteen more years? Twenty? Will I have gray hair and sagging boobs (oops, already have those!) and no teeth and fifty great-grand children and figure it out just in time for senility to set in?

I knew this morning when I woke up there was something I was supposed to remember. That's right--I got it! I have to call my mom tonight--it's her birthday! Problem solved. Commence sticking head up ass.

Yep, I patted myself on the back and then abruptly stuck my head up my ass because I did not remember until two minutes before the bus comes to pick up Eighty-Eight Fingers that today is picture day! Duh! My son's first picture day and he is going to be in his ratty old faded red spider web shirt. I did manage to throw a nice long sleeved button-up in his bag and spit-paste his cowlick down as the bus waited and waited in front of our house and told him to tell ask his teacher to help him put it on and that I am very, very sorry I forgot--like he is going to remember that!

Let's face it--I need remedial parenting school. I earned an F for the day.

Un-happy Birthday

2006-09-21T07:26:00.000-05:00

A few days ago it was my thirty-first birthday. It was a terrible day, maybe my worst birthday ever, not just because I am getting older--I can deal with that. I love the new laugh lines and small papery crows feet and an aching lower back every morning when I wake up and the fact that one more year has passed and I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up and now there is one less year to figure it out. Those things don't bother me overly much. No, this birthday was bad because in addition to all the little boys whining and fighting, my daughter, so as not to ruin her perfect record, snapped at me about fifty times before she left on the bus for school in the morning (she has been rotten to me every year on my birthday-- I distinctly remember the birthday I was pregnant with the twins I yelled at her after a particularly gruesome tantrum she had, “I'll remember this and I will make sure to be an asshole on your birthday!"), The Netflix wasn't delivered as promised so no movie to watch, there was a mountain of laundry to attend to, the weather-- which was eighty and warm the day before --turned cold and overcast, and I had to renew my license at the DMV where I was last in a long line that went out the door (and mysteriously decreased to nothing after I was through it--go figure) only to wait until my number was called, only to wait at the window when the computer wouldn't let the greasy clerk drop one of the endorsements on my CDL, only to get hit on by said greasy clerk as he waited on the phone for the state to fix the problem, only to have my hair windblown and mussed for my photo so that it is sticking up in the back, only to have me just grab the damn license and run like my ass was on fire out the door without getting a different picture because greasy clerk had managed to relocate himself to the photo section just as I went there--as if all those things weren't bad enough, the whole household was just in a funk, a dark cloud brought on I think because there is yet another chapter in the whole custody battle for my fifteen year old step-son who, last year, out of the blue, asked Hubz if he could live here with us. While it is wonderful he is here--he is a really nice kid--his mother has been fighting with guerilla tactics to get him back. I can say no more about it, although I desire to vent like Mt. Vesuvious. The one bright spot in a gloomy, dismal, and for the most part un-happy birthday was my birthday cake (no, not because it had thirty-one candles on it!). The Girl made it for me and Eighty-Eight Fingers and the Fellers (the twin two-year-old boys) helped me blow the candles out.

Now that I am older, I don't have high expectations for my birthdays like I did when I was a kid: the roller-skating parties, the presents, cake and ice cream and slumber parties with friends all around giggling the night away. It does not bother me that my birthday is just another day to most people. All I am asking for--my birthday wish--is for a little kindness. That is all. So kids, next year please don't fight, don't push your brother or take his toys. Don't block his view of his favorite cartoons to make him squawk. Don't steal his blankie and run through the house waving it over your head. And The Girl, if you don't have anything pleasant to say, please just remain silent. That is it; that's all I want next year. So I am hoping by getting my wish in early, it might-- just maybe-- come true.

***P.S. The Girl was much more pleasant after school. She has never been much of a morning person.

Conversations with EEF #1

2006-09-15T16:26:00.000-05:00

I think I will start a new feature: Conversations With Eighty-Eight Fingers because, I'm not going to lie, the kid says some weird sh*t. Take, for example, the following about his day at school...

Mommy to Eighty-Eight Fingers:So how was school?

EEF: I had fun! We had recess.

Mommy: What did you do during recess?

EEF: I drove the car (making believe his hands are on the steering wheel). Brr Brr Brr.

Mommy: Oh, that sounds like lots of fun! Did you play with any other kids?

EEF: No. I only ignore children. I already have two children and I don't want any more.

Mommy: You have two children? Who are your children?

EEF: *sigh* (in an exhasperated tone like he is dealing with a complete dolt) The Fellers are my children and I dont want any more!

Mommy: EEF, you can make friends with the other children. The Fellers won't mind.

EEF: No! I don't want to make any more friends at my class. The good news is I already have two kids at home!

***No, I am totally NOT making this conversation up. He actually told me he ignores other children in his class.

4K, Day Two

2006-09-13T09:56:00.000-05:00

Monday, 9/11/2006, my four year old whirlwind of a son Eighty-Eight Fingers dressed in a brand new, crisp and bright, orange and bright blue warm-up suit, donned a backpack that was half his size and covered him like a black and red turtle shell, and, of course, stuffed his feet into his now slightly broken-in Spider Man Light-up shoes. He was handsome and excited, poised to begin his adventure, this new era of the school-aged child.

The bus was scheduled to pick him up in front of our house at 12:30 PM; EEF was ready by 11:40 and waited eagerly on the couch in front of the window, staring out into the gray, rainy world for the big yellow bus that would carry him away into this new phase of childhood. With tears in my eye and not a little indigestion brought on by my overwhelming anxiety for his taking this step, I snapped pictures as he stood in the doorway in his new clothes and backpack and grinned from ear to ear, waving.

The first day went well. At least I heard no bad news, and as the saying goes No News Is Good News--especially where EEF is concerned. He came home bursting with stories of Science Class and Apple Projects and how the teacher read him Clifford the Big Red Dog. I was proud; delighted that his day passed without a hitch, and dared to think just maybe things might be all right...

The second day it was raining, a steady relentless rain that pours and pours and washes out all the light in the world. EEF was just as excited, just as eager for school. At 12:28 we moved to the door and I glanced down at him for one brief moment and told him to put on his backpack the bus will be here soo--- WTF? The bus, demon possessed, zoomed past our house. Good thing it was raining or it would have scorched the lawn! I ran out of the house trying to flag down the bus to no avail. I would have to rustle up the Fellers and drive EEF to school. Unfortunately for me, I was not listening during that part of the orientation, so I did not learn the procedure for dropping off one's beloved 4K-er at school (and I wonder where he gets it from?). Oh well, I figured, I would follow the other parents' lead--surely they would know what to do. Hah! It turns out no one else knew wtf they were doing either, as I will illustrate.

So I speed packed Fellers and EEF into the Wagon. I figured from the way the bus was flying though his route that I had very little time. My beloved EEF would be late for his second day. So I sped (a little!) to the school--a dangerous prospect considering the school is right across the street from police station, but oh well--we don't want to be late do we? I pealed into the circular drive around lot, and to my extreme surprise I was only the third car in the circular line. And the bus that so frantically flamed past my house was nowhere in sight, and in fact did not pull up until two or three minutes later, practically tipping over on its side as it rounded the corner and sped into the circular drive. Even after the bus pulled up, it did not release the children. And no parents gave any indication of what we should be doing except sitting in our cars and waiting. And since I wasn't listening at orientation, I had no idea when to expect the waiting to end. So we waited, and waited, and waited some more--we sat cooped up in the stuffy car, two toddlers and the oh-so-eager whirlwind boy who touched absolutely every dashboard piece, and waited. Finally after fifteen minutes (or was it 19 hours?) a teacher (or aide?) began letting some of the few children who were gathered by the door with their parents in. So I took EEF out of the car and walked him up to the door to be let in. The aide who was in charge of dismissing children from the bus singled me of all the parents who were doing this out and scolded me that next time I could drive up in the line of cars and she would let him out of the car. Maybe if I had been paying the least bit of attention at Orientation I would have known that. Anyway, he was finally at school. That fiasco was over with. I drove myself and the Fellers, sad because they weren't going to school too-ooo with EEF, home, put them down for naps and passed my afternoon with trivial chores meal preparations.

At 4:07, the scheduled school bus drop off time, I began waiting anxiously at the door. The Girl begged to be the one to get EEF off the bus, and I foolishly acquiesced. When the bus pulled up at about 4:20 she trotted out to meet him. The driver honked at her to come over at about the halfway point. Not a good sign. Too late for me to go out. I stood horrified in the doorway as I watched the scene unfold. EEF's little blond head bobbing as he walked to the school bus exit and descended the steps. The driver moving her head and hands animatedly as she explained...what? The Girl walked giggling as she half dragged EEF back to the house, holding hands, their arms a long chain between them. EEF was trying to keep up with The Girls longer strides, the tortoise-like backpack jostling around on his back--he looked so innocent, so small. Maybe my heart melted--a little.

Immediately as they were within earshot, I began the interrogation: Did he get in trouble on the bus?

The Girl, laughing hysterically: Yes. The driver said we needed to talk to him because he was swearing and spitting and if he does it again she will just write him up.

Me: Stop laughing, Girl! That is NOT FUNNY!

Me: EEF, what did you do?!?!?

EEF: (the mute headshake of his) I didn't do anything.

Me: (pouring all of my guilt and anxiety, irritation and frustration into this one word) EEF! You tell me what you did on that bus!

At this point I had the strange feeling I was watching myself as if I was a stranger. I think because of this strange out-of-body sensation I somehow managed to get a grip on myself and realized that it was not a good time for either of us to discuss the situation. I sent EEF to his room. He stomped off, plopped himself face first down on his bed, cradling his chin in his hands, wearing a scowl that would curdle milk.

I went into the kitchen and did some more work on what was to become our meatloaf dinner. Before the messy mixing part, I decided to question EEF. Still the denial, the mute headshake.

After more mixing and cutting potatoes for boiling, I went back to the room--still no cooperation.

Finally after placing the meatloaf in the oven and washing my hands and some kitchen surfaces, I went to EEF with a quiet voice and gently coaxed him into spilling the beans.

He said there were two girls, one from his class, the other he did not know, who were calling him some gibberish names. He kept telling them to stop, kept telling them he was EEF, but they would not stop. They teased and teased and teased. So finally, he yelled at them to Shut Up (and maybe some swears that he still will not admit to) and spit at them. As the scenario unfolded, it was like someone plunged a fist into my guts and twisted it. In my mind, I saw him there, getting teased, his temper rising as the names were slung. I watched in horror as he became angrier and angrier, yelling at them to stop, becoming so frustrated and flustered, and finally striking out with spitting. I know my son--how he is so incapable and inadept at handling situations like that. As bad as I felt for him, though, I had my duty as a parent, as his mother, and to society. I told him it was not nice for the girls to tease him, but he handled it poorly. Next time he is teased and the people won't stop, he must tell the bus driver or a teacher. Never, never yell at people and never, never, never spit on them.

Maybe I have been reading too many fairy tales. Maybe it was too much to expect that everything would be rosy and good without any effort on my part. It seems I will have to climb the mountain and slay the dragon after all. This morning, heart in my throat, a quaver in my voice, I called the principal of his school/director of special education and left a message to discuss my concerns about EEF in light of this bus incident perpetrated on his second day of JK.

Battle of Shoe Hill

2006-09-11T08:44:00.000-05:00

Maybe I am hardheaded or a slow learner or merely perpetually in a mental fog because I somehow managed to forget one of the Cardinal Rules of Parenting (Multiple Children Edition--written specifically for small children of similar age in one household). "Oh, which rule is that," you may ask? It is the rule written to stomp out fighting and sibling rivalry before it ever has a chance to rear its ugly head. It is the rule written to ensure peace and serenity, at least of this one desired, coveted, fabulous (at least in the children's wee minds) object. It is the rule: Buy One of Same Item for Everyone. Somehow, during the prolonged stress and battle fatigue school shopping induced, I forgot this lifesaving rule. I foolishly purchased Spiderman light-up shoes only for the child entering school--Eighty-Eight Fingers. The battle that ensued over this very tragic strategic blunder on my part included wailing, shrieking, gnashing of teeth. Thunderous battles cries of "Mine, Mine, MIIIIIINNNNEEEE!!!" echoed throughout the house. Children flung themselves in the path of the very proud villain and owner of said shoes (EEF--he was so loving having a Desired Object!). The Feller Factor beat at him with tiny fists of rage. He beat back, maniacly laughing with glee:after all, He--the Supreme EEF possessed the Desired Object. Victory was sure to be his! Nothing could thwart his evil plans!

Guess who had to haul her ass back to the evil retailer Wal-Mart and obtain two additional pairs of Desired Object Spiderman Light-Up Shoes--Stat!

Now our home is all peace and tranquility. The children's laughter is like the tinkling of wind chimes in a light summer breeze. Everyone loves and adores the Ultimate Ruler Mom for her prompt rectifying of this most grievous situation.

And if you believe all that I have a bridge to sell you...

The truth is, they just find something else to fight over--about twenty times a minute. But at least it is not Spider Man Light-Up Shoes.

The Forgiven

2006-09-09T21:12:00.000-05:00

Remember this post about The Girl, her father and his big mistake--the post about how he breaks her heart? It seems like in this case, at least, time has healed (well, at least soothed) all wounds. The Girl finally buried the hatchet and let her father back in to her life.

And I encouraged her to do it. Yes, I think this does qualify me as *Certifiable*, but I have my reasons...

Since the incident her father tried many times to apologize, although his methods were coarse and fumbling, almost stereotypically blue-collar (I am sorry to resort to stereotypes here, but the guy really, really is Blue Collar). At first The Girl put him off, ignored his phone calls, and e-mailed him to leave her alone. She told anyone who asked she had no use for him, no reason to ever talk to him again.

But my daughter is strong, wise beyond her years. She insists on everyone dealing with her as an adult. So, after much inner deliberation and almost a phone call to a shrink to get my own head examined for deciding to do it, I laid it on the line for her--I told her she should consider forgiving her dad even though I know what her dad did was wrong, that she does not have to ever forget what he did or the pain it caused. That being said, I continued, I reminded her that what he did was out of ignorance, not malice. I reminded her that her dad, in his fumbling way, did try to apologize, did try to make it right. I felt he has learned from his mistake, and that he truly felt remorse for his gross mistreatment of her. Furthermore, I reminded her that her dad is new to being her dad, and he has the added burden of having his wife barking in his other ear, dragging out her whole bag of tricks, applying all kinds of pressure to make his relationship with The Girl miserable or, better yet, to destroy it altogether. Finally, I urged her to take the high road, be the adult that she wants everyone to accept her as, step up to the plate and give the guy a chance.

Of course, I will be monitoring his interactions with her closely--well, as closely as I can without too obviously prying or squelching her privacy.

My dilemma with this situation is that I do not want The Girl to be a doormat (Obviously!). However, I believe that holding on to anger and pain like that, not confronting it, keeping it bottled up inside you slowly eats you up, robs you of positive energy, spoils the sweetness of even unrelated moments.

Within the last fifteen years, much research has been done in the area of forgiveness. Surprisingly, the ability to forgive has a profound positive impact on a person's health and well-being. This website,forgivenessandhealth.org , provides a wealth of information on forgiveness including the health implications of holding on to anger:

Lack of forgiveness can create an avalanche of stress hormones.

* It increases production of cortisol and epinephrine, which leads
to changes in heart rate and blood pressure.
* It raises levels of catecholamine and CD8, which suppresses
the immune system thus increasing the risk of viral infection.
* Leads to the release of histamines, which can trigger severe
bronchoconstriction in people with asthma.

Chronic stress also...

* Alters insulin levels.
* Alters the acid concentration in the stomach.
* Causes plaque buildup in the arteries.
* Causes or intensifies aches and pains.
* Raises anxiety levels.
* Causes depression.
* Interferes with intimate and social relationships.
* Affects sleep and appetite.
* Affects job performance.

Many other researchers, doctors and therapists (like this guy , for example) on the web claim that holding on to anger is the source of much of the stress in our lives.

Stress, disease, and depression--those are seriously disturbing side effects to holding a grudge!

This website also highlights some interesting research about forgiveness (forgive my large block quote here, but this is very interesting stuff):

Recent brain research has demonstrated that excess cortisol levels impair your cognitive ability and damage cells in the memory centers of your brain.

Researchers have also looked at the actual physiological effects associated with granting forgiveness or harboring grudges.

A study of 13,000 men and women showed that anger-prone people were three times as likely to have heart attacks or bypass surgery as less-angry people.
The New Zealand Medical Journal published a letter from a clinician who did an analysis of 200 case histories that showed that 60% of chronic pain patients showed a strong element of a failure to forgive.

A seven-year study of 2,100 men showed that those who were better at diffusing anger had half as many strokes as those who were angrier. The results showed that "unforgiving thoughts prompted more aversive emotion and significantly higher [forehead muscle tension], skin conductance, heart rate, and blood pressure changes over baseline." These physiological changes persisted even after the participants stopped remembering the hurtful events.

On the other hand, forgiving thoughts were associated with a lower physiological stress response.

These findings might explain why unforgiveness may contribute to disease -- and why forgiveness may enhance health.

At The University of Tennessee, psychology professor Kathleen Lawler studied the effects of anger and hostility on the heart. After 25 years of study, she found the health dangers of anger and resentment so striking that she wondered what people could do to short-circuit the damage. So Dr. Lawler turned her attention to forgiveness.

After measuring adults (ages 28-70) for their baseline blood pressure, heart rate and forehead muscle tension, she asked each person to tell a story of betrayal. She also asked each one to fill out a questionnaire about physical and mental health. Everyone showed increased blood pressure, heart rate and muscle tension as they recounted their story. But for those who had not forgiven their offenders, the increases were 25% higher than for those who had.

Nonforgivers were also more likely to report illnesses and symptoms -- such as colds, infections, fatigue, and headaches -- that had sent them to the doctor in the previous month. The non-forgivers also took 25% more medications than those who had forgiven.

Because of all of the research findings in favor of forgiveness, learning to forgive can:

* lower your blood pressure,
* improve immune system response,
* reduce anxiety and depression,
* improve your sleep,
* improve self-esteem and sense of empowerment,
* help you to have more rewarding relationships, both professionally and personally,
* reduce stress by releasing toxic emotions,
* reduce dysfu nctional patterns of behavior,
* increase energy for living and healing,
* improve relationships and social integration,
* increase peace of mind,
* aid peaceful death.

According to the research, forgiveness seems like the right thing to do--for purely selfish reasons!

Out of all the digging I have done, I found only one therapist who argues against forgiveness. She brings up some good points such as lamenting that our culture *demonizes* unforgivers while *idolizing* forgivers and treats forgiveness as a panacea to cure all ills. Also, she mentions there are several types of unforgivers who *share the capacity to forgive, but do not exercise it indiscriminately*. Fine, I buy that--everyone has the right to choose what is best, and if you don't want to forgive, who am I to judge? Of course, the crimes the perpetrators committed in some of the case studies include a woman who's brother's list of offences against her included shoving a screwdriver up her rectum and setting her on fire, so, yeah, I can see how people who have been through such trauma would choose not to forgive.

Regardless of whether forgiving or not forgiving is the healthier choice, regardless of researchers' opinions and evidence, what it boils down to is what is the right thing to do for yourself. I have been trying to teach my daughter that you can forgive, but you do not have to forget. And if someone is hurting you out of malice, or because that person is abusing drugs or alcohol or has some other type of illness, or if you think person will continue to hurt you--won't mend his or her ways after they have been forgiven, then it is perfectly acceptable to put that person in the past.

I have always believed that people are human, flawed, and will f*ck up at some point. We all do it. I guess what we have to determine is whether holding on to the anger is the best course of action? Or by letting the anger go do we learn how to love those frail, flawed humans in our lives better, more deeply. Can we then love ourselves more deeply without that huge, ugly mass of hate wrapped around our hearts?

For me, letting go of the hate, releasing the anger, moving on has been most therapeutic. I am in my thirties now, and I have endured some very grievous hurts. I have dealt some out in my time as well. Yet, I have forgiven those who have wronged me--purely for selfish reasons--because I can't stand to be carrying around all that rotten baggage. I don't like to have my persona clogged and weighted down with excessive negativity. To me, it is too cumbersom, too consuming, too painful, and therefore no way to live. So I forgive. I hold no grudges.

Here is where the Doormat issue comes in: I tell my daughter just because I have forgiven someone does not mean I necessarily reconcile with him or her. For me during the forgiveness process, I let the wrongdoer know how they have hurt me. I try to give the wrongdoer the benefit of the doubt. If that person is unable or unwilling to stop hurting me in that way, or if that person has really done the *Unforgivable*--a terrible, unmoral, completely unconscionable act, I will put that person out of my life. Maybe I am a sucker, but if a person is sincere in his or her apology, determined to no longer practice the unacceptable behavior, has learned from his or her mistake, then it seems wrong for so many reasons to hold a grudge.

I am glad, relieved, and a little nervous that The Girl forgave her father. I don't think it is practical to expect that he will never hurt her again. As I mentioned earlier, we are all human and prone to mistakes. But I do hope that he has sincerely learned from this experience and he will handle her heart with the care and respect it desreves. I really, really hope that he will not make me regret encouraging her to forgive (because that forgiveness well of mine does have a bottom). That took a lot from me. But I feel it is my responsibility to step up to the plate, be the adult, even when the costs are high.

School Daze

2006-09-02T21:26:00.000-05:00

Just a brief note as I come up from air from this pre- back to school frenzy I am living in...

Remember when I said I would be the crazy Mom at the store at 10:00 PM the night before school starts to do the back to school shopping? Well, I was close to dead on with that prediction. I went yesterday--for some reason I went in the afternoon just in time for the pre-four-day-weekend rush (and I think it must have been Double Coupon Day or National Grandparent Shopping Day or something because everyone seemed 135 years old with walkers, motorized scooters with max speeds of 2 MPH, canes, limps, etc.). I managed to purchase about 75% of the school supplies on the lists and only mangled three old ladies, tripped up Grandpa Joe, and toppled two displays when I body checked a Grandpa with a walker (humor, people, humor--No elderly shoppers were injured in the production of this blog entry).

For some reason, I was not able to find a single highlighter in the whole store. Who can guess as to the reason behind the extraordinary demand for highlighters? Maybe it is so students can decorate the mandatory $5 apiece (which I absolutely refuse to purchase for that price after paying $100 in fees—I will cut up old t-shirts and sew them together first—can you just see The Girl rolling her eyes at me right now?) nylon book covers with eye-catching fluorescent designs? Could be...since art budgets have been slashed hither and yon, students must have an outlet upon which to express their creativity. A fluorescent green F*ck You! or blaze orange James Schmo is gay! sufficiently fulfills those artsy desires, I suppose.

Anyway, the big kids start Monday. Hopefully, 75% supplied is enough for the first day. Eighty-Eight Fingers goes in for testing while I sit in the Junior Kindergarten Orientation Thursday morning (gods help us all, especially the pore wretch of a teacher who is responsible for him in the testing room). He officially starts (oddly enough) on 9/11. Bad omen? I think it very well could be.

Eighty-Eight takes center stage

2006-08-28T08:12:00.000-05:00

We hosted a party for my Mother-in-law's birthday yesterday. My sister-in-law brought her eight-month-old nephew. She carried him to our backyard in his car seat and placed him down in the middle of the circle of relatives who had already gathered. The stage was set for Eighty-Eight Fingers to come over and investigate because, to that boy, nothing goes unnoticed, unpoked, or unprodded, including eight-month-old baby in a car seat.

First EEF leaned into the car seat to get in the poor boy’s face to talk to him. Then he rubbed his head a little. Boompas saw his brother messing with the cool new toy and came over for some of his own leaning over the baby and head rubbing. EEF, filled with all the wisdom of an energetic almost five-year-old, told his little brother, "Be gentle with him otherwise you will make him cry like you!" That set the gathered relatives to guffawing. It was very cute, but that statement was only Act I of the EEF Show.

Soon Boompas' short attention span kicked in and he tired of the new baby, leaving EEF alone with the baby in his car seat. It did not take EEF long to start rocking the car seat and fiddling with the handle, trying to figure the whole system out. After almost tipping the car seat almost all the way over and spilling the baby face first into the dirt (almost!), EEF queried the crowd, "Hey, how do you work him?"

Let me tell you, it is very difficult to scold the boy for almost dumping the baby face first in the dirt while laughing hysterically.

Envy

2006-08-22T08:03:00.000-05:00

I mentioned in an earlier entry that I started running this summer. This entry really isn't about running, but about Envy. I had a comment yelled at me out a car window while I was on the homeward stretch yesterday that got the old motor running, and I have not been able to stop thinking about envy since.

What I will say about the running is it is going well, but it is very hard work. You have to be devoted, committed and willing/able to ignore some discomfort. I have researched and practiced and now I am up to a fairly strong (at least for me) run for half an hour at least four times a week. I am sure that will change as the kids and Hubz go back to school and I am at home with three boys and only a double jogging stroller and the weather starts getting cold. I guess if I am determined to keep up the running through the winter, I will have to devise a new system, if I want to do it bad enough. I haven't really lost any weight, but I have melted off some inches in the hips/butt area. But I have discovered that it is something I enjoy. I am committed to it. I will repeat that this has all been accomplished through Hard Work and tenacity to stick to it no matter what.

Back to yesterday: I was crossing the intersection of the one major street before the last three blocks of my run. A car pulled up to the intersection opposite me waiting at the light to cross. Because the street is not too terribly busy when I run (after morning rush hour) I ignore the lights and just cross when there is no traffic. So yesterday, when the road was clear, I crossed the street towards this car. I usually just ignore cars and trucks and other pedestrians because I am focused on my job and by the homeward stretch (and because some people are a little weird and give me the willies, so to be fair I ignore everyone--an equal opportunity running snob if you will) I need to focus harder because I am usually wearing out a little. As I put my foot down on the opposite sidewalk, (left foot, exhale, holding the side ache at bay, concentrate, focus, almost home...) a woman yelled out to me, startling me out of my stride, tripping me up a little.

The woman yelled, "I envy you, what your doing. I wish I had the motivation to do what your doing. I envy you!"

I just chuckled nervously, waved at her and wiped sweat from my eyes.

Envy? Me?

I have never considered myself worthy of envy. Especially since what I was doing was something anyone could do, right? I just did it, nothing special about that.

Those were my initial thoughts.

If I am being honest though, I have to admit I do work hard to achieve fitness. I have set it as a priority, I put in the time, I suffer the consequences (the pains and the discomfort), and I reap the rewards (fewer inches, toned legs, runners high--a blessed stress reliever).

As I was thinking about it I remembered an essay, Who Are You Calling Lucky? that I read recently on the Mothersmovement.org about a SAHM who struggles with people's envy, "You are so lucky to be doing what you are, staying at home with your kids. You are lucky to have a husband who makes enough that you can do that." I have encountered that envy, too, as a SAHM. As she explained so much better than I can express, the experience of SAHM for her is one born of sacrifice. She and her husband do without and she stays at home because they don't want the kids growing up in daycare and they felt it is what is best for their family. So they do without: without cable, without Netflix, without dinners out, without many other luxuries. Sacrifice. I guess what I am saying, too, is that the reason she doesn't feel enviable is because what she has comes at a high cost to her and her husband. It was a decision that requires continuous commitment and fortitude and sacrifice. That essay really struck a cord with me because, while I am happy to stay at home and grow up my own kids, it is done with a cost.It was decision my husband and I made because it is what is best for us, but the costs are great. We do not live in luxury, and my husband works two (or more) jobs often to just barely make ends meet. We have no fancy furniture. Our kids wear hand-me-down (not the teens, but the designer stuff they have to buy themselves). So it does not often seem like a blessing to me as I take my threadworn 5-year-old bras out of the wash and mend up the holes where the underwires are poking out.

