Thanks Giving

I've just come back from a funeral for a man who helped R and I and some other great people make a great thing happen this summer. He agreed to rent us a house for the purpose of setting up an Oxford House residence, which we managed to open in June. Perhaps it doesn't sound like a big thing, but to the men whose lives this has touched, it is a very huge thing.

Tonight, R, myself, the state coordinator of the OH and the group of men that live in the house (whom we are glad to call friends) all went to pay our respects to the wife and young daughters that are missing him tonight.

And as I sit here, I am reminded, yet again, how easy it is to let something slide, to not take the opportunity to tell those in your life just how much you love them, whenever you can, because you just never know when it may be the last time. So I'm going to close down my computer and curl up next to this beautiful man with whom I am so blessed to share a life and I'm going to be thankful.

Again.

Welcome to the World of Public Education

So I realize that a lot of blogs must surely have been written about the first day of school - all the Mom Bloggers out there waxing poetic on that momentous day, shedding tears as their little ones trudge off to school to start their individual journeys in the Pursuit of Knowledge. Not me.

You notice I was nowhere near a keyboard?

For those of you who know me, you are already making the connection. For those of you who don't, here's a brief synopsis:

I homeschooled for 12 years.

Enough said?

As the big day approached, the atmosphere in the house became more and more somber. The realization had set in that THIS time Mom wasn't bluffing. She really meant it. She was done.

This was the year to test those little wings. Even if I hadn't just moved out on my own (well, as on my own as one can be with 3 kids in the backseat), in the process of a divorce and looking for a stable job, I had vowed that last year was the LAST year for homeschooling if they didn't start cooperating. Needless to say, they didn't really take me seriously.

Now, there were elements that I loved about homeschooling. I believe in it wholeheartedly, as each child can learn at their own pace, in their own way. I've never felt that the one-size-fits-all approach to education was the best way for a child to learn. That said, I was at home, day in, day out, alone with my kids while their dad worked in another state 5 days a week, without cease. Weekends simply meant that I was with my kids... with someone else. And my kids (well, really I'm speaking about the older two... K was usually around somewhere doing K things) just didn't think that organized education in any form or fashion was for them. For the most part, we were life learners, with the occasional structured sit-down time thrown in for good measure to make me feel like I actually was doing a good job.

Really, it was the 6-hour long sibling wrestling matches cum screaming, raging arguments on a daily basis that did me in. I think if I had had other kids, or maybe even just one kid, it would have been an extremely successful venture. Many people questioned my laissez-faire approach to education, even though I saw their little minds grow in ways that I don't think mine was ever given a chance to in early childhood. When I was a child, school interfered with my own lofty pursuits of authordom and, really, interfered with my reading time. Consequently, I wanted to give my kids the opportunity to pursue their passions with freedom, because there really is learning in all things. It happens everywhere, at any time, driven by our innate curiosity about how the world works. Unfortunately, the only real passion they ever seemed to show was the zeal they brought to their wrestling matches. The wild, non-stop banshee screaming in a house with no walls finally just beat me down. Ideals be damned, my sanity was hanging in the balance. Besides, I knew it would take a whole village to teach K. This was not something I was equipped to do alone.

And so, August 24th, 2009, I got up uber-early to make my children their favorite breakfast, dressed my children (or one of them, anyway) and herded them out the door for their momentous First Day Photo Shoot, all the while giggling to myself. This was IT! The first day of the rest of their lives. At school. Apart. No fights, no wrestling matches, no paying a babysitter (not that I've ever really done that, but still... free, supervised childcare. OH MY.).

I have to admit, it was all I could do not to peel out of the parking lot that day. The taste of new life was fresh on my tongue and I was ready for it. That first day was a good one, for all of us. I went to a job interview in my free time and subsequently was hired. The kids came home aglow with the excitement of their new adventure. It lasted for a couple of days and then K realized that it was just too much for his poor little boy self to handle. All those quirks, all of those delays, all of those things that make my sweet, Special K so unique and special were just too much in a structured school setting and anxiety kicked into high gear.

For weeks life was more than he or I could handle. I’m just thankful that I’ve managed to raise two very resourceful other children because in those weeks after school began, they had to do a lot of solo flights as I took a crash course in crisis management. K began bolting from the car, running around the school with a fresh-from-bed Mom with long, wild hair, pjs and sneakers chasing him after him, doors thrown open, car abandoned. I quickly learned to actually dress before heading off to school each morning. I’m not sure how many people have witnessed my bright green fuzzy “lounge” pants with cute little pictures all over them, but I’m sure far more than I would care to know about. I have to admit, the early morning cardio was exhausting.

We reached critical mass about a month into school, during which time I was in daily contact with the fine folks in the Special Education Dept. trying desperately to reach a workable solution for K until all of our testing was complete for him. He was miserable, I was miserable. It was a dark time that I won’t go into in great depth. Suffice it to say that medication has its place when you are dealing with Quality of Life issues. My little K was suffering and my heart was breaking in all the wrong places. Mom Kisses just didn’t quite do it anymore.

So here we are, a few months in now, and we are about to get K’s IEP started, finally (for those of you fortunately unversed in Special Education Lingo, that is Individualized Education Program). This Friday, in fact. And things are starting to get better. I have to admit, he’s had a lot of people advocating for him. And even then, it is still a battle to get him what he needs. My heart has ached more than a few times for those kids who have no advocates. I have friends who fell through the cracks and it breaks my heart for the children they were.

And the other two? Report cards just came out. And what I’m hearing from their teachers is that they are extremely bright, making the transition from homeschooling to public ed with grace. E-dog, who struggled the first month with the (apparently derogatory) label of “tomboy” as she barreled through all the boys on the playground in football has not only NOT caved to those petty little girls, she’s managed to recruit most of them to the playing field with her, taking on the boys with gusto. Her teacher told me the other day with a smile on her face that she just sits back at recess with the other teachers and they watch my fearless daughter take down boy after boy. Apparently they’ve all learned that you don’t want to mess with Elke.

As for the O-Man… once his initial disgust with the mandatory khakis and polos wore off (and he realized that EVERYONE looks like a nerd, not just him), he’s learned to work the uniform to his advantage with the chicklets. He’s surrounded by pubescent pre/teen girls – what ISN’T to love about Middle School? Besides, they have a library that he’s systematically plowing his way through, plundering the historical fiction section to feed his love of historical war. Girls and war... I hardly need to parent anymore.

The biggest compliment, though? Elke’s teacher said to me the other day, “There are some areas she is working on and once she gets them she’ll fly. But what she has that most of the other kids don’t have is a good foundation of life skills and experiences. She’s quite an amazing girl.” I guess I didn’t do so badly after all.

Wrestling team practice starts tomorrow. I have a feeling that my snaggle-toothed Princess will be an unstoppable force in her sport of choice. I feel sort of sorry for those other kids, though, really.

Chapter Two, Paragraph 3

So it has been awhile. I feel like I did when I sat my journal down and didn't pick it up again for a very long time. When I finally opened the pages, it felt odd, no longer like my closest confidant. I felt that I had strayed, that I had committed the ultimate betrayal, and to come crawling back now was just plain hypocritical. To this day, I have not found my muse again in the pages of a journal, and it saddens me. I have a beautiful one, bound in a soft, printed leather, that sits on my bedside table, waiting for that day that I am brave enough to lay those first words.

This, these blog entries, are the closest thing I have to journaling and they are, by necessity, edited for public consumption. One doesn't lay one's soul open for the world to consume with their breakfast coffee (or tea, or protein shake, or energy drink) at their leisure. No matter how much we think we may be opening ourselves, in the back of our minds there is that check and balance that is our neighbor, our co-worker, or our kids. Perhaps even our mate. (Certainly that big, hairy, creepy stalker guy that cruises past the house at 3 a.m. throwing rocks at the window. Especially him.) When I journal, everything superfluous is stripped away until what is left is pure me, laid on the page in a sometimes brutal manner, in a way that I have shared with very few people in my life. It is nothing more, or less, than a reflection of my soul - without thought or concern for what people may think of me. And for some reason, I don't want the world to know me that well. If you know me that well, it means you worked for it.

I still haven't figured out what I'm going to do with the pages and pages of filled journals that sit in a container in my garage. My entire childhood is in that box. My coming of age is in that box, in fact, and we all know just how awkward and turbulent that time is, especially if you happened to go through it as a girl. It worries me, what will happen with my journals if something happens to me. Even 18 years after I last laid ink to paper, I cannot imagine someone reading them. They are funny, naive, sad, incredibly melodramatic, and more than a little embarrassing. Way more. So... what to do with them?

