Adventures~With~Gretchen

2012-01-17T20:36:00.000-08:00

Charlie had all this to say on the way to school today--

We didn’t go to school because it was Martin Day. It was Monday, but we didn’t go to school because it was Martin’s special day. He did not live a long time, but he did a lot of good things. He told guys to be nice and use nice words. He made a speech about a dream and it was a very good speech. Martin’s color was black. He wanted good people to be nice to everyone. Someone shot him one day. He fell over and then he went to heaven. If I go to heaven, I can see him someday.

Rosa went to jail. She sat in a white man’s seat on the bus. But she was tired. When they said, “Get up!” She didn’t and so she went to jail. She was just tired. Now bus guys can’t say that. You have to be nice to everybody on the bus. If you go to jail, you won’t see Martin because he’s not there. He’s in heaven. And I think Rosa is in heaven, too, even though she went to jail because she is not a bad guy.

Tic Tac Toe

2012-01-16T07:13:00.000-08:00

Having spent a lot of the last month entertaining themselves in waiting rooms, other people's houses, restaurant tables and on long car rides, my children have developed an affinity for tic tac toe. The desire to win and inability to develop sufficient strategy has them taking many approaches.

In Olive Garden one night, I'm playing TTT with Charlie. Now there are Charlie-imposed RULES to doing anything with Charlie, but especially this game.

1.) He has to have the green crayon.
2.) You can have 'any color dat you want to have' but it better be red.
3.) He is never the X.
4.) He always goes first.
5.) You have to help him see where he can block you if it's on a diagonal.
6.) You can never win.

Well, you had me til #6, kid. I have no problem with taking you down. I will try to have an even mix of cat games and maternal victories, but I'm not going to let you win.

After about ten games, he starts developing his strategy. He'll go, then I'll go. Then he hovers his crayon over each spot and looks at my face. I assume he's looking for a sign that I don't want him to go there so that he can pounce. (Signs that his therapies are working! Looking for facial cues! Woot!!)

Once I've given him several misleading looks of horror, he goes for a more direct approach. Before he makes his move, he asks me, "Where do you tink you are going to want to go next? I need to block you."

I tell him a few times before I start to lie. He 'does not love dat' approach. So he has a new idea, "I will go to turns, den you can go two turns, den I can go two turns and den win!"

Huh, that worked. And it was the exact number of turns before you win. Every time. Good thinking, kid.

Thankfully, the food comes before we have to go down any more paths.

***

On the long road trip to Oklahoma, Dixie was annoyed to find herself the only backseat denzien still awake and so she started playing TTT with her imaginary friend. Dixie's either very generous or not very bright, because the imaginary friend won every game.

Someday, that girl is going to have to take the comedy act on the road. I wish I could remember the dialogue she had with herself. I was laughing too hard to drive in a straight line to the nearest bathroom and more than one type of accident nearly occurred.

***

The girls were playing one day in a waiting room and decided to expand the game to be a 4x4 grid rather than a 3x3, but couldn't agree on if you'd then need 3 in a row to win or if you had to go for the 4. They were also having a visual discrimination problem with the larger grid, especially when it was hand drawn and slightly wonky. They never could forsee strategy sixteen positions rather than nine.

***

Melody has a different TTT hang-up than Charlie's obsession with the big win. She wants to know why the cat gets all the credit for winning, when he's not even in the restaurant.

Cocoa Puffs with the Dark Lord

2012-01-08T17:47:00.000-08:00

Friday morning, I had breakfast in my kitchen with Darth Vader and a Clone Trooper. Melody had just discovered the book Scary Stories to Tell In The Dark and was reading them ghost stories while they ate Cocoa Puffs. Not only did the masks make it difficult, but, being a literal person, Melody had to read the stories in the dark.

We're back into the swing of things. School's been in for three days and, now that my computer AND voice work, classes are so much more productive than they were for the entire month of December. Charlie's bus driver has requested that we arrive earlier, as he now has another kid added to his roster. Dowlan's still living and working in another town and, despite a few interviews right before Christmas, that doesn't seem likely to change soon. We did get to be together as a family for holidays and travels and it made it that much harder for him to leave again.

Today's Lazy Parenting Tip: My Pampered Chef pizza stone sits in the bottom rack of my oven all the time. It catches drips from the top rack and is easier to store that way. As an added bonus, any time I make prepared freezer kid foods like corn dogs, fish sticks, chicken nuggets or frozen pizzas, I just plop them on there to warm. No large bulky dish to wash. It's also convenient for quesadillas and grilled cheese sandwiches.

Mornings with Charlie

2012-01-04T04:20:00.000-08:00

This morning Charlie woke up, walked into the room and asked, "Is it morning?"

"Yes," Daddy answered as he made waffles.

"Is it Chwistmas?" he further inquired.

"No."

With that information, Charlie turned around and walked back to bed. If it isn't Christmas, it isn't worth getting up for.

Once he was re-routed into the kitchen, Dowlan finished a waffle. "Is that a good-looking waffle, Charlie?"

"Yes! It just needs chocolate and marshmallows and spwinkles on it! Huwwy, put it on quick before time runs out! But don't spill anything! Huwwwy, huwwy Daddy! You time is wunning out!"

Whew. The waffle wace was won.

Yesterday morning, Charlie found some stocking candy before he found the breakfast table.

Dowlan: What are you eating, Charlie?
Charlie: It tastes a little like watermelon. I do not know what it is called. I think I will call it 'Joey'.

Edited to add:
Charlie just told Dixie, "My bellybutton went on vacation."

Curious, I asked where his bellybutton had gone on vacation. Dixie leaned over and whispered, "Tell her 'Disneyland' so we'll have to go get it!"

One "-Land" is enough for this week and we've already been to Legoland Discovery Center. It rocked Charlie's little world (and Uncle Trey's)

New Euphemism

2011-12-17T18:51:00.003-08:00

Charlie, big man that he is, now refers to the toilet as 'Free Parking' and, yes, he does have a Monopoly on it at times.

Huh

2011-12-12T18:22:00.000-08:00

In an interesting and only somewhat unexpected turn of events, Charlie is being tested tomorrow for the gifted and talented program.

As an educator, I know that gifted education falls under the umbrella of Special Ed and, with kids on the Asperger's end of the autism spectrum, it does happen that they fall into both categories.

