Snow Day

As such, I can return to blogging instead of doing laundry, grading, bills, Christmas shopping --well, I've done a little of that, and maybe in a little while, I'll stop procrastinating. 

Thus far I've drunk hot chocolate with marshmallows.

Watched cartoons with my kids.

Cleaned out my inbox.

Eaten Christmas cookies.

Made a list of the things I should have been doing. 

Gone to the bank for a check register and to two different CVS for the prescription.

On any other day, this would be a reasonably efficient day. 

The problem with a snow day is,I don't have the excuse of not having time for not having gotten stuff done. 

The Job of the Advocate

Life is all about the fine print, the dotted "i," the crossed t, the details that make the difference between the one everyone knows knows what she's doing, and the one who knows, she has no clue. For me, nothing makes me feel more incompetent than knowing, I'm responsible.

This morning, I thought I would be going for my first day of work and I've been cramming for the occasion, but that's tomorrow's adventure.

Before I knew I wouldn't be working until tomorrow, my mind buzzed with articles I could and should be writing.  I should write about the growing pains we're doing with the 17 year old, the about to be 11 year old, the growing pains we need to have with the 8 year old, the ones we've been dealing with when dealing with the 12 year old, and the ones who are far away and the three not already mentioned, but who deserve more time because they don't seem to be demanding much.  

I had whimsical thoughts about being stretched and having it feel too thin, but knowing it would make us stronger in the end, to push Paul to be potty trained at night, to let the 17 year old run in the morning and not be anxious, to tell the 12 year old "No." and stick to it, and make him do something with his time even if he said "No." and get the almost 11 year old to not be anxious about everything.
Reality intervened and I didn't get to write those thoughts.  The three floors of the house needed cleaning and there was a stack of papers almost too heavy to lift from all the back to school nights, first day of the week folders and mail I needed to sort.  All these efforts which required me to act, and which made me wonder, ought I to be going out the door if there's all this stuff to do?  However, I never got time to sit and write the ideas down, only to hold onto the concepts. Writing takes time, and I had up until this point, had none for such things.

With all this cluttering in my head, yesterday I also had to get to the store for grown up clothing so I'd look professional.  I ran into a friend from when I hung out at the gym almost daily, trying to fight off the pounds of three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine...ten pregnancies.  She gave me a big smile and asked what I was doing.  When I told her, she said, "The Holy Spirit puts you exactly where you should be.  This is perfect."  I hadn't mentioned God or religion or anything, we'd just been chatting about my starting up teaching for the first time in 23 years.  I thanked her and held those words all through my errands.

Today, the stack of necessary junky paperwork loomed on my bed. I'd ignored it for as long as humanly possible.   It needed to be tackled.  The laundry sagged on my couch, also needing to be sacked.  There were transcripts to order, airline tickets to research, emails to answer and I hadn't written anything worth sending anywhere in a week.  The great nag of writing is, if it isn't worth sharing, does it count?  Well, I wrote a lot of junk I didn't share, (When I die, I will ask the keeper of my blog to just go in and delete all the drafts) but it kind of feels like when you lose the weight that gets you back to your original, I'm not going to pass this number kind of success.  It's hollow.   Was I still a writer if I didn't write stuff people could read?   My friend's words heartened me as I flailed about this morning, unable to gain traction on anything I was doing.  "The Holy Spirit puts you exactly where you should be."  I sat steeped in those words.  "Maybe, but could the Holy Spirit please direct me so I can get something done?"  No good.   "Holy Spirit, help me act?  I've made a list, I just can't seem to get to it and get it done."

Now we're talking.

There are now four stacks of sorted paperwork.  My inbox is empty.  I even filled out several forms before they are due.   That NEVER happens.   So as of today, I'm designating the third person of the Trinity to be my office manager.    Not only does it put me where I'm supposed to be, it also tells me, "Sherry, get to work."

What Time is it?

For the past two weeks, we've lived without a schedule and for the most part, so have my children.   The resulting free-for-all timelessness of the holidays made returning to reality come Monday, very difficult.   For some, more than others.

My eleven year old son walked through the door.  "I'm Free!"  he shouted as he grabbed a root beer from the refrigerator.

"Do you have any homework to do?"

"Yes..." I saw him physically deflate.  "Then you're not free." 

"I'm not ready to do homework." he explained.  "I need to exercise." 

"That's great.  Put your coat on and take down the trash. It will take five trips so you'll have gone half a mile by the time you finish."

"I just remembered, I do have a lot of math." he volunteered.
"Fine. Get to work then."

Five minutes later, I found him at the TV watching The Animated Adventures of Superman.
"What are you doing?  I thought you said you had homework."

"I needed to put a DVD on for Paul."
"It's on.  Go do your homework."

"Awwww. Do I have to?" 

"Well, you could take down the trash first.  That way, you could get it down the hill while it's still daylight."  

"I'll go do math."

Five minutes later, I found him in a vigorous ping pong gun shooter battle with his older brother.  "Did you finish your homework?"
"Bathroom!"  
I knocked on the bathroom.  "If you don't start your homework, I'll make you do the trash now before you start." 

I pulled out the chair.  Unable to dodge me any longer, he sat and opened his backpack.  I began working on dinner.  Five minutes in, I hear "Mommmm?" 

"Yes?"
"I forgot my math book."  

"I will take you back to school to pick up your book..."
"Thanks Mom! I..."

"After you take down the trash, not before."  

For the record, yes I drove him to get his book, yes he did take down the trash, and yes, he did get his homework done.   

Somebody Stop Me Before I Sign Again

You would think at forty-eight, I'd know something.

But just as crocuses pop out of the ground in the spring, I sign up my kids for activities and so the mad scramble to get from point A to point B begins anew.  It always seems so innocent before we begin.   The 7th grader wants to run track. I'm thinking, that's great.  Her older brother runs track.  

The 3rd grader wants to do soccer.  I'm thinking, awesome, she didn't get to do basketball because they didn't have enough people to field a team so she'll love it.  

I've only signed up two people.  Given my past track record, where I signed up three for basketball,one for singing lessons, and three others for ballet, I thought "I've matured. I've come to know how much I can manage. I no longer overstuff the crust of our lives with cheesy after school and weekend activities."  It's just two kids. How bad could it be?   Well... track practice for the 7th grader is on Wednesday, the same day as CCD which used to be on Tuesday but I had to switch it to Wednesday because soccer practice is at the same time CCD would be on Tuesday.  What was a one trip out one trip back day, is now a game of car mom ping-pong.  

Saturday...son gets bus ride to track meets most times, but not always.  Daughter gets no rides to track meets.  They are everywhere.   I also forgot about band, which has a concert on Sunday in Downtown DC.  