I'm not even sure where that little muse came from. I opened this screen firmly planted in the middle of chapter 2, paragraph 3, with every intention of catching up on the first two paragraphs and here I am waxing philosophical on journal writing. But then I started thinking about how much I've missed writing these past few months, which somehow springboarded into my love of journal writing and, well, here we are.

And in the midst of it all, I've survived a praying-mantis nostril invader, a Vulcan mind meld and a good old-fashioned choke-hold without managing to dump my computer off my lap. Yes, I'm a multi-tasker, but that is another blog entirely...

I'm sorry, the praying-mantis nostril invader still has me a little rattled. It is not a small feat, surviving such a method of torture when it is delivered by 240 pounds of (mostly) pure muscle. In fact, I'd probably jump up and do a little Rocky survivor dance if it weren't for the fact that I'm not sure I have enough energy to even raise my head up from this pillow where it is propped as I type. Thank goodness for good typing instructors. I can stare at the ceiling and be secure in knowing that at least 96% of what I'm typing will be without error.

It has taken me a few months to get here (here meaning this blog here, not this pillow staring at the ceiling here), but I made it. And what a little journey it has been. I do fully intend to get to paragraphs 1 and 2, but I had to start somewhere, didn't I?

Suffice it to say that I am alive, have managed to keep all living creatures in my charge alive (a miracle unto itself), and that somehow, amazingly, we are all muddling through with mostly smiles on our faces. That isn't so bad, I don't think. After all, it is only the beginning of the chapter.

And chapter one ends...

One doesn't realize, when one is situated comfortably in the middle of one's life, just how much creatures of habit we become, and how much accumulation the years bring. As I sit here surrounded by boxes and not even sure where to begin, I'm faced head on by that accumulation. And as I close this chapter, and move from the life I've known since I was 19 years old, into something that is still so blurry around the edges - I have an overwhelming desire to be free of that accumulation and to start fresh and bare, and create something new.

In the words of one of my favorite musicians:

"So bust out of this old cocoon
and dry your wings off
butterfly;
go ahead and fly."
- Dave Matthews

Time to try these wings out.

The Death (and Re-birth) of Hope

I found myself in an emotional state tonight, so what better way to get me outside of myself than by delving deep into someone else's sordid inner life by way of a little random blog reading? Perhaps I would find someone who could take me out of my own issues for a little while, or at the very least, allow me to laugh at their miseries for a bit while thanking my lucky stars I don't have *their* problems.

One of my first selections was a parenting blog that caught my eye with a title along the lines of "Calm, Centered Parenting" or some such thing. In hindsight, I am shocked at the cynicism I displayed in choosing that blog for I surely thought that it would be a tongue-in-cheek blog written by someone at least half as crazy as myself, bemoaning the challenges of a profession that can, on days, cause one to dream of small, cloistered rooms with rows of torture devices whose sole purposes are to enforce a Cease and Desist order amongst rival sibling factions. Replete with gags and shackles. I mean, really, how can anyone use the words 'calm' and 'centered' in the same sentence as parenting?

But when I clicked on it, to my initial dismay I discovered that it was exactly what it purported to be. It was calm, verging on sedate, and infused with an inner groundedness that made one realize that HERE was a woman who had really done some inner soul searching. Her prose was calm, cathartic, and ultimately peaceful. She spoke of her day, of herself, of the passing of time. Nowhere did she mention her child/ren. Other than a quote from La Leche League, there was no evidence at all that she was, indeed, a parent. That inner cynic (that I was unaware lived so ardently inside my head until now) quickly concluded that she was either 1.) a poser, 2.) a psychotic woman who clearly had figured out the art of maintaining inner calm whilst honing her bondage skills on her poor little vixens or 3.) still pregnant with her first.

Now, the fact that this calm, peaceful blog dismayed me most likely speaks volumes about the condition of my psyche (not to mention my parenting) to those reading this (let's hope none of you hold psych degrees). I went into that blog a smartass, a warrior from the front lines who stands knee-deep in the thick of it and can't see anything other than the trees from where she is right now. But as I read, I began to remember the hopefulness with which I started this whole crazy venture. I remembered the time when I put 360% into it - when I read book after book about child development and all of it's derivatives (inlcuding an entire library on parenting atypical children) in an effort to be the best parent I could be. When I threw so much of myself into it that when I finally let my head surface I found that I had completely lost me in the process. And with that realization, and the subsequent struggle to dig her out of the mire and dust her off, I somehow brushed away a lot of that hopefulness and was left with a bit of a fatalistic, survivalistic attitude.

And I'm not sure I like that. Some days it is hard to see that it can be anything other than the way it is, but I think I need to find that hopefulness again: the hope that my kids can and WILL make it to adulthood without any major charges filed against them in a court of law; that they can and WILL be productive members of society rather than living with me until they are 30; and that they will be beautiful little souls in the process.

Somehow, in spite of their mom, they will prevail. Or maybe because of her. Who can really say for sure?

A Little Reminder

As I was lying in bed the other night I decided to give myself an impromptu feel-up in the form of a breast self-exam. Arm over head, I palpated what little breast tissue is left after nursing 3 offlings for more years than I care to admit in any public venue. First right side, fingers walking back and forth, circling, pushing, rolling over skin and rather well-developed pectoral muscles (if I do say so myself) while I absently watched the TV channels flip in the darkened room as R orchestrated his own bedtime lullaby, conducting the remote with as much skill as any seasoned conductor. Left arm up, I continued my quest for nothing. And as life always goes, you wait for nothing, inevitably you'll get something. I stopped. Put my arm down. Felt around. Back up, and again, expecting it to be some weird muscular development. Two times, three, up and down and still the same little lump, the same soft rolling under the surface.

"Give me your hand," I said into the dark where R's face changed color and shape with the rolling channels as the blue glow shifted across his skin. He complied, as he's been taught to do (ummm... yeah... just roll with me on this one). I placed his hand over the general vicinity of my heart and pressed his fingertips into my skin.

A second or two passed as he moved his fingers in a circular motion, saying nothing. "Do you feel it?" I whispered, and for the first time in the course of our relationship, I really, really hoped he would tell me no.

"The lump? Yes."

I uttered my favorite curse word, lingering on the vowel sound, stretching it out and ending it softly this time, the ending consonants barely clicking in my throat. Funny how in one situation the hard ending consonants resonate with a satisfying, anger-swelling gutteral crescendo and in another the emphasis can be repositioned, redefining it as something else entirely... a plea to the Gods, perhaps.

And then I lay there silently, as thought after thought ran willy nilly through my head: It can't be cancer - no one in my family has had any kind of cancer, let alone breast cancer. (Can you say "Denial?") But I banned hydrogenated oils back when it was still considered a left-wing hippie nutso thing to do. (I always seem to be ahead of the times with fashion, too...) But I nursed my young for almost as many years as I have fingers, which according to current breastfeeding statistics, reduces my breast cancer rate by about 60%. And seriously, who gets breast cancer without any appreciable breast tissue to speak of? (I mean, come on, I might be a full A-cup if I lay down... on my left side... and make sure they don't slip off into my arm pits...)

Exhausting the litany of ironies that surely prevent me, by default, from this most egregious of womanly fates, my brain jumped immediately from my breasts to the next logical thing. The children who are responsible for their current status as third-world entities on my body; no longer considered developed nations in their own right, these little bad babies have certainly suffered a severe downturn over the years. No pun intended. (Okay, well maybe just a little.)

And laying there, I had a minor epiphany. I may not be a terrific Mom. I know my kids have heard more than their fair share of robust, often colorful language, and often at decibel levels that will probably cost them a bit of their hearing down the road. I know that I do not always respond in the best, most loving way possible (as my bloody-mouthed, snaggle toothed Princess would probably attest to wholeheartedly). I know that I have probably spent in excess of 60% of my parenting days beating myself up for not handling something better than I did. But I've been there, full-on, ever present, battling, dueling, apologizing and embracing. We've had entire conversations a la Inspector Clouseau that would make Peter Sellers proud. We've earnestly sung "Joe's weenie" to the tune of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" on the way to the grocery store. We've turned our eyelids inside out at the dinner table to both impress and repulse (and often exacerbate) those around us. I may not always be good at my job, but I'm always there. Always.

