Night Shift

New moms get all the breaks. People advise them, "Sleep when the babies sleep," and bring ice cream.  Friends and family suggest date nights and "taking time for me."  

It makes sense.  Rookies need time to adjust to the reality of motherhood, which is not baby waking hours but every hour since the baby first came to be.   I used to joke, parent hours are from five a.m. to twelve midnight, but that was before I had teenagers.

Between teens on dates, teens with jobs, track and field hockey and all the other treats of summer, the window of non-necessary time has shortened on both ends.  My body is missing that extra hour.  Last night, I dreamed I was sleeping.  How tired do you have to be to have your subconscious fantasize about being unconscious?  

My daughter laughed when she saw "Sleep" on my to do list for the day, but I'm serious.

Last night, the four year old came to us at midnight because she had nightmares.  After cuddling, she took herself back to bed at one.  I figured, good for the night.  The light went on at 1:30.  A teen wanted a snack.   The light went on at 4 a.m.  My youngest son needed a change.  He had the grace to curl up at my feet in his blanket after I cleaned him up, but I hadn't the energy or the will to move him.   At 4:30, the four year old returned.  No reason, she just got in bed.

Within fifteen minutes, both children slept perpendicular to the bed, giving me a pillow sized space in between.  I cursed myself for checking the time.   Forty-five minutes until the first alarm.

I could get up, get a jump on the day, get dressed...I'd just opted "No." when  the son with cross country tryouts came running down the stairs to make sure I was awake so he wouldn't be late.

My brain sang a version of the Lego song in the shower.

Everything is awful.
Everything hurts when you don't ever sleep.
Everything is awful
....when you don't get to dream.

A diet coke later, I'm on the road wondering if it would be better if the teenager with a learner's permit took the wheel when he told me I drove like an old lady.   I'd sat at the red light musing about the idea of doing nothing all day for several days.   I imagined floating down a river, sitting at a pool, and feeling strained to open a book, lift a fork or even flip over to tan evenly.   The light turned green.

I told him, there is never a situation when calling someone an old lady is a compliment, it was very early, I hadn't slept and it was closer to home than the school such that his taxi felt taxed to be transportation at this point in the day.  

He had the grace to mend his speech....though the substitute of Wise for Old, wasn't too much of an improvement.

Worse, my body is starting to adjust, to wake up after four hours, expecting to have to do something.

So I've begun strategizing.  There isn't a manual for parents of older children on how to get them to understand, you're closed.  I've tried saying the Internet and the server is down, I'm going offline, off the grid, I'm done, but they don't understand my being tired if they're not.

In the meantime, I've crafted the beginnings of a plan.

First Rule:  Post hours of operation, pad the hours on both ends.  

Second Rule: Have incentives for teens who allow 8 hours that rival Price is Right Showcase Showdowns.  Pay for each hour over six you're allowed to rest.  I've got a coupon for Amazon and one for pizza.  All yours if I get to Carpe Diem the night.

Third Rule:   If all else fails, I'm  finding a cheap artsy movie theatre and wearing dark sun glasses. I will pay for the opportunity to sit still for three hours.  I just hope I don't snore.

The Ratio of Humble Pie is...

Oh who cares?  I'm eating the whole pie.

Which is good because while I know Pi =3.14159265359...I've never once understood why, not even when I learned it.  Back in the day, I just memorized and regurgitated, without ever understanding.  Perhaps because few math facts ever were digested, it continues to disagree with me.  At the very least, we lack tolerance for one another. However this discipline and I have worked out an uneasy truce, born of years of systemic consenting neglect, reinforcing our mutual disdain.

But today, I forced myself to reenter the math world, and discovered a whole new reason to hate it.

I'm studying for the Praxis, and that means passing the math.   That means studying.   It also means my teenagers get to mock me mercilessly for my errors.   I'd love to tell them to knock it off, but it's hard to do that when you need them to explain the problems.   It is the cost of doing business with adolescent tutors.

I took the English practice Praxis.  I scored a 99 of 100 and finished in 1/3 of the time.

I took the Math practice and got a 63.   If they don't let me use scratch paper, it will be far worse.