This sort of mad schedule doesn't include the new wrinkle of not having a machine that can take all of us, or the two months to go reality of our oldest needing to get from his work (at a school) back to the campus (for a class) and then back to work in the middle of the day, twice a week.  It's a class he can't miss, but which requires either the invention of a teleportation device, mutant flying powers or me driving over after the kids are put on the bus, to take him to the campus from school and wait around for an hour and then back again before home.  I'm thinking of lacing his birthday cake with radioactive waste and rooting for the mutant powers.  

So I'm adopting a new policy.  I have ten kids.  Each of you get a month long activity.  Two months we get off.  If you don't like the sport allocated to your 30 month period....have some cake.   If you grow wings and can get yourself from point A to point B, I'll sign you up.  

7 Quick Takes Friday

1.  Today, I'm going to a Christmas play.  I've spent the morning in the car.  No really.  Here was my morning:    7:30 a.m.  Get kids into car.
                 7:45 a.m.  Go back in to get kid not yet in car.  Leave driveway.
                 7:47 a.m.  At the light, child discovers he is missing a paper that is due first period.  Return home                  to get paper.
                 7:55  Leave home again.
                 8:05  Drop off five at school five minutes late, feel momentarily victorious.
                 8:20  Get back home to discover bus waiting.  Get sixth child on bus.
                 8:22  Get text that child at high school needs papers by 9:30 or the world is doomed.  Recognize second child needs papers at the same place or no eligibility for scholarships is possible.  
                 9:00  Get to high school, unpack remaining very tolerant toddler and drop off paper.
                 9:10  Get phone call that child I dropped off at the bus is at the nurse's office and would I please come pick up.  
                 9:25 The post office is en route so I decide to do that errand first (with one toddler, not two).  Errand is a bust as the post office needs my oldest son's signature to deliver.
                 Drive to school irritated.  Pick up son who looks surprisingly spry and happy and healthy.  Arrival time?  10:05.  Get phone call from first school.  An older child there is also not feeling well and wants to come home.      
                 Drive to school with two toddlers.  She comes out and gets in the car.
                 It is 11:00.  
                 Get home and feed people lunch.   Sit down, answer emails.  Purchase two presents on Amazon.          
My six year old is an angel in the Christmas play today at 1:30.  Last night her father picked up new shoes for her so she would look finished for the big event.  She has a red Christmas dress and black shoes.  She looks like a Christmas princess.  She feels it.  I've earned that smile, so at 1:00, I'm reloading the car with the toddlers to go see the play.  

This is my Christmas for the day.

2.  Two of my children are running in the 5 mile Baltimore Celtic Solstice tomorrow.  So I'll be taking them to Baltimore at 5:30 so they can run with their Aunt and Uncle.  I'll get to see one of my nephew's and some of my nieces, babysit while they run, and two or three others may tag along for the fun of it.   It should be neat.

3.  Today, I will get back my laptop.  It has been a long hiatus, exactly one month.  When I called Wednesday night, they said they've been calling me, but I'm a stay-at-home mom.  I'm the one who answers the phone when it rings.  I've heard nothing until I called them.  

4.  Promotion of a book is difficult.  So I'm trying to be proactive, to talk about it when the subject comes up, and to ask others to invite people to read it.  I've also learned how to sign a kindle book or any e-book really, and I put a button up on my blog right next to the cover shot of the book so if you click it, it will tell me you want a signature.  I've signed my first e-book and that felt like a little victory.   I'm also appealing for reviews to one place that reviews a week, and researching what if any publicity I want to do and how.  

5.  Every year, the college my son attends offers a care package for exams.  This is the first year I've done it, mostly because before now I always thought, we only live an hour away, I can bring stuff to him.  But I recognized, if I don't do it right then, it won't happen, so this year, I made it happen by being proactive.  He called, very pleased to get the care package he didn't expect because it had never happened before.  

6.   Brilliant Christmas Idea for the day.  Someone should sell LED luminaries.  I'd buy them.  I love the tradition, but keeping the flames lit can be difficult.  I admit, I prefer real fire with it's warmer glow and naturally compelling light, but I also want to not babysit the beauty.  

7.  I've been going to adoration, this week, I've had the opportunity to attend.  The experience is more than I can explain in a blurb on a blog post, except to say I understood, "Make the church beautiful." and knew it didn't mean painting the walls (although I'd love them to be a warmer cream than the white) and gold or red or gold and red (I love gold and red), rather than the grey surrounding the windows, and stain glass pictures of Saint Martin and the saints, rather than pastel diagonal panes, but the domestic church, my part of the body of Christ where I'm responsible and have been commissioned.   So last night I asked to finish the details on the shoes and this afternoon, one of my sons needs a haircut.  I know this is a fixing of the internal and external, but we'll work on both as we go.   It's how Saint Francis did it, so I figure, it's not wrong.  
               

Storming the Castle, or at Least, Starting the Commute of Despair

Pass me that miracle pill.   The chocolate coating makes it go down easier and I shouldn't go swimming for at least an hour. 

We are about to embark on an insane journey that makes the trip to Texas in a 12 passenger van sans air-conditioning and back seem like a walk in the park. 

We start school Monday.  By 6:35 a.m, the first must be launched. The second must be out the door and at the bus --she can't walk to the bus stop because it is too far, by 7:20.  Five must leave by 7:35 to escape being late, and one must be walked down to the bottom of the hill every day by 8:25.  Before they leave, they must have been fed, assemble a lunch and be properly attired for their respective school and have all their things.   In how many weeks will Mom and Dad simply collapse? 



When did my life become a word problem from my fifth grade math book?

The afternoon is just as nutty, with one coming back via metro, one via the school bus --same pick up place as we dropped off, and five needing pick up from their school all at the same time (natch), by one mom with two in tow.   This does not factor into the equation late days because of special activities, evening meetings or practices, homework or any of the other things that life normally has within its folds, like folding, dinner, bath time routines, bedtime routines or the most evasive and elusive of all basic needs, sleep.  I'd be very happy with the gift of Bi-location, but it would have to include my car.  

I keep running over things in my mind and I come back to one thing.  I Do  Not  Know. 

That's my answer.  How does she do it?  Answer: She doesn't know yet.   I'm making this up as I go along.   Indiana Jones I'm not, but I'd be very happy if my kids could commandeer some perfectly saddled white stallions and run them back to my house every day. Cue trumpet theme song.

Alternatively, if someone would just develop that darn transporter beam, all of Bone's concerns about scattered molecules aside, I'd be game if only to know that I would not become mind melded with the van for the next nine months.   In this case, (sorry Indie) it's not the mileage, it's the years that I will be able to count up that I have spent driving, enough to go toe to toe with any cross country 18 wheeler.