It will be interesting to see the results. If he qualifies, this will add to the placement options we'll discuss for next fall:

Contained Special Ed Kindergarten
Contained Special Ed 1st Grade
Regular Ed Kindergarten with modifications and supports
Regular Ed 1st Grade with modifications and supports
Mainstream Kindergarten
Mainstream 1st Grade
GT Kindergarten (either full time or one day a week)
GT 1st Grade (either full time or one day a week)
GT Kindergarten with Special Ed modifications and supports
GT 1st Grade with Special Ed modifications and supports

At the rate he's progressing, I really think we can knock a lot of those options off the list. Still, it's a lot of choices for one little guy. Thankfully, the people on Team Charlie rock.

It's not my fault.

2011-12-11T13:39:00.000-08:00

First, there were 17 people here for Thanksgiving.

Then, I had to restore order and normalcy around here.

Next, the household interwebz died and it was a week before they resurrected it.

As a corollary to that, my school laptop is dead and my StupidPhone internet is wonky at best.

Last, my sinuses are angry again.

Surreal

2011-11-21T17:59:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow, I meet with Team Charlie. Sure, it has an official name, ARD Committee, but I like my name better. As I was prepping sub plans (movies, movies and more movies) for tomorrow, something hit me. For nearly 3 years, I've been having meetings with different school personnel about Charlie. This is the first one I'm going into unprepared.

I don't have the giant file folder of evaluations from the neurologist, geneticist, pediatrician, occupational therapist, speech therapist and physical therapist. I don't have pamphlets and notes on the education rights of children with special needs. There is no legal representative with me. I have not spent weeks stressing over it.

I'm just showing up, empty-handed. This has never happened.

After struggling and fighting for so long to get him help, he is being helped. He is getting the help he needs and, gee, it is helping. The environment he is in works for him. His teacher works hard to get the best out of him. The speech and occupational therapists he sees at school collaborate with the speech and occupational therapists he sees after school.

In fact, the rehab center called today to say that he's met or exceeded all his OT goals. They reevaluated him and don't see a need to continue services at this time. They'll call back in three months to evaluate and see if he needs to start up again. In the meantime, he'll still receive his OT at school.

He's reading about 50 sight words, can name his letters and is wicked with numbers. He can relate a story plot and asks good questions. He finally is engaged enough with the world around him to want to know how it works. He's finally curious enough about the people around him to want to be friends with them.

I know this doesn't sound like much to parents of regular ed kids, but when he comes home from school he talks about the kids in his class. He knows their names. This from the kid who didn't know his own sisters' names until about a year ago.

I'm not worried that they'll kick him out of the program or give me more parenting suggestions. I'm not worried that I'll sit in a meeting and wonder what child they're talking about because it sounds nothing like mine. I'm not worried that I'll argue and argue only be to patted on the head and sent away.

For once, I'm not worried about Charlie. What a new and amazing feeling that is.

Go Team Charlie!

The things that boy says

2011-11-19T18:54:00.000-08:00

The other day, I'm puttering around the house while the kids play in the playroom. I hear Charlie singing, "Let's get it on! Let's get it on!" to some random tune. Concerned, I walk in to catch him in the act of placing one object atop another object. Literally, getting it on.

***

The kids, for some unfathomable reason, are obsessed with Princess Leia Slave. If you recall, that's what both Dixie and Charlie wanted to be for Halloween. Then Charlie decided it wasn't manly enough and begged to be Han Solo Slave. On Lego Star Wars for the Wii, he likes to custom make a Yoda Slave for use on levels. When any character wearing the Funky Underwear, as I once made the mistake of calling it, instead of smacking someone close by, they put their hands behind their head and shake it, belly dance style.

Thursday, Charlie was on the subject of Legos and Christmas.

You can take the bag wif Darf Vadew on it to da store, but you can only use it for Legos. If you put gwocerwies in it, dat will make me angwee. But you can fill it wif Legos and give dem to me fo Chwistmas, if you want to. You can fill it wif Legos and give dem to me, but don't fill them with any girl Legos. If you do dat, I will leave dem in da bag for a few days and will not play wif dem. But if you fill it wif udder Legos, I will play wif dem for all of da days. I will play wif dem for da rest of my life, but if dey are girl Legos, den I will just leave dem dere and I will not play wif dem and dey will stay dere for evah and evah.

"Charlie," I ask. "What if the Lego is a Princess Leia Slave Lego? Will you play with it then?"

He mulls it over before responding, "No, because she is a giwl. Because she is a giwl, I only want her for her body."

Fortunately for the other drivers on the road, he adds, "I can put a smiley face head on her dat is fo Hans Solo and we can have Hans Solo Slave and I can put keep her head in a bag fo all of da rest of da days of my life."

That's my boy. Only wants her for her body. Keeping her head in a bag. So proud.

The Wrath of Charlie (and more chicken stories)

2011-11-18T17:43:00.000-08:00

When we bought the giant chicken, there were two of them. I had left the girls with the task of choosing the best one for Sandy, but we all felt a little guilty for the last rooster standing. When we went back to that grocery store a few weeks later, we had to swoop by the henhouse to check on his general welfare. We were surprised to find him anything but lonely.

Apparently, our roosters are proud fathers, as many hatched in our absence. We decided we should now feel guilty for leaving him a single father with his partner many hundreds of miles away.

In the grocery store, Charlie has this obnoxious way of amusing himself by turning around, grabbing some food item, pretending to gobble it up, then dropping it behind him, unconcerned with the squishability of it or anything it may land on. The only way to get him to stop is to let him out of the cart, which is far more hazardous.

This week, it was particularly dangerous.

I don't know how it got there. I swear it just jumped in and wasn't carefully selected and loaded with gentility and love. (I will add that it was substantially easier to load than it's father, but that is no admission of culpability.)

Unwilling to endure Round 28 of the Food Drop Game, I warned him, "Charlie, anything you pick up and drop will be immediately put back on the shelf."

He laughed, turned, picked up the most sacred item in the cart, pretended to eat it, then dropped it on the chick's face.

A short walk later, the variety pack of 12 Pop Tarts was back on the shelf.

Charlie's entire face turned red with rage. His veins popped on his forehead and neck. He cried, hiccuped, and cried some more. In an attempt to express the depths of his anger, the following monologue, or as much of it as I can remember, followed:

Dat is it. I will make you sad dat you did dat. I will make you vewwy sowwy. I will make you so sad dat you put dose poptawts back on da shelf. I will leave you house and not live in it anymow and you will be sad. I will not be you boy anymore and you will cwy. I will live somewhew else and dere will be no one to sweep in my bed owr eat my food owr play wif my toys and you will haf to pway wif dem all by yousewf and you will be so sad. You will cwy and you will be sowwy about dem poptawts.