After reading that essay and my encounter with the woman in the car, I have been thinking a lot about envy. What do I envy? Why? Is the object (state of being) obtainable? If so, what is the cost? Is it a price I am willing and able to pay?

Are envialble objects always won through pain? If there is no pain, is the object worth the envy? Is the old cliche No Pain No Gain always true?

And what do I have that is worth envy?

The answer is surprising: Much more than I would ever have thought...

***Edited to add:

Sometimes we work so hard or sacrifice so much that we forget that we have set out to accomplish a goal and that goal, once accomplished, is indeed something envialble.

History Lesson

2006-08-18T21:42:00.000-05:00

For those of you who haven't been following politics too closely the last few years, here is a short educational filmstrip to catch you up on all those fellas have been up to in that big white house in DC.

Love is a many splintered thing...

2006-08-17T20:45:00.000-05:00

It is so quiet here. (Surprisingly) I can hardly stand it! The little guys, Fellers and Eighty-Eight Fingers are all asleep. Big J is, as ever, out with friends. The Girl is away this whole week camping with her best friend and family. And Hubz is away at work. The TV is off. I am not even playing any music. The only sounds I hear are the fan blowing, the cats whining for more food (it wouldn't be home without someone whining for something!), and my fingers clicking on the keyboard. I can actually hear myself think! What a novelty.

Time for some small notes on life at Abode MacBoudica...

***

Hubz and I had our one free night (well, not exactly free if you count up all the favors we had to cash in to get childcare arranged for all these kids and all the work that went into packing them up, etc...) of blissful and riotous adult time. It was perfect. We spent the whole day Sunday through Monday afternoon together talking, walking, eating, drinking, and feeding our senses with beautiful scenery, glorious music, soft caresses and a freakin’ amazing double whirlpool tub! Oh, gods, I think I died and went to heaven.

By two o'clock Monday, I knew I was home when Hubz immediately had to leave for the grocery store, take Big J somewhere, the crabby grandparent-spoiled-napless and sleep-deprived children attempted to burst my eardrums with ferocious cranky screams, the fruit fly population--unchecked and unswatted for 36 hours-- had soared (those bastards are impossible to annihilate!), the fat cat had stopped grooming herself and was stinking up the house (she seems to get depressed when we leave for any overnights and doesn't groom--weird), the cat litter needed immediate attention, laundry needed doing, and so on...

***

Who is ready for back to school? Not me, not me, not me. I am the Mom running to Walgreen’s at 10PM the night before stuffing every ransacked, dented-up notebook they have left into my basket and swearing up a blue streak about how the cheap bastards are out of everything. I am even more out of sorts with getting my shit together as we have one more kid entering (you know all about my dread over EEF's immanent schooling). And my GAWD the fees! Three kids in school and we are out over $400 in fees--not counting extracurricular and supplies. We are going to have to mortgage the house to send the twins to school.

***

On the subject of EEF (kind of), I need to mention how absolutely, amazingly wonderful Hubz is. On Tuesday the little boys, Fellers and EEF alike, were still recovering from their spoiling and sleep-depravedness. EEF had been sent to his room for something (I forget what, exactly--if I had a penny for every time...). I got involved in some laundry or cleaning task and kind of forgot he was in there (sorry EEF!). After a few minutes (he had been in there for maybe 15 minutes total) I checked on him. Shite! He had fallen asleep, which threw off the whole schedule/procedure. The correct procedure is for all the kids to nap at the same time giving me a few minutes of respite to regroup. This is especially necessary on days like that one where they are all crabby as heck. So Hubz, hearing me complain rather voluminously about EEF's untimely nap, offered to take him out on errands with him so I could have my quiet time. That was so cool, so wonderful, so nice, so sexy! And it worked. The Fellers went down for a nap, EEF was out with Daddy, Big J was socializing in typical teenaged fashion (that is--continuously), and I had a few minutes of peace. I was a much nicer Mommy the rest of the day.

***

I am looking forward to tomorrow. I am finally going to take EEF out for a Mommy and Me outing. I am taking him to see Monster House, which he has been dying to get to ever since he saw the first commercial for it.

He said the sweetest thing tonight when I told him we had a date for tomorrow (I didn't tell him what we were doing, only that it was a surprise). He said, "I don't want to leave everyone alone! I want the Fellers to go with me!" You would think he would be delighted to get away from those squirmy, attention-grabber, toy-hoggers from time to time. But, no, he does love his baby brothers after all.

Not five minutes later he was busted hoarding blocks from his brothers causing them to shriek.

What a memory is worth

2006-08-12T10:39:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I really hate, hate, hate! living in the city.

Sometimes I really hate not have a steel-trap memory.

I really, really hate having memory problems in the city. That is always a recipe for disaster.

Yesterday was a beautiful day. Not hotter than blazes, yet sunny and warm enough for an outing in the AC-less Ark. So I had an inspiration. We would take a longish trip in lieu of naptime and hope the Fellers get some shut-eye in the car. Since it was a gorgeous, mild day, we could get away with this in the no-AC Ark without sweating off our private parts. I called a friend of mine whom I haven't seen in ages (you know the story-she has kids, I have kids, life happens and suddenly it's been a year or two) and who lives about an hour's drive away. She said she had no plans and would be home all day. Perfect!

We only have one garage door clicker, and yesterday Hubz had it. So I unlocked the side door, pushed the garage up button and noticed the Ark needed refitting with car seats because all the others were of course in the other car. Naturally. Then I noticed the three spare car seats needed resizing. Those darn kids!--always growing. What an inconvenience. Of course, one of the spare car seats was one that required tools to resize to pry up the strap holder from its slot and then loosen the strap itself from its knot. As I was prying and pounding and cursing my way to a perfect fitting car seat, Hubz called to ask me to call the cell phone company to inquire if anyone had been using the lost cell phone and if we needed to worry it was not just lost but stolen. Okay, not a problem. Add that to my mental list which now included: adjusting car seats, loading car seats (and scratching the shit out of my arms in the process, I might add--you think the manufacturers could smooth down the plastic that you have to pass the car seat belt through!), retrieving the car seat from the front porch (No, I have no idea why it was on the front porch--it just was--don't ask) to install it into the car, then digging through the mountain of bills for the cell phone bill to get the customer service number, calling cell phone company, etc. Can you guess what my problem is here? Yes, somewhere along the line, CLOSING THE DAMN GARAGE DOOR was deleted from my mental list. In this neighborhood, that is perilous.

I completed the items that had made it to the ol' brain and loaded all the Fellers, the potty seat, juice boxes, extra underwear for the fellers, my purse and The Girl (okay, I did not have to load her, only call out that the bus was leaving the station about 20 times) and hit the road. We had a wonderful time. It was great to see my friend.

Fast forward to 8:00 PM after the long drive back. I parked the car in front (the garage is in back--we'll get to that momentarily), unloaded, three Fellers from car, begged The Girl to carry something in, draped and somehow fastened various bags and my purse to myself in some parody of a pack mule, grabbed some little hands and headed for the door, somehow fished out my key and got us all in the house where I turned on some cartoons for the Fellers. Then I went back out to move the car.

I stuck the key in the lock. Hmm. Oops. Not locked. That's funny. I guess I forgot to lock it. Open the door and to my surprise the F-in Garage Door is Wide F-in open. So I unleashed a string of curses at my faulty memory bank while surveying the damage. Sure enough, Hubz' and Big J's bikes, the most valuable things in the damn garage, were gone. Shit!

What a f-ing waste. I hate, hate, hate! f-ing thieves. It is not like this is Robin Hood here. We are not the rich (and even if we were, stealing is reprehensible, I don't care who is doing it and who it is from). Stealing our shit is going to really put us back. Our insurance deductible is so high, it isn't even worth reporting, but we have to have a bike for Big J. He uses it all the time to get to practices and friends houses, etc, when we are not available to drive him. So, Hubz basically was gone all week, worked all week to replace those two bikes, and I feel like an ass for daring to leave the house to visit a friend because just look what happened. Damn.

So ends a great day at Abode MacBoudica.

Oh, chocolate sauce!

2006-08-08T22:17:00.000-05:00

Two Minutes to Feller Bedtime...

Why oh why
did I let out a cry
that curdled the 2% milk
when I opened the refrigerator door?

What to my horror
was oozing on the floor
in a sticky puddle of poo brown?

The chocolate sauce
had been given a careless toss
into the fridge door.

And that, my friends,
is where my patience ends
to see that poo brown puddle drown
all the bottles and tubs of food and condiments

Because I would now have to scrub
all the sticky poo brown grub
off all the bottles and tubs
while the children are screaming for milk

This mess will prolong their dreaming
and my wish to stop their screaming
And has started me screaming
new words for their growing lexicon

****

Actually, the whole chocolate syrup puddle in the fridge tonight wasn't that bad. Hubz helped clean up the mess, bedtime was dead on target, and all was well. Of course, neither of the big kids is fessing up. I don't blame them. Beware the wrath of Mom.

****

Sadly, Boompas has picked up on my favorite PMS phrase God Damn It. To be honest, I use it all times of the month. However, I do try try try to exercise caution, and most of the time I do alright unless sorely provoked (you know, I sneak out of the room to take a dump and return to find cereal carpeting the carpet, someone yanking the tail of a seriously PO'ed cat who is screaming in agony, the bookshelf overturned and books ripped to confetti, one little boy streaking past me with a bag of cookies in one hand and the half dull kitchen scissors in the other, toys whipping past my head, maniacal laughter ringing in my ears in surround sound, and basically overall Bedlam). However, during the wonderful pre-menstrual days, I have been known to roar my pet phrase at about 100 dB, drowning out the sound of the vacuum, planes flying overhead and the jackhammers of the construction crews working on the street.

So this last month, during a scene much like the parenthetical one described above, I let loose my pet phrase in a roar that shook the walls and shattered the crystal (haha like I have any crystal--with teens doing the dishes here--that's funny!). Ever since that, Boompas has been using it when I tell him it is bedtime and he doesn't want to go (so that is two times a day at least) and when his big teen brother hides the infamous toy Spider Man under his size 11s and won't give it back no matter what. Or when Eight-Eight Fingers or his twin brother Stink got the good idea to play with just the toy he wanted. So, really, it doesn't take much. Basically he is swearing like a true Irish lad deep in his cups these days. And it's all my fault! Oh, the humanity!

I mostly just ignore him. Of course, that whole unconditioning/reconditioning psychological mumbo jumbo is shot to hell when all three teens hear Boompas screeching out God Damn It and start laughing their damn fool heads off. Oh, well. He'll be a popular one with the principal when he finally starts kindergarten.

odds and ends

2006-08-04T15:03:00.000-05:00

Summer is winding down. And I am coming to the realization that I have wasted most of this summer in kind of an emotional coma, a warped kind of paralysis because of this whole custody thing. Well, the hearing for that is over, and for now Big J is staying, but the battle is far from won because the hearing accomplished absolutely. The judge's decision was to do nothing and revisit the whole issue in six months. So there is another hearing hanging over our heads like a bloated thundercloud scheduled for February. Which means more latent stress. We can't really relax--not completely. We are still under the microscope over the whole thing and it is quite a bummer.

****

Now I can waste the rest of the summer worrying about Eighty-Eight Fingers starting kindergarten. He is not ready. He can't sit still. He blasts through the house in constant motion, often flapping his arms as if they were wings--subconsciously--he isn't playing. I worry he will be labeled. I dream of labels like ADHD and LD, I-teams, tests, and doctors that I fear are in our future. I worry he will be teased because he is different. Every time I drive to they grocery store, I pass the grade school with its big, bright play set and oceanic green lawn, and I am flooded again with worry. I never worried about The Girl starting school, not once. And she was my first one. Shouldn't that have made it more difficult for me?

****

Remember this? They offered me a job in the wall decor and paint division (I don't know why--I would have preferred the garden section but whatever) for when the new store opens in the fall. I went through the wringer: the application, the two interviews, the two sets of personality tests, and the oh-so-fun drug screen. But, after all is said and done, I turned them down, I wasted everyone's time. Hubz is still going to work his part time job which is much more lucrative--pays about three times what I would make as a Lowe's clerk (now that we don't have to worry about child support being hiked up because of Big J moving back) and I am still going to be the House Mommy. A part of me feels the loss of going out in public and interacting with adult strangers and coworkers on a regular basis. But another part of me, I think a larger part, is overwhelmed with relief. I have become so used to and dependent on this routine we have here, so comfortable in my role as the House Mom, that leaving that and joining the general public working class kind of terrifies me. Once I acknowledged the terror, I realized it was more than fear--the terror felt strange to me. It felt out of place. I mean, it is a job, billions of people have them, I have had several myself in the past. But I did not want to give up my time here with my family, not a minute of it. I am not ready to commit hours of my time to someone else’s' business when I still have my business here. My Fellers are still little, only 2 1/2. Eighty-Eight Fingers is still a handful, and I think that even though he will be in half-day kindergarten in the fall, he will still need me. I have a lot on my plate here and it exhausts me to think about giving up much of my time and energy to working for someone else right now. Maybe someday, but not yet. Looking back at the kid I once was, I never would have imagined myself as a housewife, and I never, ever would have imagined that I would have reveled in being a housewife.

****

My daughter and I had a Mommy and Me day Wednesday(is she too old to have a "Mommy" at thirteen?). We went shopping at the mall. She took me to stores filled with fashions straight out of my middle school/high school years. The colors, the prints, the leggings, and leg warmers. Ugh! I thought at first someone had slipped me something in my Gloria Jeans Cinnamon Hazelnut coffee and I was on a strange mental trip to hell. But no! The caffeine buzz soon abated and the stuff was still everywhere. Then she took me to her favorite place ever: Hot Topic. It was like entering some satanic cult hidden cave or something. Everything was red and black and skulls stared at me from the screen-printed fronts of thousands of t-shirts. Someone was screaming bloody murder over the sound system. Slowly, I became aware that that was supposed to be music. I thought I would be attacked by the fifty-facial-piercings apiece clerks with Mohawks and shitkickers and spiked dog collars. My daughter asked me if I would buy her some neon pink fishnets. I told her No and the music seemed to scream louder. My daughter sulked at me like the skull shirts. On the way home she told me she wanted to get a snakebite. I said Give me your arm. She said No, Mom. A snakebite is two lip piercings here and here (pointing to where the canine teeth or "fangs" would be. Maybe I was still in hell, after all. I was wondering if my trip would ever end.

****

I got to do something I haven't done in years Thursday. I slept in until 8:11 AM! The Fellers were all tuckered out from their day at Grandma's (they were there with Daddy while the Girl and I had the Mommy and Me Day) running around jacked up on sugar, playing with abandon, and taking no nap because there are No Rules at Grandma's. So they slept in. So I slept in. It was absolutely blissful!

The Anniversary Get-Away

2006-08-01T11:39:00.000-05:00

Hubz and I recently celebrated our anniversary. Actually, we went out to dinner and a walk along the lakefront. It was quiet and romantic and nice (and we got free cheesecake for two at the restaurant), and we enjoyed our couple of hours alone together, but when we came home, the house was full of children: our ears instantly bombarded with canned studio laughter as we opened the door to the big kids, our so-called built-in-babysitters, watching stupid sitcoms on TV in the family room; our bedroom was full of fellers, and we couldn't really get, er, frisky, if you know what I mean. We went to the rec room for some Adult Recreation. Within five minutes, one of the older children busted us out to describe in detail all of Eighty-Eight Fingers' super-naughty antics perpetrated while we were out. Big surprise there. I am reasonably sure that news flash could have waited.

So you can see the dilemma. (Very) Small house. Children coming out of the woodworks, as our German-American immigrant neighbor so blithely pointed out one day. No Privacy. Sometimes extremely frustrating--that way.

But, sometimes it works to our advantage, too!

For instance, I am like a kid at Christmas, bursting with anticipation, for our "Real" anniversary celebration. That is right! We will have one night of pure marital bliss, one whole night away from all the noise, bustle and tomfoolery of everyday life at Abode MacBoudica. The anticipation is intoxicating! Divine! In two weeks we are going to a special Romantic Themed Bed and Breakfast. We planned and sacrificed meticulously for this. Hubz worked extra shifts at his part time job. We begged and pleaded, bargained and brokered deals to find places for all five rascals for one night so we could Get Away. We are going to, um, Enjoy Each Other's Company (hey, my daughter reads this-I gotta keep it PG) all night long in the Double Jacuzzi Hot Tub and under the Starlight Canopy on the bed. YIPPEE!

Of course, I can't help seeing the irony in all this. As a young adult still living with one's parents, one has to sneak around and exhibit extreme creativity to find opportunities to be intimate with one's partners (cheap hotel rooms, cramped demonstrations of extortionist skills in backs of cars, quick furtive gropes under the bleachers--not that I ever did any of that!). Now as adults with a house brimming with the fruits of our lust, we must sneak around to find outlets for our undiminished libidos. Life has come full circle. *sigh* Sometimes I can't wait until all these "fruits" grow up and cirlce on out of here (not really, but it is nice to fantasize about loud--really loud--unabashed private time).

Shout Out to All the Mommies of Multiples Doing the Breastfeeding Shuffle

2006-07-28T21:46:00.000-05:00

Emmie over at Better Make it a Double is doing a great thing for Moms of Multiples. She is collecting stories and experiences from mothers who've breastfed their multiples to share with moms who are considering it or who may be having problems with it. In her words:

Let's keep it along the lines of "this is what worked for us", and leave the heated debates for some other forum. There is certainly something to be said for peer-reviewed research, statistics, and science. But there is also something to be said for stories, experiences, and perspectives...

If you didn’t breastfeed, for whatever reason, this is not intended to make anyone feel bad or dredge up all that stuff.

I think this is a great idea, Emmie, because as a mother of multiples, it is easy to become overwhelmed with the babies, overwhelmed with the care two (or more) at a time requires, and encouragement and a Village of real people who have done this difficult stuff (and lived to tell the tale!) to turn to in one's darkest hour--well it is hard to express how much that means.

Here are the links to her featured Breastfeeding Multiples sections (also featured in my new sidebar section!):

Encouragement for Breastfeeding Moms of Multiples

Breastfeeding Multiples: The Early Months

Breastfeeding Older Infant and Toddler Multiples

Breastfeeding Multiples While Working

Higher Order Multiples: Breastfeeding Triplets and More

Breastfeeding Twins and Supply Issues

I will be trying to add some of my stories from those early days as well (I have to dust off the sleep deprived haze first, but I know I have them in my memory bank somewhere).

Once again, thanks Emmie for putting this together!

Overheard at the Lunch Table...

2006-07-26T14:21:00.000-05:00

Eighty-Eight Fingers: (In one of his Quieter moments a la PB&J sandwich) Farts really loud--twice.

Mommy MacBoudica: EEEEW! What do you say EEF?

EEF: (Laughs) Tehehehe! I farted two times!

MM: Nooooooo...

EEF: Excuse me.

(Dramatic pause while EEF nibbles on PB&J and contemplates life.)

EEF: (Thoughtful tone) Mommy, my dinky doesn't make any noise.

MM: (Stunned silence. At a loss for words.)

EEF: Mommy! My dinky doesn't make any noise!

MM: (Realizing EEF requires acknowledgment for his newly discovered philosophy that while his ass makes wonderful noises, as of yet his penis does not--just wait a few years, kid!) Well, that's a relief!

Look , Pa! It's Twins!

2006-07-24T08:53:00.000-05:00

I am writing more of my favorite memories as a way to keep my mind off of all of this.

Today's memory is brought to you by the letter T, as in Two babies, as in Twins.

In my last post I explained that Hubz and I did not know I was pregnant with twins when we married, only that we were pregnant, which, despite what the rest of the world might have thought and the Rule Book for New Relationships may have said, we considered wonderful, and maybe a little frightening. However, as I described in my last post, we were confident in the strength of our relationship despite its newness.

I had a regularly scheduled doctor's appointment the morning of the day we went on our honeymoon at a [touristy vacation spot] here in [Midwest state]. The doctor scolded me for gaining too much weight. I wasn't overly concerned about that. I had always bulked up to gargantuan proportions with my pregnancies, no matter how well I tried to eat. Then she busted out the tape measure. Seems I was measuring at about 20 weeks when I was barely sixteen. Maybe I was wrong about the LMP? I was soon scheduled for an ultrasound for Monday, the day after our weekend getaway to make sure we had the right due date or who knows? you may have some twins in there, ha ha ha. My LMP was a little goofy, kind of light and spotty, so maybe it was a fluke or something. Who cares. Time to celebrate! Time for the honeymoon!

Some truly heroic family members took The Girl and Eighty-Eight Fingers off our hands for two whole days. We had a great time, even though I had to stop at my fav store Walmart out in Hicksville and pick up some sensible shoes to walk around in because my sandals were KILLING my feet! I remember one of those honeymoon nights, Hubz and I were lying in bed snuggling (sorry, you aren't getting all the hot details here) and there was a thump-fest going on in my uterus. I mean, there was movement, and lots of it all over the place like a tornado in my abdomen, quite unlike either of my last two pregnancies (and EEF was a wild-child in-utero). Come to think of it, I had been feeling movement for several weeks by that time. Everyone knows that is Too Early to Feel Movement. So maybe it was the wrong due date. We would be having a Christmas or New Year's baby instead, so what.

But I wasn't so sure.

So I said to my new Hubz, "You know, there is quite a bit of movement here on this side and this side at the same time...maybe we are having twins?"

To which he confidently replied (and laughed at me--laughed!),"Naw, there is no way we're having twins. You're just farther along than you thought."

Famous Last Words.

Fast forward to Monday. EEF is with us in the ultrasound room struggling to break free of Daddy's strong arms and wreak havoc on the hospital, maybe bring it down around our ears because, you know, he's good at that sort of thing. My bladder aches so bad I want to cry. I am squeezing my pelvic floor muscles with a ferocious determination and a vice-like grip to avoid my overfull bladder bursting onto the ultrasound table and flooding the tech, the room and the whole damn hospital. I really want to die, the pain is that bad. Hubz isn't having too much fun with mega-squirming EEF either, but it's only a half hour right? The tech fires up the machine and lubes up my belly. She runs the probe across my abdomen and I am looking at the machine rubbing my eyes...Do I need glasses--Am I seeing double??? The Hubz's jaw drops to the floor with an audible thunk and the tech, running the probe back and forth across my belly says, "Hmm...you might be interested to know there are two of them in there. This is going to take some time to get all the proper measurements."

Silence.

Bladder. Pain. My life flashes before my eyes. Some... time...??? Did she just say some time???

EEF starts to cry, "WANT DOWN!" The hospital walls quake. Small, hairline cracks began to snake across the floor. The ultrasound monitor shattered.

Hubz reels his jaw off the floor and tries to calm the writhing, wriggling EEF.

And I have to pee. I just found out we were having twins and all I could think of was relieving myself in a long, fast-flowing stream in the toilet just ten feet to my right. Finally, the tech took pity on me and let me have at the bathroom. Thank you Jesus! You never saw a pregnant chick move as fast, leaping off the table in a blur like a live Nascar race. I don't think I even closed the door. I have never been so relieved in all my life. Twins, phaw, that is nothing compared to the, um, emptiness I felt.

But did she eat the rampant elephant?

2006-07-21T07:47:00.000-05:00

In honor of our anniversary, this is the story of the day we married.

We did not marry because I was pregnant. Rather, the pregnancy created an excuse for a immediate marriage. We already knew we would spend our lives together, weaving our two families into a rich and complex tapestry. Because of the immediacy of the wedding (and a severe lack of funds), we decided to forego the lavish large wedding for a simple, intimate courthouse ceremony with just our children and ourselves in attendance.

We were married on my Grandmother's birthday, July 25, three years ago in a courthouse in the state to the south of us right over the border. I packed my overlarge three month pregnant body (I did not know it was twins at that time) into the romantic rose colored, flowy maternity dress I lovingly picked out for this occasion, finagled my hair into an updo and decorated it with Baby's Breath. I stuffed my already somewhat swollen feet into some cute heels (bad idea!) and supervised the "Getting Ready" of the three preteens and the little whirling dervish Eighty-Eight Fingers. Teeth brushed, new Dress Clothes (mostly khaki shorts and collared tees) donned, hair if not combed, then at least smoothed into some semblance of flatness (them, not me--my updo added at least three inches to my hight, which, coupled with my heels made me look the Amazon, for sure!), we all awaited the arrival of the (not officially) Hubz (he had to teach summer school that morning). As soon as he arrived, we crammed all the children into the Ark, descended the power windows because the Ark has no AC, and sped down the highway to our glorious future together, the wind pulling and yanking and wreaking havoc on my painstakingly arranged updo. Of course it was hotter than blazes that day, the hottest day of the summer so far. And I was pregnant, windblown, and a little uncomfortable during that trip. But none of that mattered when we finally arrived in the Wedding Town. I perched on the edge of my seat eagerly searching for the street the courthouse was on. I think we only drove past the street once. Then we circled the courthouse itself probably three times to find the best place to park. We found a spot outside that would require a good two blocks walk to get to the entrance. Two blocks walk. Pregnant (with twins). In heels. In the heat. By the time we got to the entrance, I was ready for a LONG nap and for a leg amputation. So of course I was a little testy with the security people when they confiscated my small perfume bottle from my purse, because, obviously, I was smuggling it in to spray some biological weapon into the face of the judge that married us. Oh, and they scanned EEF's stroller twice--they had his number as a potential terrorist, even though he was only eighteen months old!

After those ordeals, driving and security, our small wedding road trip was the best day ever. We managed to navigate the procedure to register and acquire a judge and room rather quickly. That Friday evening the courthouse halls were filled with brightly dressed brides and large happy families ready to join in matrimonial bliss. The judge was really a cool guy, even if I can't now remember his name, and the bailiff took pictures with our digital camera during the ceremony after a brief instructional lesson. The Big Kids all flashed many pictures with their own cameras, and the judge and bailiff struck poses for them. With all the flashes and shutter clicks, I felt a true Hollywood princess. Okay, not really. But you get the idea. I felt so real, so whole , so absolutely alive after the ceremony! I had married my dream guy. My life, aching legs and all, was perfect.

After the ceremony, we found the records room where Hubz completed the transaction for our licenses, the Big Kids snapped ridiculous pictures of the chandelier and each other's nostrils, and I sat and rested my poor aching legs. Those heels were killing me, what the...??? Then we piled everyone back in the Ark and drove the few miles to the closest Rainforest Cafe to celebrate our union. We all ordered fruity exotic virgin drinks and I inhaled all the food in the entire restaurant. The waitresses finally just brought me a trough. For dinner and for dessert. The rain storm and elephants coming alive right behind EEF's head terrified him. We all laughed. Then we all drove home in a hot car with full bellies and full hearts.

And that was it. One of the best days of my life, despite some minor physical discomforts.

I see the day we were married as a metaphor for our life together. Some small inconveniences and minor discomforts but overall, the Big Picture, is perfect. The small imperfections add to the richness and fullness of the whole. I wouldn't trade my life for all the winning lottery tickets in the world.

Monkey Brain Soup

2006-07-20T17:15:00.000-05:00

My mind is like a thick murky soup right now. I have all sorts of posts sloshing around in it, but no time to write. Even if I had the time, honestly, the emotions necessary to produce anything other than Wow, the Cat is not so fat anymore! just aren't accessible. Those emotions are on lock down due to too much Stuff Going On.