So those are my options: High technology, High Fantasy or High Spiritual Grace or slogging it out with the sincere knowledge 1) they are going to be late and 2) you are going to be tired.  But I'm game. I've set my alarm for 5:45.  We'll see what we can do about doing the kessel run in less than 12 parsecs.  I'm hoping I can get them all up at 6:00, have made the lunches by 6:30, take the girls and drop them off at their respective spots and be back by 7:00 o'clock, finish fixing breakfast and load the car for the next launch by 7:30, leaving me to walk the youngest two down the hill so I can get my son on the bus by 8:25.   Then I hope a friend will pick up my metro girl and bring her to her old school so I can swoop in and gather 6 before heading back to just near home to get the 7th in short order.  It's possible.  It's just not easy.

Think it will work? 
It would take a miracle.  

Bye Bye!

Extentuating Extra Curricular Circumstances

For a time, I was steadfast about creating individual activities for individual children. It was a point of pride in my brain that one played soccer, another basketball, and still a third did Cubscouts.  After a season of ping pong driving from one soccer field to a different school for round ball to yet another gym for what was supposed to be a parent/child activity within a 90 minute time span, that vanity was burned away neatly.  I could live with lower expectations, at the very least, of me.

I also used to force extra-curricular activities. Demanding that the kids participate became the recreational equivalent of "Eat your veggies." But somewhere in between the fifth and eighth child, when no week day went without an extra oh, so and so has....fill in the blank, the emotional will to attempt to create uber offspring who were doing everything became much less interesting.  Any guilt at not signing up for something was quickly and quietly stomped into the ground with the mantra, "I don't have to drive."

Still, this is Montgomery County.  Every activity is Google + recommended and has a pedigree/litany spread sheet that reveals how this swimming/gymnastics/piano/soccer/art/underwater construction/Japanese immersion/fusion cuisine/hair coloring master mechanics class is better and has produced more gold medalists and Rhodes Scholars than any other schlub who hangs up a sign and offers to teach your child a skill for money.   So I couldn't go cold turkey on the after school bonus stuff even if I did need to rethink the details of all of it.

At this point, we decided after school activities work best if multiple children are doing the same thing at the same time at the same place.   I further decreed to allow/require that any and all activities after school meet two important criteria: 1) they did not require me and 2) did not require a car ride.

Band happened at school.  It happened during school.  It also happened after school, but right after, therefore it did  not require an extra trip. Ergo, everyone got band.  Further, as long as this state continues, everyone will get band even if they hate the instrument assigned and can't play a note.  For those who enjoy it, "We are so happy to support you and your interests."  For those who think otherwise, "We're building character. Now start practicing." 

As a benevolent dictator, I have their best interests at heart. When they get ready to apply to high school, they can put down if nothing else, band and they can put down that they did it for four years.  For the record, I'm totally fine if they want to rebel and become individuals with their own pursuits once they become licenced drivers. 

Still, even with the one stop extra-curricular shopping, kids activities threaten to kudzu my life and schedule.  It starts innocently enough with one little bright eyed child being offered the opportunity to do scouts.  There is even a carpool available.  The reason for saying no is pure selfishness and so guilt and reason demand naturally I say yes.  Then another asks to play sports and lo, their practice is on the same evening.  Guilt and reason shrug their shoulders. "Hey, it's not anything beyond what you are doing now."  Driving and bringing  a slew with me, one in the mandatory slew spots friends doing a third activity that is the same night. 

Logically, he thinks "Why not?" and asks for the opportunity to participate. I don't have an out and  can see the potential cascade of events that will follow.  Practice will move to a different night, forcing two outings a week.  The second night will also allow a fourth child to take on doing something that is parallel in schedule and at the same place.  The desire to accommodate what seems harmless will be fierce.  External pressure from guilt, reason and the kid in question will lead to surrender. 

Once signed up, the schedule of the new activity will be revealed to be a third night (that one was a once in a lifetime rescheduling for a different night), and I will be doomed to spend two hours of my life trapped in a car four nights a week while hot meals, (even microwaved) hot showers and bedtime before 12 a.m.will become a thing of the past, rumored to at one time exist in our household. I know I should hold firm.

But then my four year old daughter comes to me with those moppet eyes shining, talking about taking dance lessons.  They're on Saturday and won't interfere with the existing schedule.

 (Sigh). If you need me, I'll be in the car. 

Better Parenting via Science Theory**

There are several scientific theories that would have been discovered faster if only the world of science had allowed for mothers to be part of the discussion much earlier in history.

Nature seeks homeostasis: This is a truism. Every time I wash my floor, a child attempts to reassert the natural sticky feeling their feet have become accustomed to, by spilling something impossibly hard to clean up within ten minutes of the floor actually drying. Olive oil, maple syrup, and salt are amongst three of the most memorable illustrations of this theory in practice.

Opposites Attract: Clean white wall. Permanent Black Marker. Any questions? I mean, other than from my own mother asking why in heaven’s name do I even own a permanent black marker, or from my mother-in-law, where is this clean white wall you speak of?

Chaos Theory: Some individuals would stipulate that a child's very essence illustrates Chaos Theory's validity, independent of space, time or setting. Some individuals don't yet know the untrammeled power of a hungry child. For those who are still confused by chaos theory, perhaps a live demonstration is in order.  Please come on over to my house at five o'clock and try to fix dinner.  I will take a nap. 

Matter cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.

Exhibit A: my son’s laundry.
Exhibit B: An orange oversized tee he got in 3rd grade that defies all maternal efforts to transform or destroy. Handing it down has not stopped the older child from retrieving it for his wardrobe. Purchasing new shirts has produced no measurable effect. Now that it is, arguably, a bit tight around the arms, he still resents the fact that his mom has twice attempted to give it to goodwill. The shirt in question is currently stored in a secret bunker under his bed and heavily guarded by legos, books, smelly socks and other items that if discovered, would lead his mother to despair.

Time is relative theory: The simple errand of driving to school normally takes twenty minutes. Starting at 8:39 a.m. after Mom has whisked away breakfast materials and begun the getting dressed routine for all occupants still home, there is a tearful phone call from her third grade son. “Today is bake sale day and I didn’t bring any cookies.” Thinking about the frozen cookie dough in the freezer, Mom stupidly agrees to bring something by 10:30, as the bake sale starts at 11.

While in the process of getting the toddlers dressed, Mom throws the cookies in the oven, locates shoes, puts three unmatched socks in the laundry basket, flushes an abandoned toilet, puts milk away, turns off the lights, removes four bikes and two whiffle ball bats from the driveway, takes the cookies out of the oven, straps the two toddlers (who both want cookies) in their car seats and the baby and then signs a form for a package being delivered before starting the car.