And if something happened to me, most everyone would be okay. I don't minimize the loss, but there are always other friends, other lovers, other spouses even. But no matter how hard we try, nothing can ever replace a mother. Who else can suggest a nice rousing game of "Houdini" with the duct tape when boredom and misbehavior are at an all time high? Who else can tuck you in with a sweet whisper, "If you get out of bed again, I'll chop your legs off. I love you!" and you know that they are only half joking? Who else can appreciate just how hard it really was for you to make it to adulthood and not wind up locked away in a little cell for a very long time?

Sure, my kids may wind up on a therapist's chaise lounge someday because of me, but I want to BE there to let the therapist know that, no, I really didn't actually intend to use a hacksaw to remove their limbs and they damn well knew I was joking. And that that time I threatened to leave them in the wilderness with a compass, a canteen of water and the direction "South" as a homeschooling survival skills class was obviously just a bluff. And no, I never intended to actually stab anyone with a fork. It just so happened that I was, on occasion, grasping one maniacally during provocation - it could happen to anyone with a hearty appetite and a temper.

Really, I just want to be sure that they actually make it to that therapist's couch someday. And not because I WASN'T around to drive them to it. I may not ever win the Best-Mom-in-the-World award, but I at least want to cross the finish line, fork in hand, doing my best Cousteau impression. I may be an underachiever, but at least I'm an underachiever with flair.

Burning Down the House

The other day, as I sat in speech therapy with my vivacious, rambunctious, fuller-than-life child (don't pretend you don't know who I'm talking about) while he alternately struggled valiantly to meet the challenge of a new phonological sound head on or stubbornly refused to say anything at all, K's therapist placed what must have been the 20th picture so far in front of him during one of his particularly long mute streaks and asked him to say the word.

I saw it before he did and I think I must have groaned out loud from my little chair in the corner of the room because both of their heads snapped towards me before focusing in on the picture again. He looked at it for just a moment and the internal struggle that ensued could be read on his face as easily as if it were typed in large print edition - to keep the tight-lipped silence or capitulate before the OCD Gods -before his sweet, innocent-as-they-come little boy voice piped up clearly in a perfect rendition of the word: "Match."

Just typing that word makes me cringe and run to double check that our stash of the handy little tools are safely under lock and key - the tools that, in the wrong hands, can quickly become a gateway to hell. Or at least what hell might look like in the middle of the woods on a dry winter day. Trust me. I know about that of which I speak.

I think it started with firefighters. Watching "There Goes a Firetruck" with the ever popular Dave and Becky over and over again until the script could have been recited word for word if my most special of K's had been able to make his brain organize them correctly. Or perhaps it was the old family pastime of brush burning, piling the limbs of trees long felled for firewood or the electric line high into massive pyres (sans corpses) to be doused and burned all over the farm until all that remained was a smouldering pile of ash - a budding pyromaniac's delight. I certainly know that the wood-burning stove, our only source of heat in the house, did not help matters. I should have been wary the moment he started jockeying for ringside position as fires were meticulously laid and tended, his sharp, obsessive-compulsive little eyes missing nothing.

It seemed a manageable obsession - unlike some of his previous flings. Put the matches up on the highest shelf in the highest cabinet in a hard-to-open tin - a place that challenges even me and my trusty step stool. Viola'. Obsession managed.

Uh huh.

Lesson #294. Please refer to my previous accounting of his ability to channel his inner spiderman, if you have not yet already. What can I say? I'm a bit slow sometimes.

I should have been on high alert the moment he started bringing twigs into the middle of our house and piling them carefully. But in my ever-optimistic, homeschooler sort of way, I simply paused and was impressed by his skill and mastery of brushpile construction at such a young age. I was proud, even, of the life skills he was learning. I basked in my Mom Moment and continued on with my chores, leaving him as contentedly busy as a beaver weaving his dam.

I don't remember where I was in the house when I heard the scratch. That unmistakeable sound of match running slowly down the side of the box, immediately followed by a muttering. I was back to the middle of the house in a flash... I can perform cardio when I absolutely HAVE to. There was my youngest, crouched in the floor, box of matches in hand, hunched over his little brush pile. "Wite it?" he said as he looked up at me expectantly, clearly believing wholeheartedly that I would assist in his burning of the twigs and producing a wrath like no other when I failed to comply.

After that, the match stash was moved to another, highly covert, location. Strike Anywhere matches were permanently banned from the premises, as a precaution. Temporarily thwarted, all was quiet on the pyro front.*

*Please note the use of the word "temporarily."

My little fire marshal's obsession continued to flourish. He talked only of becoming a "firefighter cooker" - his two obsessions meeting and melding into one very plausible job opportunity down the road - being the firefighter responsible for cooking in the station. I have to say, I was impressed. I put all fire extinguishers on the topmost shelves in the laundry room to prevent him from lugging them around as makeshift oxygen tanks strapped to his back and said small prayers that any house fires would start in that general vicinity. He was rarely without his rubber (fireman) boots, fireman hat and makeshift goggles. Sometimes he'd throw his plastic fireman coat on, but the broken buckles seemed to frustrate him and cause more angst than delight. He began to get very hands on with the woodstove chores. He would eagerly trot in with small pieces of firewood, bargaining labor for a chance to shove one in the stove. It never worked, but he never gave up hope. He was always by my side as I re-filled the stove and if he wasn't, as soon as he heard the door to it open he would mysteriously appear and just as mysteriously disappear after the door closed, his dream of firemaster once again thwarted. He patiently waited.

I was upstairs putting away laundry one winter day a couple of years ago when I heard the stove pipe which runs up the middle of our house crackling and popping - a telltale sign the stove is WAY too hot. Now, our house is open to the center, with a loft running around 3/4's of it. I looked over the railing to see what in the world might be causing the stove to have gone amok and immediately spied my then 4-year-old son standing back from the open stove door, half a log sticking out, vents wide open and the stove roaring like I've never seen it before. I ran down the stairs and luckily was able to push the flaming log all the way into the stove, slammed the door shut and completely shut it down until the stove pipe turned from cherry red back to its original stovepipe black. I lashed the freestanding gate (originally placed to prevent children from accidentally tumbling onto an 800+ degree stove) to the railings enclosing the other two sides of the stove and hoped that he wouldn't learn to untie ropes anytime soon.

I think that bout with the flaming log sort of scared him, because while his passion for all things firefighter remained at a high, his zealousness to actually implement his knowlege of the profession seemed to have dropped off somewhat. The stove was now contained in a maximum security enclosure. The matches were now under lock and key in my filing cabinet. We seemed to have come to a stalemate.

Until late this past Fall, as I sat in my office, back to the window whilst the kids meandered lazily in and out of the house, enjoying the dwindling days of warmth that Fall in Kentucky often brings us at her leisure. I was working over something when Oren walked into my office in front of my desk to talk about something. As he's talking, he looks out the window behind me, stops dead mid-sentence and yells, "The woods are on fire! THE WOODS ARE ON FIRE!!!!" And in the next breath,"Kellen!"

I turn behind me and there, in their late autumnal glory, are my woods. Burning. (Have I mentioned that we are surrounded by over 200 acres of forest?) Kellen's coup de grace. We ran out the laundry room door (past the fire extinguishers long forgotten, I might add) which happened to be the nearest exit to my office and the closest entrance to Dante's Inferno. Oren immediately went into high-gear, grabbing a large stick and pushing dirt around the fire, creating a fire break (yes, we've had a forest fire before... though that one wasn't of our doing) and then smothering the fire with dirt and buckets of water we have for the dogs. Within minutes, my eleven-year-old WonderBoy had the situation single-handedly under control whilst K and I stood dumbly, looking at each other. He, with the fear of a deer caught in headlights, not knowing whether to make a break for it or stand his ground, but knowing that either way he was completely screwed; and I, with thoughts of "what if" competing with the homicidal urges rushing through my adrenaline-drenched blood.

I didn't kill him that day, and I'm very proud of my self-control in that regard. In hindsight, I realize that I am very lucky that he chose to burn the woods in line of sight of my window, that Oren walked into my office at that particular moment, and that he only had one box of matches. However, I'm not so lucky that he learned how to pick my filing cabinet lock. I'm beginning to think that I just need a vault. Or a cage.

Oh God, my leg!

