Time Keeps On Slippin', Slippin', Slippin'

Not long ago I was teaching a bunch of 9 year olds how to knit. I don't know if you've seen 9 year olds knit - but they get things pretty tangled sometimes. I told them that when that happened, what they needed to do was hold their knitting up in the air and let it dangle and untwist, just like when the phone cord gets twisted. Eight pairs of eyes went BLINK.
"But phones don't have cords," one little cherub said.
"Er, right. But they used to and what you had to do was - oh just hold up your knitting like this."

My kids think the house phone is "lame" because you can't play games on it, you can't take a picture with it, and it doesn't even tell the time. I still think the house phone is cool because it doesn't weigh two pounds or have a four inch, permanent antenna on the top and I'm not tethered to the wall! How is it that phones can make me feel so old?

I was always the youngest in my crowd in school. I went to boot camp when I was 17. I married a man five years older than I was. I got carded trying to buy a ticket to an 'R' rated movie when I was 30! I am NOT used to feeling old. I am certainly not used to being made to feel old. But recently? The hits, they just keep on coming.

My twentieth high school reunion is in two weeks. How is THAT possible? Twenty years - fwoosh. May 4th - my senior prom was on May 4th and that's the day our reunion starts. By April 28th we're supposed to have a thousand word essay turned in on what we've been doing for twenty years. Homework. On top of everything, they assign us homework! I have to write a paper - about myself.

I know. I know. I blog about myself all the freakin' time, so how hard could this be? It's hard, I tell you. Darn hard. I don't know what to write. "Tell us what you've done and how you've done it," say the instructions. Gulp. I've done lots - but mostly the hard way. With lots of making mistakes and backtracking and ending up somewhere totally unexpected. I don't want to write about that! The instructions also say we can be creative and write our essay in Chaucerian verse or in the form of a sonnet. (Sidenote: What is UP with people wanting sonnets written? Is a sonnet like the new black or something?) Oh Man. I have to write about 20 years of bumbling around and be clever about it? Think Lilymane, think. Think, think, think.

Ok, I'm thinking of writing something like this:
"But was iz? Iseut? Ere were sewers? The oaks of ald now they lie in peat yet elms leap where askes lay. Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish." -Finnegan's Wake

Joyce was clever. Very clever. So clever, in fact, that few people understand him at all (even with all the linky poohs that are available on the web nowadays) and yet all kinds of people pretend to understand what the heck he was talking about because they don't want other people to see that they are not clever enough to understand James Joyce! That's my goal. I want to write 1,000 words brilliantly describing my last twenty years and I want my brilliance to be so apparent and universally acknowledged that no one mentions the fact that what I wrote is utterly incomprehensible. THAT'S the miracle I want to accomplish. By Friday. This Friday. This Friday which happens to be the day before the race . Which I'm also not ready for. I don't feel ready for anything, despite the fact that I've had years in which to prepare!

Oh, oh, oh - and here's another fly in the ointment (eww, I hate that image - I can't believe I typed it). You may or may not remember that Sweet Hubby is recently back from 2 weeks or so in New Zealand (where his company is based). Guess who has to go BACK to New Zealand? This time for FIVE weeks. Five weeks starting the day before my high school reunion (and spanning the Ninja Princessa's birthday, the end of school, my cousin's wedding, and the first week of summer). Just take one little, teeny, tiny, itty bitty guess. (Hint: not me.)

If I were the kind of gal who was into taking mind altering substances I think I would definitely be looking for a bottle of St. Joseph's Valium for adults this morning. Heck - I'd spend the next two weeks taking whatever it is that s-l-o-o-o-w-s time down and then the next five weeks taking whateveritisthatspeedstimeupagain! Sadly I have no time machine (chemical or otherwise). I guess I'll just spend all that time whining, er, blogging.
Peace.

My Life As Rendered By Ionesco Et Al

Absurd. I tell you my life is absurd. I'm practicing my line "Well, of all things!" And I'm taking bets on who shows up first, a Rhinoceros or Godot.

My ex has 'fired' his attorney and 'is dropping' the custody case. And by 'fired' I'm pretty sure he means 'refused to pay' and 'is dropping' is clearly a code phrase for 'isn't pursuing until January 2007'. (I predicted this might happen.) What my ex fails to understand (because he has this for brains) is that legal matters do not work that way. I don't actually know how they work - or even that they do work - but I do know that things are not progressing the way my ex assumes they should.

Here is the email I just got from my lawyer:
"You need to tell your ex to call his attorney as he is still his attorney of record!" because this is the email that she got from my ex's attorney:
"I cannot get my client to respond. Please have your client tell my client to call me. "

I am paying thousands of dollars to be in third grade again?!!!! I have now read this email about 20 times and my reaction is still, "You've got to be kidding me." I am supposed to call my ex and pass on the message that he needs to call his lawyer so his lawyer will know what to say to my lawyer who is waiting for answers to the counter petitions to my ex's original (and ridiculously false) petitions whose only purpose is to take my children away from me?!
I fantasize about writing back and saying "I'm not gonna," or "He started it."

I suppose that what I'll really do, though, is call and leave him a message to call his attorney. I'm such a lemming.

Oh, look! A rhinoceros. Well, of all things!
Peace.

Cap'n Jack Sparrow (In Miniature)

Remember when I told you which treasures the children grabbed to take to shelter with them during the tornados and I told you that Havoc took his beloved picture of himself? Here it is:

A Johnny Depp Mini-Me? Ok, Ok, so maybe it's not quite the link to Johnny Depp photos that author and fantabulous blogger Joshilyn Jackson was looking for, but it's all I've got. And for the record, since she is very particular about ratings - I have to say this G-rated pic falls well within her target PG-13 category. I was a little stumped about how to write an ode (sonnet, whatever) to J.D. that did all of the things Joshilyn was looking for! Clearly, DebR had no such trouble. However, I have something that DebR doesn't have - even with all of her hiakus, limericks, and odes (sonnets, whatever) : I have a joke! You heard me right. As a bonus feature I'll even throw in the joke that Havoc loves to tell while staggering around dressed as a pirate. (Sidenote - Havoc, at 7, doesn't quite understand why Jack Sparrow staggers. He thinks it's maybe because Cap'n Jack was born with 'sea legs' that he HAD to grow up to be a pirate. After all, you can't have a land job if your legs are permanently flimsy.) Ok, so here's his joke (and you'll just have to imagine the staggering, the dimple, and the pirate accent):

Q: What kind of socks do pirates prefer?

A: Arrrrrrrrgyle, Matey!

Hahahahahaha. Pfew. Ok then. I'm done now. Peace!

In Which Lilymane Is Almost Struck By Lightning

Guess what?
It only LOOKED like it was done raining.
Ha ha. The lightning and thunder and rain were lurking. Just waiting for me to even THINK about running. In fact, when I came back in I had to turn off and unplug my computer, there was that much lightning. You know how I said the kids were freaked out this morning? And the dog? Well you can just add Lilymane to the list of Those Officially Freaked Out!
Guess what else?
I need to take a shower. I'm a mess. But I'm a little worried that the lightning is still lurking. I plugged my computer in to test things out a bit.

Haven't been hit by lightning yet. Ha. Sissy lightning. Too chicken to come in the house after me, eh? You're only big, bad Lightning when I'm outside being blown all around by your buddy Wind. Is that it?




(Shhh. Do you hear any thunder? Does it sound close? I think maybe they're truly gone this time. Or at least further out than lurking range. Do you think they could come back before I could shower? I can rinse off really, really fast. That would be pretty safe, wouldn't it? Keep your fingers crossed, ok? )

Peace.

Whatever It Takes, Right?

This sign was in San Fran and it cracked me up. It helps me when I need to get out and run but don't want to. Like today. Only today I have an excuse. It's still raining. There's no more hail, but it's still raining (and thundering a little). I didn't run yesterday because it was raining then too. Only it got sunny (i.e. steamy) in the afternoon and I could have run but it's so hard to run when it's almost 90 and steamy. Whine. Whine. I told myself (promised myself even) that I would run today.
Sad. I hate to break a promise to myself. But did I mention it's still raining (and thundering a little)? What a fair weather runner I've turned out to be.

I could mention that I have new shoes that I don't want to get all mucky. I got new shoes because the guys at the store where I've been buying my running shoes for 20 years (yikes!) told me the cushion on my old ones was COMPLETELY blown. I said, "Really? How can you tell?" I was made to understand that the lack of cushion in my shoes was so obvious that anyone with eyes could have seen. From miles away. Apparently I have no eyes. Even so, I trust these guys. Blind faith? I dunno. They sold me my first pair of running shoes - the ones I took to boot camp. They are both coaches and sell just running stuff. It's not a sporting goods store: no baseballs or soccer cleats or anything. It's all running all the time. I don't think they need a billboard to make them laugh so they can run. They probably don't even think about whether their new shoes (which look EXACTLY like the old ones to people without eyes) will get mucky. I suspect they just run. Like I should be doing right now. Instead of blogging about how I'm not running yet.

EEEEEEK! The race is in 9 days. Nine. Days. The running shoe guys told me that one thing that newbie half-marathoners do is that they don't 'taper'. They get in too much mileage in the last couple of weeks. Whew. Lucky me. THAT's not my problem. Of course, when they told me to 'taper', I don't think they meant for me to 'stop running completely'. The running magazines have helpful articles that address every problem but mine. They cover how to force yourself to taper (key - ease off on the training, do NOT put in too much mileage) , how to come back from an injury (key - ease back into training, do NOT put in too much mileage), how to get better race times (key - ease off on the mileage but run FASTER in training), etc. Not one of the articles answers the plea, "Help! I've stopped running and I can't start back up!"
It's just a wee bit intimidating to realize I'm in a sport where apparently every single person (besides me) has to be cautioned about running TOO MUCH.