Once in the car, Mom remembers that the aforementioned cookies are still in the kitchen. Retrieving the cookies, the phone will ring; it will be the same child asking if you are bringing the cookies. While inside, Mom will spot permission slip that needs to be dropped off and feel so virtuous for multi-tasking, she will run to her closet to gather the dry cleaning. Leaving for the second time, Mom gets half way down the driveway before realizing; she brought her purse in, but not out. In the few seconds Mom is in the house, the phone rings again, she forces herself to ignore it. Grabbing a prescription bottle on the counter that is about to run out, Mom returns to the car with her purse, cell phone and a diet coke. Triple checking to make sure she has all her children, her errands, and all required equipment for those errands, she drives.

It is part of the law of nature that she will then hit every red light plus have to navigate one traffic jam owing to a cop issuing a ticket and a second at a train crossing. She arrives around 12:15. The bake sale is over, and the volunteer has several dozen frozen dough baked cookies left over. When she checks the message on her answering machine at home from the phone call she ignored, it was her son saying “Never mind, third grade isn’t doing the bake sale this week, it’s fourth grade.”

Theory of Gravity: How annoyed your mother will be after enduring the above mentioned scenario versus. how much she loves you.

Next week: Scientific Law in Relationships:

Theory of Constancy: The level of stress in a marriage is constant, the level felt by the individuals within the marriage, is fluid.
** Originally ran on January 20, 2008, back when I only had 8 children. What a piker! 

Why Even if I had a GPS, I'd Still Get Lost for not Listening Closely Enough

By coincidence, my safe driver discount and new insurance card came in the mail today.

A conversation in the car.

"Hey Mom! Can you count to 100?"  "Yes."
"Now?"  "No."

 "How about you count to 100 by 9's."
"9-18-27-36-45-54-63-72-81-90-99" 
"Can you count to 100 by seven's?"
"Mommm? I'm hungry."
                                     "We just had breakfast."
"But I'm still hungry.  There's a McDonald's. It's right there. I see it."
"No."
"But I'm starving starving starving."

             "Where are we going?"
                     "We're going to..."
"I bet we're going to the library.  Last time I went to the library, we got a book and I lost it but then I found it and it's in my book shelf. It's on zebras." 

"You lost a book?

What book?"
"I don't remember. So are we going to the library? or for ice cream?" "Neither, we're going to..."
"Hey MOM! I can count by fives.  5-10-23.  Can you help me count by fives?" "Still hungry."
"What's seven plus 15?"
 "What is this a quiz?"
"Mommm! Can you count by fives with me?"
"5101520253035404550556065707580859095100 AMEN!"
"Mom! You said Amen! and we're not even doing prayers." Giggles start.  "She's not saying prayers." the other two start giggling.  "Amen!"  "5678910AMEN!"  "3 AMEN!"  "75 AMEN!" More giggles.

"Hey Mom?"
"What?"
"Where Are we going?" "22 Amen!" "55555Amen!" Giggle giggle giggle.

..."Mom?"

And I realize I honestly can't remember.
"Can we get lunch?"  "AMEN!"

**I made a wrong turn trying to get to my pediatrician's office of now going on 13 years as a result of attempting to remember all of this...the things I do for you people.

Tipping Points

 There are moments when you simply must say "No mas."  Not "No Mass." "No Mas." 

My children volunteer to serve mass.  We used to be the go to people for the seven.  When we reached having seven, we bowed out and opted for the 8:30. (We like to go before all of them are fully roused and capable of resistance).

 Around that time, there was the proposal that the servers' families wash  the albs as part of their service.  I'm normally a go to home team kind of gal but this was not a burden I could manage.  Phoning the woman in charge, I explained that only if the church did not mind if the albs were never returned or came back pink should I be kept on the list for this duty.   My house remains alb free even if the washing machine never is.  

I learned something in that exchange, that sometimes, just because my tipping point is radically skewed, does not mean I cannot occasionally ply on other people's threshold for stress.  So when snow days wiped the schedule clean for the week, I applied my newfound wisdom over the phone in rescheduling.   

The receptionist at the doctor's for my daughter was indifferent as she languidly explained she couldn't possibly see me until two weeks from today.   Two weeks would mean I'd be on my own, I didn't want that but said, "Well, that's fine as long as you don't mind if I come with five children including a newborn." There was a brief pause on the phone.  Suddenly, there was a slot open next week when it would just be the one daughter and the newborn and me. 

At the car dealership where I get the 12 passenger serviced for free, showing up with a five, three and two year old plus being pregnant gets extra mechanics hopping on my machine.  Apparently hanging out with the happy meals and the kiddos in the waiting room makes the menfolk nervous and what would probably take an hour in normal circumstances gets done in doubletime.  I'm considering renting my offspring out for those who want to expedite cumbersome errands that no one, not even the people being paid to do the labor, enjoy doing sufficiently to do with great urgency.

So when the doctors speculated that the reason my mouth broke out in blisters after delivering my daughter was stress induced, I had to wonder, what about number ten was so much moreso than anything else that one might call stressful in my life these past few years. Then I realized, I would have had this infection three children ago, if only I'd agreed to wash the albs.

If You Give a Mom a Milkshake

Sometimes, a bonus isn't a bonus, like when the first child begins coughing; and the second and the third echo.  When one kid says, "I don't like eggs." and two who always up to this point loved scrabbled breakfasts decide that they too won't eat them. 

In a family this large, cascade calamities are par for the course; one child forgets their lunchbox.  While you are dressing the three toddlers to put in the car to bring lunch, you spy a library book you know is due.  Putting together the diaper bag for the trek, you see the drycleaning and that gets added on.  While loading the car you notice one child left their trumpet in the car and they have music today. 

You then think, you will need their music stand and back inside you go.  The phone rings, and you are asked to go to the post office.  Since you're going to the post office, you grab the bills.  They will need to be addressed and you need a few more envelopes.  By the time you are in the car with all three kids, it is lunch time and you've moved approximately 387 pounds fifty yards. 

Once you drop off the lunch box, trumpet, and book, dry cleaning, and address and mail the bills, you will remember that YOU had a scheduled car appointment to get an oil change for free and decide since you're in the car, you must go.   While at the car dealership, you will wish you'ld kept the lunch box, trumpet and book, as they would have kept the minions entertained.  The other adults in the room want the TV on the news, so you spend your time keeping the three hungry toddlers from trying to play with display tires by bribing them with stale poptarts and a lemonade from the vending machine.  But since you used up the quarters and usable bills on the stale poptarts and lemonade, you get to go without the much needed diet coke and snickers bar that mock you from behind the plexiglass. 

Instead, you are hungry, tired and must somehow be entertaining to your offspring while suffering the cruel silent stares of grown ups who are also doing this necessary mundane task but don't want the distraction of children to keep them from feeling bored.