During the exam, I could hear my gray cells squeaking and creaking, as the neurons fired up and found that a whole section of my grey matter needs dusting.   I did remember the slope formula y=mx+b.  Alas, I found it a slippery slope formula as I couldn't remember what to do with it.   On a multiple choice quiz, you don't get any points for recalling partially what is needed, and eenie-meenie-miney-moe proved itself to be an unreliable method of determining the answer.  So much so, I'm fairly certain when I take the actual test, there will be a word problem as follows:

If Sherry guesses at the Praxis on the math section for 1/5 of the 40 problems and gets only 1/5 of those guesses correct, what total number did she miss by guessing?  (I'm not going to go easy on you and give you the answer not because I'm mean but because I actually don't know, don't want to know, and don't want to know even if you know, how to know it).  

So after listening to my children question how I could not know what I obviously did not, how I could forget so much, how I've managed to walk upright and drive given my limited command of arithmetic, I went back to the world of words and took another test.  But my brain felt tired.  I scored only a 92.

Looking at the score with disgust and fatigue, all I could say was, "Et tu Brutus?" and wonder if I failed badly enough, would they send me to 7th grade as a student?   My only comfort, one day, these teenagers will grow up, they'll become adults in the adult world, and hopefully, they'll have children.  Hopefully, one day they'll discover they've been lapped by their kids, and I'll be right there, handing them the recipe for humble pie or Pi.   You take 3.14159265359...

Mundane Mysteries of Parenting

Being Catholic, I'm no stranger to mysteries that are profound.  It's the mundane mysteries of raising a whole generation of civilization that drive me nuts.

The Band-Ade Corollary:  No matter how old the injury, it requires one.  No matter how old the child, the injury prevents throwing away the tabs from said adhesive protective medicated strip.  This includes if the trash can is less than one foot away. 

The Juice Cup Parallel: Water cups only go up to the bedroom. They never come down...except with an assist from Mom. Subsequent axiom: No child is so thirsty as the one going to bed.

Food Gremlins Theory: I bought chocolate milk for my youngest son for his school days.  Yesterday.  Today, there is not one chocolate milk in the home.  I've surveyed everyone. Cleaning the house, I can find no tell-tale CSI Mom type evidence to indicate who might be less than forthcoming about the lost flavored moo juice goodness.   I know I bought the stuff.  I know it came in from the car.  I know I announced that it was for this child only.  I know it's gone.  Don't tell me they threw away the cartons after they drank it, remember, these folks don't toss the wrappers from band-ades.

Coated for Your Protection:  The same principle that governs the wearing of bandages and disposal of medical trash, somehow translates to outwear designed to protect from the elements.  We have coats.  Sometimes, the children insist on them when it is sunny and 70 because they heard on the news, it might rain.  It is then, I find the coats left in the back of the car.

Phone Call Waiting: I can ask every child what they need, make sure everyone has a pencil, has paper, and is doing their homework.  I can make sure every child not engaged in studies, is otherwise occupied and comfortable.   The house is secure.  The home is quiet.  I make a phone call.  Immediately, four kids begin calling for help, one sticks a paper in front of my face and explains without waiting to see if I'm even listening or notice I may already be talking, what they want me to explain.  Two children will have started a war over snacks --I'm betting the one quiet one snuck off with the chocolate milk.

Children May Be Different Than They Appear: My five year old daughter has been affectionately described as the loudest human being on earth. If in a confined space, she can generate more noise than the fabled cannons going off in the Astrodome...in the seat next to you.  This is a problem when we ride home in the van. She is the embodiment of "Making a Joyful Noise" unto the Lord.  So when the teacher said to me yesterday, "Your daughter is so lovely and quiet..." I started wondering...what will I hear next year when the theoretical quiet one shows up? 

The Covet Rule: Every toy is equally uninteresting until some other child is delighted to play with it.

Viva La France!

Most of the time, when I get into bed at night immediately before crashing I think “uh-oh!” I’ve made a mistake. Why? Because I lay down which means things aren’t going to happen. All domestic tasks seem to require my presence to be done. The kids will do the dishes, but I have to stay in the room doing something else. They’ll help with laundry if I’m folding too. However, if the phone rings or nature calls or a child in another room needs assistance, the children conscripted into working rabbit out of my line of sight the instant they think I won’t notice in real time.

I’ve taken to preemptive warning shots. “I expect to find you here when I get back in two minutes…still working.” When they complain that I am a tyrant, I put my arm in my coat and say, “I AM Napoleon.” I've explained that everywhere the general went, there was victory. The problem, was everywhere the general wasn’t.

But today I looked at the paperwork, the work work and the housework that I’ve put off and off and off and off, and I know what time it is. It’s later. Like looking at the scale and knowing that TODAY, one must start a diet, it’s that later time when I should get to it. There’s one problem.

