Fall Break: A 10-Day Guide to Survival

Before we stroll down this majestic, tree-lined street of autumnal nostalgia I would like to first announce that I’m one of the moms that likes when my kids are on break. Some moms hate it. I appreciate that sentiment. Frankly, if I had some of the kids that are out there, I’d hate it too. But I love it. I look forward to it. I plan for it.

The secret to having a successful Fall Break (insert Christmas Break, Spring Break, Summer Break) is to ask your kids what they want to do. Ask this well in advance of the break. And make it a homework assignment (I don’t home school but my kids write a lot of extra essays under my direction).  I believe I posed the question something like this:

Please write a short paragraph and illustrate the top activities you would like to do during Fall Break.  Scanned answers posted here:

Mason

Cooper

As you can see, the expectations weren’t that high. All I had to do was break out a football at the park and take the kids swimming. (Let me also add that when my children request to go swimming beyond the two hours a week they both put in at swim practice I am always gobstopped.)

Then I break out the secret weapon. This comes with a little bit of planning, so I’m sharing my secret now so that you can be ready for next year. That’s right, next year. At the close of the Halloween shopping frenzy I go to Michael’s, JoAnn’s, and even Target and shop their clearance sales. In the beginning I only shopped costumes because my kids were big on the dress up scene. But when they outgrew that I started to just buy the crafts and activities. These are always pennies on the dollar at clearance time. This is a clandestine operation. Pack your purchases away with the plastic pumpkins and ghost garlands when you put away your decorations.

Once my kids are actually let out for school I break out the bin of decorations and start unveiling all the fun surprises that they will have for Fall Break. This year we had the following activities at our disposal:

New decorations for the porch

Jack-O-Lantern face stickers for everything from pumpkins to artwork

Wood bead skeleton and witch kit

Masquerade masks to be decorated with feathers and sequins

Miniature finger puppets

Foam haunted house (like a gingerbread house but foam)

Gingerbread haunted house and gingerbread haunted cemetery

Also in my decorations bin I store the Halloween books (children’s picture books), Halloween linens, the skeleton pillows (sewn on Fall Break last year), and Halloween cookie cutters. When these get unearthed the boys go bananas to be reunited with their toys and reread old favorites.

What ensues after Pandora’s box of Halloween decorations is opened is really fabulous. While it all goes quickly, it’s never boring, nor frustrating. I just pick up another activity out of the pile of fun and we move on. It’s messier than my lonely days when they are in school. But it is short-lived, a mere 10 days.

And there you have it, a clue. In the next few days I’ll be sharing with you some of our Fall Break adventures – just to get your creative juices flowing.

PS – May I also recommend you take in someone else’s pet gerbils for the week? Pet-sitting is a tremendous learning experiences for the littles and adds to the Fall Break commotion.

Generous Heart

You know that awkward moment when the teacher puts you on the spot in front of 23 kids? Guh. Why do they do that? 

Mason's kindergarten teacher -- who we like very much -- invited me to be a part of a tradition she does during a student's birthday week. Basically it's some form of show-and-tell every day of an entire week. Gratefully she gave Mason a short week. 

I'm sure you can guess her reasons. During the presentation of his life on a poster board -- 5 years condensed into 10 photographs -- he stared directly at the poster board and read word for word the captions I had written. These captions said things like, "My brother Cooper and I built a replica of the Fukushima nuclear plant disaster." and "I volunteered to paint the cafeteria last fall." Come on, the kid was reading it having never rehearsed it! I was both totally proud and somewhat aching at the awkwardness.

His teacher wanted him to improvise, however, and was trying to get him to talk into a microphone. Hated it. But he endured. Oh that's when sweet kindergarten teacher said, "I'm going to ask your mom to list some of the reasons she loves you so much." 

Is this a test? Am I supposed to cry? Or am I supposed to let things just eloquently roll off my tongue like a Hallmark card? Pah-lease. I decided blubbering would be frowned upon. Basically I said, but I can't remember exactly what I said because I was mostly concentrating on not crying....

1.  When Mason was born, one of the reasons he stayed at the hospital (they had just seen his grotesque NICU picture) so long is that he had what is called a generous heart. Generous is a word we use when we mean big. He was born with a big heart and he still has a big heart. He is kind and gentle and generous of his time, and his things. He never wants to leave out someone. 