You hawt will bweak when I am gone and you cannot pway Lego Stawwaws [StarWars] wif me because I am gone. And dere will be no one to be you wittle boy anymow.

I calmly go up and down the aisles, making eye contact with no one and filling the cart. After all, Dixie's gymnastics class only lasts so long. At some point, he forgets that he no longer lives in our house in this revenge scenario, because he shifts to the following rant:

And you will not get to eat da foods you love. You can only eat da fishfood. And it is yucky to you. You will not wuv it. You will eat da fish food and you will say, "blach" because fishfood is not a food you wuv. And da fish will not have dere food and dey will be sad and you will be sad because you food is yucky and you fish is sad. And you will get to eat catfood and it is yucky and Schwodingah [Schrodinger] will scwatch you because it is his food and he will be sad and you will be sad and you will say, "Dis is yucky" because you do not wuv it.

And you will get to eat only the catfood and da fishfood and da . . .

as we approach the dairy case, Charlie has run out of foods that I don't love, so Melody supplies him with some ideas. I think she started with liver. After a good thirty seconds dedicated to that, he paused while she supplied peanuts. Once that tirade was over, she offered up sticks of butter. Then raw meat. Rant. Then celery. Rant. Then pizza. Rant. Then ice cream. Rant. Then chocolate.

Pause. He looks up at our faces to see that we are both choking back laughter.

No! Chocowate is not a good one because she wuvs dat and it is not yucky fo hewr!

In the frozen food section, I pause to ask him if he remembers why he is mad. Nothing. I ask him what he did to be in trouble. Nothing. I remind him that he cannot throw the food in the cart because something will get broken. If he can stop playing that unsafe game while we finish up, we can swing back by for Pop Tarts. But only if he stops trying to make mommy feel sad.

Hug. Wipe away little Charlie tears.

We finish the $209 trip in peace before leaving, Pop Tarts in bag. (Bonus: in addition to fabulous entertainment and no more food thrown, the rant gave me the opportunity to sneak some Christmas gifts in the cart because he had lost all concept of where he was and what we were doing around him.)

Because Dixie's gymnastics is now 90 minutes, we had time to swing by the house so that Dixie would find a surprise waiting when we get home.

Mail! And a three foot chicken!

Which actually looks quite in place at our house.

Yuckiness

2011-11-13T15:33:00.000-08:00

The Friday before last, the back of my leg itched like a bug bite exacerbated by my pants rubbing on it as I walked.

Saturday and Sunday, I bummed around the house in yoga pants, as it was really irritating.

Monday, I went to work, feeling like I was being stabbed in the back of the leg with every step. Halfway through the day, I left to go to the doctor. The doctor drained it, swabbed it, gave me a tetanus shot in the arm, an antibiotic shot in the butt and two oral antibiotics to knock it out. I'd already had an allergy shot in the other arm and my extremities were feeling picked on.

When I took my antibiotics that evening, I got flushed, ran a slight fever and felt nauseated.

Tuesday I was feeling great--the spot on the leg had gone down, I had energy again and life was beautiful, until I took those silly meds. Then I was miserable for about two hours. Knowing they were pretty powerful stuff, I didn't think too much of it.

Wednesday was a beautiful morning until I took the meds. Then I had a horrible pain in my side that would not go away. I ate some yogurt laced with probiotics to no avail. Between classes I called into my doctor, who told me to go to the ER.

A few hours after getting the privilege of being some student nurse's first IV recipient, I call the church for a ride home. Driving on morphine = bad idea it seems. They can't really tell what's wrong without an abdominal sonogram and can't do that because I ate four ounces of yogurt that morning.

I call Dowlan to pick the kids up from Mindy's.

Thursday morning I wake up with a hangover from the morphine, which ended up causing far more pain than it ever took away. We get the kids to school then go in for the sonogram

I have lovely organs.

I get home to a message left on the machine. I call in for the results of the swab and it is the MRSA strain of staph. Lovely. 7 hours later I hear back from the ER doc. The antibiotic duo gave me an ulcer, but I can't just stop because, hey, it's MRSA. But I can stop taking one of them and he gave me a game plan for the other.

I was supposed to be directing a musical program that night, by the way. My principal and assistant principal stepped in. I'm curious to see what they thought of that adventure. My personal theory is that, by the end of my Christmas program, I will be a God to them.

So now I take a Nexxium with lots of fluids and foods. Then, thirty minutes later, I take the bactrim with a little more food on top. Then I'm only mildly miserable for the next hour instead of doubled over in misery.

There's a lot of bactrim left in the bottle. And Dowlan returned to the town where he lives and works. Fun week ahead!

Thus Ends The Saga . . .

2011-11-05T08:56:00.000-07:00

The morning after the state fair, my brother and SIL came to have breakfast with us in the crummy motel. Afterwards, they helped us reload.

Then, we went to pick up Dixie's great-grandmother and take her to lunch. Fern had not seen Dixie since before we adopted her, which meant I had never met this woman and I was going to pick her up in my minivan that was full of children, luggage and had a six-foot metal chicken strapped to the roof. Concerned, I had this conversation with Dixie's grandmother along the way.

Me: Um, just how much dignity does Granny Fern have, exactly?
Gma Jane: None, none at all. She will find it hysterical.
Me: Whew.

Halfway through eating butterburgers and cheese curds at Culver's, I look out the window to see about ten people gathered around my van, animatedly discussing the contents of my cargo.

Jealous. They are laughing, staring and pointing from jealously and naught else.

After returning Granny Fern to her home (and hearing her tell her caregiver, "Dixie just has the nicest family. Such cute kids!" but leaving out the chicken aspect) we haul off to Sandy's swanky, suburban neighborhood.

Matt calls out, "Honey, it's for you!" as he retreats into his homestead.

After a great deal of laughing and wiping away tears, we hang out a few minutes before saying our goodbyes. Matt, ever the optimist, says, "Here, let me help you load your chicken."

Matt, you mean YOUR chicken. I have no desire for a chicken. (Who would, really?)

Sandy, in love with her chicken, keeps him busy 'discussing' their new family member while we make a clean getaway.