When you get done with the free oil change that includes replacing a filter for an extra charge you had not anticpated, you'll load up the car, and swing by to pick up the school kids.  You'll ask if the child you saved by starting this run liked his lunch.  He'll explain, he got the lunch box too late for lunch and that  he's very hungry but forgot his bag at school and can we please stop for a snack? 

Weary, beaten and irritated because you would have willingly eaten the lunch he forgot that you retrieved that he forgot yet again, you comply. When you get the snack and finally begin the trek home while hunkering down on a milk shake and burger, you'll finally pause to wonder, when did my life become "If you give a mouse a cookie?"

All I Really Wanted for Christmas was a Vacumn Belt

This past fall, we bought a new vacuum cleaner. My shop vac is awesome for the main floor but it stinks when it comes to carpet. So my husband obliged and purchased a new red dirt devil for me to leave upstairs. I assigned the kids to do their rooms. The machine lasted a week before the belt broke.

Naturally, there were no spares in the box. I penciled into my things to do, Home Depot for sometime that week and the belt number I'd need. I felt very savvy, having written down the pertinent information. As a double brainy bonus, I also noted the filter size. I could hear a prudent applauding me commending this forward thinking. "Might as well get the spare when you're there."

That Tuesday, my oldest had music lessons in the strip adjacent to the big hardware store. Again, the approving pragmatist persona gave a nod; merging a kid errand with an adult, how multi-tasking, how efficient, how marvelous. It was a great feeling. Then I walked in the store. They did not carry my vacuum's parts even though they sold my husband the machine itself. It was "too new." The helpful sales clerk offered to order me them but I'd have to buy a box of ten. The fiscally prudent me did not think this was wise. There were other stores where I could PROBABLY get the part. "But would I get the multi-tasking prudent bonus again?" I wondered.

It was Wednesday. One daughter and one son had basketball practice. Their gym was near my go-to store. Yeah! I'd have to get the kids to their team work outs on time but if I did, I could squeeze in a visit and still have that seamless parent thing going. Again, this store had many machines for cleaning floors, countless bags, filters and belts but mine was "too new." They could order me one, but it would take about three months. Visions of foot high dust bunnies creating an ethereal cloud of dander that would swirl about the ankles and choke off my toddlers filled my head. I'd try the third store. Going back to the car, the prudent me railed. "Two perfect errands ruined! Call ahead!"

I phoned information. I got the number. I called and spoke to a phone tree and then a human being who told me they did indeed have the part. Joyfully, I pressed forward, determined that this task would be completed today no matter what. I phoned my sixteen year old and asked him to heat up some potpies for dinner because I was running late. Virtue Mom was rolling. She'd directed dinner, she'd dropped off the kids for practice and she was going to get the belt.

I arrived at the store. The front was filled with beautiful glass chandeliers, this couldn't be the place for a .45 cent part for a hundred dollar sucking machine. A well dressed woman inquired my business and when I told her, she led me to the annex, where white pegboard covered the walls, and hooks were filled with every part for every dohicky imaginable. A man stood at the cashier with a phone. I asked if he was the one I spoke with just a few minutes ago. Blank stare. There were three other men stocking switches and tinkering with wires or working to fill orders on computers. I asked each of them. "You must mean Frank." one finally said. "He just left."

"Frank said you have the part I need. Belt 22 for a Dirt Devil."
"22?"
"There's no 22."
"That must be new." was the chorus of responses.

One of them hefted a three foot thick notebook filled with punch hole tissue thin invoice forms. "You can look to see if we stock it through this." he explained. "But if it's new, I doubt it."

"Can't you do a search with your computer?" I asked.
"I haven't finished invoicing everything into the computer." one sheepishly answered. "We just stopped doing everything by hand this past year."

"Then how could Frank know you have the part?" I was feeling desperate.
"He doesn't, but he might be right." They nodded. One of them spit.

"Can we look at the vacuum belt section and just hope for the best?" I wondered aloud.

But alas, the search sans Frank was fruitless and I left defeated. They suggested I come back tomorrow when Frank was in but I was tired.

The Prudent Me got mad. "Sher, it's 2010. Order the damn thing online." I felt like the kid in Christmas Story remembering Santa; realizing his dream red rider bi-bi gun could become a reality.

Racing home, I helped the 16 year old take out the potpies and fired up the laptop. My fingers flew through the google to the first reliable large name brand store I could find that carried the part and ordered five but calmed down enough not to demand overnight shipping.

Three weeks passed. It got near Christmas. I jokingly and not so much, suggested that a working vacuum belt might be a good present. I made sure everyone knew the make, model and number needed but I didn't press the matter as I had already ordered five.

So now, it's January. The bill has come. The belts have not. The Prudent practical me and me are not on speaking terms and I'm considering purchasing another vacuum to act as the runner up to the Dirt Devil here that has failed in its duties. When I finally sucumb, when I finally do buy it, I won't leave the store without sixteen belts and five filters to go with it; and I know, the next day the parts will arrive at my home and Frank will call to tell me they have it in stock, because by then, the vacuum will no longer be "New."

*thought about calling this piece, "This really suc...but my mother reads this blog.

The Tai Chi of Summer

The lack of structure of Summer worried me before school was out, so I made lists and schedules and tried desperately to stick to them no matter what. Monday through Friday, breakfast at eight, followed by get dressed, make beds, math books, errands for the day.

It wasn’t all drudgery, afternoons were scheduled fun, Monday, Wednesday, Friday swimming lessons, Tuesday, library, Thursday, park. I thought I was being fair. As with all things, execution of the plan became a problem. Days kept getting crunched with dutiful things like doctor’s appointments and haircuts, grocery shopping and dry cleaning. Summer became an endless list of daily to do’s with fun scheduled and crunched around the efficiency of getting things done.

Then we had a four day weekend with my birthday sandwiched in the middle. Discovering my inner sloth, I reveled in the laziness of the whole first 48 hours. Paper plates, cake for breakfast, leftovers for meals, no laundry, it was bliss. The problem with that sort of binge is the mental hangover that follows. I got up that Saturday and considered whether I could justify one more morning breakfast of birthday cake.

“You should exercise.” My head told me. “You should start the day healthy.”
I wanted desperately to ignore it, but my brain then began an impossibly long screed of nags –do the dishes, clean the rooms, read a book, eat vegetables, run the errands, make a list, be responsible…the scroll at the bottom of the screen within my brain seemed to have no repeats, just an endless parade of no fun activities for me to finish, tackle, or do daily. Was this what my mouth sounded like to my children every day? No wonder they wanted to tune out and play Nintendo. Heck, I wanted to right now too.