The final (hopefully) hearing in the custody dispute is Monday and there is a whole truck load of emotional baggage that goes along with that. I am still trying to potty train the Fellers with some small success. The twins are two: that is a trying age anyway--the crying, the screeching like nails down a chalkboard, the science experiments. Then there is the constant nagging over my fears for Eighty-Eight Fingers. Not to mention his constant antics! There is this possible job that I may be starting--that is again an emotional ball of yarn, my ambivalence over it. And of course, everyone's all-time- favorite stressor, family drama.

So I will probably be an emotional basket case until sometime Monday. After that I will have all sorts of great Bolg topics to untangle for you. I promise. Until then I will sit and cuddle with my little guys (there is such comfort in the soft warmth of them--so soothing to breath in the fresh scent of Newness at the tops of their fuzzy heads--the new haircuts that remind me of peaches), hug and kiss the Hubz, and hope like hell everything works itself out somehow so we can actually enjoy our anniversary on Tuesday.

When Eighty-Eight Fingers Almost Burned Down the House

2006-07-18T06:41:00.000-05:00

Yesterday seemed like a typical morning as I was awakened by the soft snorts and chortles of the Fellers from across the room (yes, the Fellers our in our room--not out of choice, only our house is that small--a blog for another day) and the too hot and bright summer sun shined in around the cracks in my shabby curtains. Time to get up--Ready or not! I rolled out of bed and ushered the troops toward the door. Then I opened the door , and ZOOOOOM! The cat sped past my door down the hall nearly singing my toes off my feet, Eighty-Eight Fingers trailing mere inches behind.

"STOP!" I yell in my early morning, froggy, pre-coffee voice. "Were you chasing kitties?" I begin the interrogation in a tone sure to instill the terror necessary for EEF to produce the correct response...

He looked at me, face devoid of expression, and shook his blond buzz-cut head slowly back and forth, even though he obviously was. Guess I will have to work on that terror instilling voice--put that on the list.

And then I smelled it...SMOKE!!! I smelled SMOKE!! What the…?!? We have three smoke alarms in our <1000 square foot home and none of them was blaring, BUT I SMELLED SMOKE!

Quick scan of the living room--no smoke.

Leap to the kitchen/dining room where the smell was more intense. This room was obviously the source, but where? Where was it coming from?

It took me all of two point five seconds for my caffeine-deprived brain to register that the power light was on the toaster oven. One, possibly two forceful strides took me across to the far side of the room where the offending toaster oven was burning up all of the stray crumbs in its catch-pan into shrivelly little charcoal pieces (shut up! That is the absolute last place I clean) and almost burning the miscellaneous stuff on the counter around it. I opened the door and reclosed it because that usually shuts the thing off. What the...???It didn't work. The light wouldn't go off. It was necessary to repeat this process several times to convince my sluggish brain cells that opening the door and reclosing it was not the solution, so for now just open it and leave it open.

You see, EEF has a tendency to be very quiet and very sneaky in the morning, waking up before any human has a right to going on various search and destroy missions so that it is truly amazing that he is almost five and this house is still standing. I have considered surgically affixing a bell to him...

Time to question EEF. Cue terror inducing tone, "Did you touch the toaster oven??!?"

From EEF: Mute, lying, headshake.

Grr!

From me, with the tone, only now a touch of shrillness: "Were you chasing kitties and touching the toaster oven??!!??" to which EEF dutifully answered with that headshake of his, because, you know, it really is possible for the toaster oven to turn itself from toast to cook (which, I later discovered after adequate cups of coffee, was the reason it wouldn't shut off) and for the lazy cats to just decide all of a sudden to run around like demons possessed. Sure. That's all possible. NOT!

Me: "EEF, you are going to bed until you tell me the truth. I know you touched the toaster oven and chased the cats and I know that you are telling me lies right now so you won't get in trouble. But you know what? I don't like lies. Lie to me and you will get in bigger trouble. Last chance--did you touch the toaster oven and chase the kitties? (Headshake) Okay, you will go to bed, then, until you are ready to tell me the truth."

Have I mentioned how stubborn EEF is? It took almost an hour and five visits from me for him to finally admit the error of his ways. Ugh! He is almost five and he still has no filter, no voice in his head telling him This isn't a good idea. He just keeps getting into things, wreaking havoc on things, and now we can add almost burning the house down to his list. Sometimes, I think he is more challenging to raise than all of the others put together. Then I remember The Girl and her pre-teen tantrums (bad, just BAD) and I think, well maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe I can do this. Yeah right.

A Celebration of Her Life....

2006-07-15T09:20:00.000-05:00

....The title of the pamphlet they handed me at the door.

Thursday night I attended a memorial service for an amazing woman, my dad’s cousin (I have no idea how that relates to me) Pat.

At first glance, she may not seem so amazing. She was a stay-at-home-mother who left her career to do so. A career that she had before women had careers, much less agonized about leaving them, then returned to it after her children were grown. Her hands cradled and soothed and disciplined five children. She taught them to love music, to fill their lives with it, made it her legacy. One of her grandsons sang Ave Maria at the service in a voice worthy of that song. So far that seems fairly ordinary.

I did not know her well, but I wish I had known her better. She was my father’s cousin, although she was almost twenty years older than him. I met her at some family gatherings, Christmas and birthdays, over the course of ten years when my father rediscovered that side of his family after his second divorce. She should have been one of those relatives you need to be reintroduced to every Christmas. But she wasn’t. There was something remarkable about her, something bright about her spirit, so that you always remembered her. It was almost like she was more alive than most of us because she was always living out loud. Her life was full of her hobbies and loves including singing, guitar, stories, golfing, argument (she loved a good debate), and family (even those of us extended family hanger’s-on). Her home, the gathering place most Christmases, reflected her soul, an open concept tri-level on a large open lot, filled with her artwork and cross stitch projects, where the kitchen and dining area were at the heart. That was how she was amazing and extraordinary—in her zest for life, her celebration of it.

By the log in book at the service was written a favorite saying of hers, words she lived by:

It is not for us to deliver to God a pristine vessel that we cared for and pampered, unmarred by life. Rather, I will return to Him in a body well-used and worn, a margarita in one hand and a song on my lips, telling a joke and dancing, asking where the party is.

Who was she? A mother, a wife, a grandmother, a business woman, a musician, an artist, an athlete, a friend, a fighter. Intelligent and strong. Full of life and not afraid to live it to its fullest.

Unfortunately, about nine years ago, about the time my own family was expanding, she and her husband had retired to Arizona. I had not seen her or most of that side of my family in about five years, since the last Christmas gathering. Our families had drifted apart. Her children (who had been important, visible Adults in my life ten years ago—that was Dad’s family) remembered me as little more than a pony-tailed awkward girl grown into a shy, quiet and just as awkward single teen aged mother, my daughter a little toddler spit-fire. And I remembered the young man who sang such a beautiful rendition of Ave Maria as a little ruffian, tearing around the house with my brother (my half-brother, actually, who is eight years younger than me). The time gap was strange, eerie, and shocking, and I felt almost as if we were all transported out of time briefly. I felt like I was seeing myself through their eyes, a stranger, this woman grown whose huge family they had never even heard of was tucked away at home, like they were now strangers to me.

I looked around the room and saw the women of our family, women of our blood and those who married in. We are all so different, unique at first glance: different ages, different careers, different paths in this life. Yet, there was a similarity in spirit of the women gathered there, a similarity to Pat. We are strong, intelligent women. We live out loud. We are mothers and friends and wives and artists and fighters.

Once again she had brought us all together, if not under her roof, then in the memory of her love for us all.

Interview With A M'ampire

2006-07-12T08:21:00.000-05:00

Because of certain haps here at Abode McBoudica, I have been forced to hit the pavement, as in a job search. I foolishly started on this mission the old fashioned way the other day, dressing up (a fiasco in and of itself--the Fellers knew I was up to something and Were Not Happy!) and approaching my desired work venues in person, resume in hand. Since only second shift work will do (child care, you know) all my professional experience is basically useless. I am looking at retail, people, retail. Something I have zero experience in.

Of course, old and crotchety as I am, I am picky about where I will work. If I am giving up family time, it should at least be at a cool place, not selling batteries or greeting cards. No, the work snob McBoudica will only work at bookstores with other nerds. Okay, maybe home improvement stores would suffice.

Anyway, back to the actual physical submission of said resumes--what was I thinking??? That is so yesterday, which I discovered all to soon. After being turned away without even the chance to buy a vowel on the job application (literally all dressed up and no place to go--all that effort for nothing!), I came home and hit the 'net. Online aps are So Much Better! Now I can fill in all sorts of ridiculous information (such as last/current position: Home, Manager: Me, Manager Title: Me, Position: SAHM, Rate of pay: $0, Duties: Um, do you have much memory? I have to get out my scroll...).

And the Online Personality Evaluations! Are those fun to complete with screaming children milling at one's feet (I become easily frustrated when interrupted in completing a task: Strongly disagree, disagree, agree, strongly agree).

Surprisingly, I actually got a call back from one of these joints for an interview--a big chain home improvement store (not the bookstore, damn! Maybe that is for the best--I would spend too much of my time reading the merchandise). Like I know anything about retail or home improvement! So, today, I will blow dry my hair into some semblance of civility and dig through the buried, dusty and moth-bitten Dress Clothes somewhere in the never disturbed closets. I will bring my dusting wand to ward off the cobwebs that most assuredly have formed there and do my best to become acceptably presentable. I will go to the interview and lie through my teeth about how excited I am to sell paint or tomato plants or whatever. I will pretend I am not terrified of leaving the roost.

Wish me luck!

Drought

2006-07-11T07:30:00.000-05:00

Sorry to bum out all of my faithful readers, but I am really feeling down lately. Maybe it could have something to do with my world as I know it caving in on me this week. And the whole issue is something I absolutely can't write about, not here. I can only say it involves a huge, drawn out, overly emotional, and extremely stressful custody battle over my fifteen year old stepson. One could describe it as an emotional rollercoaster, except, this one seems to only be going down--at terminal velocity.Because of this proceeding, we currently have strangers pawing through our lives, prying open all the cracks. I don't feel hopeful. I don't feel much at all. Just drained, worn out, used up. Everyone is showing the strain; we all have short fuses, even the Fellers, poor babes. Now there is only the waiting, the eternal, endless, skin crawling waiting for the final hearing in a couple weeks. We could use a dash of good luck right about now; unfortunately, there appears to be a drought of luck here at Abode McBoudica.

The Much Anticipated Vacation blog

2006-07-09T08:13:00.000-05:00

What vacation would ever be complete without the little misadventures that burden us in our quest for fun and "escape"? It seems my vacation was fraught with these. Below is a list of highlights from our trip to the wilderness with twins, Eighty-Eight Fingers and Big J, the teen boy, to my in-law's mobile trailer campsite.

1) We have a HUGE eight-seater station wagon that is absolutely necessary to fit all the bodies in this family (never mind the luggage). The Hubz took the behemoth in for an oil change two days before the trip where the nervous pimply clerk informed him in a squeaky stress-cracked voice that they would be unable to perform the oil change due to a dent in the oil pan and some huge leak from a broken gasket. It appears the wagon has been doing some off-roading in its spare time (you know, because it is so huge and guzzles so much gas it basically sits in the garage most of the time unless it is absolutely necessary to haul it out). My theory is that the thing has been sneaking out at night, riding the curb to visit the cute minivan down the street. Anyway, no time or money to fix the beast means that we crammed the little boys in the sedan with us, while my stepson, 15-year-old Big J, rode up with Grandpa. Actually, that was fine with me because the sedan has working air conditioning and it was hotter than heck the day we drove up.

2) Before we realized the behemoth vacation mobile was disabled, we had decided to do something about our luggage dilemma. The beast is big enough for all of our butts but our luggage usually has to be squeezed in with a shoehorn. Driving 3 1/2 hours with compacted luggage in your leg space is so not fun, so we decided to purchase one of those cargo bags for the top of the beast, which, conveniently, has a luggage rack. I found an acceptable specimen at Target online that said most stores stocked it. So I called the two closest stores. We live in a big city. The stores were in the inner city. Evidently there is not much call for rugged travel/luggage equipment in the city, or the stores don't sell it because people don't buy it because they would just as soon steal it off the neighbor's car. In any event, at the two city stores I called, the first one did not even know what I was talking about and the second one transferred me to three departments and had me on hold for fifteen minutes before they realized they did not stock it at their store. So I called the suburban store. Sure enough, they had multitudinous cargo packs in various styles in stock. The Hubz picked one up before taking the beast in for its unsuccessful and fateful oil change. So now we have a lovely cargo pack that we did not even take out of the box (no luggage rack on the sedan).

3) Because I didn't have a decent swimming suit (all of mine were either faded, shredded or missing parts) I decided to buy one. Because I don't like to shop in the malls, don't have much time for it, I do a lot of my shopping online. I found a clearance sale (the Scots again, with the clearance sales) Victoria's Secret tankini that I thought would be nice, cover up the twin skin, but be a little sexy at the same time. The photo showed that it had ties on the sides that I thought were there for decoration. I did not realize that the sides actually tied closed. Okay, fine, not much I could do about it now. I was stuck with it and the suit really was cute. So, at the appropriate time, I donned the suit, double knotting the ties and hoped for the best. I never imagined that my little Boompas would be so ambivalent (afraid yet loving) of the water that he would feel compelled to cling to me and rake my sides with his monkey toes, untying my double knotted suit in the water while I did not have hands free to retie it because I was holding him ! Thank goodness Hubz was nearby to tie it back up--in three knots this time! Then there were the numerous times Boompas pulled at the revealing halter top to reveal a little more, which he found hilarious, although I was less than amused. So pool time was an unintentional strip tease for me. Yea! Next time I get a suit, it is going to be a full piece with locks, skirts, buckles and many bolts of spandex fabric. Something like a Muslim woman would wear swimming aught to suffice.

3) My twins never cease to amaze me. Just when I think I know them...Taking them to a new place with new experiences, a novel situation, revealed that Stink really is a fearless barbarian (in a good happy-go-lucky sort of way) while Boompas, for all his superhero play, is more reserved, less likely to try new things, while more likely to need his base, his mamma, for support. While Stink jumped repeatedly into the water at the pool without barely a second's pause, Boompas clung to someone, usually me with both hands despite his special flotation suit. Another example of Stink's fearlessness, the trailer is on a cul-de-sac in a very wild, secluded area. There were only maybe three other campsites on the cul-de-sac, while the other lots lacked any development. So for fun, occasionally, we would Take a Walk Around the Circle. Stink pranced exuberantly around the circle, while Boompas wanted go around, but only if someone would carry him. Also, Boompas was much more likely to want to stay in the trailer and watch a movie. The Outdoors was a little too big and scary for him. Finally, Boompas was ready to go Home, asked repeatedly for it, during the last day and a half.

As an aside, those floatation suits are incredible! They are one piece suits with floatation foam pieces sown into the top. Although they make the kids look like multi-colored mutant sumo wrestlers, they are terrific at keeping the kids above the water in a convenient one-piece device that does not require inflation, attachment (except putting the suit on, easy enough), or memory of additional parts/pieces. It makes it really easy for a mom of twins to hold both the rascals safely from time to time when they both must have Mommy and no one else will do without either drowning.

4) Stink discovered fireworks are Hot and now understands why he should Not Touch Them. Every night, before Feller Bedtime, Big J would conduct a fireworks show. During one of these performances, Hubz and Big J lit sparklers, which Stink, who ran wild during the performances while I held Boompas (again, scared but awed). One of the sparks fell on the ground and did not extinguish right away, so Stink dashed out to grab it fast as a shot and tried to pick it up before anyone could do anything. He burnt his fingers a little, but after Magic Mommy Kisses, he was good to go.

5) Stink fell out of bed three out of four nights, waking everyone up with his screaming in the process. One night, he fell out of bed twice.

6) Eighty-Eight Fingers was in his element. He thoroughly enjoyed total freedom and the ability to spin like a top, whirring from activity to activity all day every day.

7) Potty training kids during long trips=many wet pants and pit stops.

Thank god we had the in laws with us, otherwise I don't think the vacation would have been possible. Because three wild Fellers in the wilderness is A LOT of work. My step MIL loves cooking. She cooked dinner every night and they cleaned up the campsite after we left. Overall, everyone had fun. But I needed a whole day to recover from my vacation and wipe the grime off the Fellers afterward.

Why he didn't know

2006-07-06T21:04:00.000-05:00

Okay, still stalling on the vacation blog. I'll get there someday.

Also, that you all for your support and kind words over the issue with my daughter's father.

I have to revisit this whole dynamic with The Girl's father. I was not completely honest in my last post. Well, okay, I was honest, but did not tell the complete story as to why my daughter did not know her father for the first ten years of her life. It is a story I have mixed feelings about sharing. It is a story about a difficult decision I made fourteen years ago, one that I have struggled with, one that has weighed on my conscience. But it is a story that needs telling if only to understand me.

Would it surprise you to learn I wasn't always the fire breathing feminist I am today? That is actually an affliction I nourished over the course of many long years. It all started like this...Imagine a girl, sixteen, and enjoying her last real summer vacation. September would bring her senior year in high school. Her whole life is before her, her childhood in ashes, wasted in a bog of dysfunction that was her past. I am not going to repeat the whole song and dance that was my miserable childhood here. Let me just say my childhood, what little there was of it, sucked. The sixteen year old girl I was considered herself grown, mature beyond her years, never quite fitting in, an outcast. Lonely. Sure, by that time I had moved in with my father, but I was still a screwed up, lonely kid dumb enough to fall for some older guy's advances while I was wandering around in the dark comfort of the night, stumbled upon a party where a twenty year old neighbor seduced me and, well, nine and a half months later my daughter was born.

I had thought myself an outcast before! Let me tell you, being a pregnant high school senior does nothing to improve one's social status. I was shunned. The school system actually tried to entice me to go to their special preggo girl's school, but I was too academically advanced and they did not offer the college prep courses that I needed. So I went to high school, heard all the whore jokes and rumors, endured the stares and chuckles and nasty words for six months as my body ballooned and swelled. In my solitude, I had lot and lots of time to think.

Since I was in a bit of a predicament, a young single pregnant girl with no job (I cleaned offices part time for minimum wage and they would not hold my job for me), what would I do? I knew I could not abort. As dire as my situation was, the second--okay maybe some time the night I told my dad I was pregnant and he gave me a big hug and told me he would support me no matter what I did-- soon after I found out I was pregnant, I felt this overwhelming connection and love and, strangely, surprisingly, joy. I could not terminate the pregnancy, nor adopt out the baby. So I offered up my life, my skills, my talents, all I was (as lowly as that was at the time) to that child. I lived for her, for the idea of her, for the warmth and love I felt from her yet unborn body inside me. She needed me, but not nearly as much as I needed her. She was and has been my everything, my salvation. Because of this complex relationship and my strong bond to her yet unborn self (she was my salvation, I her protector to preserve that salvation) I was selfish of her love.

And so I thought of people I knew, other single mothers. I observed their situations. Fighting with ex's. Ex's who were less than men, drunk and belligerent and bitter. Ex's who continuously threatened to take the mothers to court, to try to take their children to make their lives difficult not because they really wanted the children, but merely to harass. Ex's who promised to see their kids, and stood the kids up again and again. Ex's who did not provide. I compared what little I knew of the father to these men. He drank, from what I could tell. He seemed a little wild. I wondered...

So I thought and observed and discussed my thoughts and observations with my father. And I decided over some time==I chose a difficult path--to not actively pursue The Girl's father. Would it be so bad that he was not in her life, messing with her head and her heart, as I guessed he would? Not only that (here is why I feel guilty for my decision) I was terrified to share my daughter, my salvation, the perfect being that my body had grown over the course of nine and a half uncomfortable grueling months, with a virtual stranger. I did have to give his name to the county so I could get insurance for my daughter (there is another story altogether--talk about being a non-person!)--let them find him. But I would not do the footwork.

And I didn't. It took the system ten years, but they finally did it. They found him. And in my guilt (for not providing the girl with an adequate father, sometimes thinking maybe she really needed one, you must know how one questions and double guesses oneself) and mixed feelings about my decision over the course of the last ten years, I waived past child support and agreed that he would pay only half of the statutory monthly amount he owed. And I encouraged her to develop a relationship with him.

This has not been the first time he has hurt her feelings (although he has not been nearly so cruel in the past) and I have given him a pass, did not want to interfere in their budding relationship. But I am her protector, and at this I must draw the line. Anyway, I am feeling a little bit validated. I am feeling like that tough decision I let that little girl make all those years ago was the right decision.

Fireworks and Drama

2006-07-05T22:06:00.000-05:00

I just survived a vacation of keeping three small boys alive and not completely encrusted in grime or lost somewhere in the deep dark wilderness! I have had a blog planned in my head about that vacation, of my twins and some remarkable discoveries about their personalities this trip has illuminated. But, alas, I have returned to Drama and Issues that must be dealt with.

The Drama involves my daughter. As I have mentioned before, she is thirteen. I had her when I was very young, three months after graduating early from high school. Her father and I lost touch before I discovered I was pregnant, and she and her father only recently (when she was ten) met each other. He lives in a different state, so they do not have an opportunity to spend much time with each other to get acquainted. Mostly, they have talked on the phone with a few weeks of summer visits thrown in. Their relationship has been tenuous, at best.

Honestly, my poor adolescent judgment of character and lack of sound decision-making skills is all too evident in the man that is her father. The woman I am today would never have dreamed of copulating with that man. I was really a stupid kid, and he is my penance for that stupidity. He is kind of rough around the edges, the kind of guy who is allergic to education and "book learning" and who thinks of tattoos as fine art.

In fairness to him, what a shock for him to discover out of the blue that he has a ten year old daughter! I do empathise with that. And to be fair, he does try, usually, to attempt a some kind of relationship with her. But last night he really did some damage that I don't think The Girl will ever forgive--understandably so.

This past week, instead of taking a trip with us (me, Hubz, the Fellers and Big J) The Girl elected to visit with her father who was staying with relatives nearby. To make a long story short, she mostly had a good time hanging out with some girl cousins her age (poor girl is stuck in a family with an over-abundance of boys), shopping, pillow fights, playing with her younger half-brothers. The trouble didn't actually begin until tonight at about eight o'clock, four hours after her aunt dropped her off at home.

While browsing an online book catalogue, eagerly anticipating my vacation blog and sorting details in my mind, I received a strange and terse phonecall from my daughter's father. He did not ask for her. Instead he asked--no, told!-- me to search her bags. Huh? For money that some people, including her little brother, think might have gone missing. What? The? F***?

Okay, I have a real problem with that, arbitrarily searching my daughter's bags at a time in her life when privacy is of utmost importance and respecting her as the young woman she is. Also, I don't think I need to mention how adverse I am to being told what to do by a guy who is only now talking to me because of a cruel trick of fate fourteen years ago decided that the sperm he deposited in me met up with an ovum that happened to actually adhere to the uterine wall and-- voila--life!

Furthermore, I know my daughter. She is not a thief. I know, I know. We all want to think the best of little Johnny and Jenny. They are all perfect and can do no wrong, yet there are still murderers and crooks and politicians. But, seriously, I know my daughter. It was just she and I for so many years. I don't know exactly how to explain it, but the girl is just. not. a thief. She may have a smart mouth from time to time, and try her hand at manipulation. Sometimes she is too demanding. But, damn it, she doesn't steal. She is a hard worker, earns what she gets and is proud of that. And it really pisses me off this sperm-depositing, tattoo-infested person is accusing her, and apparently convicting her, of something so wrong without any real evidence or specific details of what was supposedly stolen, when and where.

I told him I would "have a word" with her and call him back. About ten minutes later, he called back and I told him I discovered no evidence of The Girl stealing. He told me (again with the orders!) to put her on. He then proceeded to scream and swear at her how she had to "send back all the money she jacked from everyone, and he would not speak with her again until she did so". Um. Not. Cool. So not cool. Color me unimpressed.

Anyway, instead of composing my charming vacation blog, I composed an e-mail to said sperm-depositor. I have been cutting him slack the last three years because of the whole shocking I Have a Ten Year Old Daughter!? thing, but now, after this BS, I am done with that. You have another kid, dude, deal already. Here it is. Read it and weep!

[Father of The Girl],

This whole Missing Money situation sounds kind of contrived to me. There are several things that reek of bullshit about your hypothesis that The Girl is a thief.

First: I have had a few different families staying with me over the course of the last several years. Never once has anyone ever complained that they or their children were missing things or money. Neither has she ever stolen anything from her step- brothers or me. And she has had great opportunity, as this is a small house and very chaotic. In addition, none of her friends' parents has ever accused her of stealing any of her friends' things when she has been at their houses. In fact, her friends' parents always make it a point to tell me what a sweet, well-mannered, polite and delightful girl she is and she is welcomed any time, even over to girls' houses whose parents don't allow other kids over. She is a VERY trustworthy girl.

Second: The Girl is a straight A student, has perfect attendance and is involved in several extracurricular activities. She is a hard working, good girl, not the type of person who would steal.

Third: The Girl is a wanna-be vegetarian, PETA member, and seriously involved in human rights and environmental concerns. It does not seem likely that such a budding bleeding heart would steal money, especially from her little brother.

Fourth: This whole situation is just ridiculous in that no one knows how much money he or she had to begin with, when he or she had it, where he or she lost it. There is a serious lack of specific details and evidence that The Girl stole the money, if indeed any money was even stolen at all. It seems as if everyone is hopping rather eagerly on this bandwagon to blame The Girl, who is the very last person I would ever suspect of stealing.

Another thing: I don't care what you think The Girl may or may not have done. I don't care if you think being her father gives you the right, because you are so wrong there. It is completely unacceptable to scream and swear at her like you did on the phone tonight. That is called verbal and emotional abuse, and I will not have my daughter subjected to that kind of treatment. Don't EVER do that again.

Sincerely,

One Seriously Pissed Off Mother

Anyway, how was your Holiday?

************

UPDATE:

The Girl's father did call late last night to apologize, but by then the damage was already done.

Why I Blog, Revisited

2006-06-29T09:12:00.000-05:00

An anonymous commenter questioned why I write this blog, expressing concerns that maybe I am lonely and even going so far as to wonder at my relationship with my husband, don't I talk to him, etc. Let me direct you to a post I wrote awhile ago, Why I Blog. I blog not because I am not able to communicate with my husband--actually we have a wonderful and open relationship and he reads this on a regular basis--rather, I blog because while "normal" people go to work or school or wherever where they can talk to coworkers or collegues or friends with similar experiences face to face on a regular basis, the job I have here does not readily lend itself to that. I care for children, three small boys, all day every day in my home away from other mothers. There are not very many places for me to go to "hang out" and vent and commune with other mothers who can relate to what I may be going through as a mother, who do the same job, deal with the same crazy things, who work in the poop filled trenches of motherhood like I do. It is like this: my husband is a teacher. He can tell me about being a teacher, and I can relate to him as having had teachers in the past, and knowing him like I do, but I can only understand, can only imagine to a point what is is like for him to manage a classroom of 30 other people's children all day, day-in, day-out. However, he has coworkers and collegues who are there with him, dealing with the same things, who can commisserate in a way I cannot. We all need that, a community where we can be understood for what we do, because what we do is who we are. Like I say in my introduction, I have a captive audience here, but they prefer more graham crackers than listening to me rant. And reading Cat in the Hat for the 500th time,changing the 10,000 poopy diaper and making the millionth peanut butter and jelly sandwich, although rewarding in many ways, is not very intellectually stimulating. Also, my children cannot laugh with me over the times they have dumped a whole gallon of laundry detergent in the wash machine, or cry with me when I worry about whether they are ill in some way (such as Eighty-Eight Fingers' suspected ADHD). Other mothers can laugh and cry and relate to these things. When I blog I feel less alone in my job as a mother. I don't feel sorry for myself, for my life. Rather, my blog is a celebration of my life, a testament to it, my audience other mothers who revel in their experience as mothers. I hope that answers your questions.