Britney, as is now the rooster's drag name, has, despite Matt's opposition, positively impacted their children's well being. S/he has become the inspiration for great artwork:

Britney helps to keep the bugs out of their backyard garden in his/her prominent roosting spot--just outside the living room window and visible from the master bedroom, of course.

And thus concludes the saga of the might chicken, or does it?? [cue: cliffhanger music]

My Excuses

2011-11-01T20:55:00.000-07:00

Saturday, I went on an impromptu trip to Plainview, TX to my Great Uncle Joe's art exhibit.

This was followed by an impromptu sleepover at my mother's, where I got to sleep in my jeans on a lumpy mattress.

That was followed by a Sunday morning Kmart shopping spree, where I was quite disappointed to not find a replacement for the rug I'd recently (and accidentally) dyed pink.

Then a drive home.

Then cleaning. Lots of cleaning. Followed by lots of napping. Then a party. Because, as one might imagine, lots of housework and sleep were neglected in the time it took me to do all this:

(Better pictures of Melody are pending. And I didn't quite make it all--Charlie's Yoda hat was purchased and my bonnet was made by my grandmother many years ago. The rest is all me, baby. Oh, except for the sand timer that Charlie picked up at the party and decided to use as a lightsaber since I made him wait until actual Halloween to crack a glow in his.)

I was also thwarted by projects for Red Ribbon Week. See, when you have 4 people at 3 elementary schools who have drastically different themes for how to dress up for 5 consecutive days, it gives mommy 15 separate headaches that have to be solved through efforts such as this:

(What do breast cancer and illegal/illicit drug use have in common? October. But now an entire elementary school of children think that getting high causes breast cancer. Yeah.)

Kmarting/Traveling/Cleaning/Napping/Partying Sunday was followed by Puking Monday. I am greatly thankful that a) no one else got sick, and b) if I had to do that with no husband nearby, at least they had 8+ hours out of the house that day.

Today has been a day of work, homework, gymnastics and, I kid you not, 3 weeks' worth of laundry. Because Sewing always supercedes Laundry.

Unfortunately, Laundry had to supercede Chicken Story because I got a new principal today, we have administrator walking through our classrooms tomorrow, a cold front is coming through tonight and, for all these reasons and many more, I should not go to school in the morning buck naked.

Here are adorable pictures of my kids at the Texas State Fair to tide you over:

Did you know they made four-horned sheep?

(By 'they' I mean 'Almighty God' of course.)

Can't you just see this camel smoking a cigarette? I kind of see where the "Joe Camel" idea came into play. His lips just beg for it.

Oh, and kangaroo with joey was adorable.

Shortly after this photo, this Texas Longhorn attacked me with it's horn, trying to nudge me out of it's way.

Melody's response, "Maybe it thought you were an Aggie."

Touché.

Pix of Chix

2011-10-27T17:49:00.000-07:00

First of all, a different kind of Chick.

Someone is ready for Halloween! Melody's and Charlie's are also ready, but have no pics yet. Mine is two sleeves, one zipper and an apron short, but I don't need it for 12 hours, so I'm good, right?

Okay, onto that other chick.

This is PennyVann, cocked and loaded:

The view inside our Cheep Motel:

Crossing the road can be a struggle, even for chickens.

Chapter 2: A Chicken's Tail

2011-10-26T19:37:00.000-07:00

At the end of the day Thursday, children in bed, chicken on porch, I realize that cannot load this chicken by myself, so I find myself texting coach something along the lines of, "Hey, can you follow me home from school tomorrow and help me load a six foot metal chicken onto the roof of my van?"

Coach, who began teaching at this school the year before I was born and was probably thinking, "This is the weirdest music teacher yet," is a man of few words who replied merely, "Sure."

I call Kevin, dad of the family we stayed with last year, to ask if he can be my Plan B in chicken loading. He is agreeable.

Whew.

The next morning, as I drive my family to school in the pre-dawn moments, I find myself seriously wishing I had the chicken already strapped on. Belly down, beak over the windshield, tail held high. A racing chicken. Alas, it was not to be, so I merely went to work.

At some point during the day, Coach did turn to me to ask me just what it was I needed help with, but to his credit, said not a word. Followed me home, loaded up the chicken, strapped 'em down. Mid-hoist, his cell phone rings. He tells his wife, "Uh, I'm helping the music teacher with something. I'll, er, explain it later."

No you won't, Coach. This defies explanation.

Chicken strapped into place, we head down the road. At a light, I text Kevin's wife Mindy, "Tell Kevin 'The Chicken has landed. The Agency thanks for your willingness to participate, but your assistance will not be needed at this time.' "

Mindy, not hip to the mission, wondered why delivering this message through the bathroom door inspired such fits of laughter.

When we stop for gas halfway to grandma's, I check out the straps to make sure, well, that my chicken is choked. Then, about ten miles down the road, the steady rapping of the flapping tarp is suddenly louder. I look out the side window to see the shadow of PennyVann on the shoulder of the road and notice the distinct shape of a flapping tail in the shadows.

I wish I had a video. (Shoot, I wish I had pictures of any of this right now. They're on my phone and HYSTERICAL but technology currently hates me. I happy I can type right now.)

I pull over to the side of the road, unload my foot stool and, there on the side of the lonely West Texas two-lane highway, I use my remaining ratcheting tie-down to batten down the hatchling. As pickup trucks drove by, nobody stopped to help. This in itself is unprecedented.

With no further ado, we arrive at Grandma's to gather her and daddy, who are probably rather glad my monstrosity is not currently occupying their seats.

Four hours later, we arrive at the hotel.

The Great Chickening; Chapter 1

2011-10-25T17:30:00.000-07:00

Now that you've all done your homework, let me give you some more backstory.

At the beginning of the summer, I walked up to my local grocery store to find six-foot tall metal chickens available for sale. I thought, "Who the hell wants a six-foot tall metal chicken?" completely innocent of the epic journey ahead.

See, I have a small group of Mommy Friends that is sprawled over two continents. (If you've been around long enough to remember the time I was stranded in California, know that this is the same group of friends. Not that stranded me--that put up with me a few extra days while I meandered my way across the state before heading home.) Earlier this year, we read the chicken story from the Bloggess and found it hysterical. Sandy and Tracy were particularly enamored with the tale.