Feebly muttering, “It’s my birthday week.” Didn’t hold. It kept spewing out to do items…update blog, write for Catholicmom, get your daughter to write thank you notes…I wanted to turn off my ears. “Alright! Alright!” I snapped and marched into the TV room to find an exercise DVD.

It wasn’t that my brain was wrong to say I should work out or that these tasks should be done. It was a question of balance. It was summer. It should be a time of celebration and cake and play and whimsy. I needed to strike a balance, a one-to-one ratio at least for the weekend, tasks to fun, seemed reasonable. A two-to-one ratio on week days, would allow for a good bit of kid and adult down time alike. I wanted to find the serenity of a cheesy martial arts instructor from a low grade movie, where there was serenity and order, and impulsive moves were paired with careful planning. Grabbing the DVD and feeling better for it, I thought about the rest of the day. This sort of habit would take diligence and practice on my part. “Best to start now.” My mollified superego urged.

My oldest son came into the room. “Hey son?”
“Yes?”
“Rock Paper Scissors to see who takes out the garbage?” I thought he’d be tickled at the chance.
“Mom. Taking out the garbage is nothing.” He grabbed the bag and took it out.
And I was left almost stammering. “But I wanted to play…”

The kids were watching TV. I brought out the Nintendo, and offered to play Mario Cart and place a bet. If I won, Math books for everyone for two pages. If I lost, another round of games. You know that scene in movies where all the kids stare at the adult whose suddenly done a 180 and come around to their way of thinking and it weirds everyone out? It’s really scary when it happens in real life.

“Mom?”
“Are you okay?”
“If you want us to do our math books, just say so.”
“Yeah. You don’t need to bribe us.”

The four children trooped out of the room, grabbed pencils and started in on their summer books. I was left again wondering, “What happened here?”

Sitting in the living room, waiting for my children to be free to play felt boring and even a tad pathetic. I went to the kitchen to do dishes. The baby crawled over and pulled on my leg. I began to play ball with her or try. She decided she had crawling to do and happily ambled off. I meekly finished the dishes. Didn’t anyone want to play with me?

The kids finished their math books. They had fired up the Nintendo. There wasn’t an open slot for me to play, but one of my daughters brought me my laptop. My enlightenment about summer had not changed the focus or ballance, it had just put me out of sync with my kids more than usual. I fumed silently.

“Mom? Since everything is done, why don’t you sit down and relax?” She asked, offering me my computer. My second son brought me a diet coke. I accepted the gifts, feeling both touched and sad. I went back to the kitchen to get one of the last pieces of birthday cake. Cutting it and placing it on a plate, my oldest daughter caught me serving it.

“I don’t think you should eat that. You really should exercise.” She chided. I put away the cake. “It’s good for you Mom. What did you write today?”

“Well I…”
She pointed to the computer.

Apparently, this grasshopper has much to learn.

For humor that has moved beyond the apprentice level, seek the wisdom and wit of humor blogs!>Humor-Blogs.com

The Surest Sign there are No More Weeks of Winter

There is one bonifide signal that Spring has set into motion in earnest.

Last minute school projects.

Every parent has had that dreaded moment when they struggle between teaching responsibility for time management and the urge to become a Superhero and pull an all nighter with the child in question to ensure a decent grade. Most of the time, we wind up circling the wagons and helping the delinquent student to finish their work before 1 am, but not without occasionally morphing into the adult from the nether regions...if YOU EVER...I am NOT DOING THIS AGAIN...

The other day, I got a text message. "Need three fold before weekend!"

I ransacked my brain in the desperate hopes of having at some point purchased such an item that went unused. It would have helped if I knew what a threefold was. I text messaged back but before I got six taps in, I grew irritated and just phoned.

“Can’t talk. Turning off phone now.” was the response from my beloved teen.

Now, I couldn’t even text message. I knew a fishing expedition to the local office supply store was imminent.

We had just loaded up in the car from my second son’s baseball practice. It was 6:30. Dinner had yet to be served, showers and bed routines were being thrown out the window, and even microwave pot pies were looking like a time consuming chore.

Twelve year old to the rescue! She knew what a tri-fold was, I thought it was either a hat or a way to properly stow a flag. I had my atm machine card at the ready. We would go to the bank and then the art store. We could do this seamlessly if I booked.

Alas, the errand gods were not with us.

The ATM refused to cooperate. The drive thru had closed thirty minutes before we arrived. We also needed gas. Having experienced the engine light read “Low” before and actually run out, I wasn’t taking any chances, so we tanked up before proceeding with the poster hunt. It was now 7:24.

The art store was closed, but I knew of an office store still open, so I gambled, scrounging through my purse and the pockets of the car. Collectively, we found change amounting to$3.57. I did have to promise to pay the two toddlers back their respective 64 and 12 cents. It was 7:37 pm. They’d get showers the next day. For bed time stories, I handed a book from my satchel to my ten year old and instructed her “READ...aloud…expressively,” although I had to conceed, "Writing Query Letters that Rock!" wasn't my first choice for my children's night time supplimental literacy program. She abandoned it in favor of a discarded Avenger's comicbook. I was in no position to argue.

I drove at a not entirely state approved rate and we arrived at five minutes to eight. The twelve year old went in, I looked at the clock. We’d not get to dinner before 9 o’clock if I cooked.

I phoned the local roasted chicken establishment and placed an order for the family feast for four plus a few extra sides.

My daughter returned triumphant, carrying a poster board as large as herself. She had 17 cents left, so I paid back the 12 cents and listened to the other toddler howl at not receiving prompt reimbursement. For a kid who can't add or count past 15, he knew getting a nickle was getting stiffed. I offered to pay interest. He wasn’t moved. I handed him a credit card, but discovered he was a cash only kind of guy until his sister offered him a turn on the game boy.

We drove to the chicken store, but the cash problem still loomed. Five cents was insufficient to buy the family meal order I had placed, and I wasn't even sure my son would lend me back the five cents!

I took out the toddler rejected credit card and hoped my daughter could go two for two. In she marched, and returned. The card had expired one day prior. Maybe that’s why my son refused it.

I handed over another and waited. Driving in circles in the parking lot, hoping the restaurant would take it, hoping they would let her sign for it and go, the phone rang, but I was too stressed and distracted to deal with it. We saw my daughter waving with her hands full. I drove up, joyfully anticipating an end of the struggle.

Her sister went in to help bring back the bounty.

Driving home, while congratulating ourselves on a successful mission, I planned out bed time routine in my head. Then I got another text message.

“I tried to phone you. Project due Monday moved to next week.”

Relative Math

God had proclaimed a snow day.

The County had declared a two hour delay.

The Jesuits apparently have a chronological system all unto themselves. A two hour delay means school starts at 9:20 a.m. So my son arrived via bus and Metro at school forty minutes late. He was assigned JUG. (Justice Under God, detention for all those non S.J. educated).

