Longing for Cool Autumn Days

It's hot, very hot. We've been cooped up in the house staying out of the heat. It's so hot the kids don't want to play outside. I'm out of ideas to keep them occupied. I considered taking them swimming; but, what's the point of going swimming when the pool water feels like a hot bath? Instead, they've been hanging out in the AC & trashing my house. There's much needing done around here, especially in the yard & garden; but, absolutely nothing is being accomplished except the slow destruction of my home by three, very bored children.

Oh, I am so looking forward to those cool, Autumn days.

Read

Each and every time a new book in the Harry Potter series has come into my home I have had to fight my husband and sometimes the children to read it first. This time E won. I sat anxiously awaiting my turn as E took his sweet time reading it (3 long, agonizing days.) I hovered over him urging him to hurry up and finish the book while simultaneously grilling him on what was happening. It drove me nuts when he kept saying, "You need to read it." Yeah, I knew I needed to read it. He needed to hurry the heck up before I lost control and wrestled the book from his hands as I had done with Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Based on E's reactions while he was reading, saying he didn't want to read anymore over and over, telling me what happened to Dobby but not explaining how it happened, exclamations over what he considered unnecessary deaths, I found my eagerness for the chance to read it morphing into reluctance to pick up the thing I had coveted for three long days. When he handed me the book I asked the burning question, "Did she kill Harry?" I didn't ask if Voldemort killed him I asked if J. K. Rowling had killed him, after all, it was her hands that Harry's life was in, not Voldemort's. Of course, E's reply consisted of "read it and find out" as he hung his head, perhaps to hide from me the truth I would be able to read in his eyes. With a great deal of dread that I would discover that she had murdered one of my favorite characters of all time I picked up the book and began reading. Many times I put it down, each time a beloved character died, each time Harry came ever closer to Voldemort's clutches, and swore I would not finish it. I did not want to know for certain that he was going to die.

I've always been able to predict the ending of most any book I've picked up. And, I was certain the book was going in the direction I did not want it to. The hero isn't supposed to die. It's just not o.k. for that to happen. Good must always win. I wondered if J. K. Rowling knew that.

E urged me to finish the book, even placing it in my hands at one point and simply stating, "Read." Well, I finally finished it this morning after another round of "I'm not going to read another page. Why did she have to kill them? She didn't have to do that!" I truly understood why E had said the same things himself a few days prior. But, it was too late for me to stop. I had already wandered too far in and could not quit, not in the middle of the climax. My eyes marched slowly across the words of those last pages as I learned for certain, as I had suspected all along, that Harry's death was inevitable.

Very few books have stirred me to such emotion as the Harry Potter books have. Very few books have had endings woven so intricately that they surprised me; and, those are all by a single author, J. K. Rowling. In a few days my son will finish Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. He's entrenched in the last chapters as I write this. In a few days I will place the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in his hands and utter a single word, "Read."

Happy Birthday Bug!

Today, my very sweet, little girl turned 10 years old. She's everything I ever wanted in a daughter. She's kindhearted, independent, beautiful, intelligent, outgoing, creative, a little stubborn, sassy, and tough as nails! She's an awesome kid.

I'll never forget the moment when I first held her in my arms & looked upon her angelic, little face. Words can't describe what I felt right then as I held her warm, little body close to me, her tiny fingers wrapped around mine. I knew I'd never want to let her go. Yet, from that moment forward, in small degrees, I have had to do just that. I think back over how quickly an entire decade has passed & find myself wishing that the coming 8 years will go slowly. One day, all too soon, she will be completely grown, and I will have to watch her walk out my front door for good.

I love you, Bug. I hope this birthday was the best ever & all those that follow are even better than the last. Happy birthday.

Love,
Mom

Get Your Own Blog!

"Honey, blog this...Put that in your blog...Here's one for your blog," said repeatedly by my husband ever since I started this thing. Sometimes I actually do blog what he tells me about (i.e. the previous post) but most of the time I don't. I think he needs to get his own blog.

Do You Remember?