You know how the Red Cross gets people to donate blood? Well, I think I should get a bunch of runners to come in and I could suck the motivation out of them and store it for people like me, people who, for whatever reason, need a motivation transfusion. I'd give all the donors t-shirts. And pins when they've donated enough motivation. (Have you earned your Five Marathon Pin yet?) Yeah, yeah, that'd work.

Dang. It's stopped raining. I guess I better go run (even without a transfusion.) But y'all? If you happen to have extra running mojo that you're not using today, you could go ahead and send it down this way.

Peace.

It's Raining Again

My kids are freaking out. So is the dog. They are all hovering near the bathroom, just in case they should need to jump in the tub and pull the mattress over them again.
There are no tornados. I promise. I've showed them the news. They believe me (sorta but not really), but they still want to be close to the tub, just in case. There are no tornados. There is thunder. And lightning. And even some hail. But no tornados.
"Mom! The air is GREEN! I'm going to play cards in the bathroom on the floor, ok?"
"Honey the air is green because it's morning and it's dark and we have green stuff everywhere - see the trees and the ivy and the wisteria? The light is filtering through the clouds and then through all of that. It's a different green than the tornado green."
"You want to play cards with us? We'll let you go first. Hey, Wasabi's taking up all the room in the tub!"
I've told them I'm so confident that this storm is nothing to worry about that I've left all the computers and the tv plugged in - and on - so they can check the weather. See, I'm even blogging?
"Hey mom, we're going to let Havoc go first, ok?
I better go give them some extra love. How many hugs do you think it will take to erase the fear of tornados? I better get started.
Peace.

Chaos = Calvin

I used to love Calvin and Hobbes. And then...something happened. The cartoon was made flesh. And his name was Chaos.

Don't get me wrong. I guess I still love Calvin and Hobbes. Calvin is whacky and everyone needs a Hobbes in their life. It's just that it's a little different for me now that I live with it everyday. I am not exaggerating. Chaos was given a stuffed lion on the day he was born and I suspected nothing. Not a thing.

ChaosLion (whose name is more euphonious in real life) has a mane the exact same shade as Chaos' hair. More than once (or twice or even a dozen times) I have leaned over to kiss a sleeping Chaos and gotten a mouth full of lion fuzz instead. Chaos used to assure me that ChaosLion liked kisses so it was ok. In fact, ChaosLion liked goodnight kisses far longer than Chaos would tolerate them. I used to LOVE to listen to the two of them talking. It cracked me up and probably would have worried me some if not for Calvin and Hobbes. Once, when Chaos was 4 and up waaaaay past his bedtime, I went in to shush him. He said, "Mom, it's not me! Tell ChaosLion to stop roaring. It's keeping me awake and he won't listen to me!" Hmmmmm.

I kept the Calvin and Hobbes books on the TOP shelf because I didn't want Chaos to get any ideas about flame throwers and babysitters! Maybe what everyone else has always liked about Calvin and Hobbes is that Calvin is an archetypal (archetypical?) Boy. I don't know. I thought he was mental and it cracked me up. Now? Things I thought were freakin' hilarious when Calvin did them are, in real ife, annoying (and sadly, still freakin' hilarious). I'll give you a case study. (Ever see the strips where Calvin has to be in a picture?)
I should probably explain that the Quality Inn was a bit odd. They told us they had given us a 'suite' with a jacuzzi - but they didn't mention that they had replaced one of the four BEDS out in the middle of the room with the tub. No kidding. I'm sitting on one bed taking a picture of my family in the 'spa'.









I ask you. Is this normal?












Or this?













Or this? I try not to laugh because it only encourages him - and he has learned (by earning himself weeks of extra chores) that I won't tolerate his silliness in formal portraits or at Thanksgiving. Still. Did you do this when you were a kid? I didn't. It didn't occur to me!
Also - I have to point out how cool the pool water is! Wouldn't that be an awesome quilt detail?

Well, if you ever want to meet Calvin and Hobbes in real life, I have a boy and a lion I would be glad to loan you for your next family photo op.
Peace.

Shoes, Penance, and Chaos' New Look

I have a dear friend, let's call her 'C is for Coffee', and yesterday I got to see her for the first time in months. Our original plan was to split a Salmon Caesar Salad but we got distracted by shoes! Look at these! Aren't they a great reason to skip lunch (and um, my posting responsibilities for the day)?

And since my shoes (cute as they are) aren't really enough blogging penance and also, since I'm in a picture posting mood - here is a picture of Chaos' new look:

Ok, Ok. I didn't really pinch his head off for getting suspended. He just didn't want his picture taken. And I'll tell you why. Remember how Chaos used to look like Ron Weasley? Remember how I surrendered somewhat gracefully when I lost the Hair War and let my 13-year old have some control over his image? Well, during the War, many of the battles were about image/perception/behavior. I pointed out that if he looked like a thug/slacker he was more likely to act like one and/or be treated like one. He pointed out that his look was 'cool' and only completely old and square people like me thought he looked like a thug/slacker and he didn't care about their opinions. (Truth? He made his point in much more polite terms - but that is essentially what he was saying.) He's a good kid with good grades and I allowed as how he could have some more control over his image - hence the scraggly hair, the saggy jeans, and the obnoxious t-shirts. The conditions were that 1) he had to keep his hair clean and out of his face (need I say we later disagreed about exactly how 'out of his face' was defined?), 2) he had to wear clothes I considered appropriate to functions important to me (e.g. Thanksgiving Dinner and church), and 3) his 'bad boy' image did not get to translate into 'bad boy' behavior. There was probably a bit of a gray area in telling him that if he got into 'trouble' he would have to cut his hair. His grades dropped ever so slightly and we had to have follow up amendments defining how big of a grade slide counted as 'trouble'.

However, good kids with (just slightly less) good grades can still make bad choices when angry at being bullied in embarassing ways. Instead of telling the bullies to stop, instead of coming to a teacher, administrator, parent, or coach, and after putting up with it as long as his proto-coping skills and newly minted testosterone would allow - Chaos told the two kids that he would shoot them if he had a gun. This caused him to get into 'trouble' with no gray area WHATSOEVER.

He is lucky he was not expelled. He knows it. I certainly know it. I was a youth minister when Columbine happened. How can a threat like that not be taken seriously today??? Oh my boy. My angry, embarassed, smart-in-some-ways-and-not-in-other-ways boy. I love you. But we're not letting any of this slide. The school has been fantastic. The teachers all said he is respectful, and a leader, and a little silly in a good way, and they like him very much. The administrators said they believe he is a good kid who made a bad choice and they want him to stay in their school and they want to help him learn some skills for navigating the rocky road that is middle school (and high school and life!) The Vice-Principal told me that he stood up straight, looked her in the eye, and told her the exact truth about what he'd said. She said she was very impressed with that show of character. She said he truly understood the severity of the situation and he was honestly remorseful. She reassured me as not only an experienced Vice-Principal, but also as a mother of grown sons, that as serious as this is, it would be ok.

When I picked him up from school (just before the tornados), he wasn't sullen or pouty or obnoxious in any way. He told me he was sorry. He hadn't meant the threat, but he'd wanted them to stop and leave him alone. He also admitted he was angry about lots of stuff and that it had come out indirectly. My mother (who is a therapist and also his biased grandmother) spent an hour talking to Chaos that night. She was surprised at how well he was handling everything. He talked to her about what had happened, about what he could have/should have done instead, about his new restrictions, and about his feelings. VBGF (who is, as you may remember, a seventh grade math teacher) talked to him, too, and reassured me that I wasn't being naive - that he is a good kid, that this will be ok, and that she believes with all her heart in him. I needed to hear all of those things - because when the Vice-Principal first called I was completely shaken. Chaos had been so well behaved at home for two or three weeks. Not in a fakey way either. He had a genuinely good attitude about things and was showing some proactive kindness, generosity, and hop-to around the house. He was being so responsible that I had finally given in three days before and let my sons use their money to buy Air Soft Guns.

I had been EXTREMELY reluctant to allow these, in my opinion, real-looking guns. They are modern BB guns. Only safer, actually. They shoot soft foam pellets. But they look real, the foam pellets still sting a bit sometimes, and darn it - I was hit in the face with a BB gun as a kid and I don't like the idea of them. LOTS of kids here have them. Heck - LOTS of kids around here have real hunting guns and like to shoot animals with them. ICK!!! At least my kids aren't interested in that at all. But they LOVE army games. They love strategy and weapons and running around. Laser-tag, nerf guns, paintball - they LOVE stuff like that. After talking to other parents (and trying NOT to remember how my guy friends in high school had loved nothing better than having bottle-rocket wars in the middle of the night at constructions sites!!!) I finally agreed the boys could buy these guns - BUT I had LOTS of rules. They had to buy protective eyewear with their own money too. They had to sign the contract with all of the rules printed out on it and there was a zero tolerance policy. No skirting the lines. They muck about with ONE safety rule, or aim at one animal, or in any way shape or form break a rule - that was IT. No more guns. Permanently.

Arrrgh. Can you imagine the first privilege I took away? The airsoft guns were gone before I even went to pick him up from school. Chaos lost his investment (almost a hundred bucks!) and he lost the privilege for everyone. Mayhem will get his money back, but there won't be any more airsoft guns in my house. When I did pick Chaos up from school, we went straight to get his hair cut. (I didn't know about the tornados heading our way at the time.) My ex had a hissy fit and accused me of embarassing our son, shutting him down so he wouldn't talk, and in general, of being a bad mother while he himself sympathized and wanted Chaos to know how much he 'supported' his son. Ole Tapioca Head will take any position that lets him be the buddy, buddy 'good guy'. I explained very carefully that I had no interest in embarassing or shaming Chaos. I was instituting restrictions that made sense and I was following though on the agreement Chaos and I had made. A deal is a deal and actions have consequences. (What kind of mom would I be if I didn't bring home this lesson on consequences??) One consequence for our son is that his hair, butt-crack revealing jeans, and snarky t-shirts are gone. At this very moment he's at school in cargo shorts (that don't even need a belt to stay up), a collared polo shirt, and with hair that looks like

In truth, he misses the sloppy pants and his beloved "I'm so dark I fart bats" shirt more than he misses his hair. He told me that at least he won't be so hot this summer.