Can of worms

2006-06-27T17:52:00.000-05:00

Recently, I broke up with my sister. Probably, the break-up was inevitable. Ironically, I broke up with her via blog.

I was upset with the way my sister was dealing with my daughter (a moot point and an issue I do not want to detract from the main focus: the relationship or lack thereof I have with my sister), so I turned to my anonymous realm, my sanctuary. An anonymous realm of people I don't know by sight, yet I know via shared experiences, who's actual names are a mystery, but who's spirit is clear as the sun after a storm. It is a place where anonymous friends commune here and throughout the mommy-blogosphere to share their experiences, to rant, to vent. This blog is a place for me to think, to organize my thoughts and feelings, to sort things out for myself that otherwise would still be buried in the attic of my mind, uselessly collecting dust, to bring ideas to fruition, to receive feedback, to know I am not alone.

Unbeknownst to me, my sister has been visiting my blog--a lurker, never commenting. Our relationship is such that she never told me she visited, just as I never invited her here. I have held her at a distance from many of my feelings, a few of them about her, some about our dysfunctional family, most about my life as the adult I am, my life now, my current family. I did not--do not-- feel comfortable with the intimacy of her visits here to my sanctuary. Maybe it is because I don’t feel close to her. Maybe it is because there is always this barrier, this secret List of Topics to Avoid (I will get into that later). I want to be able to speak candidly here, what I feel without fear of hurting those I love.

I guess I felt too comfortable and treaded into the List's territory. I posted a blog listing differences in our personality and parenting styles (and I won't list them again so as not to offend her once more) and some concerns I have about her relationship with her husband to be, obviously none of my business. I believe she read more into that post than what I meant --she saw criticism in comparisons only. I listed differences--and she thought the descriptions I made of her portrayed her as a bad person, perhaps as a bad mother. Let me be clear--that was not my intent. What I thought she was doing to my daughter was a bad action, but that does not make her a bad person. I love my sister and respect and admire her because of her differences. I seriously erred when I buried my heartfelt feelings of our differences, the distance in our relationship, in an explosive yet trivial issue. I let my anger over the trivial issue bitterly flavor the feelings I expressed in the post and posted something confused, messy, and certainly not helpful to resolving either situation.

The deeper issue I should have treated with the utmost care and concern, should have handled with kid gloves, giving it its own space, and keeping it crystal clear. That issue is the slow, steady rotting away of my relationship with my sister.

This has been our relationship for the last six years or more: we live only five miles from each other, yet we rarely visit, our kids rarely play together, we rarely even talk on the phone. And not for any particular reason. I cannot point to one particular angry or emotional event that caused this drift. She is busy. I am busy. And, like I said, we are different. Somewhere along the line, it stopped being important to us to have a relationship, to nurture it, regardless of our status as sisters. Thus, our relationship wilted, withered and now, thanks to my most indiscreet post, has finally rotted to nothing.

I tried to call her after I found her husband to be’s anonymous comment calling into question my character and even going so far as to say my daughter knows the truth (I am assuming he meant of what a vile, lying bitch I am? Only guessing here since my sister won’t acknowledge my existence anymore). Unfortunately, the husband to be was guard-dogging her cell phone. And was he fired up. I was accused of posting my frustration instead of confronting my sister via phone or face-to-face. I should have left an urgent message stating I have concerns. Really, I find that both hilarious and infinitely sad. Rarely does my sister answer the phone when I call. Rarely does she return phone calls. In order for her to actually return my call the message should be "urgent"? Following that logic, it is okay for her to ignore me on a regular basis, but I am worthy of concern when something is "urgent". To me, that speaks volumes about the status of our relationship and how I really rate with her.

And I wonder, why if he was screening her calls, if she was really avoiding me, did he even answer the phone when he saw my number? Isn’t that why people have caller ID?

This brings me to the concerns I have about her husband and her relationship with him. This is a Topic definitely on the List! I probably should not have voiced them. In our family, we grew up eating denial sandwiches for breakfast, and she has made it more than clear that she is absolutely madly in love with this man, so would everyone kindly leave him and her alone, thank you very much. Okay. Point taken. I should not worry. I will stop worrying or caring. So I apologize for any defamation against her husband to be and will refrain from ever questioning their relationship again because obviously I don’t know shit about it and her distance from me these past years has assured my ignorance.

On the other hand, the husband to be is awfully busy fanning the flames of my sister’s fury rather than encouraging her to try to work out whatever has gotten her normally close mouthed, never say nothing sister who works so hard to stick to Topics sanctioned by the List so worked up. Definitely, our break up will ensure that I know nothing, that I see nothing. I get the feeling he is a real fan of us breaking up. Sorry, I know, that is on the List.

I have tried to be cavalier about this, to pretend her silence doesn't hurt. But it has hurt, and her refusal to face me does hurt. I can't deny that. I can't even fully understand it.

I have been thinking and wondering about what to do about all this, if there is even anything I can do. Obviously phoning is out. Should I send her a letter? If I send it to her house will it just be thrown in the trash, unopened and unread, my heartfelt feelings tossed like junk mail? Should I stop by and be shunned? So I thought, this dilemma, if not born via blog, was certainly brought to light here. Here is where I will state my case, in my invaded sanctuary. Read it or not, care or don't care. It doesn't matter anymore. Our relationship can't get any worse, and for something this painful I need an outlet.

Ten things I love about raising boys

2006-06-25T07:20:00.000-05:00

1)I love that burps and farts are hilarious events to be celebrated with the utmost ceremony.

2)I love the way their little bodies quake with excitement when they are playing with a toy or working on a project or mischief of some variety and it does what they wanted or some other unexpected yet delightful thing.

3)I love the creativity with language, the domination of it. Words don’t all have fixed definitions. They can mean anything, more than one thing. They can be changed if necessary. I love the way Stink has combined "stop please" and "shut-up" into "stup". When I come to tell him it is time for dinner or for potty, tells me confidently, "Stup!" with his hand outstretched and a big goofy grin. I love when his brothers bother him, he tells them to “stup” or "stup please".

4)I love how every item is a potential sword or light saber, or super hero cape. I love how the boys chase each other around the house brandishing straws, sticks, poles from other toys, coat hangers, or empty cardboard paper towel rolls making raspberry noises for sound effects while draped in a blanket, towel or t-shirt. It feels good to be the mom to Superman, Spiderman and Batman.

5)I love tickle fests and the uproarious giggles and shrieks generated.

6)I love buzz cutting my boys hair. It is so funny how one minute they are screaming like I'm shaving off their skull and the next they are hunching up their shoulders and giggling because it tickles. I love the way the buzz cut feels soft and rough at the same time as I run my hand over it.

7)I love the bright tacky primary colored helicopters, planes, trains, cars, and sports paraphernalia on their clothes. It makes me want to get out and play some football, throw a baseball, drive a racecar.

8)I love that fights between them sometimes turn into all out wrestling matches. I know I have to stop them when it gets to that point, but there is just something hilarious about a knot of writhing shrieking boys.

9)I love that every activity is noisy, requires loud talking, possible yelling, jumping, bouncing and running around. Every activity. Noise, noise, noise, all day, so naptime seems like heaven (to me, that is!). It has made me appreciate the silence of naptime or bedtime, although at times it is almost eerie, alien, empty to me.

10)I love the way they are aggressive. Even affectionate hugs and kisses are aggressive. They grasp me tight around the neck and plant a big loud kiss on me. They run from across the room and give me giant attack hugs. My little tuff guys.

Sleepless nights

2006-06-21T22:01:00.000-05:00

I am glad I don't have many of those anymore!

Yesterday I was rubbish. I was a useless slobbering blob. I sat around and did nothing at all, all day long, except stare. at. nothing. Fellers screamed and cried excessively, incessantly, not because I was so boring, but because no one had any sleep the previous night.

Let me break it down:

8:30 PM Bedtime is a little late tonight, not bad. Daddy was going to work, so Mommy MacBoudica kept them up a little late so they could send him off with goofy, sloppy Feller kisses and a few games of Hard to Get.

9:30 PM All is quiet in the land of zzzzzzzz's. Mommy's ear at the door encounters no jabbering or jumping on beds. No thuds and clattering. No micro-computerchip cheesy music. The crew is down for the count (famous last words).

11:30 PM Mommy M, yawning on the couch, has finished last season's last episode of Deadwood on demand, which she evidently slept threw upon first viewing because she has no recollection of any of it even though Hubz insists they watched it. Mommy M finishes all bedtime rituals of rechecking and covering up Fellers, waking up Eighty-Eight Fingers to go pee, washing her face, brushing her teeth, checking all windows and door locks, and hits the hay herself.

12:00 AM Mommy M crawls into bed and, like usual (which Hubz finds an amazing and almost unbelievable trait), is asleep within approximately thirty seconds.

1:36 AM Mommy M sits bolt upright in bed as she is assaulted by the the most horrendous screaming and wailing which she groggily believes was a dream at first but soon, to her horror, realizes is coming from the vicinity of the Fellers' room. She leaps from her bed and all but flies to the Fellers room to attend to the screaching Boompas. She checks him head to toe for damage. She checks him for poop (now that they are potty training, the Fellers' favorite trick is to poop in their diaper at bedtime or naptime). No damage. No poop.

So she sweetly inquires what is wrong. "Do you have owies?"

"Um-mmmmmmm!"

Okay. Well, seems like all is in order, so Mommy M lays the boy back down, tucks him back in and tells him it is still night time and he has to go back to sleep.

"Um-mmmmmmmmm!"

Still sweetly, just not as much, "Boompas, it's time for night-night. You have to go to sleep." Mommy rubs his back for a minute, strokes his hair and leaves him crying. Mind you, he has been sleeping through the night consistently since he was a year old. I know he can put himself to sleep. Hauling him out of bed and rocking him is not an option. Neither is taking him to bed with me. I tried that once. It doesn't work for my kids. Plus I have never wanted to get into the whole kids sleeping in Mommy and Daddy's bed thing. With six kids betweent the two of us, well, you can imagine the logistical difficulties.

1:45 AM He is still screaming five minutes later. Mommy M must make a stand. She yell-whispers into his room, "Boompas, everyone is trying to sleep. You have to go to sleep."

Her retreating steps are met with, "Um-mmmmmmm!" but he does quiet down. Mommy M climbs back in bed, but has an adreneline high that just won't come down. Does't matter.

2:03 AM Mommy M, who was not yet sleeping, not even close, hears more horrendous screams. She is not so concerened anymore. No, now she is starting to get a little peeved.

"Boompas. Go. To. Sleep!"

"Um-mmmmmmmm!"

"Boompas, you have to go to sleep. Everyone else is sleeping. You have to sleep too or I'll..."

I'll what? Give him a time out? Take away his toys? Put him to bed?He is already in bed, so none of those is an option. What more could I do? Cut off his graham cracker supply? Like he would understand that. You see my dilemma...Nothing. I've got nothing.

"...Or you'll get it." Yeah, that will work.

Mommy M leaves the room. Boompas is quiet because, although he had no idea what the heck get it means, he understood the malice in Mommy's tone. That is the Mommy Means Bizness tone, and he doesn't mess with it. Yet.

2:34 AM More screams. More Mommy stomping to the bedside. More threats of mysterious getting it. More Boompas tricking me with false quiet. More Mommy M flopping back to bed with an exasperated sigh and possibly some cursing.

3:07 AM More screams. Mommy M stomps to bedside, muttering curses. Checks him over. Notices he is soaking wet. He somehow managed to wet up and out of his diaper, which had approximately one drop of pee in it, completely saturating the front of his pants. Try figuring that one out. Mommy M scrambles frantically for a clean pair of pants and manages to change the contrary Feller by flashlight in the dark. Fortunately, the bed seems dry. You know, because he was not laying down and sleeping or anything. After that, though, Boompas finally does succumb to sleep. So, eventually, does Mommy M.

4;33 AM Daddy is home from work. Since Mommy M is hypersensitive to sounds in the night due to a Night of Toddler Practicing His Independence Antics, Mommy awakens instantly, gives Daddy the low-down and a quick kiss and crawls back in bed.

6:40 AM Daddy comes to bed waking Mommy back up. Mommy tries in vain for a few more minutes of precious sleep before the crew wakes up and demands her services.

7:00 AM Fellers awake and yelling for Mom. Mommy stumbles from bed and somehow manages to fumble through the day.

I think I got maybe a grand total of two hours of sleep that night. Thank god for strong coffee and 12 cup coffepots. How in the heck did I do that every night for almost five months when those two were babies? And how did the other kids manage to sleep through all of Boompas' s racket? If I was his sister instead of his mother Iwould have beat him up and broken his good toys.

Home sweet blog home: my, what a mess...

2006-06-19T20:33:00.000-05:00

I have been very neglectful of my blog-home lately. In fact, I think I saw some dust bunnies over there in the corner when I stepped in before. Sorry for the mess. What can I say? It's summer. I have been outside with my boys, ripping up flower beds, making mud puddles for the Fellers to splash in. And spending as much time as possible with the Hubz when he is not working. He has been working quite a bit at his part time job lately to tie up some loose financial ends, so I spend any minutes that he is a) awake and b) here with him.

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Actually, I have a mini-anecdote about the mud puddles. I have a sidewalk that runs past one of my garden beds. Two of the slabs have started to settle inwards toward each other, making a shallow V, so a nice little muddy wading pool forms whenever I water the garden. All three Fellers have discovered what fun it is to jump, splash, and even stick their faces in the watery mud. The watery mud triclkes down their little faces leaving a muddy beard and mustache. It sounds gross, but is really funny. Hey, I wash it right off, honest! I purposely water the depression to make the puddle deeper for their jumping enjoyment. I figure, a little dirt never hurt anyone. One thing about second, third and fourth children: you care less about mussing them. You are confident that they scrub off well and there is a pink little cherub under all the grub. So when dirt is around, you let 'em have at it. It keeps them out of your hair, and it is all good fun as long as no one is getting hurt.

Anyway, back to the puddle. I have new neighbors moving in acros the alley where the sidewalk/puddle faces. One day, they were moving some things in while I was watering the back garden, so my back was momentarily turned on the muddy festivities. The boy in the family, he must be about ten, called out to me incredulously, "Hey, did you know your kids were playing in the mud?" To which I retorted, somewhat absently, "Oh, yeah, I made that puddle for them." He stared at me, his eyes as big as saucers, chin dropped down to his chest, "Oh." It was then I realized I probably made a wonderful first impression on them as the madwoman with mud-encrusted children.

Another thought: are boys, or girls--I guess children--really socialized by ten years old these days that getting dirty is a bad thing? If so, that is sad.

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Recently, because I don't have enough to do, I decided to add a few more morsels to my plate. Yes, I got the idea in my thick skull (and once an idea takes root there, well it is kind of like a weed, it just grows and grows, deper and stronger, sucking up all resources and starving out all sense) that I needed a new garden in the back yard behind the garage in the baren spot where nothing grows and all the leaves in southeastern Wisconsin wind up in the fall. Right now, the back yard is devoid of any personality. It has only the ancient air conditioner unit and, well, weeds, mostly dandelions. Actually, I like a lawn full of dandelions; it is really pretty when they are all in bloom. At least I tell myself that because, while I enjoy gardening, I hate lawn care.

Anyhow, for this garden digging project, I have been lugging the bricks to border my new masterpiece that I dug up from around the maple tree about four years ago and that have since found themselves involved in several other projects around the yard including holding down garbage can lids and lining the yard along the alley to pop the tires of drunk drivers, snow plows and garbage trucks that want to veer into the lawn. Then I dragged the old race car toddler bed from where it has been holding up the wall in the garage for the last three years and placed it strategically in the middle of the two new garden beds. I am going to fill it with sand eventually, let the Fellers use it as a sandbox, but for now the Fellers are enjoying it just fine on top of the mudhole. Man, my bathtub is getting a work out this year, I tell you.

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Additionally, I have been feeding my fitness addiction lately. Since the Fellers have been mobile, I have been very devoted to losing the extra fifty pounds of twin pregnancy weight by getting fit. I don't diet well. I love food way too much, so basically I eat whatever, but I do work out religiously, mostly on the exercise machine in my living room that stares accusingly at me if I neglect it. I worked my way up to getting into shape slowly at first: three days a week, then four, now almost every day. Fifteen minutes, then twenty, now at least a half an hour. The Fellers have learned that they need to sit quietly and watch their movie while I exercise or go directly to the isolation chamber. Anyway, I am to the point now where the exerciser isn't enough of a workout anymore so I have taken up distance running, partially because my husband is a runner, has been since high school and I look forward to being able to do it with him, but also because I can leave the house and be all by myslef with just the sound of my breathing and the rhythmic pit pat pit pat of my feet hitting the pavement to keep me company. And the endorphins aren't bad, either. They only bad part is bribing my daughter or step-son to watch the fellers so I can get out.

I have been a fitness addict for eighteen months now and I am in better shape than I have ever been. I remember I couldn't (didn't want to?) even run the whole mile in high school gym class. I am down below my pre-pregnancy weight, but sadly, my waistline will never be the same after bearing four children (including a set of twins that stretched out my poor abdomen skin like a pair of size small latex gloves on the Incredible Hulk).

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So there you have it: my measly excuses for neglecting my blog-home. Another excuse: it is freakin' exhausting raising Superman, Spiderman, Bat Man, Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader (Actually, Boompas has been known to try his hand at Cat Woman, too, but we won't go there.)

Come One, Come All, to the Circus MacBoudica

2006-06-17T21:07:00.000-05:00

Wow!

A quiet night at home. The hubz is working his second job. It will be bedtime in T minus twenty minutes. As naked-bottomed toddlers (because of the ongoing potty-training saga) frolicked through the house, I fantasized about posting, writing, on some deep, meaningful, and yet undetermined topic.

Then my old friend stopped bye. With her four kids. That's right, right before bedtime! How exciting is that! Seven children in small enclosed space=par-tae! Eighty-Eight Fingers was soon revved up enough he could have started a jet plane. The Fellers followed closely in his footsteps. Instantaneously, this small house was a flurry of shrieking, screeching children dashing from one end to the other in a blur of primary colors. Madness, chaos--these words do not even come close to describing this visit.

So, if you are looking for intellectual stimulation, please move on. However, if you want a ranting madwoman, you have come to the right place. My circuits are fried, baby, fried.

Six Absolutely Random Musings Because, Apparently, I Can't Maintain a Coherent Thought

2006-06-16T08:33:00.000-05:00

1) Welcome to my little brother who recently found my blog through the all-knowing labarynth that is the internet. My little brother, the eternal *alternative*, the rebel, you never know what color his hair will be. Currently a butcher at the local supermarket, he is working on his degree in journalism and doing a kick ass job. I am proud of him. I think of him every time I am trying to debone my own chicken because I am too cheap to by the boneless/skinless and I don't blame him at all for moving on up.

2) We'll call this one Memoirs of a Space Cadet. Ever have one of those days when youare completelty stumped by modern technology? Sadly, yesterday was one of those days for me. I went to the hairdresser and had my hair colored, cut and styled, my one indulgence. I started off that trip by spilling my coffe right in my lap so in the perfect spot so it looked like I had a different kind of accident of the incontinent variety. Great. The one time I have clean clothes on that the kids haven't goobered and slobbered up, I spilled on them. Go figure. The actual hairstyling went fine. I didn't manage to make an ass out of myself again until it was time to pay. I handed the receptionist my debit card, she scanned it and handed it back, and I was about out the door as she yelled after me, "Hey, wait, you forgot to sign the slip!" Oops. But I did not yet have enough of humiliating myself. Oh no! I decided to get some Father's Day cards. I managed to pick out the cards and a small gift for my daughter for watching the Fellers and EEF for me (Daddy was at the decathalon). Again, I had a debit card malfunction. Apparently, my spacial relations perception is off or something because I looked right at the diagram of how to correctly swipe the card and proceeded to do it exactly the opposite, which the clerk delightfully informed me. Duefully chargrinned, I called it quits and headed home. Could all this brain damage I am evidently suffering be caused by too many recitations of the ABC's?

3) I was going to post an adorable picture of the back of the Feller's heads as they gazed out the window while back seat barbequing before dinner the other night, but my camera once again seems to have developed legs and walked away, far far away, no doubt under teen ager duress.

4) Let's hear it for Daddy! I mentioned that he was training for a decathalon and, even though his recurring leg injury flared up, he is still hobbling through. After the first day (yesterday), Big J (my 15 year old stepson) was actually in first place out of everyone, which is really cool.

5) Let's hear it for Daddy, (the refrain)! Since he has been home and has had almost a real vacation this past week, it has been great. He has had more energy for wrestling with the Fellers. That is good news for them, him and me. And he has been catching oup on chores, bills and even helping with the laundry. Yea summer break! Now, if only it could be summer break with him home and the big kids in school...

6) Boompas has an alias. He now runs around, gleefully proclaiming "I'm Luke Skwalker! I'm Luke Skywalker!" thumping his chest prouldy and brandishing wildly whatever item is on hand, such as a straw or stick, as his light saber. Sometimes he pretends to be Darth Vader, complete with deep mechanical breathing noises.

Summertime, and the livin's easy...

2006-06-14T15:33:00.000-05:00

Summer vacation. The big kids, including the hubz, are home from school. There are no alarm clocks ringing, no places to be. The only people on schedules are the Fellers: wake up, potty; eat breakfast, potty; playtime, potty; lunch time, potty; and so-forth. Time has no more meaning than morning, noon, night. It is reduced to an antiquated simplicity measured by the lazy arc of the sun across the sky. I have no idea what day of the week it is, nor the date, and for the most part, don't care. For now, I am blissfully unconcerned and unaware or of commitments and schedules, spending my days teaching required social skills to the Fellers, working the garden project, watering and weeding and waiting for it to bear fruit, making dinner, folding laundry, enveloped in this faux biodome of my mind, mostly serene, certainly yet blessedly uneventful, momentarily living in the moment. Momentary paradise, or at least as close as it gets, at the MacBoudica Abode.

Chicken soup for the eye II

2006-06-12T15:09:00.000-05:00

Another episode of Chicken Soup for the Eye.

Dad was over yesterday. He is a former systems analyst who lost his career when Y2K came and went like a kitten instead of the lion the fearmongers predicted. So he is currently in the process of changing careers, which means a couple of years of technical school. I have mentioned before how he is the eternal batchelor. Sometimes he stops by briefly to hang out, especially now that it is summer break. He happened to stop over right after I returned for the grocery store, so I think that, putting the billions of thises and thats necessary to keep our huge family in operation away, he grew terribly bored. I don't blame him. So was I. He wanted to leave, but I used the age old motivater to get him to stay. I lured him with the promise of a home cooked meal.

The Fellers were still napping, Eighty-Eight Fingers was clanking and clattering away in the living room, possibly knocking down walls, wouldn't surprise me. It was the perfect time to begin cooking, especially a meal this elaborate.

I had German Lasagna planned, modified of course to be a little lower fat and red meat free (we have picky health nuts here, what can I say?). He had had leftovers of this once and was seriously motivated to consume this masterpiece fresh. So he not only stayed; he and I made dinner together. I miss that, now that I am an adult woman with a house filled to bursting. I miss spending time with my friend, my dad. We talked of the economy. I boiled the noodles. He bashed the administration, explained the latest scandals while he browned the turkey sausage. I prepared the sauce and cheese filling. In and out of the kitchen I went, as the conversation ebbed and flowed. The Fellers awoke, needed pants changed and directed to their potty chairs. As the masterpiece progressed, clouds of hearty sausage and sourkraut scent filled the air. The kitchen, somewhat cool in the mild weather we'd been experienceing, heated up, became cozy, comfortable, like our companionship.

As the layers of the lasagna were laid down, sauce and noodles and cheese, I realized that knowing dad as I do, the fact that he is a know-it-all (Hi Dad, love you!), instructing me in proper sausage browning and cutting, directing me on child rearing, doesn't bother me like it should. In fact it is on ene of the things I love about him. To this day whenever I have a problem, questions or doubts, he is the first person after my husband I go to for advice or just a sympathetic ear. I approach his advice like a recipe. I add the esential ingredients, the best advise and eliminate what doesn't work for me. His advice never bothered me, his telling me what to do. I take it with a grain of salt. Like a recipe, it is an essential ingredient in my life and the flavor would just not be right without it. Something important would be missing. Like using garlic powder in place of garlic cloves.

Summer Love

2006-06-08T09:04:00.000-05:00

Before I was married, I always took care of myself, exercised and ate well, but I never joined any sports in high school or college. I was more of an independent half-assed health nut, never much of a team player (I don't mention that on my resume). I ate low fat, but don't you dare try to take my chocolate or coffee. Then I married into a very athletic, competitive family. My husband was a competitive distance runner in high school and college, has run some marathons, and is currently training for a decathalon. When the weather is nice in the spring, summer, and much of the fall, we spend one evening a week at the track where Coach Grandpa, my father-in-law, a recently retired althletic director for a local tech school, trains the kids, my husband, and anyone else willing to learn in speed work, pole vault, hurdles, long jump, discus, whatever.

So last night we were all at the track: The Girl, Big J, Eighty-Eight Fingers, The Fellers, Hubz and myself. The three little guys were zipping around, spinning from one toy to another like tops. First javelin fighting, then tossing some tennis balls , on to the hot wheels Grandpa brought, running up and down the track like greased lightening. I am not a "trackie", so I don't know the technical term for where we were on the track. All I can tell you is we were stationed generally at the south end/curve. After a few minutes, the twins started drifting farther and farther toward the north loop, eventually running down the track in that direction, their little bodies waddling to and fro, arms akimbo, small legs pumpiing away. So cute to see the two of them running. But why so far away? It is not like them to take off like that.

Since I was the odd man, um, woman out, I strolled down the track to see what the big deal was at the north end. You wouldn't believe what I found. A girl. A cute little girl in a pretty pink dress. Hair done up in pretty pig-tails and barretts. The Fellers were chasing a skirt. And they were out to impress. They walked up to her, giggling, grins stretched from ear to ear, one touching the right arm, one the left, babbling away to her in Twinnish. They actually don't use Twinnish so much around the house anymore because they know more "real" words, but the pretty girl in the skirt was making them gaga. She had no idea what the heck they were saying (join the club lady) but she was more than willing to follow them to the soccer net and get her feet tangled up with them. Ah, young love. The relationship was brief. Soon her mother packed her into a stroller and wheeled her away, Coach Grandpa yelling after her , laughing, not to wear a skirt to track practice next time. My Fellers little hearts were broken. Until they rediscovered the abandoned Hot Wheels, that is. Nothing like a little biking and some cherry flavored juice boxes to cure a broken heart.

Be lame, raise teens

2006-06-07T08:37:00.001-05:00

I don't know exactly when it happened. I don't know how. I know I used to have it. Once I was someone who inspired awe and admiration. But over the course of the last couple of years, I lost it somewhere, somehow. Miraculously, I became uncool. An embarrassment. Eye rolling fodder. Someone to be pittied for how absolutely lame she is, if that is even the current expression (that is how lame I am--I don't even know the correct term for lame!).

My daughter enlightened me to my total lack of cool last weekend. It all started Saturday afternoon when my father stopped by for a leisurely visit.