The jar of M&M's that sat on my kitchen table & how you ate them all every time you came over. The trips to TCBY to get ice cream (the closest we ever came to having a date.) The long conversations at your kitchen table & the pots of coffee that we drank together. The argument over whether or not to take the man off the island. January 15, 1992 (need I say more.) The only time you ever admitted, after checking to make sure no one was listening, that you kissed me first. The time all those wolf spiders invaded your apartment & how you valiantly slew each one. The telephone conversations that lasted way into the morning. How we never tired of talking to each other. The day I got on the airplane for South Korea. The months spent apart with nothing but a phone line between us. The call you made to the other side of the world - the one when you asked me to marry you. The moment our eyes met when I got off the plane home. Do you remember standing in the rain with me, not because we had to, but just because it was raining? The day I woke up in the hospital with a fat, little bear staring back at me & the grin on your face. Do you remember all the secrets he told you? The time we packed up and moved to Montana & what we learned about ourselves. The day I told you I was pregnant. How you went to every single appointment with me. The morning K was born. How you threw your body across mine to keep me from punching that doctor, then you made her apologize. Do you remember laying our daughter in my arms? All the nights you got up with her and let me sleep. All the nights you got up with all of them just to let me sleep. It was you who laid each of our children in my arms. Do you remember cooking squash for me, even though the smell of them sickened you, because I was craving them & couldn't get out of the bed to fix them for myself? And, swearing that since I got fixed you would never do that again. Do you remember taking me to the beach, six months pregnant with R, even though the doctor didn't like the idea, just because we all needed the break. Do you remember sitting on the balcony of the hotel at Disneyworld talking while the kids slept. Do you remember laughing when I said I could stay there forever? Do you remember all the little things, the moments that have defined our lives? Do you remember the hard parts, the ones I haven't mentioned, the ones that still hurt? Do you remember how we pulled through each time? We never doubted we'd make it. But, this time is different. There is doubt. Yet, somehow, some part of me believes we will get through this. Because, that's what we do. I forgive you.

A Few Comments

I've made lots of observations lately. I think I'll write them down here in no particular order...

K's keeping her room clean. T's room is a wreck. I think he's doing it on purpose trying to differentiate himself from his sister. It's very annoying. How do I get him to stop trashing his room?

I am the antithesis of a "soccer mom." I'm glad. I think my kids are better off because of it.

T is probably going to attain his next karate belt rank before K does. I think it'll be an important lesson for her to learn - in the real world rewards must be earned. I'm also dreading the tears when it happens.

I need a summer vacation. I know we decided to do year round schooling, and I'm sticking with the decision; however, I'm going to need a break soon, for at least a few days anyway.

There are little tomatoes, zucchini, jalapenos, and cucumbers in our garden. The eggplant are blooming. The squash and okra are coming along nicely. We've already sampled the radishes and rosemary. Things always taste better when one grows them oneself.

Growing a garden is turning out to be the key to getting R to eat vegetables. He's discovered that he loves radishes, doused in French dressing, of course. I wonder what he'll think when he realizes that eggplants don't produce eggs. He's still expecting to, as he said when we planted them, "grow some eggs, Yum. Yum."

My husband avoids the garden as if it were a toxic waste site until it's time to harvest. Then he won't stay out of it.

My kids, all of them, are just as headstrong as their parents. It sometimes makes parenting them very...um...interesting.

Life around here often gets crazy and disorganized; never-the-less, I find that I'm still very happy despite the chaos.