You ever have those moments of unspeakable stupidity? You know, those moments when you are glad there was no one there to witness them, or you try your best to convince yourself that no one did just because everyone was too polite to say anything? I had one of those tonight as I sat down to take off my shoes, getting ready for bed. Now, usually when I sit there is some measure of crunching as my sad, sad little knees strain to maintain the balance between upright and… well… not upright. But tonight, when I sat, there was the most horrendous cellophane crackling sound that I have ever heard issue forth from my lower body region. I looked down at my thighs, half expecting to see something protruding from my legs.

Nope. Nothing. I touched them. No pain.

I picked up my left leg - the one the sound seemed to come from - thinking I must have heard wrong or it was some horrendous fluke to be unrepeated in future testing. As my thigh lifted up off the seat, it crackled like no tomorrow. I grabbed at the muscle, thinking that maybe the 630 pounds on the seated leg press really WAS a little too much after all; here, finally, was my penance for my overly-competitive nature. No pain. Just a knotted muscle. Oh God, what have I done?

Straightened my knee out, just the normal crunch of bone grinding against the place my healthy cartilege should be. Let it drop. Raised the thigh off the chair again and the noise was horrendous. Up and down I repeated it, each time with the same horrible, horrible crunching noise. I watched it in horror, waiting for something to show itself on my leg, or for the pain to finally kick in. Surely I would lose it. I clutched at my abdominal region, my innards in turmoil (not enough protein after that last workout, I guess), and my hand closed around a lump in my left jacket pocket. Immediately the horrible cellophane crunch issued forth. It took me a couple of seconds before I realized what it was. THERE was that cellophane-wrapped protein bar I had completely forgotten about.

Yeah, I know. Really though, it COULD have been the leg.

An Alligator Ate My Boyfriend

Okay, not really. But as R embarked on his very first game of golf with my father in what would prove to be quite the ball-losing expedition, and as I warned him not to reach into the ponds in search of them (something you just don't do in Florida if you like your limbs), I have to admit that for just a moment (I SWEAR it was a very, very brief, short-lived moment) I thought to myself, "Gee, wouldn't that make a nifty blog title?" But of course, I then very quickly realized that:

1. I would be without what is surely the only other man in the world brave enough to be around not only me, but my 3 very loved demon spawn as well,

2. I'd have to tell his mother that an alligator ate him while he was looking for his balls,

and 3. well, I have to admit I'm rather fond of him.

And while the second one sort of makes me snicker because, as I've been told repeatedly on occasion, I have a juvenile sense of humor, I do realize that it would be fundamentally wrong of me to sacrifice my love for the amusement of others.

I did mention that I'm rather fond of him, didn't I?

I'm Heading to Florida!

Oh yes, I'm heading to Florida, where my Mama awaits in all her forgetful glory. And the kids are. staying. home. One week and no kids, whatever will I do? (Really, whatever will I NOT do? Kids really put a damper on life sometimes, you know? I guess I should be thankful for them - they've surely kept me from crashing and burning a fiery death somehow. But at the same time, they've driven me one step closer to insanity, so I can't really say which is better.)

What should be interesting is that I'm taking the boyfriend, R, with me. To meet the family. For the first time. It's been well over a year, I'm thinking it is time. Because The Fam lives 12 hours away, I haven't seen them since May of last year and they didn't know I was seeing someone other than my husband at the time (and yes, the husband knew). After almost 19 years of seeing my family with the same man in tow (yes, that would be the wonderful father of my children), this is going to be a Weird Thing. I haven't taken a guy home to meet the family since I was 19 years old and it didn't really go over so well that time. I'm hoping that this time it works out a little better or I may be sending updates from a make-shift shelter on the beach. I wonder if there is wireless...

To top it off, not only is this the first time R gets to be scrutinized by my family, but it is the first time he has ever flown. AND we are flying back on Friday the 13th. I hope we have better success than the travelers in NY did this past Friday the 13th. And I wondered why the tickets were so cheap.

All of these firsts... it is bound to be an interesting trip. Wish me luck!

How Many Parents...

...have to argue with their child to get the chicken out of the car? I actually had that argument with my eldest. And yes, it was an argument. He had a counter-point to every point I issued. Now, because the hen has learned that she might find french-fries or other odd accoutrements in the car, she pecks my legs when I block her attempts at entry.

Yes, I battle a damn hen to get into my car and then pray to all the Gods that I don't run her over after slamming the door shut and throwing it in reverse.

Not to mention the arguments as to why the hen does not belong in my laundry cum animal room evacuating all over my washing machine when it is cold outside (have you ever seen chicken poop?). I don't feel like it is unreasonable to ask her to sleep in the CHICKEN COOP. Am I being unreasonable????


When we all get the bird flu, is it petty to say, "I told you so?"

OK, maybe that wasn't such a good idea after all...

Ever have those moments? That sinking feeling that occurs when you've realized that what you've just done can't be undone and that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't have even gone there? When you think to yourself, "Oh man, what the &@%! was I thinking?"

As I sit contemplating the $2k bill for the beautiful set of new silver teeth Kellen is now sporting, knowing that the bills for the general anesthesia they used to knock him out with so as to repair every single non-loose baby tooth in his head (ok, except the one they pulled because it was beyond saving) have not even yet arrived, making me rue every single day of the 4 years that he sat with lips clenched stubbornly shut refusing to let them be brushed due to that inhuman gag reflex of his (thank YOU mr. sensory integration disorder), my beautiful, temporarily disfigured nine-year-old daughter Elke sleeps restlessly upstairs, every now and then moaning in her sleep. (Holy cow, that was a mouthful, but i'm frankly too damn tired to go back and fix it. Sorry.)

And I know that part of those moans are because what was once a beautiful upper lip is now a grape-sized lump of swollen flesh stuck to the front of her mouth and I know that even the Arnica and the ibuprofen aren't going to make all that hurt go away. But the other part of those moans are because I know that she's REALLY wishing she'd not decided to Heely down that steep concrete drive, even after I told her repeatedly NOT to do it as I rushed out of one pool's swim lessons on my way to the next pool where my team was anxiously awaiting my arrival to coach them to their next great swim victory. Of course, being nine, and being my strong-willed, strong-armed, spontaneous, devil-may-care child, my words went unheeded and she took off, alone and defiantly courageous. Just a girl, her Heely's and a concrete slope of doom.

He of the new silver mouth and dual six-shooters and I set off down the path most travelers out of that particular center take... the stairs from hell... whilst Braveheart stood at the top of the hill, arguing her case to my retreating back. I had not even made it to the bottom of the hill before I heard her screams and knew that my fears had not been without merit. I saw two college boys standing huddled around, looking at what I assumed was my broken daughter, though I could not see her. The car was closer, the silvertoothed cowboy and his sideshooters were already standing beside it, ready to mount our semi-trusty Subaru steed, so I made a snap decision and hopped in the car to gather my screaming, fool child.

Now, what happened next I cannot say I'm proud to recount. I will not lie and say that I rushed to her aide, and consoled her in her time of great need. No. I was PISSED. I knew from the screams that it wasn't life threatening and I didn't fear for her permanent disability or disfigurement. I know that the people who had gathered and stopped to help must have thought I was the mother from hell as I dashed out of my car to grab her and stuff her, bloody and screaming, into the car, late for one of my team's final practices before State Finals. I was late and she had expressly disobeyed me and, in doing so, had risked life, limb and tooth. I was NOT at my pinnacle of parental sympathy.

I won't go into the gory details, but suffice it to say that my daughter may have heard a couple (ok, a few) variations on the "I told you so" theme. Once I'd exhausted all possible ways to let her know that she should have listened to me, and she'd finally calmed down, we surveyed the damage. Beneath the grape sized, bloody lump that her lip had quickly become, her fate as a snaggle-toothed princess was revealed. Yes, she'd managed to not only eat the pavement, but when she spit it out, she'd spit out a quarter of her top front (permanent) tooth, too.

On the ride home tonight, as she gazed in the passenger-side mirror and broke down in tears of regret contemplating what that decision has cost her, fearing that she will have to get false teeth, Elke had, without a doubt, one of those moments. And knowing how that feels - to wish more than anything that you could turn back the clock and undo that one fateful thing - I could finally let my frustration at her go and hold her hand and tell her that her false teeth will look just fine. But now that I'm sitting here, contemplating that $2k dentist bill of my sleeping Pecos Bill and his silver crowns, I'm thinking that maybe we should go back, do some digging in the dirt tomorrow, and see what a little Superglue and Duct Tape will do for a tooth.