This summer, when our third annual meetup met at Sandy's house, Tracy and I had a conversation that went something like this:

You know what Sandy needs?
A six foot metal chicken?
Affirmative.

Since Sandy blogs about green living, simplicity and is perpetually encouraging us to declutter our houses and our lives, it is particularly amusing.

Over the long weekend (we like our weekends to begin on Wednesday night and end on Tuesday morning,) we kept disappearing on urgent side trips of a mysterious nature, but, alas, the North Dallas runs distinctly classier than West Texas, and no spray-painted rebar-and-oil-drum avian structure was to be found.

Never give up. A plan was hatched that, next time I found myself up hoity-toity way, I'd take her a chicken from West Redneck. Her Home Owner's Association needs that kind of pluck introduced.

After quite a bit of comparison shopping, I found this chicken for the bargain price of $99. For those of you gasping, know that identical chickens at other locations were double the price. How could I, a bargain shopper, turn down $100 of free chicken? At half price, it's an absolute steal.

INSERT PIC OF CHICK WITH GIRLS

(For the record, it did not cross the road.)

I go in and tell the cashier, "I want to buy one of the chickens outside."

"Really? You want to BUY one of those chickens?"
"Yes. But there's no sticker or sign. How do I get someone to ring it up? I'm not carrying it in."
"NO! Don't try that. Let me call someone." He calls, then curiosity gets the better of him, "What do you plan to DO with the chicken."
"Drive to Dallas, put it on my friend's porch, ring the doorbell and run."

I've never been on the receiving end of such a look of awe. Especially not from a cashier. He has a manager look it up so that he can ring it up. The chicken is all mine.

The only problem is that I now own a 6-foot-chicken and a five-foot wide minivan. Jeremy, from the pharmacy department, spent a good twenty minutes stuffing that bird in Penny only to discover that the sliding door could not be closed. Jeremy was full of helpful pointers like, "You know, with the money you're saving from buying this bargain-priced chicken, you could buy the other bird left in stock." I paused from my wing wrangling to tell him, "Why in the world would I want two chickens?"

Assuming I was not willing to drive 300+ miles with this added 'feature' we aborted the mission. I told him, "I need to get my son from therapy. I'll be back."

"Don't worry. We won't sell this to anyone else," he says, probably thinking he knows exactly why a son of mine would need therapy.

"I wasn't overly worried. Nobody wants this chicken."

After getting Charlie from OT and speech, I return for the bird. Jeremy is on his dinner break but his supervisor has a plan. Once back, Jeremy will load the chicken into his own truck and deliver it to my front porch. While on the clock.

"You must really want to sell this chicken." I comment, knowing it has been there for roughly 5 months.

"You have no idea."

And that is how it came to pass that, at 10:00 on a Thursday night, Jeremy AND his manager unload it on my porch, quite careful to secret into the shadows.

"It might get stolen," they theorize.

"Trust me. No one wants this chicken."

Homework

2011-10-24T19:45:00.000-07:00

for the next few blog entries to make sense, you need to have read The Bloggess' post on And That's Why You Should Learn To Pick Your Battles.

Well, 'make sense' may not be the correct term. An be warned that her language is in the PG-13 range.

But the weekend was Epic and Glorious.

Read that, and I'll get Chapter 1 up tomorrow.

I was asking for it, really

2011-10-20T18:17:00.000-07:00

Today was picture day at the girls' school. Adding hairstyles and proper attire into our already stressful morning routine was not something I was looking forward to, but their increased cooperation helped a great deal.

Having not really planned out any outfits for this event (and knowing the pictures will be adequate at best) I hadn't put a whole lot of thought into what they were going to wear. As an added bonus, it recently got chilly and their warm clothes are out of reach in the attic. I did find two pretty sweaters in the top of their closet that had matching scarves and paired them with jeans.

Here's where it got dangerous.

Dixie's bright red sweater looked great with a pair of dark denim jeans, but none of Melody's jeans really worked with the colors in her sweater. Feeling brave, I busted out the rhinestone-studded white jeans purchased from Gymboree in a clearance+coupon+5%offwithcard fit of madness.

This morning, as I roused the Melody child (naturally, in my bed, where she had found her way in the night) I tossed her the sweater, scarf and white jeans. She sits up, puts her clothes in her lap, takes off her pajama top and yells, "NOSEBLEED!"

Oh, great.

I follow her to the bathroom to help her get it cleaned up. She informs me, "I aimed away from the white jeans, so they didn't get a drop on them."

Oooh, good girl!

That evening, as we're getting out of PennyVann at home, once again, she shouts, "NOSEBLEED!"

This time, there is no aiming. It is everywhere. Gushing. Of course, I'd just cleaned out my van and had no napkins or other random paper products. I grab the sock off Charlie's foot and hand it to her to use until we get inside.

Thank God he wasn't wearing his Imbisible Stink Shoes.

Halloween time!

2011-10-16T08:58:00.000-07:00

Having firmly denied the requests for Leia in her funky underwear and Hans Solo in his funky underwear, I needed a trump. I needed something to offer Dixie that would toss Slave Leia from her thoughts.

One morning, while braiding her hair, I was inspired.

"Do you want to be Laura Ingalls Wilder for Halloween?" I asked her. Her eyes sparkled as her face grew into a grin. She bounced on her toes twice before saying, "Yes!"

Whew.

Charlie pondered being Indian Of Jones (Indiana Jones) but didn't really seem too inspired by it. We tossed around the idea of several Star Wars characters to pair thematically with Melody's Leia aspirations, but nothing clicked until Dixie proposed that he be 'Master Yota'.

(I'm always amazed how my kids can watch a movie, read a book, play a game AND reenact with Legos and still don't have a firm grasp of the character names.)

Yoda is little. He carries a lightsabre. But, best of all, he is gween.

Over the last few weeks, I started on the prairie dress. Yesterday, I finished it off and had time for a matching apron and bonnet.

This morning, I made Yoda's robe. After heavily contemplating how the heck to make Yoda ears, I decided to simply buy a knit yoda cap off ebay.

As soon as I'm motivated to put actual clothes on, I'm off to the fabric store for Melody's cloth and notions.

I love this time of year!

I knew he was feeling better

2011-10-13T20:07:00.000-07:00

The day after the all-night wheeze-a-thon was a long one, made longer by the fact that we couldn't just sleep. The two doctor's appointments, three trips to the pharmacy and three scheduled relocations of girls were all too spaced out for us to be at home for even two hours at a stretch. By the last trip of the day, picking Melody up from gymnastics, we were all running ragged.