Snoopy Cat, 1998 - 2007

I got into the car and drove the hundred yards to the church on the corner praying it wasn't him. But, the look on E's face & the way he didn't look me in the eye had told me he was certain it was him. I let out a sigh when he first came into view & realized I'd been holding my breath since pulling out of the driveway. I got out of the car and walked over to the limp body laying there in the gravel. As I knelt down beside him, a fleeting hope that he was still alive passed through my mind. He looked so much like he was just sleeping there. Another sigh escaped me as I stood and walked back to the SUV. I had been holding my breath again. I thought to myself that I should have brought the truck as I rummaged in the back for a plastic bag or something to put him in. I considered returning home to get the truck but decided against it. It just didn't feel right to leave him there not even for a couple of minutes. No, he was going home right then. As I lifted him from the cold, grey gravel I felt my heart break. I drove home to find E waiting in the driveway. I didn't look at him as I unlocked the hatch and walked back to retrieve the plastic grocery bag that contained our small friend. I carried him to the sidewalk and laid him down before looking up to meet E's gaze. E let out a small moan and said, "we have to tell the kids." "Yeah, and we have to hurry. It's getting dark," I observed somewhat coldly steeling myself against the task. I knew I would have to break the news to them. E doesn't ever do that part. He does other things taking care of details, making everyone more comfortable. I am the one who has to break their hearts. As E changed into his sneakers I gathered the children. As they sat before us wondering why we had called them together, I glanced over at E silently pleading that just this once he'd take the burden from my shoulders and be the one to tell them. He met my gaze for a second then looked down at his shoes concentrating much too hard on tying them. Resignedly, I took a deep breath and looked at T, the one who would take the news the hardest. "What is it, Mom," he demanded. "I just brought Snoopy home," I sighed. My chest tightened into a knot as I watched his expression change to horror. K was the first to speak, her voice growing more shrill with each word, "Is he o.k.," followed by "Is he dead?" I nodded, grateful that I did not have to say the words out loud. In unison the three of them cried, "Nooo..." At that moment my heart shattered as if it were a sheet of ice thrown to the ground and...I cried with them, for a minute or so. I regained my composure knowing it wasn't yet my time to grieve. The children needed my strength. Daylight was fading away and the grim work of laying him to rest in the flower bed could not wait til morning. E echoed my thoughts saying, "we need to get moving." "No, don't bury Snoopy, please, no" T pleaded through his tears. "T, we have to...," I began unwilling to continue,yet knowing I must answer him. I braced myself, looked into my son's eyes, and purposefully finished the sentence, "If we don't he'll start to smell." I hoped he saw my compassion as I spoke that hard truth. Desperately,I wished he would let me by with just that one statement and not make me have to explain further. Thankfully, it was enough for T to hear. He stopped crying long enough to stand then bent double wailing under the weight of his grief. E put his arm around him and walked him outside, K & R following behind them. I stood in the kitchen for a moment fighting an almost overpowering desire to find a place to hide until it was all over. Just as I reached the front door I heard their cries as they knelt down beside the body I had earlier laid on the sidewalk. "Why did it have to be Snoopy," T cried as I held him. I felt that knot in my chest tighten as his pain turned to anger and he raged against the injustice of such a cruel fate for one who had done no harm to anyone. Lame answers, such as "it was an accident, it was just his time to go, etc.," were no comfort for my heartbroken children. By the time they were able to do anything other than lament Snoopy's tragic death the last shreds of daylight had faded. The kids wandered off into the dark in search of flowers for Snoopy while I went back into the house to fetch a flashlight for E. I returned with the flashlight and stood there in the dark watching my husband furiously digging a hole then carefully squaring it out so that Snoopy might rest comfortably. Tearfully, I remembered a Sunday morning in May when my father brought my Snoopy home from the driveway of the church that was just up the road from our house. I tearfully watched as he, too, lovingly dug a hole in the corner of our yard. I stood by weeping while he carefully filled that hole under the wisteria bush. I remembered his tears as he tried to comfort me. Feeling just as helpless as I did when I was 14 years old watching my father bury my Snoopy I stood there watching my husband bury T's Snoopy yet felt comforted knowing how much love was going into each stroke of the mattock. Just as E finished laying our son's beloved cat in the grave he had so deliberately dug, the kids returned with every blossom from my peony. We all stood there for a moment staring down at our friend, a member of our family actually. T knelt down and nestled a fluffy, pink blossom under his paw. E briefly hesitated and then the first shovel full of dirt was gingerly put in place. That was just too much for T who bolted for the house crying, "I can't watch him bury Snoopy!" I followed my son into the house grateful to him for giving me an excuse to run after him. I didn't want to watch, either, not again. I got T a glass of water and sat talking with him, reassuring him that it was o.k. not to want to watch. In a couple of minutes, E, K, and R followed us in. We hugged our kids and told them it would be o.k. T said he would like to plant a yellow butterfly bush where Snoopy was buried. It's a fitting thing to do since Snoopy spent a great deal of his life underneath the one in the backyard.

