Tramp-o-Ween

When did Halloween become “How Trashy Can I Look Night?”

Maybe this has been going on for a long time and I just never noticed it.

Maybe it’s because my oldest daughter is just now getting old enough to wear a costume other than a fuzzy unicorn or a bumblebee, but we’re dressing up to go on hayrides and get some free candy. So could someone please tell me why most of the girls that I've seen this year look like they're on their way to film some creepy adult movie?

When did Snow White add fishnets to her royal attire? And why do the fairies have more than their sparkly wings out on display, if you know what I mean? When did Alice decide that stilettos are proper footwear for prancing around through Wonderland? Look around you this Halloween. There is a latex-wearing nurse in a garter belt! There is a Pocahontas in hot pants! It looks like everyone is headed to the haunted Playboy mansion!

Even worse, who ever decided that angels – ANGELS – are supposed to wear nothing more than some feather underwear and a cape? Is that the kind of angel you want guarding your kids’ bed at night? I don’t think so!

I’m not sure how this little trend began, but I am sure that Halloween is not the most appropriate time to strut your stuff. How is it that in order to get a pack of M&Ms, our cute little Strawberry Shortcakes and mini football players have to wade through a sea of cave girls with nothing on but a pillowcase and a spray tan?

My kids (and yours) deserve to go out for an evening of PG fun without being forced into the Pay-Per-View adult channel.

While looking for costume ideas (before we settled on Star Wars) with my 8-, 7- and 4-year-old daughters, we came across the following outfits: a black and hot pink corset for a Barbie Diva, a mini skirted Little Red Riding Hood with a red bra on top, a VooDoo Vixen and a Hot Little Devil costume with a halter top and a skin tight skirt. These are marketed toward and sold to young girls!

I must tell you that I am completely disgusted by this. Maybe I’ve been living under a rock for a while, but now I've crawled out and I am appalled. Stuff like this is a child molester’s dream! Do people really let their daughters wear these things? Whose idea was this? Why do we want our daughters to look like full-grown – not to mention immodest – women?

What’s even more disturbing is that this isn’t just a problem with our teen girls (which is bad enough.) If these costumes are being made available to our little girls, what the heck are our high-school aged girls supposed to wear? I'm having a hard time believing that parents are condoning these things.

I don’t know about you but I would like for my little girls to stay little as long as they possibly can. I’m certainly not going to buy them a “Vamp in a Box” costume.

Now don’t get me wrong – I’m all for personal freedom. Wear what you want, but for Heaven’s sake use good judgment for yourself and your girls. Is a harvest party or the trick or treat event at the mall really the right place to accidentally trip over your own stilettos and flash someone? We are in Northeast Ohio, not on the Vegas strip.

I realize that Halloween is a huge business. People spend millions and millions of dollars on costumes every year. Businesses are cashing in on the “sexification” of every single profession in the book, not to mention all of the Disney princesses!

I don’t know about you, but I have a problem with my daughters trick or treating next to a woman wearing nothing but a wig and a Rapunzel tube top. There’s a time and place to learn about things like that, but it’s not while you’re out in broad daylight. And it's definitely not while you’re asking your neighbor for a Snickers bar.

Everyone has their camera out and at the ready on Halloween. There is an astronomically high chance that a video of these girls fumbling around in ridiculous high heels is going straight onto YouTube and Facebook with their Halloween goodies out for all the world to see.

This is a holiday to have a little fun, to get a little spooked and to see how much candy you can gather up for free. It's not a contest to see who can tip the Skimpy-scales.

We are having a Harvest Party with our friends and neighbors. We’re going to carve pumpkins, build a fire, and eat too much sugar. We’re going to go trick or treating, and we are wearing costumes.

And I don't mind saying that the only thing we want to see bobbing at our party are the apples.

--from my 10/28/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Jed's Poem

One blue fingernail
Ewwww
Fingers up the nose
and in the ear
Belly laughs
Bumps. Hurts!
Boo-boo, kiss it!
Give a hug - and some pats on the back
Give a kiss, it's fun through the crib slats
Give high-fives
Get my own water
Get my own snacks
Get my own candy - from EVERYWHERE
Palms up, hums "Idon'tknow"
Climbing up the stairs
Climbing on the counter
Climbing into the bookshelf
Turn on the faucet
Turn on the toaster
Turn on the charm
Running/skipping
Arms akimbo
Jump up and down, so excited for a popsicle
Life is so exciting, "Ah! Dat!" Pointing
Let me get my shoes
And "sots"
Hand in the toilet
Go get a mop.
Peanut butter head.
Life is a blessing.

Yodalaide

I know that there is a very limited time frame in which our kids will willingly participate in themed Halloween costumes for the whole family, so we’re going gung-ho while it lasts.

This year, we are all going as Star Wars characters. (Oh, yes, the force is strong in my children.)

My husband says he’s going to be Jabba the Hut. I’m planning to go as Darth Vader, although my mask has weird lenses in the eyeholes that make me feel more like “The Fly” than Darth.

Sadie wants to be the blue Amidala. At the thrift store we found a beautiful dress, a velvety robe and some great fan-shaped earrings for her. We also are working to turn a tiny wicker chair into her hair-piece. (Don’t ask.)

I made a cute little Ewok poncho-hat for Jedidiah, but he seems rather reluctant to wear it… in other words, he screams, yanks it off, throws it on the ground and runs away. I’m not sure if it’s because he thinks it’s too girly or just because he hates ponchos.

Josie is going to be Princess Leia-in-Somewhat-of-a-Disguise. She has a storm-trooperish white jumpsuit, a laser gun made of tin foil, and the perfect tall white boots. She and her grandma made a white cape which she’s been testing out around the house.

As we worked on our costumes, Josie (we thought about naming her Leia when she was born) came to me, snickering: "Mommy, I was telling Adelaide how you were gonna name me Leia when I was born, and she said, "'Oh yeah? Mommy was gonna name me Yoda.'"

Well, not exactly, but the plan is for Adelaide to be Yoda. She’s just the most Yoda-esque person in our house. She already talks funny and is super quirky. Adding some pointy ears is really not that much of a stretch.

After making the other costumes, I was somewhat crafted out. The girls and I decided to go out on the town to find some Yoda ears and Leia hairbuns.

After looking several places, we ended up at the Halloween store. I remember taking Josie there to find some Groucho Marx glasses when she was even younger than Adelaide, and she thought the whole thing was great. I should’ve also remembered that Josie does not have the same personality as Adelaide.

Before we went inside, I gave a little speech about how everything in there is just pretend, and nothing is real, and nothing can hurt you, and I’ll be with you the whole time, etc.

But as soon as we walked through the freshly manufactured fog, I could tell that Adelaide was not impressed. The further we went into the store, the less she liked it. Clowns are scary. Bats are scary. Vampires are scary. Werewolves are scary.

The Monster Mash song playing in the background did not help at all. I tried to point out some harmless Strawberry Shortcake outfits to her, but she refused to take her hands off her eyes (which was a problem since she kept running into things.)

Josie, on the other hand, was fascinated with all the creepy plastic zombie babies lined up on the fake tombstones. Sadie gazed around in digust at the wicked witch and the hacked up Dorothy lying in the bed next to her, but she was appreciative of the nice assortment of sparkly wigs and fairy wings.

Adelaide, however, was petrified. She screamed at a scary skeleton that cackled at her. When Sadie accidentally put her foot on a rug that read STEP HERE and a giant spider jumped out and landed on Adelaide’s head, she catapulted herself into my arms and declared tearfully that she’d had enough.

After all of that trouble, they only had Clone Wars costumes, which did not help us at all. Sadie and Josie felt sorry for their shaking little sister. While Josie kept her hand over Adelaide’s eyes, Sadie gave her a piggyback ride to the car and they even let her sit between them in the backseat on the way home.

After a night of letting her sleep with all the lights on, I asked Adelaide the next morning:

“So, do you still want to be Yoda?”

She said, “Yes, but, well, do you know that Halloween store? That scary Halloween store? Yeah, well, I am never going in THERE again.”

And in true Yod-a-laide fashion, she added,

“Forget it, you can.”

--from my 10/14/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com (obviously, Jed wouldn't cooperate as an Ewok, so we had to change things up a little :)

Poem for Josie, Age 7

Josie
Loves her little animals
Loves her little brother
He makes me laugh every day, she says.

Josie
Gets up early every morning
Gets her hair combed and her teeth brushed
And does her chores without being asked to.

Josie
Likes to practice her handwriting
Likes to take her notebook off by herself
And draw up her plans for life.

Josie
Says she's going to change the world
Says she's giving everyone clean water to drink
And I think she'll probably do it.

Josie
Asks me if I'll snuggle with her
Asks if she can have a hug every day
And I grab her quick and say 'what kind of a question is that?'


Josie
Acts like a goofball when it's bedtime
Acts like she's older than her years
But I think she's near perfection at seven.

J and A

Josie came to me, laughing and snickering: "Mommy, I was telling Adelaide how you were gonna name me Leia, you know, how it was on your list, and she said, "'Yeah, Mommy was gonna name ME Yoda.'"

Josie to Adelaide (in a frustrated voice): "Adelaide! Can you PLEASE talk in your head?"

Adelaide, gazing up into the blue fall sky: "Hey, look! A bird herd!"

I asked Josie, "What day is it, anyway?" Josie, in her best Lion King - Scar voice "I have no idea."