With the aid of Albuterol and steroids, Charlie had started to come around. He wanted to play with Legos and had started to chatter a bit. That last trip out to the car he walked on his own two feet instead of being scooped up, lugged out and poured into his carseat.

Halfway home, Charlie takes off his shoes and the cloud of toxic stench instantly fills the van.

Dixie: Charlie, put your shoes back on!
Charlie: I can't.
Dixie: But the smell is awful! Your feet stink!
Melody: Charlie, PLEASE put your shoes on!
Charlie: I can't put on shoes, I am wearing shoes.
Dixie: Charlie, your feet are bare. And they stink.
Charlie: I am wearing my Imbisible Stink Shoes. I cannot put other shoes on top of them because my Imbisbile Stink Shoes are in the way.

Yeah, that kid feels just fine.

I'm going to have to be a bit more picky

2011-10-11T14:51:00.000-07:00

I firmly believe that, when you borrow something from someone, you should do all that you can to return that item in the condition it was when you got it. If you have my book, it shouldn't come back all dog-eared and water-stained. I can understand if the spine is a bit more ragged, but the book returned should resemble the book lent.

I think I get this from years of camping at sites that instructed you to 'take only pictures, leave only footprints' and the whole mantra of 'leave it better than you found it.'

So, when I left three children in the capable hands of two grandmothers, a grandfather, a father and a great-grandmother for three days, I assumed I would be returned three children.

Instead, I got two lovely daughters and a small puddle of boy.

At first, he was complaining, 'Dis is not my voice. I would wewwy wike my weal voice back' as he draped himself across my person. He went to bed without protest and I assumed he'd been thoroughly played out over the preceding three days.

Oh, so very wrong.

About one this morning, a small rasping flame burrowed its way under my covers. I keep hearing this choking sound and sitting him over the trashcan only to realize that he was not going to be 'all fwow-uppy'again. This was the best cough he could muster, given how restricted his airways were.

I dig around in the linen closet then the 'cabinet o'kitchen randomness' before finding the nebulizer and Albuterol under the window seat. I about thirty minutes into what should be a fifteen minute breathing treatment, I realize that nothing is coming out.

This equipment hasn't been used in about a year.

The third set of tubing and dragon mask later, he's finally puffing the magic dragon. But there's not improvement in his breathing. Nor does our medicine cabinet contain the much-needed Tylenol and Mucinex (as his fever is 103ºF). I'm up much of the rest of the night, watching him breathe and contemplating waking all three of them up for a middle-of-the-night pharmacy run.

I nod off for a bit, then wake up panicked and checking. His little belly muscles are having to force every breath in and out and the sound is gruesome. About five, he gets his second breathing treatment and his breathing finally soothes a bit. At six, I get up the girls and get everyone in the van to head to meet the buses at quarter til 7.

Dixie is adamant that I cannot possibly make Charlie go along. I am equally adamant that I cannot simply leave him here and we go back and forth until it dawns on me that she thinks I'm going to make him go to school. Once I explain that we are getting the girls on their bus, getting things ready for my sub, then coming home to let him sleep until the pediatrician can see him, she happily hops into her booster.

As I head home, I call my mother to inform her that this is simply not acceptable. I sent her a boy in 'like new' condition and was returned a one in 'poor' condition. If we were on amazon or ebay, her feedback ratings would not be so hot.

The pediatrician prescribes steroids, runs flu and strep tests (both negative) and rules out meningitis. We go home for a brief nap (and more meds) before heading to my allergist appointment. Then home for a brief nap before going to school to get the girls.

After retrieving the girls, I once again call my mother to say that she is clearly not alone in returning my children all willy-nilly in a haphazard state. There is apparently a grand conspiracy, or perhaps an epidemic of poor supervision.

Because Dixie had more teeth than that when she went to school today. I can't believe public schools are content to send children home missing body parts with no notice save the little necklace that dangles around their necks, containing the missing bits.

The nerve.

I think I need better help.

. . . and some days it doesn't

2011-10-04T10:25:00.000-07:00

(click, that is)

This morning I woke up and reluctantly stumbled through the house to get to the bathroom. On the way, I saw the incredible (as in 'not believable') sight of the microwave clock reading 6:46. I assume it got stopped in the middle of a timer function, so I look at the stove.

The stove agrees with the microwave.

I tell myself it must be wrong--it can't possibly be time to leave in four minutes, I never heard an alarm--and stumble the rest of the way to the bathroom. There, thankfully, I wake up enough to be alarmed.

I shake both girls and let them know we're leaving in five minutes. Fortunately, they'd gotten cool new Halloween clothes yesterday and had asked to sleep in them, so they just had to put on shoes, glasses and brush their hair.

I throw some clothes on, brush my hair and put my shoes on. No glasses in sight. This is particularly amusing because yesterday, as I opened up the box of Halloween decorations, I found the pair of glasses I'd lost in July. How my glasses, in July, had gotten into a box of Halloween things in the attic, I have no idea. But I amuse myself for a moment with the idea that yesterday I had two pairs of glasses and today I have none.

I go the the room of the limp rag doll and dress his reluctant form as it makes every attempt to burrow itself further under the covers. Relenting, he plods sulkily into the dining room.

Three backpacks, three Poptarts and one dose of medicine later, we head out to PennyVann and begin the prayer to Mister Bus Driver. It goes something like this:

Slow down, Mister Bus Driver.
Don't leave, Mister Bus Driver.
Wait for us, Mister Bus Driver.

Two blocks from the school, I see that the girls' bus is pulling up to the school. A sigh of relief.

Somedays, like yesterday, I have this gig down to a science. This morning, I did not. But we made it nonetheless.

Somedays, it all clicks

2011-10-03T18:54:00.000-07:00

And today is one of those supermom days.

Over the weekend, Dowlan came home. On the first anniversary of home-ownership, we tackle the final pile--the sewing and craft area. With about six hours of work, it is transfigured from a 6'X6'X10' pile of boxes, piles and miscellany to an organized workspace. We had some delightfully fun moments as well, like a civilized meal out as a family, nighttime trampolining with glow sticks and spare children, dancing in the sprinklers with the monarch butterflies as they pass through town.

As far as Monday mornings go, this one went delightfully well.