This morning, after E left for work, I fixed myself another cup of coffee and went to sit on the back steps like I do most days. Normally, I'd wait until the kids were eating breakfast before going out to have coffee with Snoopy. Today, I left the kids in the bed. I didn't want any interruptions while I took the time to do the thing I had to do this morning. Any other day, Snoopy would have been there waiting to be fed and for a chance to stick his big, furry face in my coffee cup. I opened the door knowing he wouldn't be there. Alone, I sat down, lit a cigarette, and thought. I thought about my kids and how much they're going to miss Snoopy. I thought about Snoopy, both of them, and I cried.

Itching and Scratching

As I sat at the computer last night, happily reading some of my favorite blogs, I heard a small voice asking, "Mom, can me get on Starfall?" I started to answer without turning my head, "No. It's bedtime and you..." and stopped mid sentence as I turned to find him standing there furiously scratching his left buttock. Poison oak.

As we headed to the bathroom to doctor his rash, we passed E standing in the kitchen. "Dad, me got poison oak,too," R happily exclaimed as if it were something to be proud of having. "Really," E looked up at me for confirmation. I nodded as R let out a hearty "yeah," and ran off to share his "good news" with his siblings. In reply E announced how thankful he was that he had to go off to work tomorrow and wouldn't be around for all the itching and scratching.

Tough Lesson

I told him not to roll around in the grass. I told him to stop wrestling his baby brother. But, he didn't listen. Now he is covered in spots of poison oak - all over his back & stomach. As I dabbed calamine lotion on the poor boy I wondered aloud if he would listen to me next time. Of course, he said he would. But...I've told him not to scratch & he's not listening. I guess he's just going to have to learn the hard way.

Meanwhile, I and my trusty jug of Roundup will be spraying the yard tomorrow.

An Email From My Husband

I found this in my inbox this morning...

"One day, there was a blind man sitting on the steps of a
building with a hat by his feet and a sign that read: "I am
blind, please help."

A man was walking by and stopped to observe. He saw that the
blind man had only a few coins in his hat. He dropped in some
money and, without asking for permission, took the sign and
rewrote it.

He returned the sign to the blind man and left. That afternoon
the man returned to the blind man and noticed that his hat was
full of bills and coins.

The blind man recognized his footsteps and asked if it was he
who had rewritten his sign and wanted to know what he had
written on it.

The man responded: "Nothing that was not true. I just wrote
the message a little differently." He smiled and went on his
way.

The new sign read: "Today is Spring, and I cannot see it.""

--author unknown

Yep, the response you get is completely dependent on how you present yourself.

Just a Thought

Here's what I think:

If you burn a bridge then later decide to rebuild it you're likely to find that there is no longer anyone waiting for you on the other side.

Life is too short and way too interesting to waste it waiting around for other people to come to their senses.

Nifty Stuff That Happened Lately

Last week, before this wretched, hard freeze occured, the kids got the opportunity to watch a ladybug larva devour an aphid. It was primal. The kids were fascinated. Me, too.

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We discovered the little Green Lynx spiderlings that hatched out in the azalea bush next to our front door last Fall are still around. The downside to the discovery lies in the circumstances in which we learned that they're still around: I keep finding them crawling up my arm! Of course, to the kids that's a bonus considering how much they enjoy seeing me scream and jump around like a lunatic.

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K cleaned her room...all by herself...changed her sheets even...within 2 hours...and there was nothing shoved under the bed. Wow! (Now, if I could get T to do the same to his room I'd be a happy woman. Unfortunately, he insists it's an impossibility.)