2.  Have you ever noticed Mason doesn't talk as much as some of your other friends? (Can I tell you how many times small boogery children point out this when I'm in the classroom volunteering?) And when he does talk he speaks very quietly? Well, I call this soft spoken and it is one of my favorite things about him because I know he listens to others before speaking. When he does speak, he means what he says. 

3.  And last, he's creative and I love creative people. 

And here is where Mason interrupted me and said, "What about those LEGO crayons?!?!" What a transition! Basically he gracefully got me off the hook and allowed me to stop talking and start handing out tiny LEGO men made of melted crayons. He then bragged about me while I bragged about him. It was excellent. 

Tonight, as tradition dictates, I tucked in 5-year-old Mason for the last time and said good bye. sniff sniff. Thankfully Mason, reassured me with, "I'll still be the same person tomorrow." And just as I'm wishing they didn't grow so quickly I'm reminded of a conversation I very recently had with Mason. 

He asked, "Mom, do some kids grow up and never leave their mom's houses?"

Tentatively I answer, "Yes. Why? Do you think you wanna do that?"

"Well, I been thinking about it. " And that was the last I heard of that. Until today when he twisted off the stem of his apple in 29 turns and declared that is when he would get married. Great. Idea. 

PS -- I'll be writing about the party on my sewing blog later this week.

Furniture Shuffle

After weeks and weeks of remodeling our little house on the corner, we are at that stage when we have to decide what furniture will stay and what will go. Mainly, what will go someplace else in the house.

I didn't want to keep any of it. Much of our furniture was bought for one purpose and one purpose only -- get us through the little kids who don't make it to the bathroom stage. It's not terrible expensive, not a perfect fit to our style, but was a perfect fit for expense when it came to what we were considering disposable furniture.

In the planning of our new spaces I think everyone in the family assumed there would be new furniture everywhere. What we didn't take into account is that we are challenged when it comes to making decisions. There's also that 6-8 weeks factor on furniture delivery. And last but not least, the "I'm attached to it, now" factor.

This final straw that we're asking the camel to carry about is really upsetting the kids. Please examine the shiny red table pictured here. It was a cheap find (in every sense of the word) at IKEA. I let the boys pick one each. They wanted them for LEGO stations in their own rooms. Mason picked a glossy red one, Coop a fancy black one. But now, I don't really want them and they do NOT want to get rid of them.

In this shuffle I have two towers of shelves that need to part ways -- one to find a new nook in our home the other to go to the first hungry college student who asks for it. Two squat bookcases that need new homes, but that I am having a hard time parting with because they are such high quality and surely we can find a spot for them. I've got to make a decision about the bedroom furniture that my husband's parents gave us. It's really pretty, but we don't have the full set and we're having a hard time matching it up to other pieces of furniture we do have. Argh. We absolutely won't be able to part with it. But where to showcase it?!??!!

Our big burly, red sectional found a new home in the basement. That was an accident. I fully intended for that to be thrown away. But you can't watch Rio on the big screen while sitting on the floor. It might be new, high quality carpet on a plush pad, but it's just not THAT comfortable. Not 6-8 weeks comfortable.

When the red beast found a new home downstairs it abandoned the front living room. So now I have one of my pet peeves, a welcoming room -- genuinely the first, and sometimes last, room visitors see -- empty but for toys. Children's toys. Oh and a lamp. We left the lamp there because we haven't found a new room for it, either.

Let's also chat a little bit about my plan to make the basement grey, chocolate brown, and tangerine. Now there's a big red elephant in the room.

Dear Homeowner

I thought I'd write to let you know how your house is doing. Actually, I do mean to say my house. But you built it and used to live here, so an update is in order. We've made a few changes since you left. In fact, I think we're making changes to the changes that the previous owners (less previous than you) made.

Can't tell you how thrilled we were to find 20 cans of paint (all 18 years young) in the crawl space. And jeez, how thoughtful of you to preserve some of the original rolls of wall paper. I had NO idea they made wall paper in silver, blue and purple. We're also shocked to discover the marble tile you stole from Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Do you think I should ship it back to them?

Was wondering, what's with all the rolls of blue carpet? Was that somewhere in the house? Don't tell me, did you put it in the bathroom before the not-as-previous owners pulled it out and put MORE carpet in the bathroom. You clever bathroom carpeters.