Thy Kingdom Come .

Josie likes to talk about the kingdom of God. She is constantly asking questions about the kingdom, and heaven, and what will happen when Jesus comes back, and all kinds of things like that. One day she really got excited and told me how she is going to do everything she ever wanted to do, like swim with the dolphins and explore way down deep in the bottom of the ocean and collect seashells from down there and fly around in the sky and jump around on the clouds, and best of all, she's going to sit on Jesus' lap and she's going to meet Great Grandpa Ralph. The child never ceases to amaze me. Then she asked, "Mom, are we going to look the same when Jesus comes back? Will old people still be old? And babies, will they still be babies?" I told her that the Bible says that we will have new bodies, and I think that we will be the very best that we've ever been. She said, "So, like 7?"

I'm Not a Professional

Last weekend a friend invited me to attend a scrapbooking retreat with her.

My reaction: A what? I didn’t even know something like that existed.

She told me to bring lots of pictures and the pages that I was working on. So I packed up about 200 pictures, along with three books that I keep trying to read.

I figured I could get some reading in once I finished with all of my pictures I mean, there was no way that I wouldn’t finish – not with 2 days of nothing but scrapbooking going on. There was just no way. Right?

Ha!

When we arrived at the hotel conference room, I was overwhelmed. It was filled with rows and rows of tables and what looked to me like a million dollars worth of fancy equipment, accessories, cutters, paper, stickers and tools. I had never seen so much scrapbooking stuff in one place. Not even at the craft store.

I, on the other hand, came armed with nothing but my scissors and a Sharpie.

To say that I was out of my league is an understatement. These people were serious. They were not your average scrapbookers. For me, the emphasis is on SCRAP.

Yes, I am what you would call a “green scrapbooker.”

In other words, I am a cheap scrapbooker.

I use old birthday cards, wrapping paper, parts of magazine pages, ads that come in the mail… stuff that I find. NOT things that I buy.

My friend Terry knows this about me, and so she kept offering me her trash. “You’re not going to use that?” I would ask her incredulously. It became the running joke of the weekend.

Terry never said that I embarrassed her (after all, she actually knew these people) but she did warn me that she was drawing the line if she caught me face-first in one of the big community trash bins by the door.

A lady named Cricut Jackie (so named because of the little cutting machine she is so adept at using) had an amazing collection of die-cuts and stickers in a gigantic album. She told me that she was trying to get rid of some diecuts and stickers and that I should come to her table and look through them.

She didn’t have to ask me twice. I even told her -- in my mommy voice ( because it’s hard to change your stripes -- that they were both “very good sharers.”

We spent most of our time drinking coffee (I took a giant size carmel macchiato creamer along with us to share… nobody likes plain hotel coffee) and listening to doo-wop music at our table (am I the only thirty-something who knows every word to the entire Stand By Me movie soundtrack?)

We wore yoga pants, slippers and cozy jackets and pigtails. People were up until 2 a.m. scrapbooking, and I did not make very much progress because I was in a constant state of amazement.

I used cutters that I didn’t even know existed -- fancy little corner-cutting doodads and heart-shaped punches and stars that you can layer and circle cutting tools and all kinds of neat stuff that I had no idea that I needed.

For example, I didn’t know that I needed a tiny little paper cutter with a tiny little swinging arm like a tiny little guillotine. But I do! I need one!

And I didn’t know that I needed a fancy album that you can have your kids portraits printed on (the most I ever paid for an album was $19, and I thought I was getting ripped off with that.) But I do! I need one!

And I need pages that lay flat and don’t make my scrapbook look like it’s going to bust a gut and pop loose at the seams! I need a good binding that doesn’t consist of an old bootlace!

Wow. This little weekend changed the way I look at certain things regarding the life of my scrapbook. There is a whole sub-culture out there of serious scrapbookers.

I aspire to be like them. And yes, maybe I even covet their stuff.

But I confess – I’ll probably keep on digging through the trash.


--from my 10/7/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Sick and Tired

Sadie has been sick for 9 days now. It's felt like the longest 9 days EVER for ME, so I can only imagine how SHE must feel. She looks like she's dropped 10 pounds and she seems so fragile and so scrawny to me. At first, she had a fever and she kept throwing up (from the fever, I imagine, don't think it was ever a stomach bug). Then she developed this cough that kept making her sick. Now everything else seems to be gone, but the stupid cough has persisted, making it nearly impossible for her to sleep and keeping us all trapped here at home day in and day out. And we are missing the fall, which is everyone's (especially mine and Sadie's) favorite time of year! We are getting really mad and frustrated.

But one of the good things about her being sick is how she says, "I guess the only thing that would really make me feel any better is for you to come and sit on my feet and snuggle with me, Mom. And maybe read to me." So one day, I was working on my Bible Study book and so I started reading to her out of the book of Matthew. Something struck me from the chapter I was reading (4:16) "the people living in darkness have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of the shadow of death
a light has dawned.” I started thinking about it, and I talked to her about it a little bit, and then I got kind of teary eyed and she rolled her eyes and said, "Sheesh, Mommy, everything makes you cry." I kept talking and talking and finally she said, "Okay, Mom. Less talking, more reading." hahaha!!! She has a point. I certainly do tend to ramble.

She did stop me later on and say, "Hey, did you hear some crying coming from the direction of the refrigerator? No? Maybe it was SCREAM cheese." As I watched her laugh to herself from her own joke, I was reminded of myself!

20 Minutes of... Peace?

My husband isn’t working today. And he has taken pity on me.

He just pulled out of our driveway in the minivan with all four of our kids. They are going to the hardware store down the street.

Do you understand what I am saying?

I have 20 precious minutes all to myself! Now, how to spend them….

The sheer thrill of it is almost too much for me. I am overwhelmed with the quiet.

I compulsively wipe the kitchen counters. Then the table. Then the counters again.

What am I thinking?! Now I only have 18 minutes left.

What to do, what to do.

I guess I could wash my hair for the first time in three days, but I’m all out of shampoo and I’d have to use no-tears bubble bath. That probably wouldn't help much with the frizz factor.

But look at this floor… it looks like an army of ants could stage a hostile takeover at any moment. Jedidiah must’ve been eating leftover toast crust out of the trash can again. I should get the broom…

No! This is my time. My own time.

I could watch TV, I guess, but that would involve the risk of seeing some fashion-forward twenty-something in skinny jeans talking about how she’s stressed because her favorite designer is on strike and how full she is because she just ate a carrot. I just don’t think I can handle that right now.

I’ve got it. I could read my Bible. I could get some prayer time in – you know, something besides, “Lord, please let me be able to sop up this milk out of the couch cushions before I freak out and lock them all out of the house” or the big one where the stars are all aligned: “Please, God, let their naptimes coincide today.”

Or maybe I should get on the elliptical machine and work on getting rid of some of this leftover baby fat.

Eh.

Oh no! The dog just barked! Does that mean they are pulling back in the driveway already?

It can’t be! I’ll run and peek out the window. Whew. Just a UPS truck driving by. Okay. I still have ten minutes. Ten minutes alone is like an eternity when you haven’t been alone in weeks. I can do this. I can make it count. I’ve really got to make a decision here, though. Okay, go.

I could take a nap. I certainly could use one. The bags under my eyes have made the switch from Ziploc-size to backpack size. I collapse onto the bed and close my eyes. Will I really feel any better after only a ten (make that eight) minute nap? Probably not.

I sit up.

Eureka! I’ve got it. I’ll make myself a French Vanilla coffee and read the first chapter of the book I checked out at the library seven weeks ago.

Ahh. Coffee in hand. Turn the page. Chapter One.

“Woof!” says the dog.

And… they’re back.

So much for my twenty minutes.


---from my 9/30/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Halloweenie

Adelaide, who is four, is like the best possible 4 year old that she can be. She talks funny (and cutely). She mixes things up that crack me up all the time. She makes me laugh every single day. She says "You're opposed to do this" and "You're not opposed to do that." She grabs me around the neck at bedtime and squeezes and says, "I'm not letting go." And even though I'm super tired and really DONE for the day and ready for some Mommy time, I realize that I don't really ever WANT her to let go.

The other night we were looking for some Yoda ears and some Leia hairbuns for our Halloween costumes (we have since made our own). We ended up in the Halloween store and Adelaide was even more petrified than I thought she would be. I NEVER should've taken her into that store, but I remembered taking Josie when she was about the same age, and she thought the whole thing was great (and even funny). Of course, I have to keep reminding myself that Josie is not your typical child.

Anyway, we went into the store (Jedidiah was home with Dad) and Adelaide immediately was not impressed. The further we got into the store, the less she liked it. Josie was fascinated with all the creepy zombie babies, Sadie gazed in digust at the wicked witch and the hacked up Dorothy lying in the bed next to her, and Adelaide screamed her head off and catapulted herself into my arms when Sadie inadvertently stepped on a sign that read "STEP HERE" and a giant spider jumped out at them.

Sadie and Josie took good care of her from there on out. Sadie even carried her on her back till we got to the car and Josie covered her eyes. They even both sat in the backseat with her in the middle and told her how there's nothing to be afraid of.

Adelaide, nonplussed, has this to say about the matter, "Well, do you know that Halloween store? That scary Halloween store? Yeah, well, I am never going in THERE again. You can just forget it."

Goldy Frizzhead

I am southern.