We made it to school early, with everything we needed. After school, the kids got to play with the instruments in my classroom a bit while I wrapped it up. We head home and Charlie's bus-induced motion-sickness finally gets the better of him right as we're pulling into the driveway.

No big deal. The girls grab backpacks and head in. I get Charlie out of his carseat, his carseat out of the car and proceed to the porch where I strip them both down. Charlie into the bath, the covers into their own bath.

He instantly feels better and is ready to bound and play. They have a snack and do homework while I get dishes done and things tidied away. Dowlan brought all the boxes of Halloween things down before he left town this morning, so I decorate a bit and give the girls their halloween clothes from the 90% clearance rack at Target two years ago. I hang the carseat covers out to dry and get rugs and sheets into the wash.

Then I surprise the girls with good news--tonight we're going to our first Girl Scout meeting!

It's a quarter of a mile away, if that, so Charlie hops in the stroller and the girls walk alongside. The autumn air is perfectly warm and breezy. After signing them up, we head home to play with Legos and hang the first washed rugs out to dry.

We walk to get the girls, his Pediasure in hand. By the time we get home, they've all had a half-mile walk and I've had a mile-walk. Just about right for the evening. While I make beds, they get their vitamins, brush their teeth, pick out clothes for the next day, dress for bed and climb into their clean sheets, ready for bedtime stories.

One Lego Star Wars book and one chapter of Laura Ingalls Wilder later, I have three children asleep in a completely clean house, completely unpacked, completely settled, completely complete. (Minus the Daddy, but that can't be helped right now.)

I've got a carseat to reassemble and reinstall before I sit down in my newly-organized sewing room to work on the hem ruffle for Dixie's Laura Ingalls Wilder dress for Halloween and go to bed on clean sheets of my own.

Sometimes, I've got this motherhood thing down.

200k page loads of drivel

2011-09-28T21:11:00.000-07:00

Watching my statcounter rollover is even more exciting than the time my high school boyfriend and I drove slowly down the residential street, camera in hand, watching the odometer roll over in his 25-year-old pickup.

Thanks for reading!

So Monday, as we were once again leaving for school in the dark, the girls argued over who got to hold Charlie's hand and safely escort him to PennyVann.

You know those signs they have in warehouses and other workspaces that read "This company has been accident-free for ____ days" and they fill-in-the-blank?

This household has been 911-call free for 5 days.

Part of this is because I've kept them busy with fun and riveting activities. Over the weekend we did absolutely nothing except play with Legos, play the Wii, go to the park, get new library books and order pizza. Now that Dixie's in advanced gymnastics, we get to spend even more time at the gym and that has occupied a good deal of our afterschool time this week.

But today they were getting restless, so I broke out the big guns. I packed a snack, loaded up PennyVann and headed off to the Shell station where we unbuckled everybody and piled in the front seat to enjoy our snack during the riveting entertainment of the automatic car wash.

At six bucks, it gets the pecan sap off and provides more suspense than most kid movies. So much cheaper, and no guilt about sneaking in popcorn.

Lost and Found Boy

2011-09-23T17:40:00.000-07:00

Oh, what a day.

No one wanted to get up this morning. No one. Sometimes I think it's a gift that my first thought each morning is, "Man, I gotta pee." Otherwise, I'd never leave the sanctity of my Sleep Number bed and enter the cold, cruel world. (The only thing I have to look forward to, really, is hitting the ON switch of my already set-up coffeemaker on my way to the bathroom and having it mostly ready by the time I pass back by.)

Even Melody, whose habit of waking up cheerfully in the pre-dawn minutes has finally come in handy, is feeling it this Friday morning. Our usual routine where I get dressed, hand the girls clothes, put breakfast on the table, dress Charlie, leave them to eat while I put makeup on, then pour another cup of coffee and then hustle everyone out the door was stalled at a crucial step: the one where they all wake up.

If we aren't to my campus by the 7 o'clock bus pickup, we're in huge trouble.

The girls are finally dressed and moving, I skip the makeup step to carry Charlie to the window seat and dress him like a rag doll. I hand him a granola bar and put on his shoes, pausing only to hold the straw of his PediaSure to his lips.

I deposit him by the front door where the dressed, shod and backpacked Melody stands, then reenter the kitchen for the detoured Dixie. The impasse is the remaining six Frosted Mini-Wheats that grace her bowl.

Normally it's not a big deal for one or two to go get in PennyVann while I hustle out the dawdler, but this time Charlie was mad as Hell and not going to take it anymore. The source of injustice? There are no Legos at school, rendering it boring. And I didn't feed him nuffin (that he remembers, as he was apparently sleep-eating.) And school is so long dis year. And Daddy is not here.

Three or four minutes after depositing him in the doorway, Dixie and I depart. I set my things in the van and go to buckle Charlie's carseat, finding it empty. Melody, taking advantage of the reading light provided by the open van door, has no idea where he is. Dixie didn't see him. I go sweep through the house again, before returning to unbuckle the girls' carseat and booster, recruiting them for the hunt.

Every room. Every closet. Every bed. Surely, he just burrowed under covers and went back to sleep. Melody remembers his 'thinking rock' on the side of the house and we run out to find it empty. Trampoline. Playscape. Garden. Barn. Shed. Front yard. Back yard. Back back yard.

Nothing.

The sky is just beginning to lighten as I call 911. I call into work, letting them know of my delay. Look, look, look. I keep looking at the time, irate that the police surely taking their time, only to realize that time has frozen. Each time I certain that ten or fifteen more minutes have passed it's one or two. There's no where else to look, so I recheck the front yard. Both porches. Green cave. Side yard. Back of the van. Under the van. Along the fence line. Every shadowy corner.

Nothing.

They finally pull up and start with rechecking the house. Certain he cannot be there, two cars begin slowly cruising the neighborhood. Two men start sweeping neighboring backyards. Two more scour our enormous backyard and one stays in the house just in case.

Policeman number eight is asking questions. I am shocked to realize that I know the answers. For once, I can tell you exactly what he has on, how much he weighs and what his height is.

After a forty-five minute search, they start widening the area. A detective is on his way to collect information for the Amber Alert and the discussion of 'people you may have pissed off' begins.

A policeman walks up to the yard from a slightly different angle and sees one small leg in the beam of his headlights. The boy-in-a-ball is no longer concealed by the shadows of the tire, dumpster and crepe myrtle triangle.