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Yesterday, I found the time to search around the net & learned how to make this blog look more like I want it to. I even discovered how to make the nifty horizontal reference line above. Wow, I can change it's size and color, too. (I'm not finished with the blog yet. It's not quite looking like I envision it looking. There's more changes to be made, alot more changes, as soon as I figure out how to bring them about. (Yes, I'm incredibly behind the times when it comes to computers. When I graduated high school they were teaching Basic. Since then, I only bothered to learn rudimentary word processing & spread sheets. Better late than never, right?))

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Lastly, tonight, after a long day of CAT testing, my most wonderful husband made dinner for us just so I could have a little "me-time."

Boys Will Be Boys

T chose to help me out cleaning up & grooming plants this week while foregoing the opportunity to play with his siblings. He worked so hard all the while negotiating for payment in time on the PlayStation. He spent most of Wednesday afternoon diligently raking and sweeping up yet still managed to seize the opportunity to pour dirt down his sister's pants.

The Yellow Belt

It's been a year since K & T started taking karate lessons. From January to mid-September they went to karate classes run by a man who required only one kata per belt level. He spent most of his time out in the hallway talking to the kids' moms while 13 & 14 year old black belts, who couldn't control a room full of elementary age kids, attempted to teach the classes. The classes were mostly calisthenics followed by 20 to 30 minutes of karate moves. It was borderline chaos, not what one would expect to see in a karate dojo. So, why did we leave them there for 8 months? Well...it was cheap, nearby, and we didn't notice the shortcomings at the beginning. Furthermore, we weren't sure karate was their thing. My ignorance of what a karate school should be is also to blame. I should have done some research.

Over the summer, it became clear the kids were really into karate. I watched them go up in belt rank every three months like clockwork just for showing up to class. There was a belt test, sort of. All the students went through the moves as a group while the instructor stood in front of the class giving commands. The belt tests weren't announced beforehand; yet, no one ever failed one. Anyone absent on belt test night simply took the test at the next scheduled class. At the end of class, he handed out belts and large, fancy certificates adorned with a stalking tiger on one side. They looked impressive. I watched my kids come home with 3 pretty tiger certificates and yellow, orange, then purple belts. As purple belts my kids couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag even though their Gis were adorned with patches won during school sparring matches. They knew a few moves and three katas, although they didn't know what purpose those moves served. Even though they realized their instructor just might not be all that after all the kids wanted to stick with the karate classes. E & I were proud of their determination. We had several discussions and asked the kids what they thought about the karate school. We decided to begin looking for a legitimate karate school. What we found was a real Sensei who ran a real karate school.

Having learned my lesson after the last instructor, I did some googling and put together a list of questions for potential martial arts instructors and spoke with several in our area. When I made the first contact on the phone with him I knew this Sensei was different. He talked about the school and his students, not himself. All the others started their sentences with "I." He invited us to the dojo for a look-see.

We showed up to class that night. Everyone in the dojo stared at my kids sporting their recently received purple belts tied around Gis that were literally covered with patches. Parents walked up to me & asked about them. The kids did look sharp, and perhaps a little overdone, in their trappings. The Sensei talked with us for a minute then asked the kids to show him what they knew (more like, didn't know.) Rather than standing there watching their sloppy performance he went into teaching mode. I hadn't indicated to him that we were going to sign up for his classes. He had no obligation to teach them a thing. He automatically did it. The kids participated in the last half of the class that night & decided he was the Sensei they wanted. During the hour & a half we were there I watched the students. His orange belts looked better than the former instructors black belts did! I was amazed at the difference. Looking back, I realize I probably shouldn't have been surprised.

He talked to us at the end of class and told the kids that they would have to start over as white belts. He explained that his students were required to know much more & properly execute the moves before they received yellow belts. He asked the kids if they thought, after seeing the performance of his students, if they thought they knew enough to have the belts that were tied around their waists. They were honest with him & said 'no." He asked them how they felt about starting over at white belt. Although their disappointment was obvious, they said they wanted to really learn karate and truly earn their belts. He warned the kids that he would be a tough teacher; but promised them he would teach them. He was true to his word.