I was born in North Carolina, as was my entire family. Therefore, I have the freedom to make fun of my southern heritage (don’t get me wrong – I completely love my southern roots, family and friends. Nobody else can make fun of us, but because I am one, I can.)

The other night my mom told my kids a story in her southern mountain twang. Here’s a hint: if you can’t figure out what it says, just read it out loud.

Okay, here it goes:

This here is the story of Southern Goldilocks.

Now, Southern Goldilocks had real purdy golden hair, but down in the south, curly hair don’t do too good. Nope, all that dern humidity’ll gitcha ever time. So Southern Goldilock’s mama, she didn’t call her Goldilocks. Naw, she started callin her “Frizzhead.” You know, cause of all the humidity.

So one day, she said, “Hey Frizzhead, come on in here and git this basket’a biscuits and this here thermos’a gravy and take it on down yonder to your granny’s house. And don’t go poking your nose where it don’t belong and peeking around in other people’s windows again this time. Got it?”

So Goldy Frizzhead took the basket and the thermos and she headed out down the dirt road that cut across the woods.

And lo and behold, she saw a little ole cabin out-tere that she’d never laid eyes on before. And of course, she plumb forgot all about what her mama'd told her and she went right up to that cabin door and peeked right in. Didn’t look like nobody was home so she set her stuff down on the porch. Then she wiped the red dirt off her feet (she did have some manners after all, thank you very much) and proceeded to open up the squeaky screen door. Then she went right on in.

Well, right there in front-a her on the kitchen table were three big bowls-a grits. Well, anyone who’s anyone knows that you don’t just go traipsing off and leavin your perfectly good grits to go to waste. So Goldy Frizzhead did them folks a favor and she set down and gobbled all them grits right up.

Then, she headed into the living room but it didn’t look too interesting to her – there weren’t nothing there but some deer heads and a gun cabinet and a few empty Orange Crush bottles on a TV tray.

So she went over to the stairs and started climbin. And wouldn’t you know it? At the top of the stairs, she found a bedroom where the A/C was turned on full blast and there was a great big ole waterbed just awaitin for her to lay down for her morning nap (all them grits was setting mighty heavy in little ole Frizzhead’s belly at this point.)

So she laid down and she covered up with a Braves blanket she found at the foot of the bed, and before you knew it, she was out. Frizzhead was just-a sawing logs, let me tell ya. And then, I guess you probly can figure out what happened next.

The three bears – a great big Daddy Bear, a regular-sized Mama Bear and a tee-niny little Baby Bear came up out of the woods and they was hungry. Naw, they was HONGRY. Hongry for their grits.

Well, when they got up on the porch, they saw the biscuits and gravy settin' there and they thought somebody had done gone and brought em some breakfast. So they headed into the kitchen, ready to fill up on grits and biscuits and gravy, and then they saw that their grits was gone.

Well, Daddy Bear went all to pieces and headed over to the gun cabinet just in case the Grit Thief was still in the vicinity. Then they all went up the stairs and Baby Bear peeked in and saw Goldy Frizzhead laying there on the waterbed. Well, of course Daddy Bear wadn’t gonna hurt a little ole’ girl, no matter if she DID look like a frizzy-headed coconut and was a grit thief, bless her heart.

So they let her git her nap out, and then they invited her down to eat lunch with em, since Mama Bear had done put a ham in the oven and the beans was ready.

The end.


--from my 9/23/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

I Smell a Rat

Lately I’ve been thinking about the power of smell.

Smell is a powerful memory trigger. Your olfactory nerve is very close to the part of your brain that’s connected to both emotion and memory.

Even your ability to smell is linked to memory – and when you learn something new while smelling an odor, it actually increases both the vividness and the intensity of the learned information whenever you smell that odor later.

So it's no wonder that so many (new) experiences from childhood are linked in your memory to certain smells.

The smell of cornbread baking reminds me of Sunday dinners at my grandma’s house.

The smells of sawdust, gas and oil are those of my earliest childhood memories – they smell like I’m safe and secure and they make me feel like I’m still a little girl. They smell just like my daddy.

You know that sudden rush of sweetness that overwhelms you when you first open the door of a bakery? That, or the permeating scent of a cake baking in the oven, always remind me of my mom.

When I was little, she used to run a home-based cake-decoration business. Sometimes every available surface in our entire dining room and kitchen would be covered with cakes of all shapes and sizes.

Whenever I stayed home sick from school, my Grandma Ila (she died when I was 14) always gave me 7-Up and graham crackers; a single sniff of either of those things always takes me right back to the big chair in her living room and a game of “Button, button, who’s got the button?”

Woodsmoke smells like my cousin’s house – my home away from home. Carefree summer days smell like fresh-cut grass, chlorine and honeysuckle vines. Fallen crunchy leaves smell like my wedding day. Libraries smell like adventure. Sliced cucumbers smell like picnics. Funnel cakes and candy apples smell like fall and the Apple Festival in my hometown. Hot tubs smell like vacation. Play-Doh smells like Bible School at church.

The first time I ever met my husband, he was wearing a Bath and Body Works spray for men called Alpine Summit. Every time I smell that scent, it takes me back to our first date.

In the top dresser drawer in my son’s room is a stash of baby oil, lavender bubble bath and Burt’s Bees baby powder. If I pull that drawer open and close my eyes, I am instantly transported to the days I brought each of my babies home from the hospital. That top drawer, to me, smells exactly like sheer joy and overwhelming love.

I wonder what smells my children will remember when they are grown:

Lavender baby lotion after a bath? Chili beans on the stove? Popcorn? Murphy’s Oil Soap? Coffee and bacon? Fresh strawberries?

Sadie loves to smell Christmas: cookies baking, apple cider and cinnamon.

Josie, just like her Papaw, likes the smell of gasoline and hot asphalt.

Adelaide’s favorite smells are pinto beans and chicken and dumplings – they smell like Great Grandma’s house.

I’m not sure yet what Jedidiah’s favorite childhood smells might be, but I’m guessing diesel smoke from a tractor and maybe the electric smell of the battery charger for his Big Wheel jeep. They smell like two things a boy loves: freedom and excitement!

Which smells are the most powerful memory triggers for you?

---from my 9/16/12 article from www.mentorpatch.com

Sick Days are not Allowed

Moms do not get to take sick days.

Having a 24-hour-a-day, 365-day-a-year job usually isn’t that bad. But if “Mom” needs a sick day; well, it’s just too bad, so sad.

Because when “Mom” is sick, she just keeps on doing her regular job but with the added bonus of feeling like crap at the same time.

I think our little germ bearers hatch schemes to make us sick. I mean, let’s face it: a sick mom automatically equals junk food, lax supervision and more TV.

Haven’t you noticed how when “Mom” has a cup full of anything, one of her notoriously germy kids always swipes it, drinks it and (here’s the most important part of the plan) contaminates it? Children conveniently forget that they have their own drinks that “Mom” just poured for them sitting right there.

Getting sick is inevitable, but I’ve heard advice about how to still be a good mom even when you feel rotten. Yep, some really good advice, like “Get dressed and put on makeup,” “Act like you’re not sick and you’ll fool yourself into feeling better,” “Sing a happy song and play outside with your kids – the fresh air will do you good!” and “If you don’t feel like doing much, at least do the laundry and the dishes.”

I know, I know – stop laughing.

When I’m really sick (my last bout with a tummy bug generously bestowed on me by my daughter comes to mind), I usually just give up and slink around in my pjs, moaning my own advice like “Don’t come any closer,” “See if you can find your dad,” and “Please help your brother.” Also “Get away from me,” “Don’t touch that,” and “Wash your hands again!”

If “Mom” decides to just go ahead and take a sick day anyway, the kids still won’t give her one. Nope, your needy family (usually including the dad) barely even notice the Quarantine sign on your bedroom door or the fact that your head is under a pillow.

Picture this: You’re suffering in silence (for once) shivering while sweating on your bed. You feebly reach for your extra blanket that’s fallen to the floor. Your children do one of the following:

a) Tiptoe in, tuck your blankets around your legs and ask if you’d like some hot tea.

b) Knock loudly, offer you a half-eaten popsicle and say, “Hey, what’s for lunch?”

c) Slam through the door, point at their sister and yell “SHE DID IT!” while wearing a pirate hat and dripping grape Kool-aid on the rug.

Your answer about your (non-sick) mate will probably directly correspond to the one about your children. He comes home at the exact moment you finally manage to stumble, bleary-eyed, through the house and into the kitchen for a vitamin C and some juice. He says:

a) “What in the world are you doing out of bed? Honey, you go straight back in there and get some more rest. I’ll take the kids out for dinner while you nap.”

b) “You look like you feel a little bit better, but maybe you should take a shower and put on some clean clothes.”

c) “Oh, good, you’re up! I hope dinner’s almost ready because I don’t want to miss the football game.”

I hope you can’t relate, but… I’m pretty sure most of you can.

It’s just too bad, so sad, moms. When you’re sick, your own family probably doesn’t even notice.

But if it makes you feel any better, the rest of us moms feel sorry for you.

--from my 9/9/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

World Changer

Tonight I was tucking Josie in upstairs (Sadie was still sleeping on the couch because of a tummy bug) and she suddenly said, "I wish that sometimes President Obama would think about what it would feel like if HE were a baby in his mommy's tummy and then someone tried to kill him. You know, Mommy, it makes me sad that these things happen. If I could, I would die instead of those babies. I would." My heart. MY HEART. How someone so young could cut through all the political rhetoric that is attached to this issue is simply astounding to me. As I snuggled her through my tears, I took her little hand in mine and looked at it. REALLY looked at it. Then I suddenly realized that I am NOT going to be a game-changer in the pro-life movement. What volunteering or work that I do now isn't going to be a big thing at all. My JOB, my WORK, my GREAT WORK that will change the world isn't MY work at all.