I'll say one last thing. I do worry very much about boys, violence, and stupidity. I didn't grow up around boys at all. When I started dating them, they completely baffled me. It's not like I was totally prissy. I think I just had a healthy appreciation for reason and safety. Not so the boys I knew. They did stuff like throw explosives at each other and laugh when direct hits resulted in burned clothes and hair. They stole their parents cars in the middle of the night and ran into trees. I totally didn't grok it. And then I had my very own baby boy. And then another. And then another. How do you (and why should you want to) raise a son to be 'normal' if you aren't comfortable with what it means to a 'normal' boy? I was bound and determined to win the nature vs nurture battle. And often, I realize I'm losing. Sometimes it's ok. I have found out that a lot of 'normal' boy stuff is actually ok with me. I've also learned more about raising girls. I know now that it's not totally a nature of boys vs nature of girls issue. I needed all the reassurance that my husband, VBGF, my mother, and the Vice-Principal could give me that Friday afternoon. But ultimately, do you want to know what reassured me the most?

Chaos himself did. Not by saying the right things to the right people a la Eddie Haskell or even by doing the right things like standing up straight and looking folks in the eye. What reassured me most that Chaos was the sweet boy I believe him to be was this. When we finally got home on that long, dark day in the break between the tornados, the kids grabbed a few precious things to keep in the bathroom with them. Mayhem grabbed his totem bear Prometheus and his D&D books. Havoc grabbed Day Horsey, his picture of himself as Capt Jack Sparrow, and his dice. The Ninja Princessa grabbed her copy of Harry Potter and a blanket. Chaos? He grabbed Wasabi's things and yelled down the hall to me, "Mom, the little kids are all set up in this bathroom. Can you come be with them? I've got the dog and I'm going to take him into the other bathroom and get under the counter. He's scared and I think he'd be happier in there but I don't want him to be alone. Ok?" His 'treasure', the thing he cared most about, was to make sure the little ones were ok and were going to be more ok by me coming to be with them - and that the dog was loved and taken care of.

It might be a long and rocky road - and we may be at the very beginning of it - but I think it will truly be ok.

Peace.

It's Not Mary Oliver

TIME
FUCK SPACE AND TIME
BE
WHAT WILL I BE
WHEN
WHAT'S THAT YOU SEE
ME
AND HOW DOES IT GO
SHOW
WE SHOW NOTHING THOUGH
YOU
I CAN'T KNOW YOU
FOOD
JUST SEX AND FOOD
DEATH
IS THOUGHT'S LAST BREATH

by Timothy S. Donahue

It's not M. O., but it's my second favorite poem of all times. For almost fifteen years, it was my favorite and then I read Mary Oliver. Sorry Tim! (Timmy? Mr. Donahue? T.S. Donahue?) Even if it's not my very, very favorite anymore - I still love this poem. I love that it's in all caps to be even (not to scream - handwritten it would look like military handwriting); matter of factual angst; and rhyming in almost a little kid way. It's like an existentialist's hand clapping rhyme - 'Say Say Little Playmate' for black turtleneck wearing folks (or were those the Beatniks?) . Whatever the labels or dress code, I love this poem. I love it so much that it's almost worth getting sued for sticking it here without permission. (I don't know where to go to even ask for permission! Universe, can I have permission to put this, my now-second favorite poem of all times, on my blog? I'll take that as a 'yes' thank you.)
And today? It fits my mood (in a back-to-basics kind of way) so I thought I'd share.
Peace.

What Is Up With Easter Bunny Scarecrows?

There are two of these tall, skinny, painted, made-of-straw Easter Lawn Bunnies in my neighborhood. Are the people who put them there trying to scare something (or someone, like me) away? I am not big on lawn decorations to begin with (<--understatement of the century) - but I seriously hate these skinny, strawy, scary bunnies. Second place winner in the "why oh why, someone please tell me why you would put these in your yard" category are the GIGANTIC, plastic, colored eggs that look like what stegosaurus turds would have looked like if dinosaurs could have pooped in technicolor. Do I even need to mention that the people who have these most horrid of decorations are the VERY people who are convinced that there was a 'War on Christmas'? These are the uberChristians who routinely amaze me with their narrowness and obliviousness. Has no one EVER explained to these folks that the bunnies and the eggs are all PAGAN pre-Christian symbols of spring, regeneration, and fertility? I'm all for celebrating those things myself - but I happen to know that those folks aren't. I like the redemption and resurrection parts of Easter too. I can't really find anything I don't like about Easter - except the lawn bunnies and dinosaur droppings! Gah. I guess I'll go explode some Peeps in the microwave to get my frustrations out.
Peace.
Oh, hey - I don't have a microwave, or um... any Peeps. I think I'll take myself to the movies instead!

Happy Easter!

We've packed up the kids and are driving about 4 hours to go to the zoo, a museum, and a pool. We'll probably spend the whole time clustered around the table playing games but it's good to pretend we might do something a little more mainstreamly cultural.
Peace!

In Which I Become A Grammar Nazi (Of Sorts)

Maybe it's hereditary?
When I was about 11, I sent my paternal grandfather a letter - an actual letter, not an obligatory thank you note - telling him about my new school and life in general. He sent it back to me with my grammar mistakes circled in red pen. Yeah, that was the last letter he ever got from me. I continued to correspond with my other grandfather for 15 years, but THAT man? No way. He totally blew it right then and there.

My father was never quite that obnoxious. To this day, he still corrects my French and English and sometimes misses the whole point of what I'm trying to tell him, but I don't get bent out of shape about it. In fact, on occasion I've been able to give as good as I got. One of my favorite moments of all times was getting to correct his correction by being able to explain in complete detail the French grammar rule that he had learned incorrectly. He is a good sport and we've spent hours looking things up together. When this book came out, we sent each other copies that crossed in the mail. I have had to explain (and frequently remind) my father that his parental status may give him the right to correct me forever and ever amen, but it does not extend to correcting other adults, even those related by marriage (e.g. my first husband or my in-laws for heaven's sake!)

"Really Daddy! Don't be rude." I used to say. But what I wanted to say was, "Oh now you've done it! Now I'll have to listen and be sympathetic and reassuring all the way home to smooth his ruffled feathers! Can't you just let it go for once?" My ex was very defensive and I had to put up with a lot of "Who does that man think he is?" after these episodes. My new husband? You know what he does? He says things to my father like "Hey, where's your phone book at?" On purpose. He totally loves getting my dad's goat. I think Sweet Hubby is just angling for a way to work in the phrase 'up with which I will not put' a la Churchill, but so far my father hasn't fallen for it. Falling for it or not, my dad loves my new husband. My father couldn't imagine why a sane man would date a woman with three young sons, but he realized Sweet Hubby was perfect for me when he heard us arguing over which dictionary was authoritative enough to decide our word squabble. He immediately gave us his blessing.

I've never been much of a grammar nazi myself, or so I thought. I decided early on that the grammar nazi gene must skip generations or something. Sure, it made my eye twitch to hear the ladies at daycare tell my son to "lay down", but I didn't ever say anything about it. I was sure that the minute I corrected anyone I'd hear back, "Hey Pot, this is the Kettle. You're black too!" After all, I have creative punctuation and I like to make up words and run-on sentences and fragments are fun!! Recently though, I've come to realize how judgmental I really am. I can forgive dangling participles and random captilization. I can (easily) ignore ignore split infinitives (and pointless paranthetical expressions). Fiddling with idioms or using the completely wrong word, however, grates on my nerves.

The poor lady next to me at the nail salon the other day has things that grade on her nerves. I'm lucky THAT isn't my problem. My problem is that I've realized how much I subconciously believe that the inability to tell the difference between certain words and phrases indicates stupidity. My son, Chaos, drives me batshit by saying things like, "Wow. That musta cost a leg and an arm." He's a smart guy, but I just know that someday he's going to say something like "For all intensive purposes..." and I'm going to LOSE it. Don't those people make you want to SCREAM?!!!!!!!!

The grammar nazi gene has clearly not skipped me although I've only gotten partial expression. Perhaps the gene has been damaged somewhat as it's been transmitted down through the ages? Sadly, I've come to the conclusion that it has skipped Chaos entirely. Or worse. What if the grammar gene is recessive and the malaprop gene is dominant? What if caring about the correct use of homophones is merely a remnant (a vestigal appendage) of a predisposition for grammatical skills? What if the ability to perceive grammatical choices (much less the ability to make 'correct' ones) is becoming extinct while hereditary malapropism is on the rise? What if my ex's genes are more powerful than mine in the long run???

Given the evidence, this is conceivable. Probable even. Chaos' father sent me the following in conclusion to a battle we've been having over how to handle what happened last week. He wrote, "On the subject of [our son], and the consequences of his suspension, I respect your opinion, but I defer in it." Wouldn't it be peachy if he did 'defer'? Alas, I can only conclude from contextual clues (aka scathing remarks earlier in the email) that he really means 'differ'. There is hope for Chaos though, even if his high school English teacher and I have no effect on his malapropishness. I know I worried here about his career options, but just this morning I was told there people like him in major corporate headquarters.

At our Burger King (yes, the same folks who brought you this), the new digital ordering screen has a streaming banner across the bottom that says, "We now except credit cards!!!!!" When I asked the nice manager if she could perhaps change it, she replied, "Naw. There's nuthin' can be done from heyah. You have to talk to the folks at the Big Office. I think they check those things real good." Yes. I'm sure they do. I wonder if they will still be excepting job applications when Chaos is ready to enter the workforce.
Peace.