We sure do hope you are well and happy and most importantly retired from building houses. Honestly, you are done building houses, right? The last thing the world needs is a little more iridescent wallpaper, no offense.

Sincerely,
The Head Crawl Space Cleaner-Outer

It Was All Very Non-Traditional

I'm not sure -- even at this juncture -- if it grew from laziness or a desire to embrace some heritage, but our family left the tree up until Knut Day this year. We did it. Which is to say, we didn't do anything at all. It just sat there taking up all the space in the sitting room (te he he, I just said sitting room). We refused to touch it in the name of Knut. But today is Knut Day and I'm predicting the tree will stay right where it is until Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. But damn it, it better be gone by Abraham Lincoln's birthday.

"Why," you might ask did we leave the tree in its spot for so long. First and foremost, we are procrastinators. In this house, some more so than others, and all equally in denial.

Next, the basement is finally under construction. If I wanted to put the tree away, there is no away for it to rest. This situation is only going to get worse before it gets better.

Lastly, I really have wanted to have a Knut Day celebration of my own for a few years, now.

I'm quite sick of talking about my procrastination. So let's just skip to the basement nonsense, shall we? I cannot even describe to you the disaster this phase of construction has written on the wall. It's all there, time constraints, space constraints, patience constraints. People, this will be a true test of going-through-hell-to-get-what-you-really-want.

Did I mention the unfinished basement is the former home of aforementioned Christmas tree? Oh yes. It's current home is temporary -- though my neighbors will question my grasp of the meaning of "temporary" by the time all this is finished. It's future and mostly permanent home is yet to be determined. This is the main reason I hesitate to disassemble it. Is it better to let an assembled -- though not decorated -- tree stand in your living room; opposed to an undecorated, disassembled heap of tree parts stand in your living room? Yeah, I'm not sure about that. Feel free to discuss amongst yourselves.

I'm feeling terribly lost in my current predicament because I had such a strong plan up until 6:30 p.m. today. Until today I was resting easy in the luxury of knowing I was -- on some level -- a little bit Swedish and could tell people I was observing Knut Day this year. (This is also a total misnomer. You don't observe it so much as mark it as the day the season of festivity is over with one last festivity.)

We invited a few friends over for a crafternoon and smorgasbord. It was a delightful plan. Now it has unfurled and I have to have a new plan to get that tree out of the house.

But let's look past my panic and talk about what a hit the photobooth at the Knut Day celebration was. Magic. In the grand scheme of my Pinterest fueled thoughts I thought the crafts would be the big hit. But the photobooth was clearly the one thing that every kid wanted to try out. Well, every kid except Mason and another guest who is a) Mason's age and b) a lot like Mason.

The photobooth was assembled half-heartedly and consisted of a cast-off piece of banana yellow broadcloth thrown in front of the T.V. to create a fearfully unironed backdrop. Then I plucked a few props from our prodigious costume closet and provided the kids with a few guidelines. Pick a prop, pose, and take a picture. Hysterical. I will have a photobooth at my next party. I will have a photobooth at the next classroom party. I will have a photobooth at the next fundraiser. Hell, I'd have a photobooth at a funeral. It is a scream. Enjoy the pictures.

We munched on Swedish meatballs from IKEA, veggies, fruits, lemon cakes, and golden raisins in boxes wrapped to look like Swedish flags. I also filled my Christmas card tree with goldfish bags and notes that proclaimed the holiday season to be o-fish-ally over. I served glogg to the adults. I decorated with undecorated smaller Christmas trees, candles shaped like Christmas trees, and even a miniature battery operated Christmas tree meant to adorn one of those creepy miniature towns (it's amazing what you can find on clearance).

The theme was really less about Swedes (because I don't know or remember much about Swedish traditions) and more about blue and yellow. I had the kids create a goat mask, a foam smores snowman, and a goody bag for the tree plundering. Once all the crafts had been crafted or had an upturned nose presented to them, and the photobooth exhausted, pandemonium broke loose. I actually had to use a whistle to get things back to order. A whistle.

Once I got over the shame of using a whistle in the house I got the kids engaged in a good 'ol fashioned game of who can do the most push ups. Then we had a pretty good face off for the most sit ups. Then, and only then, did I encourage them to plunder the tree of its gingerbread cookie ornaments and bags of popcorn.