Over the last four months I have watched him teach. He attends to each student, children and adults alike, ensuring they get help when needed. He's put 100% into helping K & T get to where they are now. There have been times when the kids have made his job hard - days when they goofed off or didn't listen. He has pushed them, praised them, and disciplined them consistently. This past Saturday he tested them. This past Saturday he and a promotion board of two other black belts awarded yellow belts to my children and husband. The accompanying certificate was small, 8 x 11, and didn't have a pretty tiger on it. My daughter, who really likes tigers, commented that she thought it looked much better than the other certificate she has from her former karate school. Fishing for the answer I had waited almost four months to hear, I asked her why she thought the new one looked better than the much larger, tiger adorned one. "Because, I really earned this one," she said quietly, smiling to herself. The Sensei gave my children much more than a brightly colored belt and a certificate last Saturday.

I Can't Stop Reading!

It was 10:41pm. I walked into my living room to find my two oldest children huddled under the lamp in the corner. "Guys, what are you doing up," I wondered. T looked up from Harry Potter & the Goblet of Fire just long enough to exclaim, "I can't stop reading!" K, hunched over Dragon Rider, didn't even acknowledge my presence.

I remember the first time I read a book I simply could not put down. The book was White Fang; and, I was twelve. I stayed up all night reading. It was a school night & I had to use a flashlight under the covers until I was sure my daddy was sound asleep. I don't think the kids will be able to fight off the sandman all night; but, it sure looks like they're going to try. I don't have the heart to chase them to bed, not when I remember what it was like to find a truly great book that one simply can't put down. It'll be o.k. to just let them keep reading. I figure they'll crash out by midnight, anyhow.

No Shooting Rockets in the House

The following conversation occurred yesterday afternoon.

Him: Should I do it in the kitchen or bathroom?
Me: Do what?
Him: Test my cold power rocket.
Me: Huh? (Realizing he just said something about firing up a rocket in my house.) What?!
Him: I need to hook my rocket to the CBL force probe & test it. Where should I test it, the kitchen or the bathroom?
Me: (Envisioning a giant hole in my ceiling.) Neither! Have you lost your mind? You will blow a hole in the ceiling & probably kill someone in the process!
Him: It'll be mounted. It won't hit the ceiling unless it breaks lose or (laughs nervously) I forget to secure it or something. I think the kids 'll get a kick out of it.
(I study his face carefully. No sign that he's joking. Yes, he's seriously considering firing off a model rocket in my house!)
Me: You have definitely lost your mind. (Talking fast. Worried that he may already have a contraption set up & ready to go.) Why can't you do it outside? You're not shooting off a rocket in my house. Have you forgotten the kind of luck we have? If you try that you're guaranteed to put a hole in the roof.
Him: It's too cold to do it outside. It has to be above 50 degrees. Don't worry; it'll be o.k. (Famous last words.)
Me: No. If it's too cold then wait til it's warmer. How come it has to be 50 degrees?
Him: (Says something I don't hear because I'm thinking up things to say to convince him not to do it.)
Me: Think real hard about the messes we always get into. You will put a hole in the roof and your rocket will end up somewhere down in the woods stuck in a tree. (The look on his face confirms he's seriously considering it.)
Him: Nah, it won't end up in the woods. (Yes, I noticed he didn't deny the likelihood of a hole in my roof.)
Me: If you make a hole in the ceiling then I get that skylight I wanted. (Lame attempt at humor meant to distract him long enough for me to come up with a plan to stop him.)
Him: So, which would be better; the kitchen or the bathroom? I think the kitchen. There's more room in the kitchen. (Oh God! Not my kitchen.)
Me: (Sputtering.) No shooting rockets off in the house! NO!
Him: You're no fun. (Getting up to leave the room.) I have to go build a stand so I can test my rocket.