Still Not Unpacking

I'm still in the midst of garden therapy. Or maybe it's yard therapy, since I'm fairly sure that the extensive gardens I inherited with the house last summer have given up on me. I don't know a thing about actual gardening. I'm pretty good with irises - but as those are quite difficult to kill, I don't think that's much of a feather in my gardening cap.

I've been so unsettled this week after all of last week's sturm and drang. It's helped to cut the grass and water the flowers I can find. It's helped to pull up weeds (or flowers ugly enough that I think they're weeds.) It has helped to do all of this with my son at my side. He has nattered on and on and on about War Hammer and plate mail and chain mail and Roman soldiers and Vikings and face plates and weapons through the ages. We have talked a little about what got him in trouble and we've talked a whole lot about everything else he's interested in. I've needed that reconnection with the earth after last week's fearsome storms. I've needed that reconnection with the sweetness in my son after last week's surprising trouble. I haven't quite figured out a solution for the whole 'gifted' mess I have to untangle for Havoc, but maybe you'll get an earful of that tomorrow.

For now, we're going to fix some lunch and eat in the courtyard and then go lie in the grass. I'll leave you with my very favorite poem of all times, Mary Oliver's Summer Day. "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
Peace.

Drive By Blogging

Today's post is barely a post.
I have so much to say and so much need to say it - but I can't. I can't unpack last week. I can't put it all neatly on the blogging table. Not yet. I will when I can.

When I can - I'm going to rant about the label 'gifted' and the dysfunctional process of acquiring that label for your child.
When I can - I'm going to wail about what it feels like when the school calls to say your child has just earned 3 days of Out of School Suspension.
When I can - I'm going cope with what it was like to be with my children 'locked down' in the school hallways, cowering under gym mats while tornados ripped through our community.
When I can, I'm going to figure out how to answer my children's questions about the tornados that savaged their old school, shredded new brick homes, and killed more than a dozen people in subdivisions not far away.
Today? Today I can't process any of it. I can't do more than this quick blogging pass, even though I have electricity and the cable connection back a week earlier than 'they' thought it would be restored. Today all I can do is take my kids (and three or four of their friends whose parents had to work though the county schools are closed) outside to garden, scooter, play with the dog, and revel in this gorgeous day. Today we're trying to remind ourselves that Mother Nature is good (most of the time). Today we're being grateful to be here to enjoy the day together.
Peace.

8 Miles

NOT to be confused with 8 Mile. I can promise you there won't even be any Eminem on my MP3 player tomorrow when I try to run 8 miles. EIGHT. MILES. In a row. Without anything but me, my cute running shoes and socks, and my Eminem-less MP3 player to power me along. Unless you count VBGF who will be running beside (and probably in front) of me. She might come in handy in case I need her to drag me along or point me out to the ambulance crew.
There are days when I think, "What on earth is up with this running thing anyway?!"
And then remember how much I want to do this. Sigh. Ok 8 miles, ready or not, here I come.
(If I don't post tomorrow, you should guess that there are not dataports in every room in the hospital, no matter what their brochure says.)
Peace.

Oh, The Bad Mommyness

Recently I took all my children shopping at Chez Target. I will try not to wax poetic but you must know how much I love that place. In particular, I laud and magnify the store designer who thought to centrally locate the dressing rooms! Gone are the days of trying to keep four boys from misbehaving while bored out of their gourds in the girls' department as their sister tries on EVERYTHING. I (once and only once) went the route of sending my sons over to the boys' dressing room by themselves. What brand of crack was I smoking that day?! Anyway...

These days it's Target or nothing if I have them all (or even four-fifths of them all) in tow. On this particular day in Target, we were stocking up for spring and early summer. And we weren't the only ones. Maybe it was the tornado outside or maybe it was simply 'the' place to be on a Thursday night after 8, but that back corner where the dressing rooms are was hopping.

Havoc, who is seven, had finished trying on his clothes before all of his sibs - which is not surprising because he likes everything I pick out for him and 8 slims fit him perfectly. He was skipping around being cute and everyone (all 412 of them loitering around the changing rooms) thought he was the bomb diggety. Especially compared to his brothers who were not remotely adorable. Chaos was insisting that any pair of jeans that came in contact with his body above his butt crack were waaaay too tight. Mayhem was complaining about the itchy tags and icky colors of everything. The Ninja Princessa was neither adorable nor a pain in the potatoes - she was just intent on making sure she knew ALL of her clothing options. (If you think that my timing in hitting Target a mere hour before they close was accidental then you have NEVER been shopping with the Princessa before! It's a great way to limit the damage without being the bad guy. Try it on your own Princessa. You will love me for it.)

The other mothers gave me knowing looks and sympathetic smiles as they dealt with their own (pre-)teens. The hordes of older teenagers hanging around all wanted to talk to me about my piercings (and thereby completely fool Target management into thinking they weren't either the best friends or the love-stricken admirers of the two ridiculously beautiful girls handing out dressing room numbers and manning the walkie-talkies.) More than one teenager commented on what a big family we had and more than one mom said something like, "I don't know how you do it. It's all I can do to manage with just two." Right on the heels of one of these comments, up skips Havoc.
"Mom! Mom! Can I have these cute flip-flops? They're right over here!" Then he skips just around the corner and YELLS, "They're blue and gold and say Co-Ro-Na! Oh Mom! Your favorite!! CORONA! Just like the church key you have. Doo da loo da loo loo! Cerveza senor?"
Ok - I do, in fact, have a bottle opener that sings a little song and asks (in a sultry voice) 'Cerveza senor?' (it was some freebie somewhere along the way) and for my whole life bottle openers have been called church keys but... man, that boy's timing! The teenagers thought Eddie was EVEN MORE adorable now and the mothers chuckled.

Oh the bad mommyness of it all! Of course, I told Havoc he could not have Corona flip-flops (and no, they weren't sized for a seven-year old anyway or there'd be waaaay more to this little vignette.) I really, truly hope that I did not leave the impression that it takes alcohol to have a big family (in the first place) or to manage it (in the second place)! And if I compromised on the definition of "above your butt crack", bought Hanes shirts with no tags, bribed the Princessa with her very own copy of Harry Potter on DVD to hurry up, drove through the end of a tornado, put the kids to bed immediately and had a beer (with a twist off cap), then I'm not telling a soul.
Peace.

Go Terps!!!

NCAA CHAMPS in College Women's Basketball! Over DUKE. D-U-K-E!! Go Maryland!
I'm not a rabid sports fan. (Really!) I've managed to see only one or two of the women's games this year - but ya' gotta be true to your school, right?
And it was a hell of a game! Coming back from a 13 point deficit (tying the second biggest comeback ever) in OVERTIME and winning the women's title for the first time in the school's history - with a team that was mostly freshmen and sophomores!!!
Oh Maryland, my Maryland!!! (Did I mention they beat DUKE??)
Peace.

Dangerous Things To Do In San Fran

1. Believe the hotels that say they have a dataport in every room. (Hah!)
2. Stay in a hotel next door to this. (Almost makes up for the lack of dataport.)
3. Allot less than an hour here. (Really I think I almost had a stroke trying to decide what I absolutely couldn't have. I wanted EVERYTHING!!!! An hour is NOT enough time to decide which Angelina fibers you can live without.) *Ok so it's technically NOT San Fran - being on the Monterey Peninsula two hours south of the city and all - but still you were warned. Give yourself more than a fly by in this shop!!!
4. Look up at this too long. It is ridiculously easy to fall in love with a tree.
5. Order a margarita from the Orbit Room if you happen to be allergic to blood oranges, mint, hibiscus, or cranberry! Or if you have any time limits at all. I'm telling you, a margarita from this place is a thing of beauty but a girl could die of thirst while the prissy boy bartender makes the drink just so!! (For a more traditional (and much faster!) marg, try Harvey's!)
6. Rent a really hot Mustang for the week without having a budget for speeding tickets.
7. Eat at 'We Be Sushi - Just Like Mom Used To Make'. (It's the only dangerous thing on this list that I did not personally do. Perhaps they are the best sushi joint in the whole town. It's quite possible. I just wasn't brave enough to find out! (Also? It was 7 am when we got lost and saw that sign. My bravery may be time sensitive.)
8. See V for Vendetta on a Saturday night in the heart of the city and then go to an amazing, pulsing club, get no sleep, fly home through storms, storms, and more storms, and forget (in the turbulence) that Dramamine and beer are probably not so good together!

I'm finally awake. I had a FABULOUS time. I faced my demons in Monterey (and will likely have a quilt to show for it.) I ran along Asilomar Beach (1 hour 12 min and 37 seconds!!) I wandered the Castro with my very best girlfriend. I ate Lobster Bisque at Fisherman's Wharf. I lost my mind in art (color, fabric, ink, fiber!!!) shops. I reconnected with folks I hadn't seen in years and years. All in all, it was a successful, powerful, and transformative pilgrimage.

Peace.

Progress

Mr. Bush,
You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

Homecoming

Sweet Hubby is HOME! He's been in New Zealand for the past 10 days which I've tried not to whine about a lot. What's to whine about afterall? There he is, stuck in one of the most beautiful places on the planet (not that I know about NZ's beauty firsthand because even though the VERY FIRST conversation SH and I ever had was about how much we both were dying to go to NZ, I've been there zero times to his three) and missing out on all the fun at home what with all the vomiting and diarrhea. I know he has been very homesick. Very homesick. So homesick that I'm sure he was just kidding about wanting to stay there an extra week.
Peace.

Feast Or Famine And All That

I'm 'paying forward' with the blog posts again because

1. I'm trying to avoid doing laundry. (Blogging is ever so much more fun.)
2. I'm relishing my quiet studio. (I think my dog gave himself laryngitis)
3. I'm leaving for a pilgrimage (of sorts) to Monterey and San Fran on Friday. (I have no idea if I'll be able to post or not while I'm gone.)