Here's a short list of the things I was determined to do, but did not:
1. Take a picture of all the Swedish flag adorned raisin boxes.
2. Take a picture of the smorgasbord.
3. Take a picture of the Christmas tree with its edible ornaments.
4. Take a group picture of all the kids.
5. Dress like a scary goat and perform mischievous acts.

Alas...

Christmas has come to an end,
And the tree must go.
But next year once again
We shall see our dear old friend,
For he has promised us so.

I Think It's Time

Ahem, phase 1 of construction is complete. Do you want to see some pictures? I thought so. Let's take a few moments and first review the hideousness that was my Miami Vice bathroom. From the purple and blue brush stroke motif of the laminate countertops to the oatmeal carpet to the three shades of grout it was about as ugly as a bathroom can be. Poorly designed, tragically decorated, and excessively abused it was the primary scourge that almost convinced me to move out of my lovely little house on the corner.
OH oh oh, it had fake grass weave wallpaper in a soft but decidedly off blue. Brass and glass was the consistent theme replete with half globe brass light sconces above the garden tub. Have you ever seen a reflection of your naked self floating in a bathtub stretched across a half globe brass light fixture? It really is enough to cause permanent and ruinous behavioral issues. So we tore that shit out.
Then my husband and I spent a great deal of time and money deciphering the mysteries of our house's original design and working with our contractor to come up with a lovely, relaxing plan B. I believe we achieved as much as we could. But I can't gloss over the trial of that period of time. Sporadic stretches of no water, constant changes, surprises, extra money, extra time, unforeseen injuries, and typical woes of reno. But what no one tells you and I am about to so listen up is that your house becomes a gas station bathroom. I am not exaggerating when I say every sub-contractor and in fact our very own general contractor all used our other bathroom every day. I do mean to say they USED it. Before driving a nail, painting a stroke, sweeping up sawdust, wiring lights, or laying out tiles those guys first dropped off the kids at the pool. Gross, gross, and gross.
Please don't think I'm bragging about the bathroom. I just want to show you my newest baby. I worked really hard and I put up with a lot of crap -- literally. Our bathroom and new laundry room are not the finest rooms in the world. Not the biggest. Not the most luxuriant. But I think they are fine examples of what a little planning and forethought can do to a smallish space. We basically added a room to our house without pushing through any exterior walls. And the new bathroom feels bigger than the old bathroom. There is just as much storage. We enjoy just as many amenities. There is more natural light and more privacy. The bathroom and the laundry room do more!

Design, good design is important.

PS -- I'll take pictures of the new laundry room tomorrow.

Can I Get a Seagull

There is a remark I have never fully recovered from, spoken by a profusely sweating man in a short-sleeve dress shirt (I loathe those things), in a classroom now made famous by the movie High School Musical.

Yup, that’s right, I took some community college classes when I lived in good ‘ol Salt Lake City on the campus of East High School, which was extraordinarily convenient because I lived across the street in the smelliest apartment known to man. It was a certification course for substitute teachers so I have NO idea why this man was talking about journals. But he said that on the famed day of “The seagulls eating all the crickets” there are no journal entries.

I found this to be a big deal because the story of the seagulls and the crickets is so deeply ingrained in the culture of Salt Lake City. I mean like it’s their state bird and they have statues and stuff. If you’re not familiar with the legend, it goes something like this…

Back in 1847 the Utah pioneers’ crops were being decimated by copious droves of crickets. To the rescue were a large flock of seagulls – like so many they couldn’t see the sun – who came and ate the crickets and then flew away, then threw up the crickets, and returned to the scene of the feast to eat more crickets. They repeated this bulimic behavior until the pestilence subsided. Big deal, right?

And supposedly, according to this very questionable authority, on the very day of this entire happening no one thought to write in their journal about it. There are historians who have researched the story based on pioneer journal entries from that time. And the general documented consensus is that the pioneers did have some troubles with drought and pestilence – namely crickets – but that no one consistent, conclusive account was written on that day.

Here’s what I think about that. Who cares!

I myself have had some very big stuff happening around here, and I tell you what, there are no journal entries from any of it. Oral history is as good – if not exaggerated and misappropriated – as written history, I think. And in most cases of really crazy circumstances is all that remains.