My argument that 2 hours+an 8 o’clock starting time equals ten could not defeat the emotionally indifferent “Did you read the parent’s handbook?”

I don't read instruction manuals either but usally, in English, 2 hour delays mean 2 hour delays.


My other kids got the day off in its entirety.
Why?
I lost my car keys.

Seven children fed, dressed, coated, mittened, scarfed and hatted even! Seven children loaded into the car with lunches packed for four. Seven children sitting waiting for Mom to drive them…and she can’t find her keys.

Even worse, Mom thinks she knows where the keys are…somewhere under the snow from shoveling the night before to clear the walk.

Now I could have just called and said, “Car trouble,” but with four children at the same school, odds were the truth would have come out anyway. I could just see my five year old brightly marching into her classroom to explain she got the day off because Mommy couldn’t find her car keys. So I ‘fessed up to the school. The secretary was still laughing when she hung up.

Exponents…

So the kids pile out of the car and explode into the home. By the time I unload my stuff and the baby, they have scattered to the four corners of the world, one on computer, two playing Nintendo, two are raiding the refrigerator for a second breakfast and one has buried herself back in the blankets with a book. Blowing my whistle (a’la Captain Von Trap), I summoned the horde.

Do any of you know what exponents are?

The two oldest raise their hands, eager to show off to the others what they know.

“Good.” I thrust a calculator in one child’s hands and a pencil and paper in the other’s.

“ You. Add this up. You. Check her math.”

You, all six of you come in the door. You drop your coats –those of you that can, (6), and gloves (12), scarves (6), hats (6), lunch boxes (4), backpacks (5), shoes (14), socks (13) how does that happen? and the baby comes in with her car seat, blanket, baby bag and then you add my purse and bag and coat and I have…seventy two things to put away. Add to that five beds to make…, the eight meals already served, the spoons, cups, plates and napkins, (32 items) and you’re lucky we even got in the car!

They are all looking at me blinking, waiting for the grande finale.

If you would like to eat before nine o’clock tonight…message received before she’s even finished pushing buttons to give me a grand total…they began scrambling.

Lessons learned…The Miracle of Compound Interest

I still haven’t found my keys. I've reshoveled the walk and walked the yard where I might have dropped them. I remember losing my student id and keys in the snow in Southbend Freshman year in early October. In April, I found them thawing by the sidewalk. At least it isn't as long a wait.

We’ll be able to drive tomorrow regardless, I’ll cannibalize my husband’s keys, but I have offered a ten dollar reward after offering a two dollar award and having no takers even for a cursory search. When I asked my son why he wasn’t interested in the new bounty being offered, he smiled, “Well, I have a lot of shopping to do for Birthday month.”

“And?”

“I figure if I wait a few more hours, you’ll raise the reward to $20.00.”
"Fink!" I'm thinking. "Fat chance." I say. "I could buy a whole new set of keys for that."

Birthday month is the season from March 8 to April 13th, when one cousin, two sons and two daughters have celebrations honoring the days they first started making their needs publically known. Usually Easter is sandwiched somewhere in there too, so it is a time overflowing with cake and celebration despite Lent.

We suffer our sack cloths and ashes in other ways…

Any parent who has ever accidentally won at Candy Land knows the game was designed by someone who either really hated kids or loved punishing grown-ups. Being a snow day and unable to go anywhere, I couldn’t weasel out of playing it by giving the adult excuse of “Have to run errands.”

So we played. It just doesn’t satisfy a three year old or a two to say “Good game.” So I go in planning to throw the game. On more than one occasion, I have deliberately miscounted to avoid the great slide of doom for my offspring, or self sacrificed and sent my own piece careening down so I could endure another 15 minutes of spinning the dial and moving the little happy people up the ladder.

It is a tedious experience, such that I have considered adding numbers to the number wheel like 20 and 15 to speed up the pace. Then it hit me. Those Jesuits used Candyland Math to get through the day.

So What Have I Learned?

Thinking of creating a Parent Manual with the option of an Evening two hour delay which would require that bed time be moved up 80 minutes in the event of a snow day or a mental emergency on the part of an adult.

I summoned the kids. "I'm setting the timer." I push 30 minutes. "The bounty for the keys is 10 dollars. If the keys are found in the next 30 minutes, you will get the ten bucks. After that, you get nothing but thanks."

Candyland toddler girl found the keys in five minutes. Wonder if I can swap the ten spot for another round of Candyland.

Moral: There is none, except don't lose your keys and try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!

The Adventures of Contrary Boy and She Who Would Be Two

Warning: I have been toddlerized.

I have come to accept the inherent cereal and milk encrusted feeling of all my door knobs and the fact that no wall escapes a Zorro like calling card.

One can only hope to contain a toddler, not control. They have to consent to any ideas or activities. The moment one says something in imperative voice to a two year old, the answer is already decided. “We need to go.” “You need a diaper change.” “It’s time to play, eat ice cream and ride flying pink ponies while watching TV and jumping off the furniture.” The reflexive response to all three of these commands is NO! Not only no but hell no!

Time to get dressed.

Now usually I bring the clothes down when I get them up and tackle that task while they’re still groggy enough not to reflexively resist. Today I was slumming and it was ten o’clock when I attempted this feat. Going through the laundry to find fresh outfits, my children sensed what was coming and scattered.

I do have a trick or two though. I have found that if I practice the piano, even so much as a single plink on those ivories brings them to practice with me. This secret summoning spell remains 100% effective as long as they are unaware that I am manipulating them.

Plink! Plink! Plink! I want to be sure they come so I play a winner, “The Spinning Song.”

Up they run, my son shouting “I want to play. I want to play!” “Play!” my daughter who turns two in a week calls. She gets to me first.
I take the first comer and wrestle her to the ground to get dressed. “Now you can play the piano.” I explain. She happily plinks.

Now my son isn’t willing to get dressed and stays out of arm’s reach. “Can we go to the fitness center today?” he asks. (They have better toys I’m told at the gym).
“Fitness Center.” My daughter repeats.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. If people get dressed.” I say, acting casual, as though going to work out would be a major effort and inconvenience to me. He picks out his clothing and hands it to me in a flash.

“Thanks Contrary Boy.” I say as I help him into his shirt.

Make no mistake, toddlers do have super powers; they get sane educated adults to comply with an endless array of tasks through erosion of will.

Yesterday, I needed to make an appointment. The receptionist put me on hold. I witnessed Contrary boy, complete with blanket cape, amble through the kitchen. He found a magnet, a marble, the back of one of my earrings, a cell phone I had given up for dead and a lost bag of chips ahoy to share with his sister. When I cried “Wait!” He bolted out of the room. In the meantime, She Who Would be Two came in, found one shoe, put it on her foot and walked off. She took a marker with her. Returning five minutes later with an entirely purple arm, I hung up. I’d call from my cell with them in their car seats.