As a side note let me explain here that my father is a very good friend of mine. He is also very close to my daughter. I lived with him as a very young single mother for some time after she was born and he has always had a very big role in my daughter's life. She looks up to him. She desires his approval. As he is more than a father to me, just as he is more than a grandfather to her.

So let me say my friend Dad was over this weekend. We were in the kitchen. It was lunchtime and I was heating leftovers for the Fellers in the microwave. My father and daughter were scrounging leftovers for themselves, too. My dad, the eternal batchelor, enjoys raiding my fridge and is a frequent visitor for home cooked meals and hearty family companionship. The microwave, a beat up old thrice hand-me-down relic, was getting a work out. First shift: Feller plates. Second shift: Dad's plate. Third shift: The Girl's plate. But something was wrong. Those weird noises it had been making for those last two weeks were suddenly accompanied by the smell of fried motor and burnt insulaton. Yes, the microwave, probably older that all of my children's ages together, finally bit the dust. Poor Girl, no heated leftovers for her (well, she could have used the old fashioned pan on the oven method, but that involved way too much work!). And now, my cheap ass had a problem. Where to find another (not necessarily new) microwave? Did I know anyone who might be getting rid of one? No one came to mind and I don't have much time for the whole rummage sale lottery style hit or miss thing, so I would have to bite the bullet and--*gasp*-- purchase a new microwave! My father, a fellow scotsman and cheapskate, commiserated.

This is where I became so fully aware of my lost cool. My darling daughter, witness to this conversation, empty stomach addling her young brains, maybe hoping to impress my father with her knowledge of my failure of cool, chimed in, "Gawd! Mom's going to have to buy a new microwave *eyeroll*! This should be good!" Then, glancing at the drying bin of heaped dishes she said, "She is too cheap to even buy plastic bags or tupperware!" Yes, it is true. I save the resealable plastic bags and plastic margarine, sour sream and yogurt tubs that food comes packaged in. The older kids constantly try to throw these things out when they find them in the pile of dirty dishes, but I am adamant about it, "Don't throw those out! Those are good yet. We need those!" I do reuse these things to store leftovers or food, the plastic tubs for storage or toys for the Fellers; it's not like they just take up valuable cabinet space. I explain that it is better for the environment to reuse these things and why pay for new ones when these are perfectly serviceable? My explainations fall on deaf ears. I think my frugality even drives my husband nuts on occassion. Just recently I caught him throwing a perfectly good resealable bag in the garbage, "Wait! That's still good!" Fartunately, he loves me enough to humor me and not to roll his eyes. Although I believe he smirked. A little.

Anyway, the microwave. Sadly, we would have to throw it out. But wait! I was able to salvage one thing from it! The large glass platter! I was just wishing for a serving platter for h'orderves during the Mother's Day party. I would save the glass microwave platter and use it for h'orderves. It softened the blow of having to purchase a new appliance. Of course, The Girl met that decision with more eye rolling and derision.

Fast forward to shopping for microwaves with Dad at various box stores we love to hate. I am not impressed. I would like to spend as little as possible, naturally, yet, I need a somewhat large size to accomodate heating food for a large family. Why is it that as the size of the microwaves increases, so so the stupid useless functions such as "butter/ice cream softener"? I mean, are people who buy large microwaves really incapable of manually pushing in 1-5-start? Or the "popcorn" function. I don't want to pay an extra $75 so I don't have to push in 3-1-5 START. I just want a big, dumb, featureless, cheap microwave. Why is that so difficult? The closest we got to making a purchase was at one point when The Girl found a microwave that "looked cool", something I aparently have no sense for, and tried to persuade me to purchase it. Suddenly, she spoke my language "Mom, you should totally buy that one because it is cheaper than the other one(by $8 than the larger one I was looking at)." We walked out of the box stores empty handed.

Fast forward to me on the internet. Thrifty tip here: Buy Refurbished. Refurbished products are about half the price of their brand spanking new counterparts (haha no pun intended) and they are usually simply open box items that have been returned. Usually, a human being has inspected the item to make sure it works before repackaging them for resale, more of a guarantee that they actually work than buying brand new never out of the box items. Generally, I have had good luck with refurbs. Anyway, long story short, I found a good deal on a refurbished 1.6 cubic foot with all sorts of useless lazy-ass features for half the price of a new one with free super cheapskate shipping at the electronic big box store of the net amazon.com . Even with the el cheapo shipping option, it will be here today.

Oh, and the day after we set the microwave out back on the trashpile? Someone snatched it up. Someone is going to try to eek more life out of that dead-as-a-doornail microwave. Someone is more of a cheapskate than me. I wonder if that person's daughter's eyes get stuck in the back of her head when he brings that hunk of junk home?

One more thing. Monday, The Girl told me that her class had an awards ceremony. They voted on such things as Most Popular, Most Likely to Succeed, Nicest Girl, Nicest Boy, Whatever. Guess what award The Girl won? Most Likely to Save the Environment.

Cheapskate fiasco

2006-06-06T08:45:00.000-05:00

You know that hate mail I sent to BabyBestBuy.com? The one where I ripped their heads off about the shipping delay? Guess what! Fifteen minutes after I sent that email, UPS was placing a package on my front porch. Is that service or what?

Yes, I felt like a big jerk. Yes, I sent them an apology. The thing is, they sent me an email claiming they would email me again when they actually shipped the order. I never received a shipping email, so in my defense, that is a big miscommunication on their part. I did recieve the product within 8 days including a holiday for regular ground shipping, which I felt was average. I still have not heard from the processing center regarding either my complaint or my apology. Hello? Is anyone out there? You would think I would get some type of acknowledgement.

On the other hand, the Dappi training pants seem to be a real bargain. I bought them for $0.99/apiece. They are leak resistant, very absorbent cotton lining and a vinyl outer. Yea! No more carpet scrubbing (too bad I can't find a cat puke collector)! They wash and dry well (didn't melt in the dryer, always good). All-in-all, not too shabby a product for the price. I give the product an A, while I think the company customer service gets a D.

Random Sci-Fi and the Life of Mom

2006-06-05T10:46:00.000-05:00

I'll be honest here. This list of modern day Si-Fi is brought to you by the fact that there is some heavy-duty stuff going down at the MacBoudica abode that I am unable to write about, maybe won't be able to write about in such a public setting. Let's just say it is D-Day for an important issue and I am feeling a little powerless, a little under the microscope so to speak, so what better diversion than science and technlogy applied to the life of a modern mom? I could totally use this stuff, and so could you!

1)Does it seem quiet in your home, maybe a little too quiet? In my house, this could only mean one thing: the kids are up to something. Now, for exhausted moms and couch potatoes alike, the new robot spy planes and other high tech anti-terrorism devices that can actually allow you to pilot a high power camera plane remotely, see through walls, and other cool tricks. Very handy indeed. Now moms can fight back against stealth misbehavior.

2)

Have you been feeling a little stressed out lately? A little too busy, rushing around, trying to do it all? Those days are over now. This article is about two cloned racing mules raised and trained incompletely independent settings but who still managed to win a mule race in first and second place with times differing by only three tenths of a second! I know I could use a clone, someone who can compete with me on laundry folding. And, hey, if she beats me by any mount at that chore, just to show I'm not a hater, she can do some of mine, too. I will have to draw the line when it comes to, ahem, bedroom duties though. I am not sharing in that department.

3)Sorry, I have no practical application for this article. I just thought it was cool. It is about how Einstein's brain is bigger and better that normal brains in the science/math related areas. His brain is fifteen percent larger than normal with more nerves and fissures and a few other extras. Hey, maybe someday we can all be Einstein clones? We may not get much laundry done, but math class will certainly be a no-brainer.

4)This one is definitly my favorite new device. It is something straight out of a si-fi/fantasy novel.

Did you ever have a craving for some rich chocolatey dessert but you could't have it because you don't want to share and it was hours until the kids' bedtime? Ever want to read the mail in peace? Or sneak out to the car to get some forgotten item or take the garbage out unnoticed to avoid causing a screaming/crying fit that lasts all day? Wouldn't it be nice to be invisible, even for a minute? This may soon be a possibility. Scientists are currently in the processess of developing an invisibility cloak, actually more like an invisibility shield, as we speak. The only problem withthis device is if the kids get ahold of it, they can thwart your spy plane anti-terrorism gadgets and stealth misbehavior will once again be a problem.

Why Parents of Twins Are Certifiable

2006-06-02T13:23:00.000-05:00

These people will think I am insane. That is okay. I invite them to come over any time and manage potty training my Little Lords Fauntleroy. Behold, my email to customer service at BabyBestBuy.com...

Dear Processing Center:

I am writing to inquire when my purchase of Dappi training pants might be shipped. I ordered it over a week ago, 5/25 to be exact, and I still have not received neither the product nor any indication that it was shipped. I realize Monday was a holiday, but still I would have thought the products would have at least shipped by now! I would really appreciate it being shipped soon, as I am currently trying to potty train twins. I don't want to use disposable pull-ups, I am at the point where I can't put diapers back on them without confusing them, and the current training pants I have for them are not leak resistant, so you can imagine the mess. Frankly, I am quite exhausted with scrubbing my new carpet and something must be done about it. I need leak resistant pants for these children. I don't want to have to go out to the store and try to find an alternative. That is why I ordered online to begin with. But I may be forced to do just that and cancel my order with you. I beg of you, please ship the training pants soon so that I don't have to cancel my order or scrub any more carpet stains.

Sincerely,

Macboudica

*********Update*********

Fifteen minutes after I sent that email to BabyBestBuy.com, UPS was placing the package on my door! Amazing!

Guess I have some apologizing to do.

Dear Processing Center,

Please disregard my last email. I just received the order. Thanks for your prompt delivery.

Sincerely,

MacBoudica

Yep, they really will think I am crazy now.

Confessions of a serial reader

2006-06-01T10:07:00.000-05:00

A while ago I posted about Why I Blog. This is an addendum to that post.

I have a confession to make. I am a serial reader. When my nose is burried in a book, leave me alone. Nothing else matters.

I read like a crack addict desperate for her next hit. My reading is almost carnal. I don't simply read, I devour, a book. I become so completely absorbed in the world the author has created that anyone who desires my attention must resort to strenous antics, loud noises, possibly some shouting or punches to the arm. I may eventually startle as if from a deep slumber, my mind groggy, my thoughts far away. And unless there truly is some type of imminent disaster slated to wipe out the lives of myself and/or those I love so that my immediate reaction is absolutely, undoubtably required, my eyes will continuously dart furtively back to my book for the duration of the rude interrrupter's tirade.

I will read anything, anything. I have no shame. Sometimes, desperate for a fix, I find myself reading the large stack of fliers and junk mail in the recycling heap or the back of the cereal box sitting on the breakfast table or even the informational brochures that come with perscription drugs.

I admire writers. I love them for putting wonderful literature on this earth. I can't get enough of words or the way they are put together. I crave reading, experiencing, language. How this author or that combines things. John Ridley's dark worlds. David Lee Burke's lyric imagery. George R.R. Martin's painstakingly detailed characters and worlds. And this is just a small handful of some of my recent indulgences. There are so many. So much variety in writing styles and genre's. It amazes me. I am in awe at the wonder and the power of language and its uses.

I have known this about myself for a long, long time. Part of the reason I started this blog is not because I am a terriffic writer or anything. No. I did it in honor of the courage of writers. They put themselves out there, bear there hearts and souls for all of us readers, day in and day out. I wanted to honor that courage. I wanted to put something back. This is my tribute, humble though it may be, to writers. I am sharing my stories in my small way, too.

The power of No

2006-05-30T09:00:00.000-05:00

Blue got me thinking again (darn it! And so early in the morning, too, pre-coffee, not good!). Her latest post is about one's favorite word. Although I am an avid reader and I love words and language, the first word that came to mind was No (kind of as a joke at first, but then I thought about it and, yeah, that is right), not just because as a mother/parent it is a life-saver: short, simple, to the point, and easily understod when trumpeted in an athoratative, no-nonsense tone across the room to one offending child while the parent is in the midst of detaining another offending child. But also, because I used to be a person who had a problem saying No. I would double, triple, quadruple book myself because I did not want to let anyone down. And more often than not I would only end up letting myself down. I would feel guilty or frustrated or stressed that I couldn't make it all work, make everyone else happy, especially if I said No to put one of my needs first--that was the worst, guilt-wise. Who was I to want, to need, when others had demands of me? Didn't I love them? Oh, the guilt trips I gave myself. Pathetic, actually, now that I'm thinking back on it.

As I had more kids, as I aged and hopefully gained some wisdom and perspective, I started learning the power of telling others No. There were times I absolutely could not do all the things people asked of me. So I started saying No to people. You know what? The world did not crumble. No one was struck dead. And my friends and family may have been disappointed temporarily, but they managed without my presence/assistance. They may have even forgiven me. And those that have not, were they truly my friends to begin with?

Know what else? Saying No, I started to respect myself. Those times I said it, it was right, it felt right to me. I learned that No is what you have to do, what you have to say sometimes to be right with yourself.

Isn't it funny how kids learn No as one of their first words, then as women we seem to unlearn it? I think that as women we want to give too much and we somehow think we are bad people to say No, to let someone down. We are programmed to live for others while our needs take a backseat, if they are not completely neglected. We don't want to be bad people. We want to be loved. So we say Yes. To everything, to every request, to every demand, to every person. We give all of ourselves up because we think it makes us Good and Worthy of Love. It is better to give than to receive, we are taught. So we give and give and give until we are empty husks, retaining nothing, limp and dry and wasted.

The wisdom I gained is that others' happiness is not my responsibility. My own happiness is.

That is why No is a mandatory word for a woman's lexicon. It stands for limits. It stands for self, what you will and will not do, what you can and cannot do, just how much BS you will take. A simple two letter word can mean all that.

I think that learning to embrace the word No, to say it and mean it and not feel guilty or bad about it, is essential to a woman's happiness and well-being. It was esential to my happiness. It doesn't make you a bad person. By saying No, you learn to respect yourself, to love yourself. When you respect and love yourself, you hold something back. You are whole. You have definite limits and boundaries. You retain a sense of self. Only then can you truly be loved. If you don't love yourself, if you are giving it all away like, how can you truly expect someone else to love an empty shell?

I say: No. Set your boundaries, set your limits, define yourself: your needs, your desires. Tell them No if you want. Put yourself first for a change. Be You.

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Of course, when the kids learn No and start using it....well, that's a different story! Then I don't like the word so much.

Literature

2006-05-27T20:56:00.000-05:00

Take this quiz to find out which classic female literary character you are!
(This is me, Elizabeth Bennett.)

Speaking of female literary characters, I have to mention my daughter here. She is thirteen. She is smart. Oh, she is so smart! She just completed a SRI (Scholastic Reading Inventory) at her school. This system scores a person's reading level and then generates a list of novels for summer reading based on the child's level. My dear darling daughter, scored a 1327 on the Lexine Scale so her list came back all classics. What the hell does this Lexine BS mean, you may ask? As did I. So I investigated the link to Lexine and they explain their criteria (OK, it wasn't me it was my Dad because he is supremo-nosey where his darling grandbabies are concerned, but I checked it out, too). According to this site, many of the books in her level are college graduate student texts! Now, I realize that she is not going to pick up a college grad school text and go to town with it, but it does say something, doesn't it. She is a girl who can be challenged, analyze complicated texts, think! My baby is going places, and I am so proud (Hi, Little Girl, I mean you)! She is a girl no more, to be at that level. She needs to be challenged. Time to put my feminism shovel on full throttle and fill her head with the good stuff!

Seriously, though, she is a teen. One thing about teens, as a Mom, you know nothing. I am technically talking to the furniture when she is in the room. Oh, well. Someday she will be thirty, and then won't I be smart.

Back on the Chair: An Update

2006-05-27T07:19:00.000-05:00

When I was ranting befor about my tots going back on the chair, I must have forgotten for a moment that I have twins (ha! like that is possible ). They are on to me, and when twins are on to someone and it involves something they don't want to do like pooping and peeing in the lousy potty, then twins are stubborn. But not just stubborn like one child is stubborn. I have potty trained two singletons, and while it was not always a cakewalk, I survived it. No, when twins are stubborn it is Stubborness in Stereo. Each feeds off the other in their enthusiasm for not learning. The last two mornings, since Mommy said, "Back on the chair, Fellers," they have had poopy pants before I even got them out of bed. Smart. So Smart. A poop party before you even wake Mommy up. How can Mommy compete? Waking up earlier than them is not an option because these guys get up so early, they could put the rooster out of business.

Yesterday the only thing that went into the potty was a couple of drops of pee each. And some Legos, a plane, and an R2D2 action figure. Good news: they don't like to pee in their undies. I say, "Don't pee in your undies, Fellers." They each tell me, "O-Tay." and then, after only two accidents where a little leaked out, they were able to hold it like camels. Sure, they can each hold it all morning until naptime when they unleash a flood of pee into their cheap ass generic diapers that, of course, leak like as if they were perforated with millions of holes, thus turning the beds into Lake Michigans so that Mommy had to clean up these oversized, mega-pee puddles simultaneously with making dinner ( I wonder if I can put that on a resume as multi-tasking, wearing many hats, versatile?).

But I will not be disuaded so easily. I know I am outnumbered, but I am the Mom. We are going to do this.

Friday Cat Blogging: Fat Cat Update

2006-05-26T13:42:00.000-05:00

Today's Friday Cat Blogging is an update on Calisto. The reigning MacBoudica Abode Diva has lost 1 more lb. this week! She is now a svelte and sexy 19 lbs after one week of pure Purina One weight loss chow. She can even kind of almost lick her own bum now, which is good news for me since I am the poor bastard who has to wipe her rank nether region every time she comes within sniffing range. Dare I say it? I am dreaming of the days of no more foul cat stench! I am dreaming of the days when my poor limbs and digits are no longer in jeapordy from her wrath! Soon, my beauty, soon all the male cats will be lining up for miles around to marvel at your slender new self. Okay, so you are spayed--you could give a rat's ass (depending on the flavor), but you know what I mean. I know you would love to have your evil spastic way with those bad Toms, opening a can of whoopas (whoopass, not tuna--you are on a diet!) all over the block! Soon you will get your wish, my dear. You can kick 'em into next Friday's cat blog because you will be all that.

Congrats Calisto!

Back on the chair

2006-05-26T07:29:00.000-05:00

The twins are back on the chair--the potty chair that is. I tried and failed this job before. The twins defeated me. They fought me, and I backed off, thinking to myself that they just weren't ready. My confidence was low. But no more, oh no! It is definately time to revisit the chair. Why this sudden interest in re-introducing the chair, you might ask? Simple. The Fellers went overboard with the poop games yesterday so much so that the Mommy Incredible Hulk appeared and hastily plopped their tender heinies on the pots.

It's like this. Take one hot (well--kinda hot anyway), sticky (definitely sticky--100% humidity--you could wring the moisture out of the air) day. Add one majorly PMSing mommy and a naptime prolonged over two hours with the infamous Poop Game (you know the one, pooping at nap time because that prolongs having to go to sleep, Mommy has to come and change them, and it is more quiet and sneaky to do it when Mommy isn't around) for some already seriously overtired Fellers because they have been getting up so early in the morning. Top this with getting interrupted in the middle of making dinner with Boompas, his outstretched hand covered in some kind of dirt, whining at me, "Eeeewwww, Mommy. Wash it!" The dirt was of course some poop from his pants, now caked and hardened on his fingers and under his nails (are you disgusted? Believe me, so was I). So, mid-dinner, I had to wash and scrub a screaming, squirming poop encrusted toddler and then myself and hope like hell nothing burned on the oven. Oh, yeah, I whipped out the chairs with a quickness after that.

Of course, Eighty-Eight ( his story here) pushed my buttons, too, adding to the growing Mommy Hulk Syndrome. His trick of the day was Crayon Breaking. All day long he broke crayons throughout the house wherever he found them. Then, he collected all his work, as if proud of it, into a big broken crayon mountain on the coffee table. Nice. He has some kind of OCD about breaking crayons or something, I don't know. I will just have to add crayons of all things to the list of Things He Can't Have Unless Supervised. That list is so long now, I truly have pitty for his kindergarten teachers-to-be while simultaneously selfishly longing for him to be in school because of the break that will give me(I know that is terrible! I can't help it, though--the kid is a whirlwind!). Also, he again got into a bunch of stuff from all the hiding spots and cubbyholes of junk in my room at naptime and hid it under the covers-an old trick of his he sems to rediscover every time things are already going south in our humble abode(he can't nap in the same room as his brothers or he would enable the party of the century and, even though he is four, he still needs a nap or he is impossible at night--or maybe it is me that needs him to nap because twelve hours straight every day non-stop of his constant energy and knack for trouble would drive me right off the nearest cliff). Then there was the usual incessant teasing his brothers, taking their toys and regular-old-every-day wildness. He's my boy, I love him dearly, but he is a lot of work.

Back to the chair saga. One of our major problems from the last round was lack of training pants. We didn't have that many to begin with from EEF's training days, and many of those we had were hand-me-downs and the cheapies (of course!) that did not stop leaks very well. Plus many had been thrown away after some of EEF's more heinous poop episodes (like at relatives'--for some reson he decided that training was out when we were out--I think it was the whole overstimulation/lack of focus and attention thing with him).

A side note: I refuse to use disposable pull-ups to train my kids. They are worse than useless. I discovered with my daughter that they simply do not work. The kids can't feel when they are wet and they feel just like a diaper when they are on. She was really late (like almost all the way through kindergarten!--I was to the point of asking the doc if she had some kind of medical condition) training to stay dry at night. Finally, I wrapped her mattress in plastic garbage bags and put her to bed in underwear. The first night, she thought she would trick me, found the stash of pull-ups I saved in case we went overnight somewhere, stuck one on under her underwear because I am really that stupid that I would not notice a pull-up under her panties! I instantly ripped up and destroyed the few remaining pull-ups and she went to bed in undies that nigh. She wet the bed for maybe two nights and was completely trained after that.

As for the Fellers, my point is that we have very few and very poor quality training pants so that when the kids wet it goes everywhere--saturating the undies, soaking the pants, running down the legs, puddling on the (new, sadly) carpet, up the shirt, so that not only do I have a huge mess to clean up on the kid, I also have to scrub the floor and soak all the clothes. Bad enough with one kid, but I am training twins! Yikes! So no sooner do I clean one kid/floor mess when the other kid springs a leak. This all in the span of five minutes after they are excused from the chair, naturally. At least there are two chairs! It definitely appeared like Ms. Cheapskate was going to have to cough up some dough to solve this problem. So Ms. Cheapskate did some good 'ol research after she sent the kids to bed (early!). I found some Dappi vinyl outer/cotton inner washable trainers at BabyBestBuy.com. The best news is that they were on sale for only $0.99 apiece with a more than reasonable shipping rate of $5.95 per order under $100. I did not just buy them for their cheapness, though! I discovered a website called DiaperPin that gives reviews on trainers and these were rated as high as some of the "Big Name" (like bummies or scrunchies or something, I forget) reusable trainers that sold for anywhere from $9-12 apiece. The good scotswoman that I am, I quickly snatched up a buttload (no pun intended), 24, enough for two naughty heinies so that I don't have to be doing wash/carpet cleaning constantly during this process.

Hopefully, this will work. Boompas hates wetting himself in the undies. He screams, "No potty! No potty," tries to cross his legs to stop the spillage, yet still refuses to go on the potty. And true to form, Stink could care less about wetting his undies, but he is more amenable to sitting on the potty. Both the twins are now capable physically of learning. We just have to work on the willingness. We'll get there. Once I get them to sit on the pot, they calm down. Especially if they can do some quality cartoon watching to pass the time. I am fine with that. Well I have news for you, kid. Yes Potty. Mommy is done cleaning up poop hands. Mommy is done with the poop game at naptime. Mommy is done cleaning stinky, slimy, bulky, bulging big boy poop diapers. No more Hulk Mommy. Yes potty. We are going to do this.

They call it a job

2006-05-25T08:51:00.000-05:00

I have been thinking a lot lately about getting a part time job. There are many reasons for this. We are behind on some bills, namely the never ending stack of out of pocket medical expenses. With our co-payments up to $25 per office visit, $2000 per family deductible and the maximumum payout per medical procedure of 90% up to $5000 in a family of seven, those expenses are like the laundry--bottomless heaps. We have hundreds of dollars outstanding for emergency room visits for stitches, piles of overdue co-payments for check-ups and all the other constant disases kids go to the doctor for including pink eye, sinus infections, warts (ew!), whatever. Like I said, the list is bottomless and insurance covers less and less every year. Anyway, we are strapped, and not because we are out on shopping sprees or anything. It is the everyday expenses piling up.

I am so torn about this. A part of me, a very small part but one that does not want to be neglected, argues for working claiming I should do it for the family and for myself. The conversation is something like the following. The players include the Antagonist, quiet but demanding, and the Mother who is the louder more adamant me.

Antagonist: "Oh, yea! You will be out in public! Dealing with adults! A break from kick fights, stolen toys, screaching, poking, and various other tantrums!"

Mother: "Yeah, but you have had to deal with adults before. They are no better than children. In fact, most of the time you hated it."

Antogonist: "Um, er, well, yes, sometimes I hated it. But at least it was quiet!"

Mother:"Quiet, maybe, but not often, and it was an empty silence that you couldn't wait to be over because you wanted to be home where you were comfortable and warm (more than just temperature-wise, more like cozy). And the quiet was often interrupted by the damn phone ringing off the hook, nagging emails, panicked co-workers, angry bosses and the silent yet forboding bottomless stack of paperwok on your desk, under your desk, on your bookshelf, in piles behind your desk and in a stack you used as a doorstop. Plus you had to wear uncomfortable clothes and shoes every day! Now, you can walk around in sweats and who cares! Or jeans. You barely had a reason to own jeans when you worked."

Antagonist: "Well, the commute was quiet!"

Mother: "What about all the junkers you have always owned breaking down and leaving you stranded at various inconvenient places. And don't forget the guilt contributing to poluting the planet caused you! And you have evidenltly been living under a rock to have forgotten so completely about road rage."

Antagonist: "Lunchtime! Lunchtime was time to myself every day. So there!"

Mother: "Who are you kidding? You always ended up working through lunch because you always brown-bagged it because you were too cheap to eat out."

Antagonist: (Silence. Looking sheepishly down at hypothetical feet and drawing hypothetical half-circles with hypothetical toes in the hyptetical dirt.)

Mother: "Well? And what about the fact that on most days you love your job. And you can't get enough of snuggles and kisses and hugs from these guys. And even though these guys fight and scream occassionally and break many things and dirty the carpet, you are good at stopping it. And it is not just shutting them up by distracting them with cookies and sweets like they did at the daycare you took Eighty-Eight Fingers to so that to this day he won't eat anything that is not laced with sugar. You cook them good meals, with love in the sauce. They like their veggies because you make sure they are on every plate that you place before them. They sing the songs you teach them. They count the numbers you've read them and labeled crayons, cars, and blocks with. They love the games you've played with them. They have taken the first steps you've coached them on. They have spoken their first words, and you were the one first witness that. How cool is all that? Very cool, you have to admit. A stuffy office with crabby coworkers, snooty clients, crank calls, no windows, cramped cubicles, bad over heated office coffee and a demanding prig of a computer monitor in your face all day is no comparison, never, ever!"

Antagonist: (Silence. Crossing hypothetical arms and tapping hypothetical feet.)