I don’t wanna.

Currently, at least 12 loads sit atop that eight foot long battlefield. It has begun to sag slightly in the middle like a worn out horse. There are six loads in the cue, one in the wash, one atop the dryer and one in, and 11 laundry baskets half full of folded stuff. And yet I wonder, how is it then that their drawers are full of clothing and yet everyone needs help getting dressed? Supply lines are always a problem for large armies. Napoleon faced such obstacles too, I wonder if his laundry tables were concave.

Doing the things on the later list rots. I don’t like diets, budgets, time managers, daily planners, to-do lists or even that much planning ahead. I don't shop for Christmas before Thanksgiving, I'm just that way.

So staring at the table hobbled with laundry, I came to the realization, I’m tired of doing all the jobs that no one else wants, of being the dutiful eater of leftovers and complicit flusher of toilets, sponger of messes, payer of bills and doer of the pots and pans and not the easy parts of any chore. I don’t mind creaming the butter but I'd like to pour in the chocolate chips occasionally. I don't want to be Napoleon anymore.

The Laundry is my Waterloo, and the basement, the whole Russian frontier. The blizzard of paperwork in the fall of 2009 doesn’t help either.

Looking at all the things to do, I have just one question.

How soon can I get exiled to Elba?

Tune in tomorrow when I rant about why there aren't 12 labors of HERcules. Answer: She's not finished yet.

Pottying by Numbers

Because we have one newly trained toddler, I'm now trying for two. My apologies to anyone eating breakfast or lunch or even thinking about eating while reading this blog. You have been warned. I will try to be delicate.

There are three problems with introducing a young toddler to the art of going the bathroom.

1) They will show no interest and you will be frustrated.
2) They will show excessive interest in the products and you will be appalled.
3) They will show no interest in going and tons of interest in the product and you will be both frustrated and appalled.

Guess which one I got.

We were giving showers and my new potty trainer had gone. While I was stripping her for the shower, her younger sister toddled in, delighted to see that a shower was pending. She began to strip of her own accord. Checking the water and preparing the first, I had not yet emptied the pot. Then from the corner of my eyes, I saw someone...painting...on my door.

"There is No Painting with Pee!" I managed to get out before grabbing the brush and tossing it in the trash. I decided not to answer "Why?" despite repeated requests.

The first daughter got in the shower. I took off the diaper of the second daughter and caught her in the act and decided to plop her on the potty. It would be a fake success, but visually undeniable. She didn't want to sit, she wanted to squat, but I wouldn't let her move. It took five minutes, by which time; the first daughter explained she wanted to see.

I toweled off the first, thinking she could reinforce the praise I heaped on the second. "She made a butterfly." my newly showered daughter said. "My poop is just rocks." There was a touch of envy. The creator was curious and considering what this strange thing might be. One could see the wheels turning...where's my paint brush...followed by a hint of trauma as I swooped in to throw out the proof before too much fascination was shown. It was then my second daughter got her shower.

Evidently, this whole experience was too much for her, as she finished her business in a diaper to avoid any further scrutiny of her bowel movements. I for one appreciated her discretion and have tabled further potty training sessions for the younger for the time being. But I do know one thing, her motivational prize...a pack of water colors and a pad of paper, but I'm going to eliminate the yellow and brown paints just to be safe.

Ensuring Proper Credit

When is the proper time to wash a baby?

Let me be perfectly clear. I am not some wet behind the ears rookie of a parent that requires others give standing ovations at the mere sight of my progeny being pushed forward in an immaculate state of the art, J-lo would be jealous type pram. No. I am a veteran of the 24/7 mess cycle known as motherhood.

I am quite serious in my inquiry.

Why?

There seems to be no viable reason to bathe a baby during the day, as the baby only gets more orange goo following the next nap, wets, poops and spits up orange goo and therefore requires a complete change before being seen in public. On the other hand, bathing the baby at night seems rather pointless other than from a cleanliness standpoint, as the kid will be tucked in bed and again, the orange or green goo consumed, will soil the sheets and the outfit and the hair.

My daughter still gets a bath, don’t get me wrong. It’s just, I want some credit and don’t know how to time my care of her such that there is a higher percentage chance of her being seen in public and someone not thinking, “Well, you know, she has so many children, she can’t have time to dress her baby up cute.”

I know it’s vanity, but I’m proud of my children and think they’re adorable and would like to not feel like I’m campaigning for Bumpus parent of the year by virtue of my daughter’s appearance. Finally, I’ve taken to placing the baby in her bunting blanket as a way of providing pretty cover for her spitting up tendencies.