The Consequences of Caving

Posting all of these old blogs about my little Kellen, or 'Special K' as he is often affectionately referred to, I got to thinking about all of the phases we've gone through in his 6 years of life. Such a short time to do so much, but he seems to be the master at really packing life in where he can. Good for him? Sometimes. Good for me? Not so much. (Honestly, every week or two I check my head for the gray hairs I keep expecting to find - not because i'm heading over the hill - but from sheer stress. To my utter amazement, I still have yet to be christened by that milestone.)

Believe it or not, I'd actually forgotten the fecal fetish. Let's take a moment and really think about that. I'd FORGOTTEN my young son's predilection for diaper diving. I'd completely BLOCKED the feelings associated with finding one's young genetic carrier smeared from head to toe in his own excrement. (For those of you new to this blog, you can find the expanded version of that particular stage here.) That must give you an inkling of just how on my toes he keeps me.

K has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (among other things). When I tell people this, they just smile and nod and tell me that all kids have their "quirks" and things they focus on. Oh ho HO they really have no clue. That sort of response usually launches me into the, "Oh no. You don't understand..." And then I come out with some of my earliest hell. That when he was 18 months old, before he had hardly any words at all, he used to walk around every morning signing to me that he needed his: boots (rubber), jeans, hat, gloves, screwdriver and keys. And if I could not locate one of these essential things, the day could not start. He would follow me around screaming for the missing item (usually the keys or screwdriver as he was want to lay them down wherever he may have been - woods, dirt, in some obscure little box hidden in the house) until I could retrieve them for him. Sometimes this would last hours until his daily uniform was complete.

For a time, he would wear nothing but the same pair of jeans, boots and shirt. I mean, identical. He literally had 5 of the same shirts and jeans in his drawer so that his uniform could at least be clean every day. 95 degrees or 15 degrees, he wore the same jeans, rubber boots and long sleeved shirt. That quickly morphed into a pajama obsession which pinnacled in the summer of our first real family vacation to Washington D.C. (oh, but that is a different blog unto itself). There was the mailbox obsession, the tractor obsession, the dirtbike obsession, the helmet obsession, the fire obsession (oh, give me time)... I know there are more and if I really sit and force myself to relive the experiences I will probably just cry trying to list them all. That should suffice enough to give you the big picture for now without completely throwing me into a state of depression.

And of course, there is food. His entire life, food has been an overriding theme. Just to type this produces in me a rapid pulse, tightness in the neck and forehead (explaining the overabundance of premature forehead wrinkling, I should say), and a hot flush throughout my body as my blood pressure involuntarily shoots up. Or perhaps that could be because he's sitting beside me over and over begging for something I bought for him last night at the grocery to eat for lunch today.

You've seen the padlocks. Or, if you have not, stop, check out Adventures in Refrigeration and then come back here. My beautiful little K has the most infuriating inability to wait for anything, especially if it has to do with food. "I'm hungry" have become two of the most dreaded words in the English language to me. I'd rather hear, "I hate you!" screamed with passion at me at the top of his lungs than to hear him utter those other words. Because I know what is coming. 20 minutes of food negotiation, usually with a litany of impossible requests met with steadfast denial. Let me tell you, it is impossible to negotiate food with a 6 year-old boy in the throes of OCD hell. And if it so happens that I have made a trip to the grocery and purchased a favorite food, I will not hear the end of it until it is conumed and out of our lives. One night I made the mistake of purchasing hoagies for the kids to eat the next evening. What can I say? I was in a hurry, the kids were, no doubt, eating me alive with their demands and I caved. I'm alone with my homeschooled kids for 5 days a week without cease. What can I say? I'm weak. Sometimes I just need peace, any way I can get it. So I caved. And got the hoagies.

In the car, on the way home:

"We eat hogies tonight?"
"No. We already had dinner. They are for dinner tomorrow night."
"But I hungee now." (Did I mention he has speech and language disorders, too?)
"Then you can have a snack. The hoagies are for tomorrow."

10 minutes later:

"But I wanna eat hoagies. I hungeeeeeeeeeeee."
"No Kellen, the hoagies are for tomorrow. NOT TONIGHT."
"We eat hoagies tomommow?"
"Yes, Kellen."

5 minutes later:

"Tomommow we eat hoagies?"
"Yes, Kellen."
"And I eat my hoagie tomommow dinner?"
"Yes, Kellen."

And for the remainder of the trip home (a 45 minute drive if I'm unlucky and unable to pass all the slow drivers)and up until bedtime, some variation on these exchanges will occur about every 5 minutes. Assurances that the hoagie will be there tomorrow night are required upon bedtime tuck-in. A kiss, a hug, and a "Yes, Kellen, you get your hoagie tomorrow night for dinner."

1.5 hours after bedtime:

"Mommy? I STAHHHHVED! I have my hoagie PEASE?????"
"DAMMIT NO YOU MAY NOT HAVE YOUR HOAGIE STOP ASKING AND GO. TO. SLEEP!"

4 a.m.

"I hungee. I have my hoagie now?"
"GO TO SLEEP Kellen!"

Silence.

And a whimper. "But I hungeeeeeeeee. I have my hoagie now I no be hungee."

Ahhhhh, the negotiation. Followed rapidly by the smackdown.

"If you don't go to sleep RIGHT NOW I am going down and feeding your hoagie to the dogs and then you won't even have it tomorrow night." That should do it.

"Gahhhhhhhhhh!" he growls in a huff and I feel him roll over. Then, blessedly, silence. Usually it takes me a good hour to get the blood pressure to return to normal so that I might sleep again.

7:30 a.m.

"I have my hoagie bekfast?"
"NO KELLEN YOU MAY NOT HAVE YOUR HOAGIE FOR BREAKFAST! IF YOU ASK ME AGAIN I'M GOING TO STOMP UP AND DOWN ON YOUR HOAGIE AND LET THE ROACHES EAT IT!"

9:00 a.m.

"Is it dinner time now I have my hoagie???"
"OH GOD HELP ME NO YOU CAN'T HAVE YOUR DAMN HOAGIE!!!!"

11:15 a.m.

"I eat my hoagie dis time?"
"JESUS CHRIST EAT YOUR DAMN HOAGIE I DON'T CARE YOU AREN'T EATING ANYTHING EVER AGAIN AND I'M NEVER BUYING YOU ANOTHER HOAGIE EVER!!!!"

Ok. So I probably don't handle it as well as I should. If it is a Monday when something like this occurs I can usually go for many many hours, if not all day, before resorting to empty threats. If it happens to occur on a Thursday, after 4 days alone with them, it will probably sound more like the above exchange. Or I may just pull out the duct tape and chase him around like a lunatic. Depends on the week.

Sometimes, it is ramen, or a can of Chef Boyardee. Sometimes it is some special sweet treat. Often, it is the prized hoagie. Whatever it may be, each time I swear I will never put myself in this position again, but then I think how awful it would be to never experience anything special as a kid and I take pity. This morning, as he begs for last night's grocery score (a little lunchbox from the deli with a turkey sandwich, cheese stick, little bag of chips, apple and a juice box - it is the little things in life I suppose) I am falling somewhere inbetween Patience of a Saint and Call Social Services, and cursing my weakness. For those of you who have ever wished for Friday, you have no idea.

Ch- ch- ch- cha- changes

I am a word lover. My first journal was started when I was a mere 6-year-old lass and my early journal entries went something like this: "Went to school. Came home. Ate." I even have my first kiss documented. First grade, Jon Mattox. If and when my memory starts going, I am blessed that I can always crack open a journal and find myself in it again.

I don't remember why I decided to start keeping a diary. I think, perhaps, someone gave one to me and I ran with it. I had unlocked the mysteries of reading the year before, hunched over a book about bedtime in a darkened kindergarten classroom, and in that instant a lifelong love affair with words was begun. Reading, writing, spelling: if it had a letter in it, you can be sure that I was on it.