So y'all be good or be good at it while I'm gone. Peace.

Random Connectivity

I already posted about my recent brush with fame but I have an older, more surreal story to tell.
Back in '94 when I was pregnant with Mayhem, we lived in a cute little condo that was one of a set of six on a fairly busy road. Chaos was two. My husband worked crazy shifts at the hospital. One night as he was leaving us to go to work, a HUGE shadow lumbered toward him. Our neighborhood was a little funky and mostly safe (although there was that one time my father was held up at gun point in our driveway.) My husband said he freaked out because he didn't know what to do: get in the car and try to run over whoever was coming up on him or run back in and try to protect his pregnant wife and child. Before he could decide, an enormous man walked up and said, "Hey man, I'm your neighbor and I just wanted to let you know that I see you leaving sometimes. I want you to know that I'll make sure your place is ok. I sit out here a bunch and I just wanted you to know I'm watching out for you." I'm sure my husband said something like, "U-u-uh-uh th-th-th-thanksssss."

I met our neighbor for myself the next evening. (*Sidenote is that we never saw these people in the light of day. They had ivy growing over their windows and a sign on the door forbidding anyone to knock on the door before noon. The irony is that on the other side of them was a preschool with screaming children that ran around outside for most of the mornings!) Our neighbor turned out to be a super nice guy along the lines of 'he may look like a big meanie but he's really a teddy bear'. But not quite, because even when you KNEW he was a nice guy he was still mostly terrifying to look at. He was beefy in a mutant kind of way with a 'weathered' face (to be nice about it.) And he was big. Did I mention that? As in GII-NORMOUS. To this day, he is still the scariest person I have ever seen upclose, but he was taken with my toddler and quite protective of me. I'd never had anyone menacing watching out for me before. I'd always dated the tall, stringy, brainiac types. I hate like heck to admit how comforting it was to know he was out there scaring off all the bad guys.

One night (rather more like 1 or 2 am) we were startled awake by a horrible bleating noise. We had both teleported into Chaos' room before we were truly awake. We looked at our peacefully sleeping toddler. We looked at each other and then around the room. Then from behind us came the noise again - a staccato, LOUD, bleating. Like a rhythmically dying cow. We hurriedly left the room and shut the door so Chaos would stay asleep and we ran to the window. No cow that we could see. <--And that was good because it would have been really weird to have livestock wandering around getting dead in the middle of the city. I made my husband go outside and see if he could figure out what that noise was. He came back in and said, "It's our neighbor." "Our neighbor is dying?!" "No, he's laughing. There are a couple of people all sitting around on the hoods of their cars in the driveway in front of his place." "What's making that noise then?" I asked. "I told you. It's Tex. That's what he sounds like when he laughs." (I did mention that he is the scariest human ever, right?)

Sometime later (again at night), I saw Tex hobbling around his driveway with his leg in a cast. "Hey man, what happened? You get run over by a mac truck?"
"Naw. Actually it was a beer truck. In Canada." (<-I think it was Canada.)
"Really? You got hit by a beer truck?! And you lived?"
"Shoot. I walked away. It's the truck they had to haul off."
No lie. The man got hit by a fully loaded beer truck and walked away. The truck they towed. They told him they'd send him the grille. I totally didn't believe him until a couple of days later when he showed me an article in a paper that a friend of his had sent down. I skimmed the article and it was all about how Tex had gotten run over while filming on location. Filming? "Hey! You're in a movie? Wow." He looked at me funny.
"I've been in a couple."
"Really? Like what?"
"Like 'Raising Arizona' and.."
"No shit! You don't just look like the scary motorcycle guy, but you ARE the motorcycle guy!"

(Can you believe I said that outloud?) Luckily for me (but not for my eardrums), he thought that was hilarious and laughed his dying moose of a laugh. I made him laugh even more when I told him my husband had momentarily debated whether or not to run him over with our tiny Hyundai the first time they met. He wheezed out, "Run..me..over..with..that?! Hawwwwwwww! Hawwwww!"

He showed me some of his movie posters once, but what I remember is how daaaarrrrrkkk their house was and jumbled up with that is the memory of an eight-foot tall, stuffed animal cheetah. Possibly the cheetah is something that the guy who had the house after them found in the attic - so it might not be connected to Tex Cobb at all but that's how my mind works - it just dumps everything associated into one file.

I failed to find a publicity photo of Tex from 'Raising Arizona' to post here (so if someone with better research skills than I finds one send it my way!) But I did find this on a guy named Brian's site. (Thanks Brian! He looks better in this picture than I've ever seen him!)

Our story could have ended with that, except I was talking to my grandfather at one point after Tex moved somewhere else. Somehow my grandpa and I got talking about meeting celebrities and I told him I had had Tex Cobb as a neighbor.
"Oh the boxer. Bit o' trouble he's in with the IRS. I hear he's an all right guy though."
"No gramps. I lived next to the actor." Shows how much I knew. Turns out gramps was right and Tex was a hugely famous boxer. (Like I follow boxing. Eeeewwww. But it sure does explain the way he looks, eh?) And I wish gramps had been wrong about something, somewhere because the next thing my grandfather said was, "We're kin to him, you know."
"To whom? Tex Cobb?? No way!"
"Let's see, his grandmother was Katie's sister." Katie being my grandfather's mother. I knew she was from a huge family - one of eleven or twelve. My grandfather was born in Deming, New Mexico but I don't know where my great-grandmother grew up. "He and Patty would be second cousins." Patty is my mom. My petite, beautiful, red-headed mother. Cousin to the scariest human ever.
"No way Grandpa! You are making that up." My grandfather gave me the hairy eyeball. And with good reason, I don't think the man told a lie in his whole life.

So there you have it. Not only did I live next to a guy who looks like this on a good day, but we swim at the same end of the gene pool. I think I am glad not to have known about all that when I was pregnant. I'm just sayin'.

Peace.

My Kind Of Sport

I very much want to do this! http://www.geocaching.com/about/

Philosophy and Hair Removal

The Pessimist: What's this? Dang! I forgot to shave my right leg.
The Optimist: Hey, but the left one is verrrrry smooth.
The Theorist: Hmmm, maybe I shaved the left one twice?
The Realist: Holy Crap! I was supposed to be at school five minutes ago!
Peace (if there is such to be had in this legs-are-half-shaved kind of world)

10K

I forgot to brag on myself. This past Saturday I ran my first 10K EVER! VBGF was in town to work on her National Teacher Certification and train with me. And we did it. In fact we did a total of 6.5 miles. It was slow (as in your granny could walk faster than I can run) but I. don't. care. I did it! I ran a 10K. I have only five weeks to tack on the rest of the mileage for the half marathon. (eeeeek) I refuse to worry about that part though. I'm going to save all my worry energy and use it to run. (riiiiiight) That's my plan. More running news later.
Peace.

Be Vewy, Vewy Quiet

Shhhhhh. He fell asleep. He fell asleep almost mid-bark. The barks had been starting to dribble off when I heard a weird, growly yawn. I tiptoed out of my studio and saw him splayed out on the tile. Asleep.
Who knew dogs could snore like that?? Not that I'm complaining. Snoring is sooooo much better than barkety, bark, bark, barking!
Peace (oh, and blissful quiet, at long, long last!)

Barking Spree

My dog has been happily, joyfully barking for THREE SOLID HOURS.
Do you hear me? Not three minutes.
Three hours! 3 hrs! 180 minutes!
I have hushed and shushed and scolded and fussed. I have put him in doggy time out in his crate.
Guess what? He can still bark from there!
I have put him out in the courtyard.
Guess what? He can still bark from there, too!
No matter where I put him, he can still bark and I can still hear him. In fact, it's WORSE when I lock him up because he barks and whines at the same time. I have given him a new bone but he barks at the bone. Nonstop. He barks at the bone without chewing on it. I tried playing with him, running around the house. He just runs around and barks at me. Nonstop.

I have thought about calling the vet. No, seriously. It sounds like my dog's barking button got stuck in the on position. It's not like he's staring furiously out the window barking at squirrels or intruders. If only. Then I could go chase the intruders and squirrels away! I am about to lose (what little there is left of) my mind!

There are so many things I didn't know about dogs!
Who knew dogs could get poopy, thow-uppy stomach viruses too??
Who knew dogs could bark for (now more than) three hours straight??
Who knew dogs could cause binge drinking in their humans??
VBGF - if you want your goddog to survive the day - you might need to come back and play with him the way you did this weekend. It is the only thing I can think of (that the ASPCA wouldn't object to) that might shut him up.


Peace (and quiet - oh please, please, please I'm begging for some peace and quiet.)

Paragon of Motherhood

This from St. Ann (since the Lilymania Locals are not yet back up to snuff) -
A license plate on a shiny, new SUV in the city traffic says "MODLMOM". Cindy Crawford? Brooke Shields? St. Ann pulls up alongside. No, clearly this mom has never been on the runway or in Glamour magazine. Perhaps her license plate indicates that this mother thinks that we should all drive oversized, gas-guzzling vehicles to run errands while talking on our cell phones and ignoring, I mean entertaining, our two children in the back with the pull-down dvd player? The only thing more grotesquely American that I can think of to add to this scenario would be if this car had been in a fast food drive-thru lane!

I never claimed that what I do to the best of my ability as a mom is what other mothers should do, so I'm not exactly casting stones here. I'm merely picking up the ones that were thrown my direction and hurling them back from whence they came. (Gosh I wish I could ding her paint job from here!)

Peace (well to everyone except that righeous bitch "MODLMOM" in Philly traffic - to her I'm not feeling so charitable.)

Make That Zero!

Zero!
Zero Healthy Children!