That leaves the toddlers, who have recently taken to dressing themselves. This would be great except they both think it is July when it’s winter and winter when it’s July. I’ve tried squirreling away all the wrong season attire. It would have worked except my toddlers are terribly verbal. One asked his brother where his shorts were. I hadn’t briefed the teenager that this information was classified, so the shorts turned up in abundance the morning after I had stored all the stuff. The other just raided her sister’s wardrobe until she found something she deemed suitable.

Lacking the emotional energy to repack the clothing, I finally decided that reality is a good teacher. In March, he came down in shorts. I help him with the socks and he was good to go. He put on his shoes and coat and went outside to ride his bike. Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. “It’s really cold out there Mom.”

“Why don’t you try long pants, I bet they’re warmer.”“I bet you’re right Mom.” And off he marched to change. While we repeated this routine three times, he then got in the habit of checking the weather.

Now I have a toddler who won’t consider the idea of climate change during the day…it’s cold now, so it will be cold later, or it’s hot now…so it won’t possibly rain later.

Still, it beats the alternative my other darling came up with; she now strips whenever she thinks it is too hot, down to a pull up. She strips in secret, so I find piles of barely used outfits hidden all around the house, under couches, behind doors, once in the refrigerator…don’t know the story behind that one but then I’m not sure I should. I now keep an outfit in spare stashed in my gym bag for just such an occasion in an effort to keep everyone dressed for the day.

Maybe I’ll start draping her in the baby blanket bunting too.

Einie, Mienie, Miney, ...where's Moe...

Einie...

Because we take two cars, head counts are always dicey things. Today I discovered my second son had lagged on getting dressed. I was just about to head out when he showed up dressed for mass, and thus I did a quick text message to make sure I wasn't leaving behind any non sentient beings when we headed out the door. Then I made a run through of the house to double check.

I am haunted by the story of my uncle being left at mass to walk home because his parents took two cars.

Mienie...

Yesterday, my kids helped unpack the car and it was raining. So I made several soggy trips and begged the children to get their things. Putting the baby in the high chair and beginning the process of serving snack, reminding people to put away their things and preparing for homework, I did a head count...where was cupie doll?...

I look outside. Cupie doll is busy splashing puddles. She has taken off her shoes and is wallowing in the glorious rain and mud. The doors to the car on every side are open, allowing the car to experience the same joy as she.

Miney...

My children are the masters of hide and seek on Sunday when I demand my weekly child tribute in the form of one hour of cleaning. Putting on "Enchanted's "Happy Working Song," does help though, as do props.

One daughter will happily scrub all the bathrooms if offered a pair of plastic yellow gloves. My second son willingly weilds the swifter mop. The oldest can be told to vacumn a floor and does it. What happens though, is after I've given out specific tasks,some of the kids view these as the maximum amount necessary to return to DSland or Civ IV or Pokemon or whathaveyou...no...I want my sixty minutes.

I have explained why I need this time before...with exponents and time management, with bribes of bonus allowances for the best worker, and even treats of ice cream on Sunday...and with threats of making it 2 hours if I fail to get my one...still, I was unprepared for the lengths to which one of my children went to ensure she could avoid work.

She is the quiet one. The one who in games of hide and seek can throw a cloak over herself and not be seen. She created a cave. A cave in the back basement. A cave complete with a bean bag pillow, a night light, her DS gameboy, easter chocolate and her. I admit, after combing the house three times, I failed to check behind the stairs of the back basement, though I did search the back for stragglers over at the comics stash...she must have held her breath when I returned a second and third time.

After twenty minutes of increasingly serious searching failed to find her, I felt a slight panic.., I began calling. I summoned the children and they began calling and searching, checking closets and beds and bathrooms I had checked before.

Moe

But a two year old can find anything she wishes. Cupie doll loves playing with her older quiet sister's gameboy, so she naturally went to the back basement, pulled back the covers that made the cave such a lovely hiding place and muscled in a spot on the beanbag with her sister and started poaching the foil wrapped chocolate eggs. I might add, she doesn't bother with such pesky details as unwrapping chocolate. That's a waste of time one could spend chewing chocolately goodness.

After dinner that night, I even peeled a few chocolate kisses as a reward.

Some may have noticed I've used a few older pieces and the tone has been less light as of late. There is a reason.