Mother: "Anyway, have you seen the assortment of second shift work available?
How can you actually consider working when Chauffeur actually looks like the most appealing job avaialble, beating out various cleaner, bartender, waitress, sales clerk, and other lame jobs for the second shift hours you require (although the one at the coffee shop that gives a free pound of coffee per week as a perk looked vaguely promising)? There is always painting with FIL this summer, but then you won't be around to hang out and enjoy your wonderful blessing of a hubz who has the summer off. And you will be envious of him and feel kind of guilty that he is is at home doing your job while you are out farting around at something you hate that has no value to you except a couple extra bucks to pay a few cranky creditors that you don't care about anyway. Why don't you just admit it. I am right, I am always right. Don't go back to work. You'll be miserable. Hold out as long as you can."

Antogonist: Antogonist? Antogonist!

Director: "Where did she go? She was just here a minute ago...?"

Let's Hear it for the Boys-- I mean, Dads!

2006-05-24T11:00:00.000-05:00

I have to say it: fathers don't get a lot of credit. Or they get too much credit for a simple task like changing a diaper. However you want to look at it, anything considered domestic like cleaning house or diaper changing, etc. is still stereotypically "motherly" and therefore, guys who do it are wusses. I was reading over at Mom-101's today about the flack her husband gets as a Stay-At-Home-Dad. My dad got a lot of grief as a single dad. There is not much support out there for dads who want to raise their kids. They are viewed as weak or in some way defective for being so womanly. And I am not just talking about stay at home dads or single dads. I am also talking about divorced dads or dads who haven't married, dads who have been through the whole shredding mill/family law system.

The whole system pisses me off, not through personal experience alone, but also what I have seen friends, family, and, worst of all, children go through.

I have seen, heard, and experienced terrible things at the hands of this system. Children have been left in homes where there are allegations of sexual abuse, neglect or physical abuse against a step-father and only removed after thousands of dollars are spent for a non-placement father to force the issue. Mothers have vindictively falsely claimed that there is abuse at the father's to get visitation severely reduced. Fathers are punished financially for ever having children by the percent standard because it applies to a percentage of all income mandatorally. The income from a second job that a father works to make ends meet or any overtime mandatorally goes to the mother even if she is socioeconomically "doing better" than the father. Sure, she can take a pass on this "extra income" but many women don't. Many women want to punish their ex's for hurting their feelings so take him for every dime. While I realize these standard were written to protect children in situations where fathers have huge stock options or whatever it really harms the majority of guys just trying to get by. Another wrong I have wittnessed, mothers who have had children by fathers they never married (or out of wedlock, but I hate that term) can move the children out of state, far, far away from their fathers regardless of whether the dad is a good guy with an active role in the kid's life. Who suffers? The kids, definately, because they will miss growing up spending regular quality time with their father. But the dad suffers, too. No one cares about his pain, though. The mother has the right to live where she wants. And the list of abuses and misuses of this system goes on and on.

You know me. I am a flaming feminist on most issues such as abortion, contraception, the glass ceiling, you name it. But the whole family law system is just plain wrong. Family law is outdated. It is written with a female as caretaker bias that it shits all over guys who are responsible and want to be good dads. It rips families apart by mandatorally limiting the amount of time dads are allotted to visit these kids they love--two weeks a month and maybe one evening a week. Come on! That is not a lot of time to build/maintain a steady relationship with your kids. I know, I know. Child support in theory is so that women aren't destitute after divorce because everyone knows that the dad is the one making the big bucks and doesn't want to support his kid so the government will force him. And even though joint custody is the norm now, everyone knows placement, which is what really matters when it comes to decision making, is defaulted to the mom unless she is a total loser because, well, she is the mom and therefore automatically the better suited primary caregiver. My advice to dads that want primary placement? Grow some tits. I know standards are in place because it would be way too time consuming for a judge to actually rule on things on a case-by case basis. There are standards so no one has to think. There are standards because then no one has to feel. There are standards because one (bra?) size fits all.

But the standards don't fit all these days. As women, we have been encouraging fathers to take a more active role in kids' lives. So when we break up we can slam them, smash their hearts to bits? Listen, I may write a lot about women's rights, but above all I am for FAMILY rights. That includes considering mother's, father's, and especially children's rights. This is the mission statement of the Wisconsin Father's Org.:

"The Best Parent is Both Parents."

All fit parents are entitled to joint custody and to assume equal placement of their children.

Parents, not courts, should decide what is in their children's best interest.

Child support should be based on realistic economic needs of the children in both households.

The responsibilities to support children emotionally and financially should be treated the same for mothers and fathers.

Our present "winner take all" legal process, dealing with family law matters involving children, is emotionally and financially damaging to children and families and needs to be reformed.

From my own, friend's and familty members' experiences, these seem like reasonable requests from a system that is seriously broken.

Below are some links to groups the media wants to thrash as being anti-women deadbeats and just plain crazy. But I have foud by reading their literature that these aren't just deadbeats who want to get out of paying child support (some of them may be, there is always one rotten apple). They are mostly just guys who love their kids and want a fair shake in a biased system.

Wisconsin Parent's Rights
The Men's Center
World Father's Union

My husband says this a lot and the more I live it the more I agree: if you ever have kids, make sure you are absolutely certain it is with a partner you will be with forever and ever. Split custody is too hard on moms, dads, kids, and families.

The Visit

2006-05-23T12:23:00.000-05:00

There is nothing like being coomed up in a little 10x8' room for over an hour with four boys, three small, one large. Ugh!

Boompas and the Teen Boy had to see the doc today. Unfortunately, she was severly behind schedule (figures because--miracle of all miracles--I was fifteen minutes early!), so we waited for over an hour in the severly undersized treatment room (or whatever they call it). And, yes, it becomes severely small when packed with Eighty-Eight Fingers, his Feller sidekicks and the Teen Boy who plugged his ears with his Ipod headphones and slept on the examining table the duration of our wait. Boompas had some lumps in his thigh examined. Just as I thought, they were a reaction from his shot from last month, but due to my ever growing lump paranoia I took him in to be safe. Sometimes the immunization can take two to three months to be absorbed. The doctor removed a revolting assortment of callouses, corns and warts from the Teen Boy. Disgusting.

Because we were there just over a month ago and the Fellers received shots at that time, they were terrified of the nurse and doctor at first. Nothing like a nice long wait and a basket of books to fight your brothers over to knock that fear out of their systems, though. The Fellers almost went through the roof when the nurse rolled the Cryo Therapy contraption in for TB's warts, but good 'ol Eighty-Eight was over like a bat out of hell to investigate. Nothing gets by him. The good news is that we did not quite flood the office with liquid nitrogen or smash the fancy new laptops the docs carry from room to room to smithereens this particular visit, although we did have several extremely close calls. We did, however, accomplish sending Mommy on her way with a kickin' (that is Teen for "really bad" or "really rad" depending on the circumstances) headache. So all in all, a very fine day. Thank goodness for the gods of naptime descending from on high to grant me an hour of silence.

Cat Blogging: Fat Cat

2006-05-22T12:43:00.000-05:00

Friday Cat Blogging brought to you on Monday because I don't like to play by the rules...

In reality, until today I was oblivious to the rules, but it makes me sound more bad ass the other way...

Today I will introduce you to the plus size diva of our household. Weighing in at 20+ lbs., this is our "grossly obese" cat with attitude Calisto. She kind of reminds me of the pom-pom art projects I made with my daughter long ago, a big multi-color pompom with four pipe cleaners sticking out of it and a smaller pom-pom head complete with googly eyes. Add her comical blob body and swishing-tail waddle to the fact that she will take any person's, cat's or other creature foolish enough to cross her path's head off in a flash, we have a winner in the ever popular House MacBoudica Diva contest here. She even beets me on a PMS week if you can imagine.

Since Calisto is now too fat to properly clean her nether region, her name has been changed to Collapse-o or Cholesterol--take your pick, and I have been forced to put her on a diet. Amazingly, I am alive to share this experience with you. Will wonders ever cease?

Who knew dieting a cat could be so tedious! Being myself, I of course had to research this topic thoroughly, devoting a whole day I did not have reading commentary from various schools of thought regarding cat diets. Remember the good ol' days when we all just knew that cats had to be fed dry cat food or their teeth would rot out of their heads? Evidently, that school of thought is so '86. No, now it is much more fashionable to feed your cat a diet that more closely resembles their natural carnivorous diet of mice. Now the school of thought says that even the worst canned cat food is better for your cat than dry food. Apparently cats are experiencing an epidemic of obesity much like humans are. Evidently, unlike human causes (or maybe similar after all--marketing junk food to cat owners?), cat obesity is linked to the food we feed them, cheap dry cat food. Pet food companies, who responsible pet owners assumed were the experts and would never do anything to harm our pets, market this stuff to us that is actually very harmful to our pets. Dry food is made like meat flavor coated corn cereal run through a vitamin sprinkler, a real boon to big ag corn growers (I had to fit a corporate jab in here, you know). Cats lack the enzyme necessary to digest the carbs in the cat food thoroughly so it turns to fat. In addition, they are not biologically wired to recognize that they have recieved enough calories from all the carbs in the food to quit eating. This is especially bad for cats like mine and many others in modern times that have constant free access the food because it is left out all day for them. They just won't stop eating. The cat doctors and philosophers say cats are getting too many carbs and not enough protein. Switch them to canned. Some even say feed them these lovely raw meals that we can sell you or you can make on your own (eeeeewwwwwwwww!!!! I draw the line totally at grinding up raw food for these critters. After all, what have they done for me lately besides knocking over glasses of milk, breaking knick-knacks, leaving hairballs outside the bedroom door for me to step in in the middle of the night, etc?).

Anyway, I did what any good scots woman would do in my situation. I looked in the grocery store, discovered that feeding three cats canned cat food was fricken' expensive as hell, and mosieded on over to the dry section. I bought the best bargain of the dry diet foods I could find, Purina One. It still has some corn in the recipe, but turkey was the first ingredient, moisture level was 12% (anything over 10% is good because cats usually don't get enough moisture from cheap ass dry food either), and it has over 40% protein. It was more expensive than the cheap ass food I usually buy, but I was committed to spending a little more on this project (being scots, that is very hard for me to admit). And I discovered a local pet supplies store that sold it for a much better price. My plan was to feed the cats twice a day and begin by mixing in the regular cheap food with the diet food.

She has been dieting now for two weeks. Actually, it is not going as well as I had hoped so far, but that is my fault. I couldn't bear to waste the third of a bag of old food we have left so until this weekend I have been mixing it with the diet food. She has lost one lousy pound! Oh well, at least she hasn't gained any weight. The worst part is the grooming I have had to do on her. She practically rips my arm off any time I get near her with a brush and I have never seen her run so fast to get away from me. I guess I can count her grooming sessions as the increased exercise she needs to really work that weight off.

Junk Mail

2006-05-20T10:20:00.000-05:00

I love junk mail!

Here, junk mail is a game. We spent all morning playing Mail Time where the kids put their junk mail into pretend mailboxes (shoeboxes) and taking their letters in and out of envelopes. The rest we fold into colorful paper airplanes. Yesterday, Boompas even turned his paper airplane into an impromptu horn so he could "practice" his instrument with his big brother. All the storebought toys sit absolutely neglected at Mail Time. The boys love these games and I must admit, I have never enjoyed junk mail more. Thank you marketing firms for all these great free toys!

Now if only I could figure out something clever to do with all this junk e-mail...

Miracles and Sin

2006-05-19T14:35:00.000-05:00

I have a confession to make. I have no origional ideas to write about today, so I did some "news shopping" looking for something funny. While this article is emphatically not funny, it does illustrate just how bizzare the thought processes of large religious organizations can be. I am going to reprint here an article from a May 11 Milwaukee Journal Sentinel article about a Catholic school that fired a woman because she had children through invitro fertilazation. Read it and weep.

JS ONLINE: NEWS: MILWAUKEE:

Can the miracle of birth be a sin?
By JIM STINGL
jstingl@journalsentinel.com
Posted: May 11, 2006

It's a safe bet that Kelly Romenesko won't be getting a Mother's Day card this year from the Catholic Church.

After years of trying to have a baby the usual and enjoyable way, she and her husband, Eric, finally had beautiful twin girls, Alexandria and Allison, with the help of in vitro fertilization.

Great, right? Well, it turns out that helping nature along in this way violates Catholic doctrine. Romenesko was fired from her teaching job at two Catholic schools in Appleton after she admitted to her boss that her eggs and her husband's sperm got together in a test tube followed by injection into her uterus.

Her firing is discrimination and selective enforcement of the contract, Romenesko claims. She has a complaint pending with the state. And she has baptized the girls Lutheran.

As a cafeteria Catholic myself, I've long known that most ways of not having a baby are a violation of church law. It's been said that the church's rule banning artificial birth control is what got a lot of Catholics thinking for themselves.
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But what could be more life-affirming than life itself?

It was clear I was going to need some help understanding the church's position on this one. Luckily, the chancellor and vicar general of the Diocese of Green Bay, Father John Doerfler, was willing to talk, although not about the Romenesko case specifically.

Doerfler is doing his dissertation on the ethics of reproductive technology. He's working toward a doctorate in theology from John Paul II Institute for Marriage and Family in Washington, D.C.

Life is supposed to spring from the two-become-one conjugal act of love, he said, and not from what he kept calling the "manufacturing process" of in vitro fertilization. This puts a human embryo under the control of a lab technician, at least in the early going.

"You might think of in vitro fertilization as a technical procedure, a manufacturing process if you will. It's beneath human dignity to come to be in that way," Doerfler said.

But, I interjected, it's better than not coming to be at all, isn't it? I could forgive the lab tech for jostling my dignity in exchange for a shot at life.

No, it's not better, he said. The church does allow for some medical intervention, but only to help along the natural conjugal act. If that doesn't work, perhaps it's not meant to be, he said.

"Maybe God has some other plan for that husband and wife, for them to share their life and their love in a way they may never have thought of if they were able to have children of their own," he said. Adoption, for instance.

"There does need to be a surrender to God and recognize life as a gift and not something that we make, in a way," the priest said.

Perhaps it was God's will that technology advanced to the point where it can help couples have the babies they long for, I suggested. Doerfler was not buying it, especially in situations where some embryos are destroyed in the in vitro process, which the church sees as the taking of human life.

"Having a child is a good thing," Doerfler concluded. In fact, a baby born this way is considered a child of God like any other.

"But we can never do things that are wrong, even for a good reason."

A quick way to attract angry mail is to tell a religion how to run its shop, so I'm not about to. Besides, what good is a church if it says you can do anything you please?

But when you consider Kelly and Eric Romenesko and their long-awaited children, it's hard to imagine how that could be wrong.

To me, this story is so bizzare that I don't even know how to respond. It is not like this couple has been found having wild orgies, seducing classroom children,or selling drugs. They had scientific help having children. God can't cut them some slack for that? What if the couple celebrated the conception of their twins with a "conjugal act of love"? Even better, what if they had the "conjugal act of love" the day of the implantation? How would the church be able to tell the difference? Anyway, I guess kudos to the church for being on top of it (no pun intended) and keeping their eyes on the bedroom antics of that couple! We wouldn't want them corrupting our children with their fancy scientifically sprouted offspring.

I surely can't speak for God, nor would I ever attempt to, but it seems to me this is more of a human judgement call than a "Godly" one.

Giving the "Props"

2006-05-18T13:58:00.000-05:00

I have to give my husband credit for the last item on the Bitch List. He is the one who mentioned the whole gender stereotyping issue. I think he "showed some real ovaries" (thank you, Blue) in his analysis.

One more for the Bitch List...

2006-05-18T10:46:00.000-05:00

I almost forgot this one...

I am sure you have heard or even said these phrases "He doesn't have any balls" or "Grow some balls" or any other variation thereof. I know, I have even found myself, to my horror, using it on occassion. It is one of those things we "just say" when we think somone should show more aggression or assertiveness. We even say it about women (wow! she really has some balls for doing that!).

But what does it mean, really? It means that, basically, in order to be assertive, one must have a set of balls, gonads specifically, male sex parts. So assertiveness is then a masculine trait? Women don't have balls, therefore it is against their nature, and wrong, for them to be assertive? And when men show compassion, they are thus emasculated and therefore "have no balls" because compassion is against their nature?

So basically this phrase perpetuates stereotypical sex roles (woman=meek, man=aggressive) that we have supposedly moved away from.

Today's Bitch List

2006-05-18T08:11:00.000-05:00

Today I am going to do some general bitching about things I hate. I know. In my last post I said I was going to be grateful for this life I have, but, come on! Some stuff is just really annoying and I have to say something about it.

First of all, why do we still say "maiden name"? I mean, who in the hell is even a maiden anymore before she gets married anyway? Why can't we say "pre-married name" or "A" name "birth" name or something--anything!--but "maiden name". It is a terrible term regardles of the historical connotations that women are property and should go to their marriage beds unsoiled and all that crap. The world has moved on. This term is antiquated and useless. Let's all just get rid of it!
This second issue has always kind of bothered me, but what really got me thinking of about it was last summer my husband and I took a walk on Seminary property that had its own cemetary for the Brothers and Sisters who had passed on over the years. Yes, that is a Seminary Cemetary. Many of the sisters who must have been widowed and then joined the "sisterhood" (sorry, I am not Catholic, I don't know the correct terminology) were memorialized on their tombstone as Mrs. Man's First and Last Name, Sister in Christ. Many of the names were very foreign, an indication many of the women were imigrants who must have traveled far and died in this large, wild new place, the United States. So, then, who was this woman, really, who first lost the name she was born with in a very different homeland to her husband, then her husband's name to Christ? She passed through life, first her father's, then her husband's, then Christ's, her life stages marked through ownership by different men. Now, in death, she is only remembered through who owned her last. Sad. So, basically, I hate it when a woman marries, not only does she take her husband's last name (a cultural, patralineal thing that is probably never going to go away) but she is forever after identified as Mrs. His First and Last Name. I can't stand that! Isn't it bad enough that she has to give up her last name, but to completely lose her identity in her husband's? Is that really necessary in this day and age when we are all spouting off about equality and how women are right up there with men rights-wise? (I kept my "birth" name for my second marriage, and hyphenated for the first, but when you do that you get weird looks, and, like Rodney Dangerfield always said, "I get no respect") I can understand that we all want to have a same last name in a family, it has to be someone's to trace family history and all that, so we might as well stick with tradition and use the husband's, but I think we should be beyond women giving up their first names, too. So don't do it. Keep your first name. It is yours, your identity. Keep it.
Another thing I really hate is the term "pro-life". Who decided that these dead fetus slinging nutcases were "pro-life"? That connotates that anyone who is "pro-choice" is an axe-slinging psycho-killer or must be the opposite, "pro-death". I always have to stop and think when I hear "pro-life" because I am pro-life! I think everyone should live life to the fullest, and I would never kill anything except maybe some ants or flies that got into the house or the mosquito trying to make a snack out of me in in the summer. I don't even like mouse traps, way to inhumane! But I do believe that women have dominion over their own bodies, that accidents or mistakes happen sometimes and women know that there is no way they can carry, much less, raise a child. But they bear the burden in those situations. Women would ultimately be the ones responsible for carrying the child and raising it. So-called "pro-lifers" often chime in, "Well, there is adoption." Pregnancy is a serious health condition!!! Women should not be forced to take on a serious health condition that the gods of chance blessed (or cursed) them with that in and of itself cause them to become too sick to work (or finish school, or anything else) or possibly even die. Women are not Factories. They should not be forced to "cook" a baby for nine months only to give it up when the buzzer sounds. And making a serious, responsible decision not to carry life for whatever reasons is just as valid as deciding to carry life. It doesn't make you selfish. It doesn't make you "pro-death" or an axe-slinging psycho serial killer. So my question is, why do us "pro-choice" people allow the so-called "pro-life" people continue in this deception? Why don't we market a better, more accurate term, "anti-abortion" or "anti-choice"?

Well, that is all the bitching I have for today. I am off to work off some of this aggression on my "Life Glider".

Perspective

2006-05-17T09:35:00.000-05:00

Consider me humbled. I complain frequently about how, in my family, we struggle to get by on one income, our so-called health insurance is rediculous with the cost of the out of pocket expenses we are responsible for, women's issues and reproductive rights in this country, how stores like Walmart and Target are really bad for the working poor, how this country should be doing more to get off of Big Oil, but in all reality, compared to many countries, compared to what many mothers have to deal with, we have it darn good here. Not as good as ten other industrialized nations, mind you, but really good considering I even have the luxurry of being able to bitch about these things when many other mothers still have to worry about living through childbirth, and, if so, if the baby will survive past its first birthday. The annual report done by Save the Children, a global humanitarian organization that fights to increase the quality of life of all children, "illustrates the direct lines between the status of mothers and the status of their children." In countries where mothers are treated well and provided for, children do well. Scandanavian countries top the list, while the US is tied with the United kingdon for 10th place. Here are some sad realities for nations that came in last on the list:

COUNTRY COMPARISONS: The Mothers' Index exposes an enormous disparity between the highest- and lowest-scoring countries and underscores an urgent need to address this divide. For instance, in Sweden, which tops the list, nearly all women are literate. In contrast, only 34 percent of Ethiopian women are literate. And a mother in Ethiopia is 37 times more likely to see her child die in the first year of life than a mother in Sweden.

Compared to a mother in the top 10 countries, a mother in the bottom 10 countries is 28 times more likely to see her child die in the first year of life and over 750 times more likely to die herself in pregnancy or childbirth.
In the bottom 10 countries, nearly 1 out of 3 children is not enrolled in school and only 1 out of 4 adult women is literate. In the top 10 countries, virtually all children go to school and all women are literate.
Skilled health personnel attend fewer than 15 percent of births in Afghanistan, Bangladesh, Ethiopia and Nepal.
Fewer than 5 percent of women use modern contraception in Chad, Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, Democratic Republic of the Congo, Niger, Rwanda and Sierra Leone.
Zeroing in on only those indicators that capture children’s well-being, Somalia finishes in last place. More than 1 out of every 7 children in Somalia die before his or her first birthday, 71 percent of the population has no access to safe drinking water, and 17 percent of children are suffering from malnutrition. The situation for Somali mothers is equally dismal: 1 in 10 women dies in childbirth; 75 percent of all newborns are delivered without skilled health personnel and 78 percent of pregnant women have anemia.This organization and this report really puts things in perspective.

While I will still continue to promote mothers' rights and family rights in this country, I will do so grateful that I have been able to deliver all my children in a hospital filled with skilled medical personnel, that I take for granted that my children have lived to see their first birthdays, that all my children will be educated and literate (most will probably go to college even if they must take out loans to do so), that my children and I have clean drinking water, that I live in a country where I have the ability and luxury of complaining and working toward something better.

Welcom to the Club!

2006-05-15T14:18:00.000-05:00

A Break from Depressing Stories (FINALLY!)
Since I have been depressing the crap out of everyone for the duration of my last several posts, and because I don't want to lose my loyal readership base (all five of you!) due to such depressing topics, I thought I would break form here and post a segment on Life With Identical Twins, A Brief Glimpse at Twin Club. This is always a fun topic to write about since identical twins are somewhat rare in the general population and therefore mysterious. People always ask me silly questions about life with twins. I even get asked frequently if the older boy Eighty-Eight Fingers and the twins are triplets (he is two years older and has several inches and pounds on them, not to mention his more advanced walking and talking skills, but I digress...). Anyway, I thought I would clear up some of the mystery here.

General Life as a Twin
Imagine having a living breathing mirror of yourself. Someone with the same DNA, who shared the same womb-space and placenta, the same upbringing, the same breakfast, lunch, and dinner day in and day out. Someone who tried pureed peas the first time the very same day you did. Someone who walked within an hour of your first step. Someone who grew the same teeth exactly one week after you did (Let me interject as mother here that that was freaky!). Imagine having someone so close to grow up with, exchange "Yeah my mom's a real drag" stories with. Imagine knowing someone with such a similar way of thinking as you that you can just look at him across the room and break out laughing at a private joke no one who isn't in the Twin Club will ever get.

Personality Revealed
People always ask me, "Who is the nice twin, the bad twin, etc." I have no answer. My Fellers are unique in many ways, and similar in others. Personality traits are fluid at this age for all children and I think especially for twins as they have more of a struggle to develop an identity separate from this guy they have been stuck with since before birth. They, too, both have good days and bad days, just like all of us. I find it difficult to label them in such an extreme way. Actually, the Fellers find it difficult in some ways to distinguish themselves. They constantly struggle to develop their own identities. I have posted a few stories here and here about how my older twin, Boompas, is somewhat confused. He actually thinks his name is that of the other twin Stink. When he tattles on or scolds the other guy he always says, "Mama, Stink blah blah blah..." (I can't clarify that for you. Blah blah blah is always in Twinish, a language I will never know). On the bright side, he is starting to get his straightened out. I correct him and say, "No, you mean Stink did Blah blah blah." Then he will copy me in an interrogatory tone, his eyes clouded with uncertainty "Stink?"

Dressing Identical Twins
Part of the problem for Boompas must be that he does not have the benifit of understanding my Dressing The Twins Rules to figure out who is who. Usually I dress them it is whatever happens to be at the top of the Clean Laundry basket. Having to do laundry for seven people, there are always Clean Laundry baskets around as well as mountainous heaps in the laundry room, one of those chores that is NEVER caught up. So most days, outfits are mis-matched and willy-nilly only following the Rule that Stink usually gets the red or lighter or brighter color, while Boompas gets to wear blue or darker color. This is simply because they look so similar, same hair and eye color, same haircut (buzzed--it's lower maintenence and that is what counts with three little boys!), same cowlick, almost the same hight and weight (Stink, the second born, has always been a little lighter and shorter, but you really have to look hard to see it). I need to be able to quickly identify which hooligan is into what at a moment's glance without looking for the subtle personaliy cues or small blue vein on Stink's forehead. Also, there are certain, special outfits that are identical like the Spiderman Halloween sweatshirt, because they both adore Spiderman and it would be scarilege for one to wear it without the other. But those are rare, for selfish reasons, because it increases the difficulty of my job. There are also some specific shirts that each owns because it just fits his personality better. For example the Pooh Bear outfit is Boompas' because he is a big rolly lumpas who is anyone's friend. And Stink is a stinker like Tigger, so his outfit is the Tigger one. And Stink gets the "Attack" dinosaur shirt while Boompas gets the bright, cheerful dinosaurs.

Subtle Cues, for When Clothing Fails to Identify
One of the more subtle cues is how they grin. Boompas usually has a big bold everyone-is-my-friend, happy-go-lucky smile. He will "talk" to anyone, play with anyone, snuggle and snuggle often. Boompas is more of a "talker", repeating words and phrases, having conversations in Twinish/English with anyone within earshot. Stink, on the other hand, is more reserved. It usually takes him a little longer to warm up to people. Some of that may be an act though. He is a big tease and loves to play Hard to Get. You can usually find him slyly swiping a brother's toy then running away, brandishing the stolen booty triumphantly in the air, giggling with glee when he is busted. He is usually wearing a shit-eating-grin. Although he doesn't eat shit, he gives it. Often.

Feel the Love
For as much of a tease as Stink is though, he really loves his brothers. Boompas shows fortitude when issues matter to him. He has a real problem letting the issue drop so he tends to spend more time in time-outs to calm down. Stink is usually waiting by the door to the time-out room with Boompas' favorite toys to give him when he gets out. Stink is always fetching favorite toys, cups, etc. for his brothers.

Competition? Maybe a New Olympic Event
One more Glimpse at Life With Twins: there are lots of tantrums here, much screaming and yelling. It gets loud, really loud. Bring proper ear protection if ever you visit a house with twins. Since my guys are over two, I have had lots of time to try to figure out why. Here are some of my thoughts.