My diaries were my soulmates and if I filled up one and didn't have time to get to the store for a new one, I'd start suffering withdrawal. They were my closest confidants, my way to make sense of the world, my very soul in word format. When, as a young teen, I found out that my little sister had been reading my journals, I felt violated in a way that even sexual assault couldn't touch. All the angst of growing up, of finding myself (and losing myself and finding myself again), can be found in the pages of those journals. In fact, I still don't know what I want to happen to them when I die. To know that who I am, in the complete, unabridged format, may be exposed to anyone is a sobering thought.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my words. I got a job, fell in love, got married, and the time that was just my own - mine and my journal's - somehow got pushed aside. I attempted to journal many times, but somehow I had lost that intimacy with them. For some reason, I couldn't put my soul into words anymore. In some ways, I think that I was afraid to have a document attesting to any of the tumult or darkness going on in my head. I couldn't even face it myself, at times.

But in the past couple of years, as I've found myself faced with the trials and tribulations of raising 3 rambunctious, often inhumanly challenging children mostly on my own and doing a complete internal remodel (no, this is NOT a mid-life crisis... I won't be mid-life for another good 5 years or so, thank you), my need for the solace of words has reared its head again and I find myself retreating to the comfort of writing when I need to cope, make sense (or fun) of the world, or just myself. Sometimes it happens in the form of (often bad) poetry, and sometimes it happens like this... a blog.

And as I move through this year, I don't want to lose the lessons I learn from it and all of the changes that are hovering over the horizon for me. For some reason, for me, if it is written, it IS. Life is a series of beginnings and endings, often overlapping, and my life is no exception. Like a caterpillar in metamorphosis, this is my ending, and it is my beginning.

Should be interesting.

The roller-coaster of life

Originally published Sept. 17, 2007

It has been a long time since I've blogged, despite the fact that a few of you have repeatedly begged for more tales of parenting woe (you know who you are and SHAME on you for wishing these things upon me). My lack of writing has not been due to a lack of material. In fact, the stories pile up so ridiculously fast that I can't even remember them all. Last night, as I was stripping duct tape off of a howling Kellen's (aka Dennis) little butt after he'd giddily let his big brother tape both sides of his cheeks together, I was wondering how many other parents have had similar experiences. I know I am blessed that I have these things to moan about. A lot of things have put that into perspective in my life this year.

At the beginning of the year, my mother (age 57) was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. This has been a huge struggle for me and it is one that is not going to end any time soon. As we get older, we are forced to confront mortality - our own and that of those we love - whether we are ready to or not. My mother lost her own mother a few years ago. Watching her go through this at the time, going through it myself in a different way, made me confront the fact that someday I would be saying goodbye to her, too. I never in a million years thought that I would not even be 40 years old and confronted with this reality. Losing someone to an illness like Alzheimer's or Dementia is not quite the same as losing someone through death or sickness. My dad's mother has lost herself in this illness. 2 years ago, she knew me, even if she couldn't quite remember my name. Now she does not recognize her own children. One of my aunts cares for her every day and she has one of the most beautiful attitudes of acceptance about it that I've ever heard. I'm sure that she went through this initial roller-coaster of emotions, but it is the place she is on the other side that I look at and hold up as a light. My aunt said to me, when talking about it, that even though her mother doesn't know who she is, she is one of the neatest old women she knows and she loves being with her. I can't wait to reach that point, because just thinking of that inevitability - acknowledging that my mother, the woman who holds me always as her child, who knows all the countless hurts and boo boo's, the childhood triumphs, the only person in the world who holds my entire existence in her mind and heart, will look at me one day in the not-to-distant future and not see ME...

This year was the first time in 36 years that my mother forgot my birthday. When I think I have the tears and this grief that lodges itself in my throat like a poorly chewed hunk of meat under control, an inevitable reminder throws itself in my face that this fate is hurtling at me faster than I feel I have the ability to cope with. Losing oneself to an illness like this is like watching a comedic tragedy. It is profoundly sad, but at the same time, one has to be able to laugh at the day-to-day craziness that is a natural result of the process of forgetting. I gather these little follies to myself and laugh until that inevitable sob creeps up and grabs me by the throat again.

The hardest part of all of this is that my mom lives 12 hours from me. When I was a young teenager, my mom and I talked a lot about growing old and I told her that I would always take care of her. And I meant it. Growing up, she was my best friend. I have only ever had one female friend in my life as close to my heart as a friend as my mother and in a way, I've lost her this year, too. My mom was the kind of mom that all my troubled teenaged friends would come to for advice. She was the kind of mom that I can only aspire to be. And to live 12 hours away and not be able to fulfill the promise I made to her is one of the hardest things I've had to live with. I can only hope that sometime soon my dad will decide to bring her up here so that I can do for her what my aunt does for my grandmother. Because of all the people on this earth, I am the one that that task belongs to.

Losing one close to you like this is a constant reminder that we only have the opportunity to do this thing called life once. If we don't tell the people we love how important they are to us, show them every single day, tomorrow we may wake up to find that it is too late and all we are left with is a pile of regrets. I'd like to think that my love for mom, the love that we have for each other, will somehow transcend this disease; that someday I will look in her eyes and, while she may not remember me, maybe she will feel a recognition, somewhere deep inside, of that love I hold for her and she for me. When that time comes, I hope to be able to move through the grief and just see the beautiful person that remains, as my aunt has done. I don't think that this crushing grief will ever go away, but I hope that at some point it hurts less.

And while I have cried so much more this year than I have in the past 10 combined, I have also discovered a newfound desire to live my life to the fullest and not to get to the end of it with a big bag of "wish I had's" and "should'ves." My mom won't have a chance to do all those things she kept putting off for one reason or another. So I'll pull the duct tape off of little butts with gusto (and quite possibly a flourish) and I'll celebrate life in the ways that make me happy. Because life's just too damn short not to.

Victoria and Thongs and Kids, Oh My!

Originally published June 27, 2006

My eldest son - we'll call him "Casanova" - loves the ladies. Since he was 3, he has been connecting with the girls on a level that no 3-year-old should connect on. His cousin was the first lady he showed his moves on. I'll never forget these two little 3-year-olds, sitting side by side on the steps, and he turns to her, cups the back of her head in his hand and leans in to plant a soft kiss on her lips. I don't think he'd ever seen anyone make that move before... I concluded he was a natural and that I was in for some big trouble down the road.

Most boys go through a "oooooooh, gross, girls!" phase. Casanova apparently decided early on to take a detour around that particular stage of life. His mission from age 5 on was to get the girls naked. (At this point, I feel I should add that he has always been a natural nudist and feels better out of clothes than in.) If any girl (especially a pretty one, but they are all fair game in his book... at least he's equal opportunity) came over to play, you could bet that it wouldn't be long before you'd see them both streaking around buck-naked. Thankfully, the people we tend to mingle with aren't uptight about nakedness and have never cared too much.

The blissful days of stripping down naked in an innocent quest to check out as much girl booty as possible has, sadly, about come to an end. Casanova recently turned 9 years old. These days, he spends his days pouring over the Victoria's Secret catalogs that come in the mail. He giggles and goggles over the acres of skin and his eyes miss nothing. He evaluates and assesses and pays particular attention to their attire.

Much to my chagrin, he has turned the same laser-sharp criticism to me, these days. "Mom, why don't you wear thongs?" And then, in answer to his own question, "Probably because your butt is too big. That would hurt..." little man-giggle. (Come on, I bore his ass and both of his siblings in a labor of love... of course I don't have hips like those childless hussies.) "Hey Mom, have you ever worn one of these?" he might ask as he holds up the pages for me to see a sultry beauty slinking around the page in a lacey, barely-there teddy. "Ummmmm...." I answer, mind speeding rapidly around searching for an answer that would satisfy his curiosity yet not brand me as a complete liar should he somehow find all that dusty lingerie that hasn't seen the light of day (or night, for that matter) in years. "I don't remember..." Okay, lame, I know.

I guess I should give a little background: I grew up with the subject of sex being a pretty approachable thing with my parents. Perhaps it was watching all of that Mutual of Omaha as a kid (for those of you who aren't familiar with the Mutual of Omaha, think Nature Channel in a show with a very, very old man similar to Bob Barker as the host), but mating was just something that animals did... and we are animals, so it just never phased me. I try to keep sex from becoming a mystery... I think that is why kids are so determined to check it all out so young - because it is this big mysterious thing that no one talks about. So I try to make myself approachable when it comes to relations with the opposite sex. And it seems to be working, because they don't seem to be afraid or embarrassed to ask me anything.