We are execting our ninth child, a son. This news, while joyful, has been a bit overwhelming to all of us. We also know that he will have Downs Syndrome, but what that will mean remains to be seen. The process of testing and waiting for results has cut into my energy to write and craft and maintain this blog, as has preparing for the Erma Bombeck conference this weekend. I will try to return to my normal chipper sunnier self and if you see that the chocolate for your brain is running more dark than milk, drop me a line, it helps for feedback.

Cap Crib Sheet for the Crib Set

Over the past two years of writing humor pieces, my focus has been squarely on translating the many moods and meanings of phrases uttered by my offspring. Today, in light of my more mature children raising the question of equal time, I humbly offer this crib sheet for Common Adult Phrases, CAP for short. Use with disgression as dialects vary according to the mood and level of exhaustion of the pertinent adult.

CAP warning: "I'm Bored." This phrase, perhaps more than any other causes instant irritation in any adult, related or otherwise. We translate it to mean, "Entertain me! For I, the magnificent child crave a diversion." Avoid variants like "There's nothing to do." as they also get filtered as "I can be bribed with food, a new toy or the promise of something really big." As a mother, there is really only one appropriate response to such a statement. Work. "Here's a toilet brush. Go scrub. Do your homework, read a book. Fold laundry." Understand I will continue to put forth unpleasant options that serve my own purposes until you stop saying it or come up with your own alternative. Consider it a forbidden phrase, like Voldemort.

CAP approved translation of "Be quiet." Adults seldom celebrate opposite day. We actually mean what we say. When we have a phone call, it is not time to play orchestra with pots and pans or even real instruments. Miscellaneous screaming and yelling to test the acoustics of a room is also taboo when Mom is holding that rectangular object up next to her ear and trying to speak.

CAP approved meaning of phrase uttered: "I'm going to the bathroom." Like you, we also suffer from the affliction of being actual animals. We occasionally, like you, need to be alone. I promise, just because the door is locked and we aren't responding to your lamb like bleating in the other room, doesn't mean we've grabbed the keys, hit the gas and abandoned ship. Five minutes is all we're talking here. Even hitting your sister can hold for 300 seconds. Just spend the time anticipating the satisfying sound of the smack when I'm back in operational mode and able to step in and stop the violence.

CAP understanding of a tendency of Adults in communication: "Put a coat on...or any variant of redirection about clothing." You are kids. You are busy. You have walls to scribble, toys to play with, hidden stashes of food to eat, you don't have time to mess with such mundane things as climate appropriate attire. Being boring adults, we pay attention to such items as the weather and the news and school memos. So we really do know that you have to wear red, white and blue on election day, and that you're supposed to wear black pants and a white shirt for the band concert. We feel concern that you have a light poncho and it's forecasting 30 mile winds and cold rain this afternoon. Likewise, years of experience have taught us, the Hawaiian shirt in mid January is a no go, ditto on the shorts, and that white socks with dark pants are always icky.

CAP explained: "Did you...brush your teeth?" "Today?" "This morning?" "With toothpaste?" Mom and Dad are doing fine financially, thank you very much for your concern. We appreciate your attempts to economize by cutting back on such indulgent niceties as personal hygiene. Trust us when we say with great love in our hearts, we'll take out a loan if necessary, but bathe regularly, use soap and shampoo, and brush your teeth.

CAP Origin: “Absolutely Not.” “Nyet.” “Not Happening.” “I don’t think so.” “Not in this lifetime.” “Never.” “Stop now.” “Cease!” Parents like to build children’s vocabulary and we get tired of saying the same thing over and over again, so all of these phrases are variants of the same thing, the need by appointed legal guardians of you minors to express disapproval. You now will do better on your SAT’s as you have mastered ten different ways to say “NO.” Especially now that you understand what they mean.

CAP Motto and sub text translation of all prior CAPs: “We love you.” Adults are never ironic or sarcastic when uttering this phrase, although sometimes we are reminding ourselves of this crucial fact when we say it.

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The Lost Story of Meeting Tony

Names have been changed to protect the young –not necessarily the innocent, a true story, warts and all.


Last week I took Jeane, Grace and Thomas to see Tony Melendez, the musician who plays guitar with his feet, as he has no hands. It was in the church at my kids' school. My girlfriends Claire and Susan had brought along their preschool aged children as well, Kobe and Greg.

Claire is a savy mom, way cooler than me and thought to bring tootsie pops for all the children to keep them quiet during the performance. We were all feeling very good, like “proper mothers,” because we were exposing our children to diversity and culture and music and all of that on an ordinary Tuesday and it was free.