If you stick around and are patient you may hear about some of the following stuff on this blog:

 The first born learning to ride his bike without training wheels
 Thou Shalt Not Sell Your Brother
 Family expansion news, including weddings, houseguests, and expected babies (none from this uterus, I assure you)
 Major medical mishaps
 More major medical mishaps
 Oh, and a few more major medical mishaps
 My Book Buddy’s Ven Diagram
 Adventures From The Peanut-Free Gang
 Sour School Portraits: To Retake or Not To Retake, That is the Question
 Ragnar Running Update – because I am literally too effin lazy to keep that other blog going
 My husband is older-ish and we went to a concert
 Tales from the Coin-Op Laundromat and other disease-fearing dilemmas
 Farewell to Tortuga
 Proctology v. Urology
 25% of my house is a shambles, and approximately the same amount of my life is, too.

Then again, you may not. Because quite literally a significant portion of my life is misplaced and it’s making my brain hurt.

DISCLAIMER: I am not a historian. I am not even an Utahn. So, if any of my memory of this legend or any account of my strange teacher happens to be unabashedly untrue, I don’t really care. But I haven’t put it forward for any other reason than to illustrate a personal point, so live with it. And also, if it really bugs you, invest in Utah public education. AND Idaho Public Education for that matter. Hell, invest in public education because it’s the right thing to do.

PHOTO NOTE: Unrelated picture of my son wearing face paint, because who doesn’t like green eyebrows.

Purge

I've before professed the dangerous likelihood that I my qualify for an episode of Hoarders: Buried Alive. Plainly put, I have a penchant for hanging on. And sometimes some things find themselves in storage just because I don't know what else to do.

Perhaps this is how the bunch of flowers I carried down the aisle on the day I wed my husband found a home on the top shelf of my closet. I found it, more than a dozen years later in a rush to move out everything we had packed into our bathroom, closet, and laundry room. We had to find a new place for all that crap -- sentimental items and otherwise -- before the demolition crew showed up and the hurry afforded little time for contemplation. But when I pulled the small and dusty box that weighed next to nothing from its perch I was confused.

I didn't know why I'd kept it in the first place. I didn't know if I wanted to keep it anymore. I didn't know if you were meant to keep something like that. I didn't know if I could stomach stuffing the bouquet that witnessed my vows into a trash bin. My husband wasn't confused.

"Toss it."

Now, let's get something straight. First he gently said all the right things. And then I finally just asked him what I should do. And he gave a frank and honest answer.

So, all you sentimental types are gasping right now. Right? But I didn't even keep the top layer of my wedding cake. Well actually someone did -- who knows who -- and snuck it into my fridge while I was on my honeymoon. And when I returned I think I shrieked, "Ewwwwww!" Just before dumping it down the sink.

I'm glad he said it. He said what I was thinking. And sometimes I have trouble making myself do what I'm thinking I should do. (Ironically enough I never have trouble saying what I'm thinking, which is usually a problem.)

In conclusion: the dusty little box that weighed next to nothing was picked up with the rest of the remnants of our construction zone this past Thursday. And I didn't notice. But the man who was standing at the end of the aisle as I grappled with my nerves and clung onto that clutch of flowers is still here. And that, my friends, I notice.

PS -- I kept the straight pins that held the ribbons around the stems of the bouquet. Just for hoarders' sake.

Tour of Dreams

Not to put too romantic of a point on it, but I’ve noticed most people who live in the suburbs have a habit, good, bad, or otherwise, of believing they are living the dream. Or at the very least they project that they are living the dream.

Go to anyone’s house for the first time – this is especially true of new families in the neighborhood – and you are taken on a tour. The new homeowners walk from room to room and tell you what their plans are for the house. Look, it’s pretty transparent. They are pleading with you to judge them by their grand ideas and aspirations, not reality.

“And this is the upstairs loft, but we’re really going to put French doors on this opening, hang a crystal chandelier, paint it pink and make it a nursery.”

“And this little unfinished storage room is going to be a knockout sound studio for my husband’s band mates from high school.”

Sometimes you go to someone’s house who has just finished a remodel and the tour is something more like this.

“This is the man cave (insert eye rolling) my Tom just had to have a poker room. And I finally granted his wish to have his own space.”

“This is the game room. I just send all the teenagers down here. I’m telling you… we may have the smallest house on the block, but it’s the house everyone wants to hang out at.”

I myself have been giving a tour of dreams for about 12 years. No joke.


When we first moved in, I in my early 20s, would flit about and say things like, “I envision something very William Morris in here. Maybe a built in reading nook with a fine leather chair, maybe an antique table.”