Bubonic Mnemonic

Sounds like....SICK
Looks like...ICK

Guess how many of my middle schoolers were in school today?
(None)
Guess how many of my elementary schoolers had to be picked up in the middle of the day for throwing up at school?
(Two)
Guess how many healthy children that leaves me?
(One, I hope! That's the answer I'm going with until I get a THIRD call today.)

I'm thinking about stocking up on some (more) Lysol and also about buying some stock IN Lysol. 'Cause seriously? I think I'm keeping the ole Lysol Corp. in business single-handedly this week. I've done everything except hose the actual children off. (That's not allowed, right? Not even a light dusting, right?)

Peace.

Wonder Dog

My dog makes me wonder.

Q: Why does my dog spend an inordinate amount of time digging a hole, dropping a bone in, and covering it up only to dig it back up 30 seconds later?

A: Because he's a dog.

Q: Why does my dog bring me the ball to throw and then not let go of it so I can throw it?

A: Because he's a dog.

Q: Why does my dog chew on bricks?

A: Because he's a dog.

Q: Why does my dog growl at the bone he's chewing on?

A: Because he's a dog.

Q: Why does my dog's uber-dogness perplex me?

A: Because I'm a cat person.

Peace.

Dinner With a Thirteen-Year Old

Just when I want to pinch his head off

• *for talking back to me when I ask him to leave his mp3 player in the car
• *for glaring at me when I ask him to stop reading his book at the table during family time
• *for thinking I'm unreasonable that I make him stop stabbing his food with a mangled paper clip

He

• *says a genuine and unprompted thank you for dinner
• *gives me a hug
• *rushes ahead of all of us to open the door for a man with a cane

Roller coasters ain't got nuthin' on us!!!

Peace.

Chronicles of the Religiously Challenged

Thinking about Havoc's Career Day last year reminded me I had sent my father (=provider of all mythology books) a recap of that day. I wasn't blogging then so I searched through all that old-fashioned stuff (email and gasp, paper!) and found this to share with you (with names changed to protect the innocent or um, yeah, more to fit in with the way I write my blog today) :

5/12/2005
Today is career dress up day – and Havoc is dressed up as a Mythology Teacher. He’s wearing jeans, penny loafers, a white oxford, tie, blue blazer and he has a pen in his pocket and four books in his hands: Read Along Celtic Myths and Legends, Greek Myths, Norse Myths, and the King James Bible. (I have to figure out how gently and stealthily to keep the Bible at home. Nothing like begging to be called in for a parent-teacher conference!) Havoc has proclaimed about ten times that he looks REALLY handsome. The whole family has agreed. He is VERY excited to go to school. His career choice sparked an interesting breakfast discussion:

Havoc asked what other gods there were in Christian mythology besides God.
I said,”Well Jesus and the Holy Spirit – but they’re all part of God – so there’s just one.”
“Only one?” he asked incredulously. “But all the other mythologies have lots and lots.”
I said, “Yes and that’s the thing. Not only is there only one God in Christian mythology (around here we should call that Christianity by the way) – but Christians believe that their God is the only one anywhere.”
Havoc said, “But he’s not. There’s Loki, and Zeus, and Odin, and Ra. How can they believe there’s only one?”
I tried to explain that Christians don’t think those were/are gods. Havoc said that that was ridiculous (his word) because some people can’t just say that other people’s gods aren’t gods. Then he demanded to know if we were Christians. (Ummm - this from a boy who goes to a Church of Christ with his father and the Episcopal Church with his mother?) I said that not all Christians were that exclusive – and so that I thought of myself as sort of Christian even though I respected others' gods. Sweet Hubby said he wasn’t Christian.
And Havoc said, “You’re Martian, right?” SH loved it. He gave Havoc a big hug and kiss and said, “Yes, I am a Martian.” *Side note to my lovely internets - the Martian thing is a long running family joke and is NOT to be confused with any earlier-in-the-week references to aliens of the putrid, pulsing scum variety.*
I told Havoc that whether he was a Christian was up to him and that I thought it was really important for him to decide and not to let other people tell him what to believe. It was up to him to decide what he was. He said that today he was really handsome. And then he went upstairs to play video games.

And THAT reminded me of an article I wrote four years ago (when Mayhem was the age that Havoc is now and Havoc was just a baby). I contributed articles from a Christian perspective for a friend's pagan newsletter. This is what I wrote (again, edited slightly with updates and such):

2/6/2002
This article is being brought to you LIVE from the National Christian Educator’s Conference which is being held in New Orleans, Louisiana. You may be (laughing and) asking yourself why a very sincere group of women (whose average age is officially “older than dirt”) thought that New Orleans (a city known for booze, breast-baring, and ahem, “alternative spiritual practices”) would be a good place to meet and discuss better ways to raise children to the Christian faith. I have yet to find the answer to that question. In fact, I have a whole slew of questions that I don’t think are going to be answered by workshops on “Professional Development for Christian Educators” or “Working with Liturgical Committees”. Looks like I picked the wrong conference. Rats.

What I am looking for is some guidance on the spiritual formation of young people. Specifically, I need advice on how to raise my children to be Christians. And as much as I love the Pagan community – they are not much help on this topic. Most Pagan parents in America face the huge challenge of raising their children not to be Christian. Especially in the South, some Pagan parents quietly wonder if Christianity isn’t in the water (like fluoride) because someone along the way decided it was good for everyone. Osmosis and peer pressure often sink Christian tendrils into even the earthiest of Pagan children. As Murphy would have it, my children apparently are immune to both spiritual osmosis and religious peer pressure. And this is a problem.

You see, we are a blended family. Very blended. Our exes (one of whom is an ex-Pagan, now Catholic and the other of whom is an ex-Catholic, now atheist (*<--update: this one was a Catholic, an atheist, then a Church of Christer and NOW is a Catholic again) both feel very strongly about raising the children as Christians. And we all feel strongly about raising our children to be thoughtful and tolerant. The plan seemed simple. America provides all the Christianity a body could need, we simply add a dash of our world view, and voila – loving, spiritual children (somewhat Christian but not rabidly so) and happy exes. A year into this delightful experiment and the plan is unraveling!

At first, I think my six-year old stepdaughter (*aka Ninja Princessa) will be the easy one. She is sweet, smart, listens respectfully, and (bonus) already considers herself to be a Christian. No problem. Just keep up the good work, eh? She is the only child I trust to say an appropriate blessing at the table when company is over. “Let us pray,” she says in her most reverent voice. After an elbow in the ribs to her brother who forgot to put his hands together, she continues solemnly, “Buddha, Buddha. Thanks for the food-a.” Later she informs me that no one should have laughed. She explains that she is a Christian Buddhist Native American and that everyone was disrespectful.

My oldest child (*aka Chaos) may or may not be Christian. I do not know. He refuses to talk about it. He will sit in contemplative prayer silently with my mother for up to an hour (which, since he’s nine, qualifies as a miracle). But he says very little about what matters spiritually to him. When taken to church, he trembles before God. Literally. He shakes. I do not know why this is so. I have been next to him for every minute he has ever been in a church – and I will swear that nothing outwardly traumatic has happened to him. Well, there was that time at the communion rail where not only did he not want the priest to give him communion, but he didn’t even want the priest to see him. So he ran behind me, lifted up my skirt, and hid underneath my dress (exposing my backside to the entire congregation in the process.) However, I’m pretty sure that that was more traumatic for me than for him.

My middle son (*aka Havoc) loves church. He loves communion. “Mom, look! I have GOD in my mouth!” And later, “Can I have seconds?” This child is sad when Sunday school is over. He shows me the prayer card he has made; he sings the new hymn he learned; he tells me he wants to be a priest. Then on the way home he asks, “Hey mom. Is it okay if I believe in Zeus instead of God?” “What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if he has asked his Sunday school teacher this same question. “Well, you know how God is Jesus’ father?” “Yes,” I answer carefully. “You see, Zeus is Hercules’ father,” he explains “And Hercules is WAY cooler than Jesus – so I just thought I’d believe in Zeus instead.” “I thought you wanted to be a priest.” I remind him. “Can’t I be a priest of Zeus? They used to do that you know. Are we Greek? Maybe my great-great-great-great-GREAT grandfather was Greek and then it would be ok. Or maybe we could MOVE to Greek. How ‘bout that, Mom? Except I really want to live in China. Think Zeus would mind if I was a Greek priest in China?” You can see that theological discussions at our house are rather circuitous. Getting back on track a little I try telling him that Zeus was a god of the ancient Greeks and that it wasn’t quite the way the cartoon movies portray life back then. “Mom, I just want to believe in Zeus anyway. Not God.” “Why is that exactly?” I press him. “Hercules had a sword, Mom, and Jesus didn’t. And I like swords. I really like swords.” I talk to him about the miracles Jesus performed without a sword. He’s not impressed. In fact, he’s not listening. He wants to know what’s for lunch. At bedtime, he prays “Dear God… I mean, Zeus….”

My last little guy (*aka Mayhem) is only three. And he, too, likes Sunday school, but it doesn’t count because all they do is play with toys while “Christian Children’s Music” plays in the background. He also loves to take his turn saying the blessing (when we don’t have company.) He looks angelic. “Hold hands, please,” he instructs with a smile. He bows his little blond head. “Lettuce, grapes, amen” he chants rather mysteriously. My mother offers her theory. “He’s probably heard everyone say ‘Let us pray’ and ‘Grace’ and he’s mimicking that.” This explanation worked for me until he began to add “forks” to the list.

The more I think about it, the more I really don’t want my children to be “saved”. I think they are doing fine. They know that there is a good and loving force out there that is bigger than they can imagine – and yet they seem determined to make a personal connection with that divine force in their own unique ways. God is mysterious and religion is strange. I’ve found some peace about all this, here in New Orleans even without attending any of the optional focus groups. I think maybe I’ll send my ex to next year’s conference – it’s in Kansas.