So anyway, back to Victoria and her tantalizing secrets. Over a period of weeks I see Casanova's interest in Victoria's little magazine turn into an all out obsession. As a woman, I'm against males expecting women to look like cover models. I try to celebrate the variety of shapes of women in all their beauty. So to watch my son become increasingly obsessed with the crème de la crème of youthly, womanly perfection was a bit distressing. I started throwing the catalogs directly into the recycling when they arrived. Then I started burying them under all the other magazines. My attempts were fruitless. More and more VS catalogs were making their way into my house... the bathroom, his room, his sister's room (his partner in crime, I should add), the kitchen table... no area was sacrosanct. Finally, I could stand it no longer.

"Hey Cas, what do you like so much about those magazines?" I asked.
"I like looking at all the women," he answered.
"What is so special about them? You've seen women naked before," was my curious reply.
"Yeah, but not like these. I like the ones with the thongs that don't wear a bra. But it is so frustrating because you can't see anything."

Oh my. I just was not prepared to deal with this... I thought I had a good 3 or 4 years before we really got into this stuff. Over a period of weeks, talk around the house centered on thongs. Casanova and his sister were obsessed with them. "I bet that feels weird." "Oooooh, gross, I bet they get poop stains on them." and I'd hear Casanova and his little sister dissolve into fits of raucous giggling. I prudently decided that making an issue out of it would only fuel the fire, so I took the only way out I knew. I ignored them, thinking this little obsession would burn itself out in a few weeks. Ummm.... no.

I was on the phone yesterday with a friend, doing the dishes, when my daughter came into the kitchen and grabbed the scissors.

"What do you need the scissors for?" I ask suspiciously.
"Oh, Cas is just making something," she answers innocently and exits stage left.

About 10 minutes later:

"Hey Mom, look!" I go out of the kitchen, where my son is flailing a little piece of white cloth in the air over the balcony railing. "I made E a thong!" he laughs wildly as I realize that the little scrap of cloth he is waving had spent its previous incarnation as a pair of my daughter's panties.

Today they are both proudly sporting the fruits of their labor, evaluating and discussing the merits versus the pitfalls of thong-wearing. My daughter's initial assessment is that thongs are gross. Casanova, on the other hand, seems to be enjoying his quite a bit. Needless to say, I worry about him.

Overcoming Adversity

Originally published March 2, 2006

Aside from his food predilection and toilet issues, my little guy is an avid climber. He can scale anything and if he can't, he is smart enough to figure out a way to get around that little inconvenience. He is a stealthy child, too, and can move a dining-room table chair to the counter or a stereo to gain access to his heart's desire without making a sound. Fast. Mostly, he is sneaking sweets or gum ("muh" as he calls it), but often enough he is shoving as many CDs as he can find into our 3-disc player and trying to force the drawer shut (the record held is 11 CDs with the drawer completely shut).

Because of this predilection, we find ourselves childproofing our house *more* as he gets older, rather than less as you would expect (or at least *I* would expect) at this age. We purchased, for the first time in our parenting careers, door knob lock thingies. He finally figured out how to open the doors a couple of months ago and began inviting our dogs into the house for unsupervised refrigerator parties. You'd be amazed at how quickly two 100 pound dogs can empty the bottom shelf of a refrigerator when given the chance (hence, the need for previously mentioned fridge locks).

One of our current challenges is keeping him off of the countertops. When he first began his exceptional climbing career, we had no child-proofing on the upper cabinets. I literally walked into the kitchen one afternoon to find my not-quite-two-year old standing naked (have you noticed this particular characteristic?) on the countertop, surrounded by a random assortment of wine glasses and coffee mugs, and wielding two very large butcher knives. The sense of accomplishment he felt that day must have been intoxicating because he has since become unstoppable. Needless to say, this new development required a mass re-organization and serious childproofing of the upper kitchen level.

Since all of the drawer stacks in our kitchen are roped together to prevent drawer vaulting, and we have all but bolted down chairs from around the house, to minimize access as much as possible, it was only a matter of time before he found an alternate scaling option. His current route to Nirvana is by way of our oven door. Think "springboard." Down goes the oven door, up goes child and voila - he has gained access to the entire upper kitchen area. I actually believe that he cases the kitchen, looking for open locks, watching for that time we slip and and then BAM! He slips in and wreaks havoc. We have tried the child-locks they make for oven doors. However, I don't think those were designed with the average 3.5 year old in mind. Stick on clips are just not much of a deterrent for an analytical child with excellent fine motor skills and an uncanny ability with tools (he must be the only 3.5 year old child with his own 18-volt cordless drill... which I admit, in hindsight, probably wasn't a particularly brilliant idea). Obviously, this oven issue is causing me a bit of angst.

Two weeks ago I walked into the kitchen to find dear, dear Dennis planted firmly in the center of the stove-top, oven door open and an amazing amount of heat emanating from said opening. He had apparently decided that playing with the buttons on the back of the stove would be an interesting thing to do and had managed to not only turn on the oven, but two of the four burners as well. He did manage to sit strategically on the stovetop so as to escape what surely could have been a horrible burn. But like I've said before, I'm a silver-lining kind of gal. At least he hasn't figured out that he can put things on the stove and catch them on fire. It *could* be worse...

I really want to know if there is truly something fundamentally *wrong* with duct-taping a child? Because in my heart of hearts, it seems like a good idea. Surely a case can be made that it is for his own safety... I would do it with only the greatest loving kindness, I swear.

The World Is My Toilet

Originally published March 2, 2006.

My son just peed on the floor.

To the casual observer, this may not be a big deal. A 3-year-old - still in diapers, running around naked - bound to happen, right? Children learning to control their bodily functions often misgauge their capacity.... But, as with all things associated with Dennis, it is never quite that easy. It is where he peed that makes this little tale remarkable. You see, my son, in his ever burgeoning quest to become big, has decided that it is much more entertaining to pee in random locations that catch his fancy around the house than to do so in the rather boring toilet. After all, the magic of the flush, the allure of the swirling waters and the mysterious departure of bowl contents has been plumbed by this intrepid young person ad infinitum. Old hat.

For example, we already know what happens when an entire roll of toilet paper is shoved intact into the bowl (in fact, we know what happens when the beginning of the roll is attached to the back of a tricycle and driven swiftly and without mercy through the house, too). We know that casino chips don't flush well, but that screwdrivers apparently do... at least until they hit that pesky bend in the pipe. Toilet fishing is almost considered a sport in our house. We even have specially designated toilet retrieval skewers. If you ever plan on making shish kebabs in my house, I would suggest asking before using the skewers...

Initially it was exciting for my little man to use the toilet for its intended purpose. But as I mentioned, apparently it is not quite exciting enough. As his mastery over bowels and bladder has grown, one no longer hears the sudden intake of breath and calls of distress, "Pee! Pee!" nor sees the familiar rapid duck walk toward the bathroom with hands clutching groin in an attempt to staunch the flow. Rather, in my house, one might come upon a naked child glancing about over his shoulder shiftily as he assumes "the stance" (you know the one: legs shoulder width apart, hands in place to conduct the flow). One might happen upon him on the stairs, gleefully peeing between the steps into the murky depths below. Or one might find him, in perfect stance, at the gate of our wood-burning stove, happily trying to hit it through the bars. One can only assume that the satisfying sizzle attained on a direct hit is what makes this a favorite watering hole.

I have never been one to push toilet usage. I do not believe in "toilet training." I find the idea that we can actually teach another human being how to master control over their bodily functions a bit absurd. In fact, at this point, I would happily see him wearing diapers until he was 20 so long as he did it in the diaper and not around my house like an errant puppy.

As if this wasn't... challenging enough, he seems to have taken an interest in his *other* bodily function as of late. Oh yes (you guessed this was coming, didn't you?). Doo doo, caca, poop... by whatever name you refer to it, it still boils down to one very smelly mess. Good 'ole fecal matter. Back in the good old days, he used to deposit his load in his diaper and then advise me that it was time for a change. Somewhere along the way, he seems to have decided that I am no longer a necessary component to that equation and has begun to remove the diapers himself after aforementioned load is deposited. Usually, he is kind enough to leave it in some location either visibly apparent or, if nothing else, in an area with high foot-traffic. One way or the other, we find it. (I should take a moment to add that I'm a "silver lining" kind of gal and I have to look on the bright side of this: he could very well hide them.) Usually the culprit can be found not too far away on our living room area rug, sitting and happily trying to wipe himself. Considering that usually he has fecal matter plastered to both butt cheeks and his entire groin area, he doesn't do too badly. However, he usually sits before trying to wipe himself... And yes, if you find yourself thinking, "I will never sit on *her* carpet," I certainly will not hold it against you.