Seven days ago, however, a small construction crew arrived at 8 a.m. and unceremoniously started knocking down walls. Without a second thought they threw out the porcelain prince that I worshipped through both of my pregnancies. They ripped up the carpet where I spilled a huge glass of red wine while bathing my babies. They smashed in the wall that was still stained with blood from the first time I tried to cut Cooper’s hair. And tossed with abandon the tub that cracked this same boy’s chin open. They even cut out the corner of the closet where I hid and cried on the night I came home from the hospital but had to leave my Mason behind in the NICU.


The dream tour has come to an end and with it a few discarded monuments to memories in our lives. A melancholy mix of relief, gratitude and excitement. And I find, as I schlep tile samples from plumbing showrooms to stone yards in 100-degree heat, that William Morris and I don’t see eye to eye.


In fact, I’ve learned that truly great design is figuring out what to do once you’ve opened a wall and found an absolutely unmovable post is hidden in there. Learning to love plan B, I guess you could say, is the real dream.

I love my little house on the corner. I'll love it even more when I can use the upstairs bathroom without the fear that contractors are looking up through the vents at my bare bottom.

Merchandising 101

On the day the housekeepers come I try to make myself scarce. So when I return to the house with the boys, Mason -- my 4-year-old -- races up to his room and flops himself on his bed and coos, "Oh mom, I love it."

Seriously.

He likes a neat bed. He regularly sleeps on top of the covers so he doesn't mess up his bed. Very strange child. Recently he sought me out with a special request. "Will you take a picture of me on my bed for my teacher?"

Ummmm... this is a weird request. Right? Just re-examine those last three words. For. My. Teacher.

Anyway, I followed him back to his room where he had painstakingly arranged his stuffed friends. He then climbed to the middle of them, affixed himself into what he deemed a photogenic posture and asked me to take the picture. I'm not kidding. I wish I were, but I'm not.

I took an additional picture so as to remember the care he had administered to one pet in particular. It is tucked into the covers

Home Economics

It's a lazy Saturday, the snow is pounding down, and thanks to back-to-back gym classes on Thursday and Friday every muscle group in my body hates me. Every.

So, for lack of anything better to do I've read a lot of Facebook statuses today. One in particular jumps out at me, "I'm going to take strategies of Texas Hold'em for women...anybody want to take it with me???" Tempting. Really. But wouldn't it be great if you -- you being any person, not the person wanting to take Texas Hold'em for Women -- could take a Home Economics class that was actually called Shit You Want to be Able to Do After You Don't Live With Your Parents Anymore?

Before I dive into this let me just say that when I last checked with my mother, she felt pretty strongly that my generation and every one after that is ill-prepared for life. Specifically she thinks we can't sew, cook, or clean for ourselves. She's probably right. But who's at fault? I have parents who are hard-working folk, mechanically inclined, tremendously talented in domestic matters and yet, I can categorically claim to have taught myself most of the domestic arts I now have any (if little) skill in. I even took Home Economics of various flavors in high school and college. But still I moved into my first place not knowing the first thing about maintaining a home, my own wardrobe, or the shitbox that was my car. (Someday I'm going to share with the world how I drove this car wearing oven mitts, but not today.)

According to my calculations, here's a rough list of the Shit You Want to be Able to Do After You Don't Live With Your Parents Anymore:

1. Bake an exceptional cookie. Whatever your favorite flavor... learn it... and practice often. Knowing a good cookie recipe is essential to your mental health.

2. Know how to plan a meal off the back of a can. Have you ever been on the freeway barreling home from work, or carpool, or the gym and gotten that random call from your significant other that starts with, "What's for dinner?" and ends with, "I don't know, I'll stop at the store on the way home." This is when you pick up a can, look at the back, and proceed to shop for the ingredients needed. In my opinion the most effective recipes are on the back of enchilada sauce cans. I'm just saying.

3. Iron a pair of pants, and a set of synthetic curtains. Don't ask questions, just learn it.

4. How to read a permission slip. I had recent occasion to hunt down a notary at 8 p.m. on a Saturday night because I had neglected to properly read a permission slip. (Also, the permission slips of my day are now referred to as release forms and exculpatory clause contracts.)

5. How to unclog a drain, a toilet, and a gutter. If I have to explain no. 5 you need to move back in with your parents.

This, my friends, is one of the best ideas I've ever had. I may propose this to my local community college. What do you wish you had learned before you moved away from your parents?