And that, my dear internets, is a little (ok, more than a little - a lot, probably even whole gobs too much) back story on that crazy little thing called religion in our household. I think we've been holding pretty steady for a while. Of course that all may change soon. My ex called last night and said he's signed the older boys up for their first communion in the Catholic church next month. I'll let you know how THAT goes. If it happens. If my ex doesn't convert to Islam before then.
Peace.

My Favorite Question Ever

"Mom, if Polyphemus is the most famous cyclops then who is the second most famous?"

This is the question my (then) Kindergartener asked last spring as he was getting dressed for Career Day at his school. I was reminded of it this morning when I asked him what he was doing. "Drawing a map of Hades," he said. Not that I'm biased or anything, but I have to tell you his map was way better than this one. "Hey, Havoc, do you still want to be a Mythology Teacher when you grow up?" I asked him. "Well duh," he said to me.
Ask a silly question, get a silly answer...
Peace.

*Oh, and we decided that although there wasn't really a scientific way to determine the exact popularity of any given cyclops, the second most famous was probably Telemus. I know you were wondering.

As Seen on Fox News, Oprah, and ESPN2

You know that spot on NPR, "This I Believe"? I am starting my own bloggery version which shall be called "This Disturbs Me". I could have an entire blog dedicated solely to this theme, but I don't and I won't. I'm waaaay too easily distracted to stick to one theme. Instead, I'll just give you today's entry here, on this plain ole, hodge podge blog. (<--And by today's I actually mean last week's. Chronologically challenged=me.)

This Disturbs Me:
At the pediatrician's office, with my asthmatic and now anemic 11-year old, I was given a sample of this product. I was firstly and foremostly disturbed to be handed a cure for DIAPER RASH considering we have been a diaper free household for over five years**! I pointed this out to the nurse. "Oh it's not just for diaper rash anymore," she said. She pointed to the poster. Sure enough "It's not just for diaper rash anymore" the poster proclaimed. And in an even bigger font the poster said, "AS SEEN ON FOX NEWS, OPRAH, AND ESPN2!" I see. Well, if OPRAH is giving air time to butt paste then... Well, I'm not sure what then, really. But I tucked the sample into my purse. (And promptly forgot about it until today when I was spilling the contents of my purse onto the ledge in front of the bank teller in search of my checkbook. She saw it and gave me a funny look. She gave me a funnier look when (before I could stop myself) I said, "It's not just for diaper rash anymore." Oh well, there are other banks even in this dinky little town.)

**And for any of you 'do the math' folks out there this statement does NOT mean that my 11- year old wasn't potty trained until age 6. It means that our youngest child is 7. He just didn't happen to be at the pediatrician's with me.**

I was going to post a photo of my actual sample package but unless we want to get into yet another discussion of my sad, sad lack of mad, mad photo skillz (and we don't), I think we should proceed right on to the part where I mention what disturbs me EVEN MORE. And that is when I went to find a picture of this product online to show you, I found a butt paste gift set with a bobble-head doll! A butt paste bobble head? Perhaps that's marketing genius. Perhaps it's just that Boudreaux's target audience is the type of audience that does have to deal with diaper rash (never mind the poster slogan) and also severe sleep deprivation. Perhaps they will buy anything - even butt paste bobble head dolls. Especially butt paste bobble head dolls that have been on ESPN2. And in People magazine.

I don't know. I'm married to a Cajun, remember? These are the folks who get around the 'open container' law by taping a plastic lid onto (and inserting a straw into) a styrofoam cup filled with 32 oz of frozen Vodka Voodoo from the local Cajun Blender drive thru (an establishment, by the way, which posts a hand-lettered sign saying "For more than a gallon, CALL AHEAD". These folks are creative! And on the sauce! And love to fuck with outsiders! No, I don't suppose it bothers me so much that the Boudreaux folks came up with the idea of a butt paste bobble head. I just don't want to meet anyone sleep deprived enough to have purchased one. And I sure as heck don't want to meet a non-sleep-deprived person who bought one. And lordy, stop me before I find the right words to describe the butt paste bib. Booze or no booze, the person who came up with that should be fired.
I'm just saying.

Peace.

When The Kitchen Cabinets Need A Shave

Should we call it home improvement? I'm not sure.
'Member when our fridge 'just died'? (Digression: I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't have a whole page over there in my side bar to track the machines in my orbit that have 'just died'. It sometimes feels like there's an epidemic of machine death in my world!)
'Member how we had to wait a whole WEEK to get the new one? Saturday seemed like it would never get here! Then the delivery guy called and gave us an early delivery time. Yes! The Fridgerator Gods see that we have done our penance and smile upon us.
Or not. You see, back when we were looking online, reading consumer reports, and comparison shopping for such a ridiculously expensive purchase, we measured the niche where the new fridge would fit. The verdict was that our space was bigger than any of the refrigerators (except the sub zero, commercial deals). We found the perfect fridge online, double checked the measurements and then went to see it in person at Sears. To make sure it really was the one we wanted. It was. Until we saw one down the aisle a bit. One that was better. And on sale. And had more cubic storage. You know why it had more cubic storage? BECAUSE IT WAS BIGGER! But that little factoid didn't ring any alarm bells for us. Oh no. In fact, we congratulated ourselves. A bigger fridge, for less money, with more room for food, for our big family. Yay us! Woo Hoo! Until the fridge was delivered. And it didn't fit. The delivery guy chuckled a bit and assured us that this happens all the time.
"Well, what do other people do?" we asked.
"I don't know," said the delivery guy. "Whatever they do, they do it after we leave."
Helpful, eh? I think we did what any normal people would do. (No, no, no. We did NOT punch the delivery guy in the face.) After the delivery guy left, we pushed the fridge really, really hard into the niche.
That didn't work. But it was funny. (It was quite possibly the last funny thing of the day.)
Now what? Our options were limited: send it back or make it fit. We chose door number two. And by 'we', I mean Sweet Hubby all by his lonesome, because me? I was a pissy wad. My plan for the day had included snuggling on the couch, watching a movie and helping SH pack for his two-week, business trip to New Zealand. It did not include a spur-of-the-moment, home improvement project. I'm learning that I'm not so good at changing plans on the fly. Especially when the change is from fun to chore. You want to know what I did? I shut down. I was NO HELP WHATSOEVER. I did not go with him to buy an $80 planing tool. I offered no ideas about the best way to shave the kitchen cabinets. I did help vacuum up about one one-hundredth of the 400 pounds of sawdust generated. (Oh, and I wore my cute, denim, short overalls to do it! That should count for something, no?) I was kind enough to 'help' him look for a chisel by stating categorically that I had never had one and that I couldn't imagine where one would be if we, for some bizarre reason, had one. And I gritched (not a lot but definitely some) about having to deal with this whole mess the day before he left. Like he needed that. Aren't you wishing that you were lucky enough to be married to me?? Oh and I documented. See:


Here he is. Optimistic man. See the ice cream sitting out on the counter? Like the project would be done quick as quick can be and then we'd just pop the sherbert into the new freezer and all would be good?

Um yeah. Didn't happen like that.

But isn't he cute? He's like the Home Improvement Bandit.
He did a fantastic job too. (And I'll keep saying that right up to the moment the cabinets fall down.) Here's how it looks now:

The boys had been away and hadn't seen the fridge until this morning. At first, they were impressed and then,
Mayhem said, "Wow it's bigger than I thought it would be."
Chaos said, "Hey, let's go see if they got a bigger TV too!"
Havoc said, "Nope. They didn't. Look."

In unison they said, "Aw maaaaaan."

The fact that we have a really, really great ice maker didn't help. All in all they decided they would rather have video games than cold food. I'll try to keep that in mind next time.

Peace.

Warning - High Tapioca Content

About six years ago, one of my best friends (who was also on the eve of her own impending divorce) asked me,"What does that man use to think with? Tapioca?! Because it's clearly not a brain!" Yeah. It stuck. And I'll apologize to anyone who actually LIKES tapioca. (I, personally, am off the stuff for life.) I'm sure it's nice and all when properly used or consumed but for thinking with? Not so great.

From then on, my friend and I have kept each other up-to-date on our respective tapioca forecasts and reports. Sometimes the tapioca reports are funny and sometimes they are scary. (And often, they're both at the same time). A memorable one is when she wrote me to tell me her TH (=tapioca head) had decreed that the best thing to do for the children would be to each get their own apartment - but keep the house they'd had during the marriage. That way instead of the kids moving back and forth between mom's and dad's, it would be the parents who moved back and forth. He'd be in the house with the kids one week and she would be the next. In their 'off' time they'd live in their own apartments. He said all of that seriously. With a straight face. Like it was the most brilliant and workable solution. Ever. I think she almost peed her pants laughing at him. Laughing at him to his face. And then again while laughing at him as she typed it all to me. And then she cried, wondering how she'd ever been married to someone so imbecilic.

Yes, someday, when our children are all over 18 and out of the tapioca flood zone, we'll be able to laugh without crying in the next moment. Right now - with just under 11 years to go for both of us - we share these reports with each other (and now with you, lovely internets) so that we can laugh and have someone right there to help us climb back down out of the fear tree.

Back here I think I described my own TH's cycle. We've been in the phase where he plays stupid games (with the kids in the middle) in order to prove he's a good parent and I'm a bad one. I've been civil and used every de-escalation technique I know.