The first possible reason is that there are two little screamers, which equals double the screaming.
The second possible reason is sympathy screaming, a kind of altruistic screaming like, "Awww, my brother is mad! Then I am mad, too. Hear my anger, Evil Mommy!"
Also, there is the possible Competitive screaming, "Man, I can do better than that. Check this out, WWWWWAAAAAHHHHH--EEEEEEEEE!!!" to which his brother must increase his volume, and so on and so forth.
Finally, a possible cause is that I do a bit of yelling myself, mostly because I am usually up to the armpits in another brother chore when I spot the offending team member in the act of a terrible deed. Many times, I can't just drop the current child and dash to calmly instruct the offending child in propper etiquitte, so I say, "HEY, KNOCK IT OFF NOW!!!" or something equally clever and thunderous. It is all about striking the appropriate tone to induce instant compliance.

I Hope You Enjoyed Your Stay
So there is a brief peek at Twin Club. Hope you enjoyed your visit. Come back real soon. Oh, and watch your step on the way out. Those stray toys are real killers.

Exactly why life isn't fair

2006-05-15T08:20:00.001-05:00

In my last post, I mentioned my friend whose cancer is out of remission.

I don't have many "friends" per se. I could use the excuse that I am a busy mother. But in all reality I am actually quite a homebody, anyway. I was never much of a partier or social butterfy. As teens, my sister got all the phonecalls, all the dates, while I sat by the pond in the back of our apartment complex and wrote poetry. In college, I think I went to one party during the four years I attended. When I worked outside the home, I kept the friendships at casual acquaintenships, never attending social events afterhours or on the weekends. I have never strayed far from my comfort zone, my home, and the loved ones I've gathered to me there. So for me, the few friends I do have are hard won, who have been there through the nitty-gritty toughest times of my life, whose trials I have held their hands through as they have held mine, whose humanity we each have shared. I don't have the patience or the time for casual friendships, so the women I count in that group are special to me in ways I can't begin to describe.

My friend Leigh is one of these special women.

If you had told me she would be my friend when I met her, I would probably have laughed in your face. I met her about seven years ago. The circumstances of our meeting were those that do not normally generate friendship, and in fact, tend to produce rivals, if not bitter enemies. She was my ex-husband's girlfriend/fiance when I met her. Since my ex and I still shared my daughter(a long story--my ex is a serial substitute dad, she an abondoned single mother--do the math), I met her when he came to pick up my daughter for one of his occassional weekend visits. Leigh and I talked briefly while The Girl dawdled about the house gathering her possessions. During that brief conversation despite my predisposed inclination not to like her, I was drawn to her. She had a spark to her and a love for life that, I could not deny, I instantly admired. Her young daughter with the wild carrot top curly hair and vibrant, ice-blue eyes stole my heart instantly as well.

After that meeting, Leigh and I talked over the phone arranging weekend visits and itineraries concerning my daughter. But the thing about Leigh is that any conversation with her is gaurenteed not to be limited by the topic at hand. Conversations with her are a dance from one topic to another with no rhyme or reason, just boundless energy and details. Despite myself, I was drawn into her conversations. Eventually, she eroded my barriers of social propriety and wallflower tendancies. Eventually we talked for hours. I discovered she is smart, funny, and unflinchingly devoted to her friends and family. In fact, when you are friends with Leigh, you become her family. She adopts you with a loyalty and love so passionate that you are at a loss to escape. And she is courageous and strong. She could take on an lion, anaconda and flock of giant vampire bats without batting an eye, vanquish them in a the time it takes to brew a pot of coffee, dust off her hands and sit down and visit with you for hours. Since then, we have been like sisters. Actually, I am closer to her than my own sister. I have been a shoulder an a resource to her through many dramas, and she was my rock through the absolute darkest days in my life. Anyway, back to the beginning, she eventually started to ask me for advice on how to deal with my ex. I told her I had none to give. After all, I had divorced him. She started having her doubts about him also. In all reality she was always out of his league. However, because of the passion with which she loves, although her mind knew the break-up was for the best, it took quite of bit of convincing her heart that was the case. To make a long story short, they eventually split-up, and shortly after that she discovered she was pregnant.

My friend Leigh has rarely been dealt a fair hand in life. I often think of her as a person with a dark cloud over her head. She moves from one drama to another, drawing anguish to herself like a magnet. Doubtless, she brings many of her tragedies upon herself. She is a person who must experience things for herself, who you find yourself saying "I told you so," to over and over again. Yet many of her trials are truly unfair. A single mother with two kids who works hard to always make ends meet, who goes without herself so her children are always provided for, should get some breaks from chance. Leigh is dealt few to none. In fact, it seems the more she tries, the more tragedy tries her. Her daughter's father only makes brief appearances in her daughter's life. Her daughter, like my son, has ADHD, which anyone with such a child can tell you is a trial in and of itself. One of her neighbors sexually assaulted Leigh's daughter and the legal system gave him a pass. Her son has asthma and multiple severe allergies, and, therefore has to be on a severe diet and constantly monitored so that he does not accidentally injest or come in contact anything that can trigger an attack. And he, too, was abandoned by his father (yes, my ex vanished before paternity could be established--like I said, a serial substitute dad. The "Real Thing" was just too much for him. Strangely, one of Leigh's male friends voluntarily signed paternity papers, claiming him as his own). She was fired from a job once due to not participating in her boss's sexual harrassment. She has been fired from jobs for taking too many days off to care for her sick children. She faced all these trials in her typical, "Is that all you got? Is it, is it? Well then, bring it!" fashion. She fought back. She decided to put herself through college for nursing to get ahead, to make a career for herself with which she would easily be able to provide for her children, only to have that dream taken from her as well. Cancer stole that dream, in this instance ovarian cancer. Like a thief in the night, in snuck into her body and put a screaching halt to all her dreams of succeeding.

This is a woman who stands up to the crap life throws her, grabs it by the balls and shows it who's boss. But you can't do that with cancer. When you get it, it is your boss and master. It steals your strength and ruins your body, in Leigh's case striking right at the heart of that which makes her female. Cancer is the equal opportunity killer. It doesn't care what color you are, if you are bad or good, or in the middle of finding the cure for AIDS. It can be your silent deadly companion for years before it strikes, betraying you by stealing and growing from the nourishment you have taken in. It renders you powerless. And the treatment, the chemo, makes you so sick you wish you were dead. But many times, the chemo, as sick and worn out as it makes you, is your only ally. It haults the cancer in its tracks, stopping it sometimes for years. But there is always a chance it will be back. Like the imposter it is, it can hide out sometimes for years, a silent deadly mass waiting patiently for its dark season of rebirth, when it can again strike with a vile vengance.

My friend, my rock, my anchor through the darkest days in my life, has been feeling sick again, just like she was before. She knows it is back. The hysterectomy and last round of chemo has only bought her another year before the cancer struck again. She doesn't know where yet. She will be going through a complete work-up in a few weeks.

She is not yet thirty years old. She hasn't had her break in life yet, and, at the risk of sounding like a petulant child here, I am going to say this anyway: it just isn't fair. But the cancer could care less. It is going to continue to eat her up and spit her out. I only hope her strength and courage is enough for round two. For herself, for her babies, and for all of us who love her, I hope and pray and bargain with the powers that be she can fight this off.

Blog Inspirations

2006-05-12T14:23:00.000-05:00

I am giving it up for my Blog Inspirations for the Bad Ladies love-fest. This is my list of the Blog Divas who have inspired me to come here almost every day and type and read and read and type. To be honest, this was very difficult. I am new to blogging and I am still in awe and inspired by so many blogs out there all by creative and talented people.

I think that at the top of my list is Michele and her blog MommyCakes for several reasons. First, hers is one of the first blog I read and I feel a connection with her because she is also a mother of twins. Also, I love the way she writes. She is straigtforward, no nonsense, yet witty and fresh.

Another inspiration is Blue at either of her blogs here or here. The lady is just hilarious, creative and shares some of the same values as me.

Chantal is on my list for her site Breadcrumbs in the Butter because she is down to earth and tells it like it is to have a house full of kids.

My list wouldn't be complete without Motherhood Uncensored for letting us all know that it's OK to not be perfect.

I have to ad the Bad Ladies themselves for all their thought provoking topics.

Then, I recently became hooked on mom-101 because I don't know what I'm doing either.

Here is one more, Susan at Crooked Pigtails because she is another hard core SAHM with the thankless task of trying to raise two girls. I don't know how she does it.

There are so many more! I am running out of time though. I have Emergency Home Cleaning to enact today because suddenly we're having a big motherly shin-dig here Sunday. Also, I have had some bad news about one of my closest friends, her cancer seems to be out of remission, and I am just not feelin' it today. Any passers-bye enjoy and I will be out probably until Monday. Yes, Emergency House Cleaning does indeed take 2+ days. Hey, I have 5 kids here, what do you expect? June Cleaver only had to clean up after two.

Happy Mother's Day, everyone.

A mother's tale

2006-05-11T10:07:00.000-05:00

It is almost Mother’s Day. This time of year I should feel proud, should be celebrating my accomplishments as a mother. Yet the strongest emotion I feel is anxiety, anxiety over facing my own mother. I am over thirty now and I still feel like the kid caught with her hand in the candy jar. When I see her, my insides get all tied up. My brain becomes paralyzed. Polite colloquialisms are the only words I permit myself to say to her for fear of saying the “wrong thing”. Our conversations resemble those of passing acquaintances rather than that of mother and daughter. I never could relate to her. I never know which direction she is coming from, how to meet her half way. I do not know the right path to take to get to her.I have always viewed her through a veil, hidden, hazy and unclear, opaque, mysterious, and dangerous.

What kind of card does one buy for such a mother? Somehow, "you've always been there for me," seems hypocritical and wrong.

My mother and father married young. She was just eighteen. He was twenty-one. Both thought they new everything, when in reality they did not yet know themselves (I know from experience—I married young/divorced young once myself). When I was born, they had been living in a flat in a “bad” neighborhood in the city. They bought a German shepherd so they could chase the drug dealers and other transients from the stairwell. The neighbors stole vegetables from their garden and clothing from their wash machine in the basement. Dad found a better job, and they bought a house in a better part of town. Things were good for some time. They had another child, my sister. I was nearing the age to start school. They decided it would be better to move to the country to give their kids a better chance than a public city school with a bad reputation could offer. They were living the American dream, buying the big house in the small town, living the life they fought against in the late ‘60s.

Almost instantly after the move, things went sour. Mom felt isolated, cut off. She was a social girl in a quiet town now. She found that staying at home, talking to toddlers all day was not her speed. She was energy, she was motion, and now, she was a caged bird. Until she met the guy two doors down (we’ll call him Dwayne). He was a sad, cold man. Vietnam had burned the humanity out of him. He wandered the streets in town in a stupor, aimlessly. Sometimes he fished, but usually he ended up in one of the many bars lining the four town streets. In a small Midwest farming town, taverns were a necessity. Not much else to do but drink away your loneliness.

My mother, the social creature she is, ducked her head out of the cage one day as the sad man wandered by. She struck up a conversation, discovered a lost cause in him, and made him her pet project. Her quiet life was boring, she needed a challenge, and found it with him. Somehow she always knew where to find him, as there are no secrets in a small town, and started seeking him out in the local watering holes. To be social, she began drinking with him, dangerous considering her father had been an alcoholic going on twenty years by that time. Soon, she found she could not refuse a drink or two. She joined a pool league, danced on bar tables, got into fights, all with her sad friend Dwayne hunkered over his drink at the bar, solitary.

The details are hazy to me how one thing led to another. I was only three or four at the time. Most of the story I gathered from rumors or speculation, always in abundance in a small town. I remember my parents screaming in the kitchen behind the closed door and the sound of broken china. I remember my sister and I huddled in each other’s arms crying ourselves to sleep as the screams filtered through the floorboards from downstairs.

It was Christmas Eve 1979 when Mom gave herself an early New Year’s present. Out with the old and in with the new. My Dad was gone, replaced with sad, crazy Dwayne. Mom and Dwayne married in June. What followed was a childhood filled with various abuses but mostly neglect. My sister and I were almost a hindrance, a remnant of a life my Mom would just as soon forgotten. So my sister and I grew up under the radar of my mother’s awareness.

What did Mom and Dwayne have in common? Mom’s family was of white-collar professionals, city dwellers, accustomed to the convenience of milkmen and neighborhood stores. They went to the doctor for check ups and had their teeth regularly cleaned and cavities filled at the dentist. Dwayne’s family was poor, blue-collar, farming folk, country boys and a little simple. They grew their own food, fixed their own cars, and let their teeth rot out of their mouths. They beat their kids with leather belts and stuck their heads in pails of water when they disobeyed. But Mom and Dwayne loved to drink. Drinking, they could ignore their differences. Everyone was in love when drunk. Nothing mattered. Good times, good times.

My sister and I never knew what to expect in that house. The rules were written in water on the sand. When the sun came up, or the wind gusted, or for almost any or no reason at all they could and would change. That was the one certainty, that you could never be certain what to expect. We were not noticed unless we disobeyed some unknown rule. Then we were punished. I discovered if I was quiet, as meek as a mouse, a good girl, I could avoid Mom’s wrath. My sister went the other way. She was trouble because trouble got attention. Any attention was better than none, even if it was negative.

After a few years, Mom and Dwayne learned that even when drunk they were completely incompatible. Dwayne detested my sister and me. If we were boys, well, that would have been something. He could teach us manly things. He could take us hunting and fishing. But we were girls and, therefore, less than contemptible. He only acknowledged us if we got in his way or to vent his growing frustration at our mother for being smart and ambitious, because eventually, Mom began to feel caged again. She needed to accomplish something. So she did something unforgivable. She stared an apprenticeship in he trades and soon made more money than Dwayne could ever hope to make. For a traditionalist, a man’s man, and a crazy man, it was unacceptable, to be one-upped by a woman. He felt unmanned by her success. Their marriage, not built on the most solid of foundations to begin with, started to crumble. They drank at separate bars. They had their own friends. Mom wrapped herself so well in her own problems that my sister and I could not find her.

As a teen, I began to recognize my feelings toward my mother were ambivalent, a mixture of terror of her wrath and longing for her approval. How could I turn to her for advice, lessons on the woman I was becoming? So I just stopped talking to her altogether except for one-word answers to her questions: yes, no, maybe. She insisted I did it to punish her, but really it was because my ambivalence rendered me mute, paralyzed with indecision.

At fourteen, I ran away and moved in with my father soon afterward. For years there was a long, deep canyon of silence between my mother and me, only broken at the birth of my daughter. A truce. Now we speak of simple things, exchange pleasantries. To me, she is still wrapped in mystery, her thoughts and motivations veiled, still the stranger passing on the street. I yearn for her approval, she who has done so much for which I disapprove, and find so difficult to forgive. I know I need to let go of the past to walk the path to her soul. Yet somehow I still think of her as the adult, myself the scared child crouching under my bed. I keep expecting her to reach out her hand for me to grasp to show me the way and comfort me. Shall I be the adult and extend my hand to her? The lifestyle she made for us left no room for children, so I was always the adult. Is it so wrong to want to be the child, for once? I know that attitude will only divide our paths farther apart and increase this over-long journey, that I will have to take the lead if I ever truly want to fill this hole inside me where my mother should be.

I know it's almost Mother's Day, but...

2006-05-10T08:20:00.000-05:00

I wanted to take a minute to recognize someone very important to me, who makes my life as a SAHM possible, who is a key factor in my happiness and ability to survive with my sanity (mostly, I think, but who am I to judge) in tact. I want to recognize my husband.

I know my job here with these three (the little boys) to five (when the teens are home, too) kids home at any given time is hard work and, no doubt about it, stressful. People are amazed that I am able to do it so patiently and without completely melting down into a babbling pile of mush (trust me, I have my moments). And it is true. Overall, I am basically happy. By happy I do not mean permagrin plastered to my face, but an overall general sense of well-being. Because of this I am able to be patient with my kids and get things done around the house without being overwhelmed. Many wonder, what's her secret? How does she do it?

Let's examine for a minute the source of my happieness. Sure, my kids bring me joy, definately. But I think the true foundation from which I am able to enjoy this life is the relationship I have with my husband. Don't laugh! I am not being cheesey here. I really mean it. The man is amazing and wonderful. Of course, there are the initial attributes I was attracted to: his athletic physique, his smile, his eyes. He is soooo sexy. Then there is his sense of humor that is similar to mine. He is clever, smart, funny. He can write, loves writing, and is working on writing a novel (I think this alone won me over more than anything as I am a novel addict). Those things attracted me to him and created the foundation from which the relationship sprouted. What makes this relationship keep ticking is our our respect for each other as people, as partners. That is our greatest strength.

We made the decision for me to stay home together after much discussion of our options when we found out twins were on the way. He respects that it was not an easy decision on my part, (ending my career, trusting him completely to the finances when I have always been so independent). He respects and appreciates the work I do here, maintaining the house (OK, so this place is one step from being a dump most days, but I do my best!) and raising and maintaining the kids. Nor was it easy for him to take on complete financial responsibility. To make it work we devised a bargain, a partnership, where duties and responsibilities are split in a way that we both perceive as fair and equitable.

My husband works very hard on his end of our bargain. He is a full-time teacher, a coach, and works part-time as a substitute journeyman skilled laboror. Sometimes he works third shift after working all day at his "real" job, comes home, sleeps for a few hours, and muddles through the rest of the day in a haze. Sometimes, he works all day at his "real" job, coaches until late at night, then stops at the store for emergency purchases for the house. Any way you look at it, he is always working to meet our needs, without any complaints (well, not too many, anyway).

We get bye. We don't have a lot of fancy belongings, no plasma TV or high-end stereo system. Hell, we don't even have matching silverware, glasses or plates. But what we do have is respect for one another, gratitude for what each contributes, a true partnership. Because we each maintain our ends of the bargain, because we have respect for each other, our friendship strengthens and grows over time and our relationship is strong. Because I have a strong relationship, my mind is at ease, and I am able to cope well at my "job". I couldn't imagine this working with just anyone. So I want to thank my husband for making it possible for me to happily enjoy raising these "hellions" of ours.

For New Mothers

2006-05-09T13:58:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, I read a beautiful post by Chantal about all the things we have learned as mothers and what advice would you give yourself (or any new mother)? She has an excellent list there and her commenters have great suggestions, also. That really took me back to the days of New Motherhood. When I was first a mother, at seventeen I was not more than a child myself. There was so much I did not know. Because I was so young, I become a Mama in Overdrive. I was a perfectionist. I had so many unrealistic expectations for myself as a mother, so much to prove not only myself, but the world that expected me to fail because of my circumstances. I allowed myself no room for error.

Thankfully, I have learned a great deal since then. Here are a few I would add to her list, a few things I wish someone had told that misguided girl I had been:

That you are going to make mistakes, sometimes big ones, but it is okay because you are not Wonder Woman. You're human. You'll grow from them.
That sometimes you really don't like your kids very much. I mean you love them--but sometimes you just don't like them. And that is OK, too. You will forgive them and they (hopefully) will forgive you. The moment will pass. You'll have the love there to ride it out on.
That you don't have to have all he latest gadgets and toys. Don't feel bad if you don't have them. Baby won't know the difference, anyway.

The Life Less Solitary

2006-05-09T11:05:00.000-05:00

A poem for mothers

What would I do
with a solitary life?

Swimming in the darkness,
so encompassing
so absolute
The emptiness of that silent life
Ringing in my ears
Pounding through my brains
Like Sunday church bells
Tolling away the long lonely hours
and days
and weeks
and months
and years
with the bitterness
the nothingness
of all my possessions in pristine and working order

What would I do
with a solitary life?

Instead
My world buzzes, hums, sings
With belly laughs
and giggles like wind chimes
Milk spilled, pooling, puddling
Curtains torn
Walls decorated in crayon
Or lipstick
Or sweet chocolate
The cinnamon air,
cookies baking
Crumbs littering floors and crevasses
tabletops and stairs
Soft patting of bare feet
fleetly fleeing across the floor
Like bees or butterflies flitting from flower to flower
Picking up and depositing pollen
Toys in a mountainous heap here and there
Like continents
And the agony, the screams
A prized toy
broken or stolen
Fixed with twist-ties, tape, glue and care,
kisses and quiet words
Busy whorls of motion
soft and warm in your lap
the new life scented hair
like feathers tickling your chin
As nursery rhymes are read
Sleep,
whisper snores in the dim nightlight glow,
at last
at last
at last
Awakening for more with the new day
Renewed

What would I do
with a solitary life?

Empty and alone
Drowning in a quiet so deep
The lonely hours
Like raindrops in a pail
Stretching through the years
How would I quiet the deafening silence
Of a world
Where no one needs me
No tears to dry
No mouths to feed
No soft whorls of life
To wrap my arms around
and hold to me so tightly
filling me with light and life
How would I pass those long endless hours
The useless ringing silence
In my big house filled with
Things
Clean
And shining
False sunlight
No crumbs or spills
No rips or breaks
No unwiped shoes piled by the doorway
The silence the silence the silence
It is lifeless brown pedals
falling
falling
falling
to the earth
Dust
scattered uselessly
by the wind

~MacBoudica

Material Girl, Part II

2006-05-08T08:33:00.000-05:00

Rereading my last post, I can see how someone would get the idea I was ripping on femininity. But I am not. My point is that pre-teen girls seem to get confused and overwhelmed by the images the media sends. Femininity, instead of becoming a part of who they are, seems to become their ultimate goal.

My point was is that at this stage as a teen age daughter, it is overpowering any other interests, almost like a fixation. Almost as if they are afraid to express their real interests in fear of being ostracized and instead focus all (or most) energies on "the look."

I think Pipher mentioned it in her book, and I see it to, not only with my daughter, but with all her friends, there is no balance between femininity and their "selves". To them, the goal is to achieve "femininity" as portrayed in the media, the skinnieness, the docility. The pressure is great, and it causes, if not outright eating disorders and self-mutilation, depression and sadness, almost hopelessness because the goal of absolute femininity is not realistic. It is one-dimentional, focusing all energies on a "look" and denying what lies beneath the surface. But the allure and social pressure is so strong, girls' other interests tend to be derailed. It is very difficult for teen girls to find balance and to know it okay to pursue something besides being a size 1 or the perfect outfit.

Maybe I see this particularly clearly with my own daughter because of personal circumstances which place us, a large family surviving on one income, in a wealty school district where kids (or at least their parents)have the finances to perpetuate this ideal of femininity, to buy the clothes and things that fads dictate on a whim. We don't have a lot of money to be keeping up with the latest fads, whereas her friends want a new $30 t-shirt and $60 jeans at "Hot Topic," most of their parents have no problem accomodating that, even on a regular basis. Many parents here are buying into and promoting (at least subconsciously) this image. I hear it all the time, "Well, so-and-so has this!" So the pressure an my daughter, in particular, is great. She does not have the means to keep up with her peers.

But it is not just the keeping up with material things. It is also body image. When I listen to her and her friends having a conversation, much of their conversations consist of fat they are, and their thighs are so fat, and don't I have a big butt, and so-and-so is so skinny, I wish I could be her.

Like I mentioned before, I don't know where to begin to remedy this lack of balance. I have always tried to be a good role model, but maybe I have failed. Or maybe the social pressure is just too great. Whatever the case, I hope that my daughter, all of our daughters, can find balance between what is feminine and what is her identity, what makes her herself, learn to accept herself, and love herself for more than what clothes she wears and how fat her butt may be.

Raising a girl in our consumer culture

2006-05-06T09:55:00.000-05:00

I have been thinking a lot lately about my own identity as a woman, as a mother and most specifically as a mother raising a daughter. This entry is inspired from other blog entries I have read lately such as here and here.

I have a thirteen year old daughter, and I am constantly struggling with teaching her my morals and values (feminism and accepting herself/being proud of herself as a woman) versus society's and our culture's morals (ie: femininty, meekness, consumerism). Just looking at her, the struggle is written all over her emerging adult identity. She is a study in contrasts. She wears only black and white, but she has to have the fashionable belt everyone else is wearing. Her hair must be long, but she insists on stylish cuts and wants to dye it. She spends all of her allowance on fashionable "alternative" or "punk" or "Goth" clothes, but wants to wear lip gloss and eye shaddow and paint her nails. She has recently been overly-concerned about her weight because her body type does not fit the "ideal" that is promoted in the media. Yet she is outspoken, to the point of aggressive at times, about issues she is passionate about. She is often moody and sullen. How much of that is her age, adjusting to her hormones and so-called normal development? What is it about normal development that makes fun loving little girls into sullen, moody teens? This concept is explored in Mary Pipher's Reviving Ophelia . Unfortunately, my copy is lost somewhere in the contenents of books we have in this house or I lent it out to someone. But from wht I remember it basically explores how our society is "girl-poisoning" with the images the media portrays of the ideal of femininity. I read the book a few years ago, and I see this more and more with my daughter. The consumerism, the desire for the perfect clothes and accessories to fit in, the peer pressure and nastieness of other girls forcing them further into the mold of the perfect feminine woman. These forces lead our daughters to do some terrible things to themselves. Some of these destructive behaviors, as I have observed first-hand, include eating disorders (my daughter) and self-mutilation (a friend of mine's daughter). And this is "normal development" for our daughters? If that is the case, something does need to be done to reclaim them. I am at a loss as to what, however, as I have always tried to teach, demonstrate and level with my daughter how our culture is destructive to girls and why. Sadly, it seems as if the lure of the media is stronger than my voice, and I am losing this war.

What, am I nuts?!? or Tantrums and the Poop Game, Revisited

2006-05-05T12:39:00.000-05:00

What was I saying about "two is a nice age...". Oh, man! I guess I forgot in that moment of reverie about the screaming (I'm talking blood curdling screams) of two competitive, fighting toddlers and their wrestling and all-around getting-jacked-up coach Eight-Eight Fingers. Add that to the never-ending "poop" game (Pooping only in their beds, so I won't see and mention the dreaded Potty) and it is amazing I am still sane. Or am I...?

Right, that I why I write in this blog, typos, misspelled and made up words and all. Because this is my world. Where everyone gets along (funny, huh?) and I can write in fragments and run on sentences like this one and so what?

Yesterday was actually beautiful day, weatherwise, and we had to call outside playtime quits early due to non-stop tantrums. Eighty-Eight kept teasing the Fellers by stealing their golf clubs and waving them in their faces. Boompas, who loved his over-sized Spiderman sandals the day before, absolutely hated them yesterday but would not go barefoot. And Stink, well, heck, everyone else was bawling, so he might as well join in. And what a hellish chorus it was. At least they did not act like that at the track meet! To top it all off, Stink's (Stink, because he likes the word and relishes this game) pants were full of turd when I checked on him before I went to bed, so for the fifth night straight I changed him by flashlight.

Cute, really cute.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

2006-05-04T18:50:00.000-05:00

I noticed my four-year-old standing in front of the toilet, staring blankly over his weiner for serveral moments. Finally, I asked him, "Eighty-Eight, what are you doing?"

He replied, "I am waiting for the pee-drops to come out. You know, the pee-drops that come out after you pee!"

Actually, being a female, I don't really know, but okay, thanks for clearing that up for me.

Target v. Walmart, A Race To the Bottom

2006-05-04T15:02:00.000-05:00

A few posts back I ranted about Walmart and America's over-consumerism (if you don't like made up words, too darn bad). I just read an article on Alternet that compares Target, the upscale box-store, to Walmart with alarmingly frightening similarities. I never would have guessed that Target was this bad:

Of more than 1,400 Target stores employing more than 300,000 people nationwide, not one has a union. Employees at various stores say an anti-union message and video is part of the new-employee orientation. At stores in the Twin Cities, where Target is headquartered, the United Food and Commercial Workers (UFCW) union Local 789 has been trying for several years to help Target employees organize, with little luck.