It's all about my children. Wow. What a concept. Thinking about things this way - looking at her, hearing her passion, seeing her little heart in her eyes and her concern and KNOWING the way she can be stubborn and strong-willed... SHE is the one that's going to change the world. SHE's the one.

My contribution is merely to be the world-changer's mother.

Bock bock bock

I am a big chicken.

Ask anyone who knows me. I am afraid of some weird stuff.

I have no idea where most of these fears came from, but they are stuck in my brain, nonetheless.

Last week, as I was lamenting my 7-year-old’s decision to ride a carnival ride (I fondly remember it as the “six-story-rattletrap-of-death,”) my husband made a statement. Now, he’s a man of few words but, once in a while, he says something that resonates with me. (Don’t tell him that though.)

This time, it was:

“You’re going to have to let the kids learn to be afraid of their own things. Just because you’re afraid of certain things doesn’t mean they have to be.”

Right then, I made a mental note. I said to myself, “Self, stop forcing your weird unfounded fears on your children.”

Of course, this is easier said than done because I live with my children. My weird fears include, but are not limited to:

Bats. Or as I like to call them, rats with wings. When I was a kid, I had many a terrifying nighttime swim when a “harmless bat” mistook my head for a giant bug sticking up out of the water.

When I was in college, my two roommates and I nearly had to evacuate our apartment before one of them caught an invading hairy/leathery beast in a popcorn bowl and threw it outside. I wouldn’t let her kill it because I was afraid its friends would come and avenge its death on us during the night.

Yes, I know bats are good for the environment. Yes, I know bats eat thousands of bugs a night. Yes, I know bats will not hurt me. Yes, I am still terrified of bats.

Clowns. Lots of people read Stephen King’s book, IT. Therefore, lots of people are scared of clowns. Even if the clown doesn't have a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and live in a storm drain, there’s still something weird about putting on makeup, squirting flowers and giant shoes and stuffing yourself into a car with 25 other people wearing grease paint and rubber noses.

House centipedes. Where I come from, these horrible bugs don’t even exist. I had never even seen one (which was perfectly fine with me) before I moved to Northeast Ohio. Now I find the million-legged, tiger-striped, shiver-inducing creepy bugs at least twice a month. Usually in my bathtub!

I can’t even bear to stomp them myself because there are always a dozen legs that won’t. Stop. Twitching. Arrgh!

Waterslides. Let’s think about this. Eight stories of steep, slippery stairs. Hard, narrow, pitch-black tubes filled with rushing water. Straight down at 50 miles an hour without a seatbelt or even a seat. Thank you, but no.

Spontaneous combustion. People! Have you read about this? You just never know.

Peach pits. When I was five, I dreamed that someone stole my mom’s eyeballs and replaced them with peach pits. I didn’t even try to eat another peach until thirty years later. Actually, I didn’t even allow peaches in my house until then, either, now that I think about it….

Ferris wheels. They are tall. They spin. They barely hold you in. They are rusty. They travel around the country. Some nuts and bolts are bound to get lost somewhere along the highway. They could, at any moment, break loose from the middle hub and go bouncing down the midway, spewing carnage at every turn.

Dragonflies. Beautiful. Delicate. Harmless. Fairy-like. Scary.

Ends of hot dogs. I told you I was weird. I refuse to eat the ends of hot dogs. They totally gross me out. If no one’s around to take that first bite for me, I will be forced to saw it off with my fork.

There’s more – oh, yes. Bridges, swimming in the ocean, tornados, sleeping with my hand hanging off the bed, red cabbage, salamanders…you get the idea.

But so far, so good on the “scaring my children” thing.

My kids want to build a bat house in our yard. They want to go to the circus. They love all kinds of bugs, carnival rides and the waterpark. They have no problem whatsoever with hot dogs or peaches.

I guess I’ll concede to my husband on all of those things, but I’ll tell you this:

My children will be scared of spontaneous combustion.

As should we all!

--from my 9-2-12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Sky Diva - Diver

Last week, we took the kids to the Lake County Fair because, well, it was Kids’ Night.

Everyone else must’ve had the same idea though. The parking lots were all packed and we had to park at the very outskirts of the fairgrounds. This was fine with us because we got to ride the tractor-pulled wagon all the way up to the gate.

Before we even walked all the way inside, we were met with sensory overload:
•The smells of onions, popcorn, candy apples, peanuts and cotton candy, the diesel smoke from the tractors and the exhaust from the motorbikes, the smell of hay and horses and cows;
•The sights of the flashing lights, the blue ribbons, the rainbow of colors of stuffed animals and flags and quacking rubber ducks;
•The sounds of the screams, shouts, laughter and crying of little kids, the mooing of cows, the dinging of rides and calling of the game attendants, the sharp pops of balloons;
•The gritty feeling on our skin, the warmth of the setting sun, the wind in our faces – it was the perfect night to be outside at the fair.

After waiting in line to get our wristbands, our first stop was The Himalaya ride – the mini roller coaster that goes around in circle. Car 1 and Car 8 were out of order, so the girls chose to ride in Car 13 (of course.)

I always loved The Himalaya as a child – I remember riding it over and over while they played “Sweet Child of Mine” as loud as you could stand it over the loudspeakers. This time, however, all I could hear was Josie singing “All My Exes Live in Texas” and “I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night” to the top of her little lungs.

Then, as they bounded out of the little white car, they saw it: the piece de resistance – The Sky Diva.

Its glittering flashing beauty called to them from across the midway. Its giant wheel and many colored cars signaled the siren call of twinkling wonder. To them, it signified all that childhood is supposed to be – fun, adventure, thrills, beauty. To me, it looked like a 6-story rattletrap of death.

Josie and her dad (against my wishes) decided that they were going to ride it.

As we stood in line, I watched the faces of the poor souls that had gone on before us. I pointed one out to Josie: “That person looks terrified. Are you sure you want to get on that thing?” She shaded her eyes, squinted up and said, “You mean that girl who just grinned and waved at us?”

My husband said to me, “Let them learn to be afraid of their own things… just because you’re afraid of them doesn’t mean they have to be.” He has a point, but still! The thing was scary. (I did, however, make a mental note not to force my weird fears of bats, clowns, house centipedes, waterslides, Ferris wheels, spontaneous combustion and dragonflies onto their little psyches.)

The rest of us stood and watched as Josie and her dad climbed into the creaking, swinging cage. It didn’t make me feel any better when the attendant had to hammer it shut with his bare fist.

The cage proceeded to flip over pretty much immediately and then zoomed them straight up to the precipice of no return. For a few moments we observed the ghastly spectacle, but I couldn’t stand to hear my 7-year-old screaming and yelling while suspended by nothing more than a rusty old bolt, 75 feet up in the air and UPSIDE DOWN.

I finally dragged myself away from the giant wheel of destruction with the remainder of my family, and we headed over to the inflatable jumpy house to pass the time. Jedidiah couldn’t go in but he didn’t seem to care much. He liked looking through the mesh sides and watching his sisters jump. It was hard to keep my mind off Josie and the horrors at the booth next door, but when she met up with us a few minutes later, Josie was super-excited: “YES! That thing was AWESOME!”

I was just glad to see her in one piece.

They went down the giant pink slide three times each, rode the merry-go-round, the swan boats, the big pirate boat and the big spinny thing that holds you on by sheer gravity.

Jedidiah spent a great deal of time in the Metroparks tent, meeting the K-9 ranger dog and sitting on a tractor. They also met lots of mules and donkeys and watched one of the horse shows in the ring. They loved a new attraction called “Pony Petting Time,” where for $1.50 you could pet, brush, feed and groom a pony.

We ate pizza, cheese-on-a-stick (one of the great inventions of the 20th century,) lemonade and ranch and bacon fries. We tripped on power cords, got dust in our teeth, stood in giant lines at the bathrooms and spent $5 trying to win a thirteen cent goldfish. Inspired by some of the displays, we decided to enter some stuff next year to try and win our own blue ribbons.

Josie, coated in a mixture of sugar, dirt and mule germs, summed it up on the trek back to our car 5 hours later: “This was great. I wish we could stay here forever.”

Well, maybe not forever. But once a year at least, the fair really is a magical place when you’re a kid.

And maybe (except for The Sky Diva part) even when you’re a grown-up.


--from my 8/26/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Four-Year-Old Dropout

Last week my kids loved water.

I couldn’t keep them out of the pool. This week, I can’t get my daughter Adelaide into it.

Earlier this summer I signed up (and paid for) all three of my girls to go to swimming lessons. They started this week. The older two are learning different strokes, how to dive and things of that nature.

Adelaide, who is four, was all gung-ho to start lessons so she would no longer be shamed by the dreaded "wearing of the arm floaties.”

But something (I don't know what) happened between last week when we were in the South visiting family - and swimming - and this week when Adelaide made her big debut at the community pool.

Last week, we swam every single day and there were no tears at all. There was no “I’m scared. It’s too deep. Water will get in my eyes. Someone will splash me. I will go under!”