For the record, that was my husband I was talking to.

Breakfast with Grandpa

The World's Greatest Grandpa took K, T & me out to breakfast at Golden Corral this morning. I like having breakfast with my father-in-law. He tells great stories and is so funny - one of those people that you can talk to for hours & not get tired of him. He's the kind of person that would tell my kids that it was o.k. to eat ice cream for breakfast, with a side of cookies, and then tell me, their mother, that there was nothing wrong with it. Yes, the kids are certain that he's the best grandpa in the world. The kids were tickled pink to be going out to breakfast with him. They hopped out of bed & got moving this morning. Their manners were excellent. They were so incredibly polite. I was so proud of them. After he dropped us off & left, I asked the kids how come they always behave so good when they're out with him & not always so good with E & me. K replied, "well mom, we like Grandpa."

Adventures in Potty Training

E & I decided it was time to start potty training full force. Surely, any kid that can learn to decode 3 & 4 letter words can certainly figure out how to use the potty. So, we did what we did with the first two kids; we bribed him with M&M's. We started this past Friday & it was working pretty good. Lo & behold, it took him less than 24 hours to figure out how to beat the system. Yesterday evening, he went to the potty & got an M&M. Then he turned around, went right back to the potty, and came asking for another M&M. E checked behind him & there was a small amount in the potty, so we gave him an M&M. He immediately made another trip to the potty, left behind a little bit more and came back to me, holding himself like kids do when they really gotta go, wanting another M&M. He was in some rush to get that M&M and run back to the bathroom. We about fell in the floor laughing when we realized what he was up to. His grandpa calls him "a tiger on wheels." Yep, that about describes him.

Of Sheep and Wild Children

The kids have gotten rather wild lately - messy rooms, blowing off schoolwork & chores, fighting, being sneaky. It's cabin fever - too cold to play outside lately & bored, bored, bored. Misbehaving is a quick, efficient way to create a little excitement. Watching Mom's head pop off is lots of fun.

The same scenario happens every year about this time. And...every year E & I have the same "You're Too Permissive vs. You're Too Authoritarian" um... er... discussions while we, yet again, seek to correct the problem. This year I was going to be ready for him. I set about researching discipline on the net. I would have proof that I was right although my method might be slower. I would quote 'the experts!' He would not win this time! I got busy googling.

Three days ago during one of my googles, in which I wandered too far into the internet and became terribly lost, I came across a Presbyterian minister's explanation of the "spare the rod and spoil the child" verse. It said the rod being refered to was actually a shepherd's crook used to guide the sheep back when they strayed too far from the fold & wasn't referring to beating children with a stick. I liked the minister's explanation & shared it with E (who also doesn't believe in beating children.) It was just a harmless, little anecdote, only remotely related to our um...er...debate. I thought he would find it interesting since he likewise had heard the verse used as a justification for corporal punishment while growing up. I had no idea a simple anecdote would be my undoing.

Well, he found it interesting alright. His eyes lit up with a victorious glint as he replied, "Yes, the curved part is hooked around the sheep's neck and he's firmly pulled back in line. It's not for leaning on while you wave to the sheep and say 'come. come.'"

I hate to admit it; but, after several days of Molasses Syndrome & the too public for my comfort Karate Incident, I have relented. E won out. T's room is one satellite reciever lighter; while K's new playstation now sits on E's desk. Their rooms are clean. They didn't argue about bedtime. Order has been restored. I'm happy with the results even though I am still picking the feathers (from the crow I had to eat) out of my teeth.

You're Going to Clean That Up!

Tonight, while bathing R (who loves a bath, but goes hysterical over getting his hair washed) my 41 yr. old husband decided it would be great fun to wash R's hair using his Super Soaker 1200 water cannon. I entered my rather small bathroom to find E spraying jets of water as R deftly used the shower curtain to deflect the water onto every surface in my bathroom. The resultant flood was enough to set my head to spinning 360 degrees (like in The Exorcist, only faster.)

There are times when I am absolutely convinced that I am the only adult in this house.