(You want an example? He sends me an email about the children looking like trash because they have holes in their jeans and what a bad parent I am. The problem with this assertion is that the jeans with holes in them came from his house. Not mine. My seven year old, when first asked about his jeans, said, "Oh Dad had me wear these to get you to replace them." I said, "Well we better replace them then. Where are the two pairs your grandmother got you last month?" Later my seven year old came back to me and said, "Mom, you know those jeans with holes? I just remembered. I must have ripped them at recess. It's my fault, not Dad's." Now, I was out of town, but I had already heard from people who saw him at school as well as from my Sweet Hubby that Havoc did NOT have on jeans with holes in them when he went to Dad's. Look at my poor kid who would rather take the blame for himself than have his parents angry with each other! I told Havoc not to worry about it anymore: it was time for everyone to have an update. We made an outing of it. I bought the boys each two pairs of pants (jeans and khakis), a polo shirt, socks, underwear, and a new pair of shoes to take to Dad's and leave there! We also bought Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire and had a family movie night. Was I required to do this? No. I would have been 'justified' in writing a nasty letter back asking where all the nice clothes that I send end up. I could have dressed the kids in the rattiest things they have and sent them back to him the way he sent them to me. But why on earth would ANYONE do stupid things like that? No one benefits. Least of all my kids. Did I have the money for this shopping spree to purchase clothes the kids don't actually 'need' and which I'll never see again? Heck no! Especially when I'm racking up the legal fees answering his petition for custody and making counter-petitions! Maybe my 'caving in' and sending a whole bag of nice clothes plays out in his mind as him 'winning' a round - but it's so STUPID. I wish I had a better word. Pointless? Silly and mean? Small and petty? If he had asked me for some clothes for the boys I would have sent some! I've offered before. I've sent some before. Of course, he didn't do that because it wasn't about clothes. It was about the court case. He lies and plays games and thinks his children aren't going to notice? Or tell? Or be affected? I. Don't. Get. It.)

Last night? Maybe because Mercury went retrograde (<--I don't actually know what that means but all my astrology-inclined friends are talking about it) or maybe just to get a jump start on full moon craziness - my Tapioca Head's ex-wife called me. Out of the blue. To offer me support. To say that she will willingly 'testify' in court on my behalf.
Warning. Warning. Danger Will Robinson.

*Backstory: She's a nut case. Their whole, two-year marriage was bizarre and drama-filled. I mean, cops called to their house in the wee sma's because of fights. Him taking off with the children (my babies!) and swearing never to return and then returning and pretending like nothing ever happened. I spent the entire time trying to shield my children from their emotional roller coaster. My mother spent the entire time asking me if the surgery he had six weeks before he left me hadn't perhaps damaged his brain permanently. She was serious. And she has a point. He was a VERY different person after that surgery. More than one person remarked on the personality shift and asked me if I had searched long and hard for the pod.

Almost twelve years we were married. Maybe four fights the whole time. No drama. Lots of hard work, good times, and there at the end? Illness. And surgery. And just when everything seemed like it would be better than ever before - he decided he was done. He wasn't 'happy'. He began to date women who were drama factories. Twelve years and I had no idea that his idea of 'happy' involved booze and car wrecks and changing jobs six times in four years and trumping up court cases. What a boring wife I was. But lucky him, after only a few years of 'fun' on his own, he found a woman who made him all kinds of crazy, I mean, happy! And after two years too many of so much happiness, I was MUCH relieved when he left her last summer. He moved 40 miles away from her and lives closer physically to his children (and unfortunately also to me) than he's lived since our divorce. I had foolishly hoped that would end his ridiculous, perennial attempt to take my children away from me. After all, it had started when he met her. Maybe it would end when he left her. But no. Even without her, he has continued, apparently now addicted to drama in his own right. But wait, the ex-Mrs. Happiness is on the line! *

She says I must be very upset about what happened Friday night.
"What happened Friday night?" I ask, warily.
She said that he said... wait! Do you see how quickly this shit devolves to the level of middle school muddle? Let's start again.

The story he (supposedly) told her:
He came to pick up the boys from my house and they were hysterical and refused to go with him. Chaos called him a liar and he slapped Chaos in the face. I allowed Chaos to stay with me but let Mayhem and Havoc be forced into going with him. In fact, I stood with my arms crossed, smirking as they drove away.

What really happened:
My ex arrived at 6:15. I helped load the boys into the car with their bags from Target, their bag of school work/report cards, and their medicine. I gave the boys kisses - except Chaos who prefers a wave. I walked back inside. Sweet Hubby and the Ninja Princessa and I all left two minutes later to grab a quick bite for supper and made it to the 7 o'clock movie. No drama. Anywhere. That I saw.

I told this woman that somewhere someone was telling big whoppers. In addition, I told her I couldn't imagine what kind of mother she thought I was, but that it would have taken an Act of God and a SWAT team to get my children away from me if I'd seen my ex slap one of my children and/or they were hysterical not to leave me.

My ex's ex turns out not to be so ex. Yet. Even though he told me he was filing for divorce months and months ago. He didn't. In fact, they've been seeing each other again. Dating. According to her, they have been planning to move back in together. And she called me because as of that moment, she was done with him. She was done with him. He told her that the children hated her and also that when he told them he was moving back in with her - they became hysterical and didn't want to leave ME (hence the driveway scene). He told her that he was having to choose between her and them and he was choosing them. So she was done with him. And called me. To offer her 'testimony' for my case.

Riiiiight. Because that's just what I need. Testimony from a crazy woman. A mad, scorned, crazy woman. That will help my 'case'.

But I listened. And wrote down everything for my lawyer, including the part where her teenage daughter threatened to kill herself if he moved back in. Nice, eh? What are these people (tapioca heads both!) doing?? She told me about her cocaine use (OH MY GOD!!!!!!) and she told me about the court-mandated things he has not done or kept up with. She also told me that he was already going to drop the custody case - but each of the three times she told me this in the hour that she talked, she gave a different reason: he was dropping it because they were back together; he was dropping it because he was interviewing for a job out of state; he was dropping it because he couldn't pay his lawyer. Who knows what the truth is with crazy people??

I was shaking and ill, but I was civil and calm with her.
I thanked her for letting me know about things that affect my children. I let her know firmly, in no uncertain terms that I would NOT be needing her to appear in court. Thanks anyway. My lawyer and I have it under control. My mother, a therapist, who has said from the beginning this woman was boderline said, "Two will get you ten that she's at this minute calling him to tell him how badly she just screwed him."

Sure enough, an hour later my ex calls. Says he's 'dropping' the custody case 'for now'. Says he knows I talked to his wife and he feels betrayed. Admits he lied to her. Admits he made up the whole 'scene' in my driveway. Get this. He says he told her this story "to spare her feelings". He says he used the children as an excuse because he couldn't think of another way out of the relationship. There is so much wrong here that it's like someone dropped a wrongness bomb. He had already gotten out. He got himself back IN to a relationship with her and then couldn't find a way out that didn't involve ridiculous, crazy lies - and MY CHILDREN?? He's dropping the case FOR NOW? My lawyer has told me to keep writing it all down, but that she can't imagine we need any more ammunition in court. I keep waiting for that to make me feel better. On any level. But it doesn't.

It's not just tapioca. It's rancid tapioca. Perhaps my friends are right and instead of a brain there is pulsing, putrid scum from another world in my ex's head. Something so vile and ludicrous is happening in there that earth languages just aren't up to the task of describing it. I think my lawyer is doing a great job but I worry she's out of her league. After all, she's used to dealing with humans! What do you think it would take to get Will Smith to help her? He's great with aliens!

Peace. Peace. Peace.

The Four Horsemen of the...Hypocalypse?

I think we're going to need an extra large Rehearsal Dinner Box for Chaos. I am trying (and I mean really, really trying) not to worry about the way he processes information. He does well in school (Honor Roll!) and he scores ridiculously high on standardized tests (99th percentile!). For the life of me, I cannot see how.
Yesterday on the way to school, Chaos and I had a little chat about how long his seventh grade math class has been studying 'triangles'. Every day for over three weeks that's all it says in his planner under Math: 'triangles'. This is the picture I get in my mind. So:

Me: What's up with the triangles? Can't you learn everything there is to know about triangles in just a couple of days?
Chaos: Mom, there's more to it. You know, there's A squared equals C squared and all that.
Me: You mean, A squared PLUS B SQUARED equals C squared?
Chaos: Yeah. That's it. We're studying Pilates and all that.
Me: Pilates?!
Chaos: The theory - you know, the A squared stuff.
Me: The Pythagorean Theorem?! Chaos, It's the PYTHAGOREAN THEOREM!! It's important to get it straight! You have to know the right words and you have to understand it. Do you even understand that what you're doing is squaring the sides of the triangle and adding them together and that equals..
Chaos (interrupting me because we were at school): the square of the hypocalypse. I know, I know! Mom, I gotta go! Bye.
Me: the hypocalypse? the HYPOCALYPSE??

I really don't know whether to laugh or cry sometimes. Aside from writing speeches for Dan Quayle or GW I can't think of many career options for this boy! Can you?
Peace.

We Are Family (Get Up Everybody, SING!)

I love one on one time with my children. Even if it is spent going to the pediatrician's. I learn soooooo many things.
Like (from the doctor who loves to write prescriptions) that Mayhem is anemic as well as asthmatic. Eckerd's. Cha-ching.
Like (from Mayhem who loves to sing) that Smashmouth is the best band in the whole world. "You're a rock star. Get the show on. All that glitters is go-o-old. Only shooting sta-ars break the mo-o-old."
Like (from Mayhem who loves to talk) that Mayhem is the kind of little brother that makes me glad I never had a little brother. Even though I didn't witness it, I have it from a reliable source (and May-hem is his name-o) that this is what happened yesterday:
Mayhem (singing at the top of his lungs): WE ARE FAMILY. I GOT ALL MY BRUDDAS WITH ME.
Chaos: Mayhem be quiet.
Mayhem: AS WE WALK OHN BY-HI!
Chaos: Shut up!
Mayhem: WE ARE FAMILY. EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE OLDER THAN ME.
Chaos: I mean it. I'm going to hurt you.
Mayhem: WE ARE FAMILY. EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE FATTER THAN ME.
Chaos (chasing his little brother): Arggghh!
Mayhem (outpacing his big brother): WE ARE FAMILY. EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE SLOWER THAN ME!

Feel the love?
Peace.