There was no “My head hurts. My belly hurts. I have to pee. My leg hurts. I need my towel. I’m hungry. I need my goggles. I think I have to poop. I hear thunder. Do you hear thunder? I think my arm doesn’t work anymore. Look at my arm!”

There was no “I can’t swim in there. I can only swim next to Sadie and Josie. I don’t like that teacher. He looks mean. He looks like someone I don’t think I like. He has scary sunglasses. I need a girl teacher.”

I told her she was being silly. The teacher was nice and I would be right there at the edge of the pool.

“I cannot get in.”

I showed her all the other kids who were having fun and how the water barely reached their belly buttons.

“I am not going to do it.”

I showed her the games, the plastic rings, the foam noodles.

“Uh-uh. I’m not getting in.”

I pointed out that the water was only one foot deep. ONE FOOT.

“I am NOT.”

I coaxed. I reasoned. I pleaded. I got mad. I threatened. I yelled.

I wasted $30.

Last week, Adelaide jumped right into the pool and swam around like a fish. Last week, she said she wanted to be a dolphin when she grows up. Last week, she didn't want to dry off.

This week, she threw herself down on the (dry) concrete and cried.

Kids are so weird.

--from my 8/12/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Jeddy-boo

I caught Jedidiah reading his little bible in his room in the rocking chair - be still my heart.

Yesterday, he climbed the ladder to Sadie's and Josie's bunk beds, climbed up in the kitchen window sill, broke a crystal platter into a million pieces, drove the little jeep through the neighbor's yard into street, and he was just getting started.

Now he's started leaning away when someone wants to hold him - like he's saying, "get away from me!"

He loves piggyback rides and being way up on his daddy's shoulders.

I love the rolling, chortling, "HEEEEeee" laughs when he gets tickled.

He says "Bebe" and shows his sisters the little plastic 'bebe' he has in his hand.

He likes to walk with his hands behind his back or while holding his belly with his little hands.

He says "Ooof" when he's trying to sit up, turns the water on in the bathtub when he thinks I'm not looking, playing "Peet boo" with his Pooh Bear when I hide it behind his crib and then poke its head out at him, reading "Goodnight Moon" and saying "shush" with his finger to his lips, brushing his teeth, growling like a dinosaur, pointing and saying "dat, dat, dat, DAT!" and getting his hair spiked. Well, Jesse and I like getting his hair spiked, anyway. :)

Little Things

Jedidiah is keeping me so busy I barely have time to write anything! Seriously, I turn my head for one second and he is up on the kitchen counter, in the shower, climbing on the top of the couch, digging through the tool drawer for his favorite 8 inch screwdriver, sneaking into the driver's seat of the van, or headed up the stairs to pillage his big sisters' room.

My favorite things these days: Jed's figuring out that he can make us laugh, and then he laughs along with us. It's the cutest. He likes to shrug his shoulders and squinch his eyes up at the same time (usually while we're eating dinner, so he has a captive audience). It always gets a laugh, and then he goes, "hahahahaha!" like a big boy.

He likes to give hugs (and the sweetest little pats on the back along with them) and big, open mouth kisses. He comes at you fast, so look out. He also feels sorry for his sisters when they cry (even if it's his fault - he bit Josie AND Adelaide yesterday, then said "boo-boo" very sadly and hugged and patted them.

He says boo-boo a LOT, as a matter of fact, since he's getting them pretty much on a daily (hourly) basis. He falls down a lot, since he's always running at warp speed to get everywhere. The girls guard him as much as they can. I love to watch Josie and Sadie helping him around and making sure he doesn't fall off the big rock, off the swing, the couch, the ottoman, or out of the jeep. Adelaide usually just pulls him around when he's messing with her stuff, but once in a while she saves him from danger and yells "NO JEDDY! YOU CAN NO DO THAT! IT IS DANGEWOUS!"

Josie and I have started playing tag where you just stand still and poke each other and say "tag." It cracks me up every time. When she has a "lucky day," she always ends up being UNlucky - tripping, falling, hurting herself, getting into trouble... she's decided she's going to start calling her turn at having a Lucky Day "Josie's UNlucky Day" and see if that helps anything.

Adelaide has stopped asking for Jingle Bells to be her bedtime song and now she wants me to make one up every night about Fairy Dust or Princess Crowns or Barbies or whatever she happens to be thinking about at the moment.

Sadie and I are having some head butting at the moment, it seems. She's really growing up - she's so tall and acts so mature sometimes that I tend to forget that she's only an 8 year old little girl. MY little girl. The moments that she wants to snuggle with me or cuddle or hold hands are getting less frequent - and more cherished.

Softie

My Josie is such a tenderheart... she found a dead bird outside and started crying over it. She asked if she could bury it (how could I say no?) and then she had a funeral for it AND gave it a little headstone. She also Aunt Sharon (aka Aunt Golfcart) not to kill spiders, since they are God's creatures. She's certain that sharks are NOT mean... that they are only doing what comes naturally to them - even if they bite your leg off, it's not their fault.

Don't go in the water...

My girls love anything that pertains to water: buckets, squirt guns, ladybug raincoats, rainbow-patterned rubber boots and umbrellas with handles shaped like My Little Ponies.

They love to ride their bikes around in the rain, squirt each other (and me) with the water hose, run through the sprinkler and play on the Slip-n-Slide.

No, it doesn’t matter how big or small the pool (or puddle) is. If there is enough to splash in, it’s enough for them. I guess this is good news, since our "beach fund" is pitifully insufficient this year.

Take the tiny pool in the photos, for instance. It was the main attraction at Adelaide’s birthday party, and it’s barely big enough to hold one toddler. Once the partygoers saw it, however, they crammed themselves in like clowns into a clown car.

We have a little blue baby pool with a built-in slide that makes its debut from the shed every year in May. The kids clean it out themselves with dish soap and rags and then they reward themselves by splashing in the frigid water.

They also like to splash at the spray parks and swim at the YMCA or the Civic Center. They love to stay in hotels just for the indoor pools. They beg to go to waterparks.

When we go south to visit there are 3 giant in-ground pools within a 5 minute radius – my dad’s, my aunt’s, and my uncle’s. The kids pretend to be sharks (Adelaide informs me that she is a nice baby shark named Miss Rose) and mermaids and dolphins and killer whales. Sadie says there are crayfish in the filter; maybe we should have them for lunch. They shoot their water guns at the bees. They straddle the pool floats which magically transform into seahorses.

Adelaide goes under “without even crying.” Josie learns to do a forward flip. Sadie learns to dive without bending her knees. They all yell CANNONBALL and jump as high as they can over the pool before they splash as much as they can out of the pool. Good times.

But I've noticed that swimming (and slipping and sliding and going down waterslides) was a lot more fun for me before I had kids.

All of this splishy splashyness makes me extremely nervous. Water makes kids crazy. Sometimes they forget and run while on the slippery cement. Sometimes they get excited and jump in too early or flip too late.

Sometimes the little brother doesn’t think the water is as deep as it looks so he hops right in and sinks. Everybody snorts water up their nose, gets water in their ears and blinds their eyes with chlorine. They get bee-stung, they get goggle straps stuck in their hair, they fall down the pool stairs and they scrape their elbows when they get out to get the ball.

They trip when they come back from a potty break, they miss the edge of the pool and fall face first into the deep end and then they accidentally kick each other in the stomach as they paddle away.

Sounds fun, right?

Spending the day by the pool used to be so relaxing for me! Now, I’m in a constant state of high alert whenever we are near the water. My dreaded fear of waterslides notwithstanding, I’m still afraid they will slip, fall in, crack their heads on the side of the pool, whack their necks on the springboard or come up too near the wall and knock their teeth out.

Hey, you never know.

The more we're around water this summer, the more I think that maybe I should cash in that beach fund and stick to the hose. That's just as much fun anyway.

-from my 8/5/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Hands full

Time is going by fast.

Remember when you were a kid and it seemed like summer lasted forever? And Christmas seemed like it would never come?

These days it seems like my birthday is every other week and that my kids are somehow growing through time-lapse photography.

Sometimes when I’m out with my kids, an elderly person will chuckle at my harried expression and stained shirt and say, “You’ve got your hands full!”

They’re right. I do.

And sometimes I feel like I’m not enjoying my life enough. Like I’m not grateful enough or happy enough. It bothers me that I am not always experiencing an “attitude of gratitude.” I try to be happy. I try to find the joy in cleaning up applesauce and throw up and scraping poop out from under my fingernails.

But raising little kids is hard. And people who say things like, “I loved every minute of it when my kids were little!” obviously never had a child pee in the floor in the Sears fitting room or eat a bowl of dog food for a morning snack.

There are moments when you WANT time to go fast. Like when you’re trying to get a diaper fastened before the monsoons begin or when you want someone to finish their temper tantrum and let go of your leg so you can finish lunch.

Yes, the days are long, but the years are short.

I constantly wonder if I’m doing a good job at parenting my kids, and I worry that I’m not enjoying it enough. Maybe I’m not making the most of every moment. Can I make up for “quality time” with all of this “quantity time?”

I’m with my children almost constantly and yet I still feel guilty if I leave them at home while go out for an hour alone. How can I not? They stand in the doorway and wave and blow kisses to me as I back out of the driveway!