Thomas happily sucked on his third tootsie pop five minutes before the concert started. He was strapped in his stroller and I was praying he’d fall asleep. Grace and Kobe were having a bit of a theological argument in the pew, books should be shut and put in the book holder, books should be opened and thumbed through. It was a quiet three year old skirmish, mitigated by tootsie pops.


The microphones were turned on. All eyes were on the small stage that had been set up on the altar, as the classes from the school filed in to take their seats. Members of Tony’s band and family have arrived. The crowd hushes.


Tony comes out and introduces himself. Jeane looks at Tony as he starts to speak. She immediately begins to suck her finger hard and twirl her hair. She does this when she gets stressed. The music starts. People are clapping, singing along and I think, “She’ll get into it, she loves singing.” Jeane continues to stare hard at Tony. We are ¾ of the way back in the Church but she is on the end and has a clear view. She sucks harder. A blister is starting to form. I try to get her to sing like her sister, Grace or her friend, Greg. Kobe is dancing, even Thomas is humming. My girl friends chime in with additional maternal pressure, trying to encourage her to engage.


She violently shakes her head “No.” and I know, in my head, I can feel the tsunami of feeling coming towards me, “It’s going to get worse.” My mom voice whispers.


The first song ends and Jeane begins poking me. “Where are his hands?” she demands. I explain about the same time Tony does to the audience. “He doesn’t have hands.”
“Why not?”
“He was born without them.” I explain.
“Will our baby have hands?” she asks, pointing at my pregnant belly.
“Yes.”


She begins holding her hair and sucking harder. A mean thought crosses my mind, to mention she could lose her hand by sucking and twirling but I just pat her back. Jeane puts on her coat. She never wears her coat. She stamps her feet. I ignore it. Knowing we are not leaving, she slumps next to me, still sucking her finger. I stroke her hair. By mid song, my attention has wandered to Thomas, to Grace, to the music, to Tony, and then I look over.


Jeane is in the fetal position on the pew, with her coat over her, covering every inch of her body. I peek under, she has her eyes shut, her finger in her mouth, her hair is a knotted mess and she is shaking. She opens one angry eye at me and pulls the jacket back over her face.


Feeling annoyed and embarrassed, like she is way overdoing it for someone who is five, I pull the jacket off her, stuff it behind me and explain, she is going to sit. She is going to sit up and she is going to stay for the rest of the concert. Clare sends me a concerned mother look and offers to take her out of the building. But I have my back up. I have decided, she needs to be stretched a little and this won’t hurt her.


Jeane sits stiffly for the next thirty minutes, her fingers are red and several knots will have to be cut out of her hair. I don’t care. I feel mad at me and her because the concert has been lost on both of us in the process and I wonder what if anything did Grace get out of this, let alone Jeane. I know Thomas got three lollipops and a nap.


That night, I search the kids’ library for something to help, and find Shriver’s “What’s Wrong with Timmy,” Jeane hangs on every word and seems to be better so I start to relax about the whole thing. I still worry about how to help her with the next encounter.


That weekend, Tony played at the 10 am mass, and Jeane sees him. She does not flinch or even suck her finger, but after she knows it is him, she just stands like a statue for the duration of his meditation song. My older son buys a cassette of the music.


Moving on the next week, I am cleaning up after Thomas has ransacked the girl’s room. Grace is on the bed, playing with her baby dolls and some cardboard musical instruments she made at school. She has a drum, (coffee can), a horn (paper tube with tape and streamers) and a guitar with rubber band strings.


She explains to me as I go about cleaning up, “My baby is playing like in the church.” She moves the doll’s feet to pluck the rubber bands. “I can do it too.” She plucks the strings with her toes. And somehow, everything was better.


Thought you would like to see what I learned today, don’t get so worked up, and everything will work out.


Postscript, this morning, "Jeane" went nuts this morning as only a young adolescent can at the fact that her sister "Grace" took her shirt. Today is a mass day and they have to wear button downs, which Jeane hates to the point of wearing a sour face whenever she must endure such a garment. Having to opt for a long sleeved button shirt as versus a short was beyond her coping ability. She refused to get dressed. A cat fight ensued.



As I am laying down the law about such tizzies in the morning to one, the other slips into the closet and comes back with a short sleeved button down to replace the unbearable long one. All is right with the world and I start looking for her to twirl her hair into knots or a blister on her finger.



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