Winter Bugs Me

Would anyone like to know what the next renovation will be? It's meant to hide all this mess from mom. Would anyone else like to bet that it will not work?

I Once Believed

Here's an idea, let's review the incomplete list of myths I once believed.

I believed that when my children started school I would have more time.

I believed that with my children in school and not hanging on my leg/arm/back I would make more effective use of my time.

I believed that with a little more time, and being more effective, I would get my house clean, laundry done, and have hot, healthy cuisine to serve my family at least 2 if not 3 nights a week.

I believed that with my children in school I would not feel guilty about spending more time in the gym. See first belief.

I believed that with my children in school I would be able to throw away toys without them noticing.

I believed that I would finish my to-tackle list.

I believed that with the quiet of the house -- noise followed children to school -- that I would have a chance to think intellectual thoughts and not child-provoked nonsense like, "I wonder if that soybean will fit in Mason's nose?"

I believed that while my children were eating lunch away from me I would have an opportunity to eat something other than chicken nuggets for lunch.

Ummmmm, yeah, that about covers it.

PHOTO NOTE: I'm starting the take-a-picture-of-your-child-on-picture-day-before-they-leave-for-school tradition as I failed to follow through on the take-a-picture-of-your-child-on-the-first-day-of-school tradition. This is installment no. 1 of 15 between now and 2025.

Again

I've been cracking the whip. I'm sure the neighbors have been wondering what is going on. My kids are sequestered until they clean up their playroom. And this time, I'm not helping. So, every day following our usual errands or school the boys march down to clean. Without constant supervision, however, they start playing. Then I march down and holler a little bit. The boys scurry to do as I ask. But as soon as I retreat to folding the laundry or some other chore of my own, they begin to play. Then I stomp down the stairs for another bout.

Despite the fact that I can see they do not get how serious I am, Cooper recently stopped my lecture with, "Do we have to have this fight, again?"

Oh little man, brace yourself. Unfortunately, in life, we -- the grown-ups of the world -- often find ourselves having the same fight, over and over and over, again. If you learn now that it's exhausting and emotionally injurious to have a perpetual and persistent fight you will be so much farther ahead than the rest of the human race.

We all have fighting thoughts, which one could you put away forever? Peace be with you until we meet, again.

Remember

Once upon a time I took a picture of my new peach tree. It was full of little peaches waiting to grow and ripen. Good thing I took a picture of it, the following week the damned squirrels took all the peaches. They didn't even leave me one. Don't they know the biblical rule that vegetation wasn’t an acceptable sacrifice?!?!?! Not fair.


Then once upon last weekend I took a picture of my freshest bulbs peeking through the cracks in the sidewalk between the driveway and the front steps. I hope this does not mean I have jinxed them to burial by freak spring snow storm -- please read this and weep with me just a little bit.



Is there anything you need to remind yourself of this spring? For myself, I'm headed to the hardware store for squirrel abatement and some kind of weather predicting stick. They carry those, right?

Something is Holding me Back

We have some serious chores to do around here. Spring cleaning on the order of room by room clearance. But something is holding me back. More than sheer laziness. There's a nagging little voice that is saying, "Don't pull the summer clothes out, it could still snow." There's also another little whisper saying, "We might need those snow boots next weekend." While I was taking pictures of tulips, grape hyacinth, and narcissus this weekend, it was just last week that I was shaking the snow off of them.

It's driving me crazy.


So I have piles of coupons waiting to be thrown away, but not until they expire, of course. About 200 reciepts are hastily bunched up by the shredder -- but not yet disposed of because I'm worried about needing to return a few things. A drop cloth is strewn from the threshold of our remodeled bathroom to the top of the staircase because I need to paint, but I haven't done it quite yet. A stellar stash of party gifts is stacked on my sideboard waiting for a party on Tuesday. The bag of knitting is patiently waiting for me next to my bed, but I can't work on it because I'm at a point in my pattern where I am good and stumped. A week's worth of clean, pressed and beautiful clothes are parsed out at the end of my closet waiting to be packed for a trip to Vegas -- but I don't leave for another two weeks. My stack of to-be-read books is near toppling over and the library just called to say they are holding two more.

Don't even ask me about the sewing room. The producers of Hoarders: Buried Alive are knocking at my door. Help me.