Both she and her brother asked for a second round of breakfast.

What did they want?

“Peanut butter and Jelly sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches.”

We were out of bread.

“Could I make it on hot dog buns?”

They thought this was funny and I pointed out it looked like a mouth. Impulsively, I added blue berries on top as eyes. My son wanted his to have a mustache. That took some doing but after two minutes of discussion and a smear of peanut butter, I served Groucho Marx PB&J on a bun.

I thought I might squeeze back in the call. The Receptionist put me on hold before I could tell her not to.

“Mom. You didn’t give us napkins.”
“Napkins.” She Who Would be Two repeats.

I find a roll of paper towels and pull off two. Still holding.

“Mom, you didn’t give us drinks.”
“Drinks.” She Who Would be Two repeats again.

“I know.” I responded. “Mommy’s on the phone. The service here is terrible.”

“Terrible.” He repeated.

I started making sippy cups of milk before She Who Would be Two could repeat Terrible as well.

Happiness lasted as long as the sandwiches. She Who Would be Two shredded her bun and got her hair covered in peanut butter and jelly.

“My hands are sticky.” He explained, visibly distressed.
“sticky.” She starts to say.
I grab a towel and sponge off her hands and face first.

As I turn to wipe his hands, Contrary boy frowns. “Mom, We haven’t had lunch.”

I hung up again.

Why Can't the Parents Teach Their Children How to Speak?

I finally cracked the code.

I can speak my five year old daughter’s language.

Oh, I know we taught her English, but communication has always been an issue with her. I assumed it was part and parcel of being the fifth child out of eight. I thought she ignored directives on the theory that I wasn’t talking to her. I thought she pouted to be sure she got attention. Now I know better.

My daughter uses purple prose expressions. She likes sugar frosted cereals and pink fairy princesses and over the top sentiment. Moreover, she can be persuaded by use of the same exuberant broad brush painting with words.

How did I discover her dialect?

It was 32 degrees outside.
“Put on your coat. It’s cold.” I said.

“NO!” She crossed her arms and rolled her tongue, making her “ugly face” in response.

Normally I would simply assert my authority and the coat would be on her body. Today, in a moment of maternal weakness, I try to address her actual needs writ large in her defiance. “Look outside. See the frost? I’ve been outside, it’s very cold. Put your coat on.” I thrust the coat in her hands.

“NO!” she repeats and throws the coat on the floor and stomps off.

Torn between, “Oh yes you will wear this coat and I’m putting it on your stomping self right now!” and “Something must be wrong, this makes no sense!” I stall for time and my temper by asking “Why?”

“I don’t want to wear a coat on the playground.” She sobs. She repeats it three times, each subsequent statement becoming more sorrowful and full of deep breaths.

“I’m wearing my coat. It’s cold outside and I want to stay healthy.” My son volunteers, adopting his “virtue boy” voice.

“Thank you son.” I smile and wave him off to the car.

Recognizing he’s not going to get the additional credit at her expense he’d hoped, he sulks off to the car, taking off his coat as he does and pausing by the window to be sure I see him. I rap on the window. “I thought you wanted to stay healthy!” His own words force the coat back on, the cold helps too.
“I don’t want to…”she’s still sobbing.

“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” I rub her arms gently to calm her down and try to make eye contact. “I want you to wear your coat so you can be all toasty warm during play time at kindergarten.” She gives me a small smile. I push my apparent advantage.

“I love my daughter and I don’t want her arms cold or for her to not be able to play because she feels uncomfortable. That would be terrible. I want her warm, toasty, ready to go…” The coat goes on in a flash, as do the mittens and the hat, though an older one marches in to switch hats since this daughter is accidentally wearing hers. I wait for the melt down that doesn’t happen and we get in the car.

Something just happened. I asked her to do something and she agreed. Can I do it again? I wonder.

“Hey Precious. Would you do me a great favor to help take care of your brother and sister? It’s a pretty big job…”

“What what what?” She’s all in. I feel vague guilt asking except she’d have to do these things anyway, so I’m just manipulating the mood in which she receives these tasks, I tell myself. “Can you sit in the far back and give the baby her juice? She’s too little.”

“Yes.”

Now my brain is abuz with other prospects –doing homework, chores…the whole world suddenly seems open to me via talking to my dauther.

I start looking at the whole incident for what it truly reveals. Each of my kids speaks English, just with a different dialect. Mulling the whole thing over, the next day I try to say the same command to each child. The following are field tested results from a confirmed child whisperer.

Oldest comes down in short sleeved shirt. He’s fourteen so telling him what to wear other than to say “You’re out of uniform, or that doesn’t fit or is dirty,” is out of bounds. I ask him to take out the garbage. He goes to do the job and immediately comes back in for a coat, hat and mittens.

The next comes in to the kitchen. I’m ready for her. “I stuck your coat and hat and mittens In the dryer…” is all I get out. She’s gone to fetch them in a flash.

My middle girl is a bit of a mystery, compliant in many things but always for her own reasons. She loves cold, so the indirect way won’t work. “Which coat are you wearing today? I don’t want a note from the nurse about not wearing proper attire for playground.” She goes to get her stuff.

Virtue boy sees everyone else and tests me. “I don’t want to wear a coat!” “Fine, then you have to wear a sweater. I hold up the sweater.” He hates sweaters. Batting 1000! I think.

Purple prose still works today and I begin thinking I’ve got it down when it all crashes.

Contrary boy has dressed himself. He is wearing shorts. It is 32 degrees outside and he is wearing shorts. He is bragging about dressing himself. We have to get in the car.

I punt. I dress the baby and load her in the car with the others.

She who would be two loves her coat and willingly complies. Still wondering how I’ll do the last one, I'm considering using parental fiat power but don’t want to ruin my average. I’m in the zone, I think, there has to be another way. I get his socks and shoes on and he is singing about superheroes he’d like to be.

“Thank you Son!” I kiss his forehead and run to the linen closet.
Wrapping him in a polar fleece blanket won’t allow me to go anywhere but back home, but it does get us out the door. Super son and I get in the car. Twenty minutes ‘till school. Buckled and bundled, we’re gonna make it. I feel high on parenting…

“Mom!”
The urgency in her voice tells me I’m about to crash.

“What?”
I’m in freefall.

“You forgot to make us lunches!” There are universal cries of pure despair.
Crash.
“I’ll bring your food before lunch.”
“Before snack?”
Roll, tumble, hit a tree and flip into a ditch and crash again.
“Before snack.”
Mollified, we set out onto the road.

Well, I may have learned the dialect but the universal language is still food.