I admit it: I look forward to bedtime. But sometimes at the end of the day I wonder what exactly I did with my kids all day. Did I luxuriate in the feel of their hugs? Did I look into their eyes and study the beauty of their precious faces? Did I make them feel special? Did I feed them healthy food and nourish their minds with a good book? Did I really hear them laughing (or crying) so that I can remember the sound of it? Did I do a good job, or did I just barely scrape by with my hands full?

Sometimes, I don’t WANT to tuck my kids in. I want their dad to do it while I go lay in bed and watch Say Yes to the Dress. But in the back of my mind, I worry about the day when I’ll be wishing that I still had my hands full. When they wanted me to tuck them in and snuggle them and sing them lullaby songs.

Parenting fluctuates between being a challenge and being a blessing.

Some days the only thing that keeps me from going off the deep end is reminding myself that those blessings will come. Those lightbulb moments when you teach them something and they get it. Those catch-your-breath-because-that-is-the-sweetest-thing-you’ve-ever-seen moments will come again and I need to be here to witness them – not running in the opposite direction.

Yes, sometimes I wish I was somewhere else. If I didn’t admit it, then I’d be lying. (If you don’t admit it, you are probably lying, too.) But knowing that my babies and my toddlers and my little kids are mine for such a tiny span of time is what keeps me from going over the edge. It’s what helps get me through the hard days (and nights.)

How many times have you spent a sleepless night with a sick baby? How many times have you rocked them or swayed them to sleep on your hip? Sometimes I stop and think – this moment – this is it. This is living.

My baby, his chubby baby cheeks, his long eyelashes, his wispy baby hair, his safeness and tiny hands and his snuggliness and sweet baby smell – this is it. One day soon his snorty little crying pouty face is going to be the face of a teenager. He will be the one backing out of the driveway while I’m the one waving and blowing kisses out the door.

I need to remind myself to slow down and be. Be here in this moment.

Fast-forwarding through the tough poop-under-the fingernails moments will rob me of some precious moments. These times will never be here again. When I’m holding a crying toddler in one arm and trying to change the laundry with the other or when I’m overscheduled and underslept, or when I’m mediating a sibling conflict or praying for direction or healing and I would give anything for a quiet hour to myself – I know that even though it’s hard, it is what it is.

And it goes too fast. Way too fast. And the worst thing in the world would be for me to one day wake up in a clean, empty, quiet house and realize that I have somehow missed it all.

And isn’t the big picture just a whole lot of little pictures put together?

Yes, my hands are full, but all too soon, they won’t be.

-from my article for www.mentorpatch.com from July 29, 2012

Garage Smell

I haven’t had a garage sale in about five years.

Since my two older girls were at camp last week, I seized the opportunity to purge my entire house of clutter. You wouldn’t believe the pile of stuff that I ended up with.

Usually I sell at the Kids’ Stuff Sale at Garfield Park, so I had lots of kids' clothes and toys and books saved up. When I brought all that up from the basement and added it to the “purge pile,” I ended up with a virtual mountain of stuff. There was so much of it that I decided to have a garage sale.

When the kids got home, the first thing Sadie (the packrat) said was, “Why do you always clean out when we aren’t home?”

Hmm. I looked at her and said, “Why do you think? Don’t you dare get anything out of this pile!”

I spent the rest of the week cleaning out the garage, sorting, borrowing tables, setting up tables, making signs, making price tags, making lemonade and making cookies.

Unfortunately, I managed to choose the weekend when it was hotter than a two-dollar pistol. Yes, I actually saw two trees fighting over a dog. As I sweated my butt off and got a sunburn, I watched as people parked in my yard and hauled off my stuff for 1/50th of what I paid for it.

That plus the heat kind of put me in a bad mood.

My kids, however, set up their lemonade stand (well, I set it up for them) in the shade and proceeded to ooze their cuteness and rake in the quarters. They even got TIPS. I couldn’t even get $1 for a pair of Tommy Hilfiger jeans!

Don’t get me wrong. Most of the people who patronized my sale were super nice and friendly – they are my fellow “garage-salers,” just out looking for a deal. There were a couple of meanies though. I’d rather just give my stuff to charity than sell it to meanies.

Here’s my three day schedule:

Put signs up. Pull tables out. Set up stuff. Sort out kids’ clothes. Set up lemonade stand. Make lemonade. Get change. Trip over skis that won't sell for $5. Sweat butt off. Get sunburn. Bicker over 50 cents. Watch yard get turfed. Listen to dog bark head off. Take back pain medicine. Put more ice in lemonade. Pick up everything that fell off table. Take signs down. Pull tables in. Collapse in A/C.

I finally gave up and called Purple Heart to come and pick up about 20 bags of leftovers. I never want to see any of that stuff again!

Nope, I hadn’t had a garage sale in over 5 years.

And now I remember why.

-from my 7-22-12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Sadie's Prayers

A mother robin built a nest in the candelabra on our front porch and the girls checked on the nest every single day to check the progress of the eggs. Unfortunately, on the day they found it, they TOUCHED it before they asked about it and so we were all worried that the mother bird would abandon the nest. Sadie was SO upset and worried and she prayed and asked God to please please PLEASE make the mother bird come back - she would feel responsible if the eggs didn't hatch. The next morning, she SAW the mama bird fly back into the nest and she was so excited... she came running into the house to tell me that "This is my very first answered prayer!!"

Later that week, Sadie lied to me about putting clean clothes into the laundry hamper (of all things). I called her on it and we finally ended up snuggling on the bed in the guest room with her crying. We talked about God and liars vs. lying. It was a hard night of parenting. She ended up with "no screens for a week" and that was hard for her. She has to learn to pay the consequences for her actions. Not that the lie was big, it was over nothing practically - but we have to nip it in the bud. She wasn't allowed to watch a movie when Grammie came over so she went upstairs to read her Bible!

On the day she started her summer dance camp she realized that she had no tutu or leotard that fit. So with 45 minutes to spare, we went on the fastest shopping trip in history to Gabe's and then to Burlington - and we prayed for God to please help us find tights, a leotard, and a tutu. And we did! Sadie made up a rhyme as we pulled in the parking lot: "We made it there with 4 minutes to spare!" It's amazing that God listens to the little things.

However, when I picked her up five hours later, she had had a terrible day and came out crying and just miserable. She said everything went wrong - she tripped over her own feet, she already knew everything, none of the girls would talk to her and they thought she was weird, it was too hot in there and she was sweaty, she ran out of water and she was thirsty...she went on and on about how awful it was. I was so upset... I kept trying to tell her how great she is, and how if nobody wanted to talk to her it was their problem, not hers... and that sort of thing. The truth, but it still hurts when you're a little girl. So the next day she decided she was going to try it again, but when we got there, she got really nervous and didn't want to go in so I asked her if she wanted to say a prayer, and so on the sidewalk in front of the ballet school, we prayed for her to have fun and not be scared and for her to make a friend. (Not to mention all of the praying I did the night before for her).... When I picked her up, she came out with a GIANT smile on her face and said "It was great! I loved it! I won the jumping leaping contest and I made friends and everyone was jealous because I had gummy bears for lunch! Our prayers worked, Mom! God even listens to little things too!"

Favorite Stati - June/July

Grammie tries to take Josie's picture. Josie throws her arms up in front of her face and says, "No geography, please!" Grammie: "Don't you mean PHOTOgraphy?" Josie: Whatever.

My 3 girls are having a "sleepover" in Adelaide's bedroom floor. I went in to kiss them goodnight and I stepped on Sadie's leg. She said, "Ohhh! That's my bad hip!" She's 8.

Today, for homeschooling physics class, we learned that when Jedidiah lifts a super heavy crystal cake tray in the air and throws it on the ground, it shatters into a billion pieces!

Adelaide is working on a Wizard of Oz puzzle. She said, "Hey! Here is part of the Ella Fa Krode!"

Josie: "Baton Camp makes me feel happy and joyous. And also less grumpy."

After reminding my two oldest daughters that they need to be nice to their sister even when she's a pest, Sadie informs me, "But Mom! She keeps persecuting us!"

More Rules for Raising Daughters

Raising girls is a mystery sometimes. That’s pretty bad news for me, since I am one (or at least I used to be several years ago… now I'm getting kinda old.)

There are so many things I need to teach my three girls about life and about being women! It’s intimidating, since sometimes I feel like I haven't really grown up myself.

They are growing up fast. Though I look for helpful hints everywhere I go, I'm still happy to accept new advice into my parenting arsenal. Here is the second installment of tips that I've collected (see numbers 1-4 from last week here), just in case you need some help with your girls.

5. Be polite. In a world where rudeness abounds, it’s a refreshing change to come across someone who holds the door for you or helps you pick up all the stuff you just dumped out of your purse.

Teach your daughter to do those things. Teach her that she’s not the center of the universe and that other people are out there and that they deserve respect. Teach her that good manners are not just boring old rules – they become part of who you are.

You’re her parent. You are not her friend (at least, not yet.) She has friends. She only has one mom (and dad.) Make the world a better place by teaching her to be polite, whether she likes it or not. You can be her friend when she’s grown. For now, be her parent.

6. Teach her independence. Show her that women can do anything.

By following your beliefs and passions, show her that women can be strong. Define yourself and don't be ashamed of it. Be an individual – don't just define yourself as her mom or as her dad’s wife. Be yourself, too, so that she'll see it’s okay to be herself.

Don't teach her to cater to what everyone else might expect her to be. If she's going to lead the orchestra, she has to turn her back on the crowd. Help your daughter figure out who she is, and then be supportive.