The other day, little Dennis was upstairs playing with his sister. At least, that is what he was doing when I walked into my office to work for a bit. After about 10 minutes, though, I heard Dennis making these gagging, retching noises. I called out to his big sister, "What are you doing to your brother?" (This is actually quite an honest mistake because I swear that 9 times out of 10, she actually *is* doing something to him.) The answer comes back in the negative (and I do have to admit that at this point I don't quite believe her). Seconds later, however, big brother is sounding the alarm: "Poop! Poop! AGGHHHHHHHH POOOOOOP!!!!!!!!!" I'm out of my office like an Olympic Sprinter only to come upon my sweet, wonderful, youngest child, hands raised in the air much like a doctor, scrubbed and waiting for gloves. At first glance it appears that he has been playing in mud - to the wrists his hands are a dark, dark brown. He looks at me like a deer caught in the headlights, brown streaks smearing his forehead, cheeks and torso like so much war paint. Meekly, he declares, "Chocolate poop."

It is only later on that I realize his penchant for sweets must have finally caught up with him and that the dark brown mess must have resembled dark chocolate so much that he couldn't resist the temptation. Hence the horrible retching I had heard. We may go through the above scenarios many times over in the months to come as he works his way through this particular milestone, but something tells me he won't be making *that* particular mistake again.

Adventures in Refrigeration

Originally published Jan. 25, 2006.

My wee one has an obsession with food. This is something that has been a recurring theme throughout his life. My first child was such an incredibly neat eater that I literally never even had to wipe his hands or mouth when he got up from the table. I never owned a bib. Yes, I was a "smug parent" about this... for a little while. Then my daughter came along and seemed to be making up for her neat brother. She had food stains on her clothing until she was 4 years old and to this day is an embarrassment at the table. I thought we'd paid for that little bit of parental pride. I obviously thought wrong. Rather than just wearing some spaghetti on his clothes, he will choose to dump the entire bowl on his head. At 10 months of age this is a novelty. At 3 years of age, it is, well.... not. If left at the table with his siblings while eating, he will initiate a food fight, throwing every morsel of food he can get his hands on. I have blueberry stains on the walls to prove it, if you don't believe me. If left alone with something saucy, he will plunge his hands and forearms into the dish and then try furiously to de-sauce his arms on his shirt. I have been pegged in the forehead with seemingly unsatisfactory bits of morsels. He sits at the table the better part of a day, demanding food, receiving it, eating a bit then discarding it in whatever manner seems most appropriate given the tools at hand. Usually it involves some sort of earth-moving machinery and a screwdriver. I have never felt dread over food until he came along.

The refrigerator was his playground (please note the purposeful use of the past tense). Of course, I had missed out on this lovely aspect of childhood with my other two. From the time he was 18 months old (when he was finally big enough to open it himself), he would help himself to whatever he could find that would make a satisfying mess. Mostly it was eggs and parmesan cheese. Have you ever had a 2 lb. can of parmesan cheese dumped on your rug? Let me tell you, that is a LOT of parmesan cheese and it smells disturbingly like vomit. In a 4 month period we would go through 1 can a week. Sometimes I would find him doing it, but most times he would abscond with it to some part of the house in which I, oddly enough, was not present to gleefully dump it everywhere.

Eggs are his other pleasure. He started his egg rampage by just cracking them in the middle of the kitchen floor. He quickly learned, however, that if he were going to get through a whole carton uninterrupted he needed to find a nice, private place in which to do it, so he moved to a little nook behind some cabinets. If the house suddenly went silent, it was a sure bet you'd find him back there, cracking away, usually naked. If you've never experienced the mess of raw eggs on the floor, I highly recommend trying it just once. In a good week he could go through 2 dozen, easy.

From wanton cracking, he quickly progressed to cracking eggs into his toy kitchen's pans. I have to admit that I was suitably impressed by his egg cracking skills at this point, though I would rather have my eye-teeth pulled out than admit that to him. Most recently, just passed the age of 3, he decided he was ready for bigger stuff. Just before we got radical, I found my naked chef surrounded with freshly buttered pans (mine), eggs cracked in them sans shells (mostly), with one on the stove and him furiously trying to turn on the stove-top, spatula at the ready.

We tried everything to keep him out of the fridge, to no avail. This past weekend, however, we finally (FINALLY) nipped little Dennis's Adventures in Refrigeration in the bud. After over 18 months of angst, frustration and countless dollars in lost food (mostly consisting of organic eggs, parmesan cheese, chive cream cheese and Hershey's dark chocolate syrup), as well as 3 previous attempts to bar said thief from our cold-food storage using conventional "child-proofing" methods, our aggravation is at an end. Until he figures out how to use the bolt cutters or work the combinations (either of which is quite plausible), we no longer have to worry about food loss.

3, the new 2? Parenting myths debunked.

Originally published Jan. 25th, 2006.

For those of you out there yet to experience the joys and not so joyous moments of parenthood, I'd like to quickly debunk a very popular myth for you. It isn't age 2 you need to worry about. The "terrible two's" are, to put it quite simply, a bunch of muck. Obviously the people who started perpetuating that myth either, A) had no grasp of child development, B) had nannies, C) gave their children away before they turned 3, or D) employed the Darwinian theory of "Survival of the Fittest" and obviously their children did not make the cut.

Ask any parent who is with their child all day and they will tell you. It is age 3 you need to afraid of. And I do mean afraid. Something happens right around the end of their 3rd year of life (usually around 33-34 months of age) - it is like a switch kicks on in their little developing brains - which makes them realize that not only are they their own autonomous human beings (which is where the "no" phase comes from in the 2's, understandably), but that they can do things over which we as parents have no control. The idea of "Parental Control" (and I use those quotes quite purposefully) is also, sadly, a myth, about which they are suddenly and quite painfully (for us parents) aware. Having a 3-year-old is like having a little poltergeist living with you. And as with poltergeists, so with 3-year-olds... some are playful and mischievous, but overall harmless and some... well. Let us just say that if your infant gives you cause for worry at this stage, I feel for you.

I have had 3 such experiences with age 3. "Good baby" and "easy" are not words applied to my children. I adopted the motto, "There is no such thing as a "bad" baby - just easy temperaments and not so easy temperaments" early on in my parenting adventure. (And let me debunk one more parenting myth for you right now. Temperament is luck of the draw. An "easy" baby is no more a reflection of your good parenting than a "difficult" baby is a reflection of it. If you look at your child now and think "I must be such a good parent, just look at my child!" I assure you this is not the case. Because at some point, no matter how good you are as a parent, your child will do *something* that will knock you off your high-horse. Better to start humble and stay humble. If not, your humbling will be all the more painful when it does happen. And it will, of that I am sure.)

I was blessed with 3 people who knew their minds from the moment they were born. They were also born with an uncanny ability to communicate their thoughts to me in no uncertain terms. I went through hell and back with my eldest (I'm holding my breath for the next trip, but for right now things are pretty good...) and experienced almost every parenting challenge you can imagine. You know, the kind that sends parents running in droves to the bookstore to read 1 of the thousands of books written about what in the world they must have done wrong along the way. It was those experiences with my eldest that felled me where I stood and humbled me in a way that I wish upon no parent. The words, "my child will *never* do that" will never, ever again cross my lips because as sure as they are released, my children *will* do it.

My daughter was "easy" by comparison (just don't compare her to other peoples' kids, lol). I thought I had been through my fair share of parenting challenges and surely anything else would be relatively smooth sailing by comparison. I was obviously mistaken. For whatever reason, when my youngest sought me out as a parent, he obviously felt that I had not yet learned whatever it is that I am fated to be taught in this life.

He is 3 now, with more than his fair share of obsessive-compulsive tendencies, and goes by the moniker "Dennis the Menace." Of course, to make matters worse, he is a largely non-verbal 3 (an experience I do not recommend to anyone). He has merrily latched on to the word "menace," happily referring to himself as "memace" while giving you his wicked "devil may care" grin. His is a larger-than-life personality with a wicked sense of humor and a grin that I imagine he will greatly need in the years to come as I think it will be his salvation. It is he who has prompted me to chronicle life with a 3-year-old. And the adventure continues...