"People ask what the difference between Wal-Mart and Target is," said UFCW organizer Bernie Hesse. "Nothing, except that Wal-Mart is six times bigger. The wages start at $7.25 to $7.50 an hour [at Target]. They'll say that's a competitive wage, but they can't say it's a living wage. We know a lot of their managers are telling people, 'If we find out you're involved in organizing a union you'll get fired.'"

Target is actually profiting from some of America's Anti-Walmart-ism. More people such as myself and some of the commenters refuse to shop there because of their negative employee treatment:

A recent study by the University of Massachusetts at Lowell showed that 63 percent of people would oppose a Wal-Mart opening in their community. Groups such as Wal-Mart Watch, several documentarians have harshly critiqued Wal-Mart's working conditions and its effects on communities and international labor standards.

It turns out these companies are pretty much the same:

A survey by the UFCW found that starting wages are similar in Targets and Wal-Marts -- possibly higher overall at Wal-Marts - and that Target benefits packages are often harder to qualify for and less comprehensive. (Target's media relations department refused to comment on its wages and benefits policies; individual wages and benefits policies are not included in their annual report.)

This article does resonate with hope and a dream and proof that my ranting may indeed be feasable:

In today's market, could retail really be any different? Fair labor advocates think so. Hesse notes that in several unionized grocery stores in the Twin Cities, hourly wages hover around $13 to $17 an hour, roughly double Target's. Now SuperTarget's sale of groceries threatens the survival of union grocery stores.

Even other major big box retailers have managed to pay significantly higher wages and achieve higher employee retention. The prices at Costco Wholesale Corp., the nation's fifth largest retailer, are competitive with those at Target and Wal-Mart, but it pays full-time employees an average of around $16 an hour along with generous health benefits.

Costco has found that treating its employees well is still profitable, and I believe Aldi's is another retailer that pays good wages while carrying off-name brands to reduce costs for consumers as well as the company.

The Feller Squad, Growing Up

2006-05-04T09:25:00.000-05:00

The older twin, Boompas, will come up to me when he is frustrated from too much fighting with his brothers or after a scolding, or when he is just plain stressed out, and stretch out his pudgy arms and insist, "Baby, baby!" in a kind of winey voice that on any other occassion I would find terribly annoying but that completely melts my heart (sorry about the cliche) for this particular demand. That is my cue to cradle him in my arms, rock him a little and coo in his ear about what a good boy he is and how much I love him. After a few seconds of this, he is satisfied, rejuvenated, and clambers from my lap, back in the game.

Two is a nice age in a lot of ways. For one thing, the twins are more independent. I think back to track meets and outings last spring, and they were very clingy, always in my lap, never wanting to stray more than a few feet from me and demanding my constant attention. Now, they have too much exploring to do to be bothered with sitting in Mommy's boring lap for any length of time. They now prefer the company of bigger kids like their brother Eighty-Eight Fingers to learn kid things from and play wild and crazy games with. Now I have more "free-time" (hahaha-more like more time to tackle the bottomless heap of laundry here). Yet, I find this newfound independence somewhat sad, and I feel somehow less necessary. I know they still need me, but I feel and instant of foolish jealousy when their attention is elswhere now. So I relish any opportunities to "baby them." After all, they are my last babies. Time flies (sorry, another cliche) fast enough. At those moments, when Boompas asks to be my "baby," I let him, if only to slow down the whirlwind of time for a moment. His small, warm embrace reassures me and rejuvenates me, too. It puts the fast pace of life in check for a few fleeting instants and makes everything brighter, better. Those "baby" moments bring us both a little peace.

Feller Mountain and the Battle of the Bulge

2006-05-03T15:16:00.000-05:00

...In which our Heroine takes the Fellers to the track meet of the Beautiful Princess, whose event was the very last one.

Yesterday, our Heroine loaded the Royal Wagon with three jacked up Fellers, and braved the elements (okay so it was a very mild day, but bad weather would make this more exciting) to view the Beautiful Princess run 200 meters in the 4x2 Relay. Fortunately, there was a trecherous mountain (a tall grassy hill)next to the bleachers that held the attention of not only the above mentioned Fellers, but other children as well. Eighty-Eight Fingers and his newfound Feller Army flung themselves down the mountain, rolling and somersaulting, running and and laughing, ceaselessly for the two-plus hours we were there. The mountain proved a strange new challenge for the younger fellers at first, but they soon mastered climbing and rolling and were keeping pace witht heir big brother toward the end of the very very very long adventure. The Heroine stood at the Apex of the mountain, shouting out commands and keeping the Feller crew within view the whole time until it was finally time for the Beautiful Princess to run her race.

The Beautiful Princess started out strong, grabbed the baton with perfection, but was overcome midway through her run. Her knee had popped, but this did not stop her. The Brave Princess kept on running, and passed her baton to the next runner without fault. She helped her team win second place.

The heroine gushes with pride after the race as the Beautiful Princess bemoans her lack of athletic talent. You see, she is not an athletic girl. She is actually somewhat big. She inherited our family's sweet-tooth and constant desire for chocolate. She drinks too much soda and does not get enough exercise (I took that right out of The Parent's Handbook,Lecture 903-761). But the Heroine, right or wrong, encourages her to participate in sports and other activities even though she will not be the best. The Heroine knows what it is like to be a little plump and fights her own battles with it, but she did not learn the skills until she was older. The Heroine is trying to encourage and coach the BP into better habits while she is still young so she does not have to fight so hard as she gets older and the body does not cooperate quite so well. And a difficult battle it is, too.

Sadly, now that the BP is a teen, she is starting to get very self-conscious. She does not want people to see her eat, so she will no longer eat in public. In fact, the Heroine susects BP has not been eating much at all the last few days/weeks. The Heroine worries, worries, worries...There is so much pressure that girls put on each other, that society puts on girls, to look a certain way. It is a very tough thing to get them to be healthy while at the same time love themselves and like themselves for who they are.

So, the Heroine braved and heroically survived another epic battle, two epic battles, Battle of the Teen and Fellers in Public without the Prozac Pushers knocking on her Door.

Stay tuned for our next Episode of Boudica's Babies...

MomsRising.org

2006-05-02T08:04:00.000-05:00

Anyone who is interested in family issues such as maternity and paternity leave, open and flexible work, educational tv and afterschool programs for children, healthcare for all children, excellent childcare, and realistic and fair wages must check out this site MomsRising.org .

One current feature on this site is the opportunity to sign a petition and write a letter to the television network heads demanding more substantial coverage of family issues. Below you will find my letter.

Dear Network Television:

I am really tired of hearing how moms are choosing to "drop out." I suppose I would be considered a "dropped out" mom. I gave up my job to care for my kids. Actually, if quality, affordable childcare was available and longer time off after childbirth that probably would not have been the case. But I had twins, and one preschooler at home, which made it impractical to work because we would be losing money for childcare. So I stopped working, and now, while I have the joy of raising my kids as preschoolers, I also have to completely start over in a career when the children go to school. My skills are obsolete, I will have no money available for additional schooling and retraining, so I will probably have to take an entry-level position somewhere at a fraction of the pay I earned prior to having children. My chances of earning decent wages when I go back to work are slim-to-none. Employers do discriminate against moms who have "dropped out." I know. I was in human resources and if someone has a large employment gap, even if she had stayed home to raise children at that time, she will most likely not get the position, if the resume is not simply thrown in the trash.

Why don't we see stories like these, real families making decisions that financially cripple them because no other options are available? Instead we see Katie Couric interviewing a cutesy couple that has switched places and in the end everything is hunky-dory, grins and giggles, when the dad realizes his wife has a hard job. It is patronizing and exhausting for family issues to be continuously trivialized in this way.

Sincerely,

MacBoudica

Please know that I am happy as a stay at home mother, but it is a very serious issue for people who make that decision because it is next to impossible to go back to the career you had before. In this country, women must choose, carer or family. But families should not be forced to make that choice. This website encourages us to fight for a more family friendly work environment, more flexible work, so that women or stay at home dads don't have to start over if the time comes for them to go back to work, and other family issues that are completely ignored in this society. I know that if the opportunity was available for me to work in a flexible, part-time position, I would instantly do it. However, part-time work is limited. The jobs tend to be low skill, the pay insubstantial. That is not going to change unless we change it one letter or one email or one petition signed at a time.

We're on our way to 4K... Eighty-Eight Finger's Story

2006-05-01T14:19:00.000-05:00

Reader Advisory:

This entry involves introspection and the self- analysis. Details of my Big Mistake are revealed, namely falling for a sociopath. But, really, the heart of the story is about my over-active four-year old son, who has been fondly deemed Eighty-Eight Fingers for his many adventures in breaking things and wreaking havoc upon an unprepared world. This is the story of his sad beginning in life and a new beginning, his eminent enrollment in Junior Kindergarten...so help us all.

My middle boy is four. In September, he is eligible to start Junior Kindergarten. While he is excited, I am in a way terrified. Now all of my fears for him will be realized. I will have to see him as others see him and not through my "Mother Eyes," coated with familiarity and denial.

I have always known Eighty-Eight Fingers was different, almost from the day I realized I was pregnant with him. I guess to tell his story, I must explain about his biological father, and the story of my very traumatic pregnancy.

His biological father was a man who was living with me, who I thought I loved, whom I thought loved me. But the pregnancy brought out his true character. To call him a loser would be a kindness. I think my father described him best as a "Serial Mooch." You see, he is one of those guys who comes on really strong in the beginning, offering his gifts and services to get the girl hooked so that he can mooch off of her, have her support him, so that he doesn’t have to work, and can party all he wants. As a single working mother at the time, I did need some things done around the house that I was not very handy with such as repairs, lawn work, jobs requiring mechanical skills I did not possess. As a master-manipulator and probable sociopath, he saw these undone chores around the house as opportunities to endear himself to me and indebt me to him.

I met him through a friend, and at first I did not care for him, even though he had charmed my friends and they all insisted what a great guy he was. I thought he partied too much and was not well educated. However, he saw my reluctance and rose to the challenge. He showed up more at my friend’s house when he knew I would be there, making himself present and available for more conversation. He heard I did not like his drinking and strategically curbed his intake. He pretended to like the things I liked. He paid me complements on the things that were important to me. For example, he would tell me how hard I worked, what a good mother I was. Then he would sell himself. He poured on the charm. He would offer to fix things around the house or cut the lawn. He could tell I was lonely, and played that up. He would spend time with me, just talking, just listening. It only occurs to me now he probably never comprehended a thing I was saying. He told me I needed a real man around to "take care of me." Slowly, slowly I began to agree. Since I had a lot on my plate, I eventually gave in and let him cut my lawn. That is how he treated it, like it would be a favor to him if he could cut my lawn. He even offered to help my family move or with projects. He charmed them. They loved him, just like my friends loved him. Eventually, I started to question my instinct to avoid him and let him come around more frequently. After all, if everyone else loves him, why didn’t I? And he did his best to convince me I was well loved and valued. His love was like a bad drug, and I became addicted to his attentions.

We had been together almost a year when I realized I was pregnant. Unfortunately, I had just started considering breaking up with him. He could not keep a job. That was obvious. And he was adverse to any type of responsibility. I told him my news one night while he was playing a video game. He neither paused nor looked up from his game. His fingers kept hitting the remote, the figures continued their plight on the screen. I might have said nothing, or been the far off droning of a fly in his ear. I guess a baby changed nothing for him, for did a child not cement my bond to him forever? He knew my weakness, my terror of being alone, a single mother again. Oh, how he knew these things. And the knowing gave him power. So why should he look up?

Once I was pregnant, he started drinking more, spending more time away with “friends” doing who knows what. When I was three months pregnant, I started spotting. I went in for an ultrasound only to discover a subchorionic hematoma, or a “bruised” placenta, with placenta previa, which meant complete bedrest and, most importantly, no sex. That was it. What was bad became worse. Now we could add verbal abuse to his list of crimes. He started kicking the dog. He lost another job and anoter job and another job, so many I could not keep track. We fought and I cried. He used his power, his knowledge of my fear, to keep himself around.

I supported us all on my disability checks until about 27 week pregnant when I was released to go back to work part-time. Then one day, unexplicably, he was gone. He vanished like the morning fog on a hot day. I was seven months pregnant with a high-risk pregnancy. I was not even able to take the garbage out and he left! Turns out it was for another woman, no less. Well of course. Remember, no sex? I stopped eating and gaining weight. I couldn’t let him go. Part of me thought, “Well, good, that’s that then and who needs him anyway.” But that part was very small. The part that spoke the loudest was the angry, enraged part, the part that hunted him down in his home state and all but dragged him back by is ears. He agreed to come back, as if he was doing me a favor. But he did not come, not right away. He made excuses like he was saving up some money. Finally, the stress caused me to go into pre-term labor at 32 weeks. Fortunately, after a short stay in the hospital, the doctors were able to stop the labor, but I was back on restrictions again. Suddenly, he did me the great honor of returning to accept his responsibility.

He returned and was worse than ever. Now, added to his ever-growing list of crimes was an extreme jealousy that ate at him like a cancer. He insisted that because he cheated, I would cheat too (yeah, because I really felt like sleeping around at 32 weeks pregnant).

One week before I had our son, I was fired from my job. They called it a “position elimination,” but I knew it was because they did not want to deal with any more of my “Mama Drama.” Fine. I would raise my baby boy on unemployment. After a few months I found work. Since he could not keep a job, he stayed home with the baby. That caused a situation where I was dependent on him for something. It gave him more power. I was forced to endure his constant accusations of my infidelity. If I was a few minutes late it was because I was with someone. Once, when it was hot, I had taken my stockings off to drive home and left them in the car. He found them and insisted I was screwing a co-worker. This when he was the one who went out constantly, partying, drinking, doing who knows what, I stopped caring. It was about this time I realized that even though he was staying home with the baby while I worked, it was not helping. He was spending all of our money on his vices, verbally abusing everyone, physically abusing the dog, threatening me he would take the baby from me and I would never find him. Yes, he had to go. But how? I couldn't afford my mortgage and childcare on just my salary. Finally, after an exceptionally bad fight, when he threw things at me, scratched me and grabbed my son and threatened to take him from me, I knew it was time no matter what. I would find a way to deal with finances. I fled my house after winning a physical struggle for the baby. I think he put him down so he would have both hands free to stuff his bags with my valuables to visually demonstrate to me he was "leaving." He was not seriously leving. He had played that game before. This time, however, I was serious. I fled the house and called the police (knowing that he would want to avoid any encounter withthe law like the Plague) who issued a warrant for disorderly conduct. It worked! He did not come back this time. I heard he stayed around town for a few months, got into trouble with the law, moved back to his home state, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. He is transient. I don’t receive child support from him, but that is fine. I want nothing more from him except this silence forever.

Eventually, there was light at the end of that dark story. I met a man, a wonderful man, who loves me and whom I love wholly, completely and forever. He loves my son as his own and accepts all of our “baggage.” He is not a twisted sociopath. We are equals in our marriage, no power plays. We even have some twin brothers now for Eighty-Eight Fingers to teach all his troublesome techniques.

Back to Eighty-Eight Fingers. With a beginning like that, I guess the child is bound for a difficult life. He must have been exposed to my overwhelming grief, rage, and stress throughout that pregnancy. I think it may have been instrumental to his development. Formed through pain. Imagine what that does to a child.

He always has been a child on the go. He started scooting around backwards at five months, crawling before seven and walking, I mean running, by eleven months. And he must touch, feel, and basically disassemble/destroy everything in his wake. He is quick, he is sneaky, and the poor kid is always in trouble. Whenever we leave the house, it is like he short-circuits. You can almost see the confusion and how overwhelmed he is with all the novel stimuli written on his face. He is basically rendered incapable of paying attention or controlling his impulses. He does not listen when I scold or redirect him. He does not remember rule from one instant to the next, so I am constantly scolding him for the same things day in and day out, things that his two year old brothers have already learned (I know, you shouldn't compare your kids, but JEEZE, the contrast is striking). His father had a history of ADHD in his family, and I am almost positive my son will be diagnosed with it. The test will be this new journey, Junior Kindergarten.

I know he is active, I know he gets into things, but now he will be compared to other children his age. Is he simply “All Boy” or a "Handful" as I have heard him described. Or is it more than that. Is there really some motor, some excess force in his brain, driving his every movement in fifty million directions at once? What will the world make of this boy, who has been through so much, who will must endure much more if he is ever to learn in our society and succumb to “normalcy.” Is it possible for him to be normal? Should I even desire it? Is it not better to embrace his exuberance for life? I must admit his boundless energy and curiosity frequently is too much for me. Once I even screamed at my husband in a fit of utter exhaustion from his ceaseless antics, "He has to go on drugs or I do!" How can I expect a school, where order is essential, to endure it? I myself am constantly telling him to settle down, leave his brothers alone, listen, behave. Everything I tell him must be retold in minutes, in seconds. He is a wind-up toy that never winds down. I often wonder what my desire, and ultimately the school’s and society’s desire, to reel him in will do to my boy who has already been through so much? And what if we don’t reel him in and he just can’t cope in this world and is constantly reprimanded for not succeeding? How much more will he suffer then?

Trick or Treat

2006-04-28T14:53:00.000-05:00

Doesn't this guy look like the rat who just stole the cheese? Can you guess who this is? That's right Hastert. And why is he so furtive? According to this and this he apparently cannot abide being in a hybrid car for any longer than one minute without going through gass guzzler withdrawls.

The trick or treat? Well, according to the NYT's article above, we can all be looking for congress to buy our votes for a fat juicy $100 cheque, a gas "rebate," right in time for elections (which puts it right about Halloween). While, simultaneously, Bush, true to form, blames environmentalists for our increasing gas prices. After all, the tree huggers were the ones who forced us to add all that Ethanol bologna to our tanks to make the gas burn cleaner, Environmentalists who force us to import oil from so far away, raising the cost exponentially. So he is proposing legislation that will slash requirements for ethanol added to gas for cleaner air and open up Alaskan oil fields for unlimited drilling (wasn't this the guy who just told us in his State of the Union Address that USA is addicted to oil and we need to get off of it?). Fortunately, Republicans are "suggesting" to congress that there be greater oil company taxes. All this while Exon is raking in the money, a seven percent gain in first quarter profits.

The trick here is the same trick that these Republicans play on us again and again. Bait and switch. Coopting our ideas into their own evil schemes. Buying our love. This "rebate" for our high gas woes? Don't fall for it. What is $100 when the prices keep soaring upward, and oil production and use is destroying our planet? And the timing! You can take it to the bank those rebates will come right before the November elections. "Suggesting" taxes on oil companies? Folks, a suggestion is less than a promise, much less than a bill, and much much less than a law. Anyway, that was the Democrat's idea, everyone. It was sneared when "W" promised to veto a bill it was in last year before all the Republicans in office feared losing their jobs. Republican's don't really love you and don't really care about your out of pocket woes. They just just blocked an effort to "...prohibit oil companies from escaping federal royalties for drilling on public lands when oil prices exceeded $55 per barrel. (Prices recently rose above $75 a barrel.)." That's right! Taxpayers are supporting oil companies for our high oil prices and Republicans feel that we should all continue to do so. They are like the "magicians" who hide the jewel under the cup, move the cups around really fast, and you have to guess where the jewel is when it really is not there at all. It is all smoke and mirrors and illusion, a clever disguise as caring folks. Just look at Hastert sneaking from his hybrid back to his gas-guzzler, and please don't be bought. Please don't be tricked this year.

The "Today Show."..Breaking News...

2006-04-27T20:24:00.000-05:00

Normally, I would not even be watching NBC's Today Show, but I must have subconsciously known they would have such pressing news on today. They ran a segment where a morning talk radio host who had barely ever lifted a finger to change a diaper switched places with his eight-month pregnant wife for two days. She went on some mini-vacation while he stayed home and played "Mom" (complete with the strap on pregnant tummy--too bad he didn't get strap on swollen feet, varicose veins, or hemroids to go with it) to their 17 month old twin girls. The first half of the first day he was all grins and "This is not so bad"-isms, even after changing a poopy diaper that you would have thought from the melodrama was the worst ever shat. After naptime was when the real fun began. Those girls ran him ragged. At one point, the sound man rescued one of the girls from a swim (or at least a fun splashing) in the toilet. The poor Mr Mom was completely wiped out after Day One and said to "Confession Cam" the next morning that he was, "...dreading day two." After another succession of scenes that might have been from "Toddlers Gone Wild" including overflowing the bottled water dispenser, sampling the trash, and infultrating the laundry room (the camera man rescued them this time), it was bathtime. This is where the "Toddlers Gone Wild" really begins. There were naked toddlers streaking to and fro. Before he could diaper them both, someone had stained the floor. At this point, the poor man was practically begging for it to be the next day when his wife would return. And he even had the film crew there to help him out! The breaking news here? He admited that what his wife did was hard work. My question is, when did this become news or newsworthy? I mean, yeah, thanks for the props to mothers and everything Katie, but really, shouldn't it be common knowledge that mothering is work? It is really discouraging and shows just how far we haven't come that we still need trite media segments to tell us that mothering is important.

Toddler Cuisine

2006-04-26T12:21:00.000-05:00

Can anyone tell me why kids won't eat spaghetti, mac 'n cheese, barbeque chicken, or even broccoli, but they act like Mommy is interrupting them from four star gourmet cuisine when she removes a crayon from their mouths? How can a crayon be any more yummy than broccoli? I have had children for thirteen years now and I still can't figure that one out.

Lessons from the girl.

2006-04-26T09:14:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, my daughter showed me how to add this graphic* to my profile. And she knows HTML.

"Oh Mom, you have a blog? Do you know the code for hearts? I could put some in for you."

Great. Hearts. Just what this site needs.

Seriously, though, I do feel very proud of her that she has taught herself all these things. But I also feel very, I don't know, oblivious, that I had no idea she had these skills. And it is humbling to learn new skills from one's daughter. You know, the cute little vixen who's hair I braded and who I dressed in ruffly tights. The girl I taught to drink from a cup and all her colors and letters. The girl I did endless flashcards with to learn her multiplication tables. The one I picked up again and again as she learned to ride a bike. The same girl who drew her own lined paper to practice writing her letters when she was four. She was my little girl. Now, she has betrayed me by not only learning something new, but learning something I had absolutely no skill in.

So this whole blog thing for me is going to be a learning experience in many, many ways. I now know for sure that she is unstoppable. She can do anything, even if I did not give her the specific skills. She know that there are no boundaries "girls" can't overcome. These things I taught her.

*Side note: about my graphic. The five headed dragon is for the five hellions. I don't know who the two gnarly goons are, but the woman is Boudica.

What I'm Watching

2006-04-25T15:52:00.000-05:00

I have to say that scene in the latest Big Love episode where Margie is sitting on her couch eating some chips in her exercise gear watching a workout tape with a lipstick-marked house was classic! I almost died laughing. My son Eighty-Eight Fingers got into some lipstick once and drew a lovely Picasso-esque portrait on my bedroom wall, so I could relate.

Walmart and my moral dilemma

2006-04-24T14:38:00.000-05:00

Yes, I stress out and agonize over going to Walmart. Funny, eh? Of course, they are so much cheaper than any other store. We don't do a lot of frivolous buying either. I am talking about for diapers, toiletries, over-the-counter medicine, and other mundane items. For our family, being as big as we are and surviving on just one income, barely making ends meet, anything that saves a dollar is absolutely what we have to do. Yet. Walmart is wrong in so many ways.

My biggest gripe is Walmart's exploitation of its employees. It pays terrible wages. It offers little to no (or too expensive) healthcare so that the mostly single moms that it employs must utilize Wisconsin's state funded healthcare (Badgercare), while the low wages ensure that these working poor mothers must depend on Housing Assistance, Child Care Assistance, Food Stamps and other government assistance. Ultimately, that costs taxpayers more because they fund all these programs (see, I can speak Republican, too!). I think it is deplorable that a super-mega-billionaire enterprise like that cannot pay its workers more so that they can really get off welfare (technically WI doesn't have welfare anymore, now it is W-2 Wisconsin Works).

Walmart dazzles us consumers with its super-low prices, so we think we are getting ahead, but really we are just helping perpetuate this cycle of underpaid, exploited workers. Some people say, "Those people don't have to work at Walmart." That is true. However, I worked in the staffing industry. I know that there is an extreme shortage of living-wage paying jobs. At any given time, many of Walmarts employees are those who have been downsized from better jobs and work at Walmart until something better comes along.

Sadly, for these people there is more often than not no something better. Wisconsin, for sure, and many other states have shipped their manufacturing jobs to Mexico or overseas. What is left is Walmart and other McJobs.

Consumers (myself included) must shop with conscience. Do we continue to perpetuate this cycle of supporting super-mega billionaire companies that screw their employees? Or just say fuck it, there is a sale and I really need an extra $1.50 off this pack of toilet paper? I believe that if we were all willing to spend a little more at the checkout, we would all be a little better off. Lower taxes because we won't be supporting McJobs. Better lives for McEmployees (hey, I never said it would make your bosses stop being dickheads!).

So here is my idea. This is just a thought and probably way to simplistic to ever work. Probably some Econ God can explain how it is a pipe-dream and totally unrealistic.Heck, even in my heart I know it is unrealistic. But, whatever. I will explain it anyway.

Do we always have to have the latest MP-3 player or Gameboy or whatever other game system my lame self doesn't even know the name of? Could we wear the same pair of pants maybe two winters instead of just one? Do we really need so much New Stuff all the time? Maybe if we cut back on buying New Stuff constantly, we could afford a little more for essentials like food and clothes. Then wages would increase, our taxes would decrease, and we would have more money to spend on stuff again! I know, Econ God, it probably would never work. But MLK Jr. had his dream. I have mine.

Better have those Undercover parties now...before it is too late!

2006-04-22T22:57:00.000-05:00

South Carolina is banning the sale of sex toys. Come on! This is just tooooo funny. And very sad. Why can't those right wingers just stay out of our bedrooms? Do they just have nothing goin' on in theirs?

Here is an article describing just that. Thank you Rev. Moon! Enlightment is mine! It is really great to know that his regime is large and his people are voting:

By 1989, U.S. News & World Report was reporting Moon had built "a network of affiliated organizations and connections in almost every conservative organization in Washington, including the Heritage Foundation," but that "conservatives ... fear repercussions if they expose the church's role." In 2004, a veteran Christian Right lobbyist, Gary Jarmin, arranged to have Moon coronated the "King of Peace" in a kitschy ceremony on Capitol Hill in which he wore a glittering crown and royal robes...

Far from being confined to his church, his philosophy has fueled years of voter mobilization drives, state and local candidacies and public campaigns opposing sexual liberties for nonmembers -- such as birth control, sex education, gay rights. There have been Moon-sponsored rallies for "pure sex" in the streets of Chicago, featuring mascots dressed up as gonorrhea bacteria. So don't mistake his sexual beliefs for a party to which you aren't invited. "By 2004, we have to reach the level of Jesus occupying Rome," he said in 2001, speaking of his American ambitions. "Invite me as master and owner, or it all will fade away and be broken. The Capitol Hill, the U.N. -- I should be the king."

This guy wrote a book detailing all sorts of rules for men and women. I won't get into it here. Read the article. It is scary. Did I mention this guy is the creator of the Washington Times?