7. Share secrets. Talk with your daughter. Most girls love to talk, so talk. Talk about anything and everything. Books, clothes, school, nature, boys, friends, church, dreams, fears – anything.

Communicate. Listen. Your relationship is the most important thing that you can nurture during her years at home with you. Other things may fall by the wayside. Let them. But don't let your relationship be one of those things.

8. Let her be. Your daughter may want to stay home and read (like one of mine) or she may want to go jump out of helicopters (like another one of mine.) Whether she wants to travel or write or play sports or be a ballerina, let her.

Let her be wild sometimes. Let her be sad sometimes. Let her be who she is and love her through all of it. I have a tendency to try to fix things when something is wrong with one of my girls, but I guess I should let go sometimes and let them figure out things for themselves.

If I'm going to train them to be strong, independent adults, then I need to just let them be. Even if that means letting them make their own mistakes sometimes.

9. Let her pick flowers. Girls love to pick flowers. Sometimes to a fault. (I never have flowers growing in my yard for more than a couple of days. Someone always finds them and makes a bouquet to bring inside.)

Just give up. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right? Pick flowers with her. Put them in her hair. Put them in your hair! Make daisy chains with her and fill your house with flowers… what are you saving them for, anyway?

Well, that's all the advice I’ve got for now. Scary, huh? I'm only 8 years in, though. I'll come up with some new material soon.

In the meantime, if you have any good advice for me or other moms out there, please share it. We need all the help we can get.

-from my 7/15/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Rules for Raising Daughters

Lately I’ve been thinking about all of the things that I need to teach my daughters.

I have three of them, and they are growing up at the speed of light.

I read parenting articles, books, magazines and the Bible. I listen to sermons, go to conferences, attend a small group book study and visit any other place I think I might be able to glean a bit of mothering wisdom that I may have missed along the way.

Don’t get me wrong – in no way am I claiming to be all-knowing – I’m stumbling along the road of motherhood just like you are. But just in case you’re always looking for a second (or 22nd) opinion like I am, here is the first installment of some tips for raising daughters that I’ve collected over the past eight years. I hope they help you like they are helping me.

1. Read to her. Read everything you can get your hands on – Dr. Seuss, Mother Goose, Eric Carle, Steven Kellogg, Laura Ingalls Wilder and Tomie dePaola. Don’t forget about classical literature, either. My daughter loves things I once thought she was too young for – things like Greek mythology, Cleopatra and the Bible. Fill her mind with the beauty that her imagination can conjure up and let her see you reading for pleasure too. Show her that there is power in the written word.

2. Let her play dress up. Little girls seem to inherently love to wear pretty dresses and paint their nails. Let her. Who cares if she wears a fairy princess dress, a Superman cape and a Pocahontas wig to the grocery store? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so let her figure out what beauty is to her. Remind her that it’s what on the inside that counts, anyway.

3. Teach her how to love. Love her wildly and fiercely. Show her how to love without restraint, without conditions and without remorse. Love her dad, her brothers and sisters, her grandparents, her aunts and uncles and cousins. Don’t just say that you love them – let her see you loving them actively. Help people, do good deeds, pray for others in front of her. If she gets hurt or her heart gets broken, show her how to dust herself off and try again. She’s going to love the same way you do. Let her learn from your mistakes and your strengths. Teach her how to do it right.

4. Encourage her creativity. If she wants you to dance with her, dance. Dance, even if you’re like me and have no rhythm or even if you always have to be “the prince.” Twirl her around in your arms and let her dance on your feet. Let her sing to the top of her lungs and put on “a show,” whether it’s with an off-key ukulele or a whole bunch of magic tricks. Drag out the dreaded art supplies and let her make messes all over your kitchen table and grind Play-doh all over your floor. Give her Legos and popsicle sticks and a bunch of rocks and string and let her inner engineer take over. Let her try out your makeup, even if she ends up with bright red lips (and cheeks). Teach her that it’s fun to create – and that we all have creativity of some sort inside of us. You can have a clean kitchen when she’s gone off to college. Don’t be the way I struggle not to be. I sometimes obsess so much about messes that I miss great opportunities to bond and make memories (not to mention Sculpey clay figures.)

Next week, we’ll talk about politeness, independence, secrets and manners. If you have any tips for mothering a daughter, I’d love to hear them – and add them to my list.

-from my 7/8/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Scary Mermaids

Around here, someone is always in the bathtub pretending to be Ariel.

My girls have always loved the Disney version of The Little Mermaid. We have Barbie mermaids, Playmobil mermaids, My Little Pony mermaids (perhaps those are classified as sea-horses), mermaid shirts, mermaid books … you get the idea.

Now, my girls don’t scare very easily. They love to play outside in the dark, run through the woods and go fishing with creepy crawly things. They love to watch shows like River Monsters, Man vs. Wild and Shark Week. They don’t blink an eye when learning about mummification or Medusa or the Chimera.

So the other night when my husband let them watch Mermaids: The Body Found, a “pseudo-documentary,” he figured it was a pretty safe bet because it was on Animal Planet, for Pete’s sake. Come to find out, he should’ve boycotted the whole show. We are not talking Sebastian and Flounder stuff here.

Josie, my second oldest, is very matter-of-fact, logical and practically fearless. She watched the show and said, “Humph. Weird.” Then she went to sleep.

My oldest child, however, tends to let her imagination run away with her (I think it's hereditary.) Here is her running commentary during the show:

“This is kinda stupid. How can anybody believe that mermaids came from monkeys? Okay, mermaids do not do THAT. Who the heck would believe this? Okay, that is NOT what mermaids look like. This can NOT be for real. They are horrible! Oh, come on. What a dumb show. This isn't real. Daddy - is this real? Um… this isn't real, is it?”

No matter how stupid it was -- and it was pretty stupid -- the mermaids were still pretty scary, and Sadie couldn't get the picture of them out of her little head. She totally freaked herself out. She couldn't sleep for three nights. She turned on all the lights in the house (even the one in her closet) and she slept with a flashlight.

(She gets it from me. I did the same thing after watching Paranormal Activity.)

She came to my room over and over, nearly in tears and worrying herself sick. I didn't know what to do, since this sort of thing isn't usually an issue at our house.

So we read some nice, happy stories. We said prayers. We thought happy thoughts and sang happy songs. And still she couldn't sleep. As I sent her back to her room a third time she protested, “But Daddy says they're real!” (He didn't.) “Daddy is trying to scare me!” (He wasn't.)

Josie finally tromped downstairs and said, “Mommy. Something has got to be done. Sadie keeps poking me and saying, ‘Hey! Are you awake?’ and I say, ‘Well, I am NOW because you will not leave me alone!’ I have to get some sleep here!”

Since nothing else seemed to be working, I dug deep into my stockpile of parenting expertise and decided to tell Sadie a story about a nightmare I had when I was her age. I had to do something - she was starting to freak me out too! So I snuggled with her on my bed and rubbed her back and began in a soothing voice, “I know how you feel. Once I had a dream about these three creepy little green guys with horns that were hiding behind my bed….”

She smacked her forehead, covered her eyes with her hand and said, “MOM. You are not helping. AT ALL.”

So much for my parenting skills.

Finally, her very reasonable younger sister came up with a solution that my less logical (chicken) brain hadn’t thought of:

“Sadie, just THINK about it. We are a thousand miles from the ocean. Even if those creepy mermaids were real, which they are NOT, they could not get to our house. They do not have feet and they cannot possibly swim up our stairs.”

Sadie thought about this for a second, nodded slowly and went to bed.

Problem solved. Whew. Now we can both sleep.

-

from my 7/1/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Adelaide's prayer this morning sounded a lot like mine do sometimes. She simply said, "God, help me!"

As we were going around the table in Sunday School class on Father's Day, I asked each child what they called their dad. "Do you call your dad 'Dad, Daddy, Papa, or what?'" I asked them. Most of them said, "I call my daddy Daddy." When I got to Adelaide she said, "I call my daddy Rufus."

While putting together a Wizard of Oz puzzle, Adelaide said, "hey! Here is a piece of the Ella Fa Krode!"

Josie (age 6) to a lady who was having a garage sale: "Well, have a good day! I hope your sale goes really well for you. We'll see ya later!"

Josie, in response to me saying that she was a big girl: "I am not a big girl. I am a tiny woman."

Adelaide's weird song while playing with the Little People nativity set: "Baby Jesus, goin to the market, dooley, dooley, doo!"

What Did I DO all day?

“What did you do all day?” my husband asked.

It’s an innocent enough question – I don’t think he was implying that I didn’t do anything. The emphasis was not on the word “do,” as in “What did you DO all day?”

But as I thought back about my day, I found it hard to remember exactly what I did do. How did the entire day slip past without me being able to get anything done at all?

This was food for thought. I decided (as often is the case with me) to make a list. The next day I put a pen and some paper next to my planner and as the day went along, I wrote down the things I did.

Well, I wrote them down when I could remember them, at least. And when no one had stolen my pen.

So here, for your reading pleasure, is a glimpse into the life of a stay-at-home, home-schooling, ordinary mom of four little kids. Read it if you dare (or if you just happen to enjoy the mundane.)

7:31am – Wake up to the sound of dog whining and Jedidiah banging the side of his crib with the palms of his hands. Notice that husband does not (or pretends to not) hear either of these things.

7:40am – Make up my side of the bed. Get dressed, brush teeth, half-heartedly comb hair. (What’s the point, really?) Grab dirty clothes from hamper in bathroom. Get dog out of cage and let him outside. Turn on coffee-maker. Trudge down hallway, prepare to throw laundry in washing machine only to see that it’s still full of the load that I forgot about last night. Throw laundry into sink instead. Try to close Adelaide’s door quietly so her brother won’t wake her up. Open Jed’s door and walk into a wall of what I like to call “the aura of poop.” Sigh, then laugh when Jed’s head pops up over the side of his crib and he yells “MA-MA!” then points at his diaper and grins. Change poopy diaper. Dress wiggly baby. Nurse wiggly baby. Read story to wiggly baby.

8:15am – Bag up poopy diaper and throw it away outside. Take Adelaide’s “breftast” order. Make eggs and turkey bacon while cleaning out dishwasher. Pull Jed out of dishwasher. Head to the laundry room to clear out the dryer and hang clothes on hangers and fool myself into thinking that they won’t look wrinkled later. Switch wet laundry over and put in new load. Help Adelaide get dressed, make her bed and brush her teeth and hair. Check eggs and bacon. Slice up strawberries. Pull Jed out of refrigerator. Make coffee. Get out plates and cups and forks. Answer phone. Give Jed Cheerios to snack on while waiting for the main course. Wash out sippy cup and fill it with water.

8:45am – Yell upstairs to Sadie and Josie to tell them breakfast is ready. Clean up mess that Jed has somehow made all over the floor using only cereal and water (the child has talent.) Fix Adelaide’s doll. Fix Adelaide’s hangnail on her finger. Put ointment and a new bandaid on Adelaide’s knee. Wash hands. Serve up breakfast. Ask Sadie to say a morning prayer. Read the story of Jonah from the Bible. Answer 17 questions from Adelaide. Warm up coffee that I forgot to drink. Clean up breakfast dishes. Wipe Jed’s hands while girls sweep up and wipe the table.

9:00am – Start “school.” Help Josie with her reading. Help Sadie with her writing. Show Adelaide how to stay in the lines and cut out the turtle she colored. Rescue Jed from the top of the couch. Read 8 books from library bag. Break up a fight over a hairbow. Start the dishwasher. Check email. Take out trash. Pick up blocks. Dance to bluegrass music (Josie's choice.)

10:30am – Go outside with kids. Chase butterflies. Chase Jedidiah. Check mail. Push kids on swing. Sweep front walk. Pick up dog poop. Draw pictures with sidewalk chalk. Take sidewalk chalk out of Jed’s mouth. Investigate newest bird’s nest. Kiss Adelaide's boo-boo when she trips and falls on the driveway. Catch a moth, a butterfly, a toad, a frog and some kind of scary beetle.

11:30am – Release today's captures. Go inside, listen to history lesson and do math. Laugh at girls’ new knock-knock jokes. Make two doctor appointments and one dentist appointment. Start lunch. Remember coffee is still in microwave and warm it up again. Answer phone. Wonder where Jed went. Find Jed in my room, drawing all over my list (and his leg) with a permanent marker.

12:14pm – Realize that I don’t have time to keep a list.

7:30pm – Give husband dirty look when he asks me what I did all day.

-from my 6/24/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

Happy Father's Day (Grandpa's too)

"A grandpa is someone you never outgrow your need for."

I don't know who said that first but isn’t that true?

I still miss my grandpa and he’s been gone for more than eight years.

My children, though, are blessed to still have three grandfathers in their lives.

There’s Grandpa, their dad’s dad, who lives on the other side of town.

There’s Papaw, my daddy, who lives in North Carolina.

And there’s Grampie, my stepfather, who lives about 20 minutes from us here in Ohio.

Grandpa is at our house pretty much on a daily basis. He is a tall, imposing guy with a quick wit and a whacky sense of humor. He makes up goofy stories for the kids about an aardvark and a pink gorilla that drives a bus.

He also calls them pet names like “whippersnapper” and “little creep.” One of my baby Jedidiah’s first words was “Gam-pa!”

Grandpa likes to steal food off their plates when they aren’t looking.

He reads them Bible stories and lets them climb all over him.

He takes them out to look at Christmas lights every year (and then out for ice cream.)

He teaches them jokes and pretends that the ones they make up are funny.

They see their Papaw less frequently since he lives in another state but we visit and talk with him regularly.

He is a strong, hardworking, quiet man who grew up on a farm. The kids know all the stories about when he was growing up because I’ve recounted them all.

When we visit he lets them ride on the farm tractor with him. He sits in the back seat of the van and has tickle fights with them while they all sing “The Battle of New Orleans.”

He lets them steal his cap and then he snatches it back and whacks them on top of the head with it and tells them they’re “oofy.” He fixes things, builds things and lets them “help” when he works outside. Jed calls him “Pap-ow Tact-tor.”

Papaw takes them for walks through the woods.

He takes them to feed the ducks.

He shows them how to make scarecrows and kites.

He laughs at their silly stories.

Grampie lives about 20 minutes away and though he doesn’t come over very much, the kids don’t mind because they would much rather go to his house anyway.

They love to spend the weekend there, snuggling with Grampie Don on the couch while they watch cartoons. They love to play ambulance with him (they fall down and he picks them up, spinning around and wailing like an ambulance.)

They like to have “Donfires” in the back yard (he roasts a great marshmallow.) When the girls play dress up, he pretends to be the prince and he twirls them around and calls them his little sweethearts. Jed calls him “Pop Pop.”

Grampie calls the kids just to say hello.

He buys them candy at the store.

He pushes them on the swing in the backyard.

He takes them on “shopping sprees” for their birthdays.

Three very different men. Three very different types of grandfathers.

Three of the most important people in my children’s lives.

Happy (Grand)father’s Day to all of you Grandpas, Papaws and Pop Pops out there. We will never outgrow you.

-from my 6/17/12 article for www.mentorpatch.com

More Stuff

Reading Adelaide's ABC book to her at bedtime -- "Mommy, do not tell me the letters. I can do them. That's A. That's B. That's C. And that one - don't tell me. That one is 2."

Me to a crying Jed, after he fell off the couch and bonked himself: "Oh, Jeddy, what did you hit?" Adelaide to me: "I think it was the ground, Mommy! I think the ground."

Adelaide asked for MORE ice cream after already having a whole big bowl. I said, "MORE ice cream? Are you kidding me?" She said, "Ha ha, yeah Mom. No, actually, I'm not."

Josie, having recently learned the term "birthday suit," jumped around after her bath and informed me that she was going to sleep in her "party suit."

Adelaide wants Apple Jacks cereal for breakfast. She asks for "Hunchbacks."

Jedidiah, freshly bathed and in a new diaper and cozy PJ's, climbed into the (full) bathtub and sat right down when Grandma Beth turned her head for TWO seconds. The kid is FAST.

Jedidiah does such cute things at dinner - we all watch him as the evening entertainment. Recently he added to his repertoire - when we all looked at him and laughed, he looked around behind him to see what was so funny... "Who, me?"

Josie, after hearing her dad's Weird Al song in the car: "Mom, I don't WANT to celebrate Weasel-Stomping Day."

Closet Packrat

“Mommy, sometimes you are allergic to fun.”

This is what my child tells me when I’m on a cleaning binge and can’t think of anything but getting rid of junk. You might not know it these days but I am actually a closet packrat. Not with everything – I have no problem getting rid of Tupperware containers or magazines or old clothes. No, I mainly want to keep sentimental stuff that pertains to my children.

I keep the usual things: the hats they wore at the hospital, the first lock of hair, the baby footprints, the first drawing – but I have a hard time getting rid of the not so usual things. Things like their first tooth. Or their first toothbrush. Or the tissue from the first time they blew their own nose. Or the crust from the first time they ate a sandwich.

That’s why I’m so glad that someone gave me a scrapbook at my first baby shower. I’ve discovered that if I keep tiny pieces of things – things like gift wrap, cards, baby band-aids, doctor visit notes, drawings, etc. – that I don’t feel like I need to keep the entire thing.

As you can probably imagine, this frees up a lot of space around here. If I didn’t do it this way, I probably wouldn’t be able to walk around for all of the traced hand artwork, Sunday School pages, dried flowers and notes to Santa that would be residing in my house because I couldn’t bear to part with them. While my scrapbooks are growing thicker and thicker every year, I have somehow managed (up to now, anyway) to keep them contained to one book per year. It’s getting harder with each additional child, though. It’s much more difficult to chronicle the events of four lives than two or three!

Now that I have my sentimentality issues contained between the (strained) covers of a scrapbook, I am free to deal with the rest of my house. How do extra toys and books and shoes and random things find their way into my house on such a regular basis? Stuff breeds more stuff. I completely clean off the kitchen counter. Then a kid leaves a juice cup and a pencil on it and the next thing I know, the counter is covered with junk again! It multiplies. Whenever there is stuff out of place in my house, I have low-level anxiety. The older I get, the worse it bothers me (just ask my mom – this was NOT the case when I was a teenager.)

These days, I am constantly looking for stuff to throw out, donate or otherwise get rid of. I have a “Goodwill box” in my laundry room to collect stuff that can go. Move it along, I always say. Maybe I’m a little bit allergic to fun, but I prefer to think that I’m allergic to clutter. Unless the clutter happens to be a tooth or an important sandwich.

--from my June 10 article for www.mentorpatch.com