Hugs. Real kisses. Protests of only loving imbisible kisses that are silenced by more hugs and real kisses.

At first, I assumed he'd found him in a neighbor's yard and brought him back, but this afternoon's re-enactment places him by PennyVann. The officer thought he may have been laying under the vehicle, but he wasn't dirty. I know I looked under that van. I know I looked along the side. I just don't know.

And at one point I almost asked the officer if I should leave to take the girls to school so that they'd be out of the way if this became a longer ordeal. Which would have rendered him either found or flattened as I left the driveway.

The thing that gets to me is that Charlie was perfectly still and silent for almost an hour. I would never have thought that possible. When we called his name, he did not say anything. He was too angry at the terrible mother who was taking him from a Lego Place to a non-Lego Place.

I tell you, it's been a week. This was the biggest of five big things Charlie did that were completely out of his character. Each time, his response was always 'I didn't know I wasn't supposed to' or 'but I didn't want to do' whatever it was he was supposed to be doing. He knew. He completely knew. And yet, he still did.

And all I could think was that I'd already been to one child's funeral this week. A friend from childhood lost her fourteen-year-old to juvenile diabetes. I kept looping through the thought that I can't go through what Marlo is going through. I just can't.

Because I just knew he'd rekindled his three-year-old fondness for standing in the middle of the street and that, in the black pre-dawn, this time they wouldn't stop.

Fortunately, later in the day, the car backing up in the Target parking lot heard my hawk-like screech and stopped as Melody jumped out of the way. And, even more fortunately, no attempt was made on Dixie's life.

Oh, what a day.

Megaphone of Mystical Milk

2011-09-18T17:19:00.000-07:00

We went to Austin this weekend to see friends and hit up the Lego store. Our friend Aunt Jackee came along, bearing luggage, and I was taking 4 garbage bags of toys from the playroom to my friend who works at a women and children's shelter.

PennyVann was quite full. Still, Melody was adamant that she bring along her pillow pets.

For those not hip to the ways of modern stuffed animals, a pillow pet is a large stuffed pillow with a head, tail, hooves and a velcro attachment in the middle. Velcroed, it is a pet. Un-velcroed, it is a soft, fluffy pillow. There are large and small versions. The visual:

Each of my kids got a large one for Christmas from grandma and got a smaller one some time this summer in a moment of weakness at Walgreens. Charlie and Dixie have different animals for large and small, but both of Melody's are unicorns, like the one in the picture.

Back to the story.

Since the large pillow pet is the size of a sofa cushion, I told the kids they were limited to bringing their smaller companion. Melody was distraught at this news. Naturally, being of the same species, her pets are a mother and daughter pair. How dare we separate them, even for a day?

She worries for a moment about the injustice of this familial segregation before her eyes pop open and index finger points straight up in the air. She grabs the cheer leading mini-megaphone and runs into her room.

Now Charlie is very specific about when his needs to be a pillow and when it needs to be a pet. He interacts with it differently based on the Velcro status. I'd never noticed Melody being all that particular before this moment. Apparently, for Melody, undoing the tab not only changes their status from pet to pillow, it also interrupts their conscious awareness. Because, after confirming the length of our trip, she returned to explain her solution:

"I had her put enough milk in here to last until we get back and then made her a pillow so she wouldn't know her baby was gone and would not miss her or worry or be too sad."

So off we went to Austin with six people, four bags, three pillow pets and a cone full of mythical breastmilk. Whatever you did this weekend cannot possibly top that.

This Update

2011-09-16T14:27:00.000-07:00

is 100% free of new information on Charlie's Failure To Thrive.

We saw the Pediatric Gastroenterologist yesterday. The problem with taking Charlie to a doctor's appointment is that you then have Charlie at that doctor's appointment. It's like holding a meeting in the center ring of a circus.

Factor in that I wasn't really sure what I was supposed to be saying to him and that my sinuses were killing me. I have no idea what was actually accomplished. He has a brief overview of Charlie, got to see him in action and ordered some tests. We will see him again in two or three months, sooner if anything comes back on the tests.

Because he's an intinerant internist, he doesn't have privileges at the hospital or clinics here to order the tests himself. I took Charlie back to school, ran Melody's project to her school and dropped off a prescription before getting the paperwork to his pediatrician's office. They called back, naturally, while I was teaching today. We'll get them done Monday, it seems.

This doctor's objective is to rule out any internal reason he's not growing. Make sure his enzymes, absorbtion and output are all up to par. The gut feeling of the specialist and pediatrician is that this is one more side effect of his autism. He's so particular about his food and spends so much time on the move that he simply doesn't have any extra calories to grow with.

I'm not completely convinced--In the last year, he has gained only 4 oz. In the 5 weeks since he last saw his pediatrician, he has consumed 8-16 oz. of Pediasure a day. Even with a few hundred extra calories each day, he has not gained an ounce. Still, having spent Sunday not eating and Sunday night "fwow-uppy" ground may have been gained and then lost.

Mornings with the Evil Overlord

2011-09-13T04:25:00.000-07:00

So Darth Vader came to me this morning for help getting dressed. His expression remained unflinchingly stern as I took off his monkey-playing-basketball cotton jammies and lobster underwear and replaced it with Go, Diego, Go underwear, a green polo with an alligator on it and blue cotton shorts. He reluctantly accepted his mommy kiss before heading off to face his day of tyrannical rule.

Monday morning, he had been in the bathroom awhile so I asked him if he needed anything. "Yes," he said. "You need to make anudder bafroom in dis house. We need two places for dis. Go make us anudder bafroom, mama!"

Yes, Dark Lord. Right away, Dark Lord. Just as soon as I catch some sleep and get all the bedding washed that you were sick on the night before.

Except, to hear him tell, "I am not sick. My tummy hurts and I am frow-uppy a lot, but dat is not sick."

He goes on to his business of collecting Legos into his bag. "But I do not kallekt da wed ones. Wed is not a color dat I love, so doze can dest stay dere. I just lefted dem on da floor!"

Besides, him being frow-uppy is all my fault. After all, I'm the one that deigned to bring him some Pediasure in the night. "I dest wanted wadder. You brought me dat shake. I asked for wadder." His agitation increases as he goes on to explain, "Dat shake is wat made me all frow-uppy and you da one dat made me dwink it, mama! Why you want me dat way all da night time?"

Perhaps it was an attempt to overthrow the Empire and return control to the Republic?

Chum Bucket of Love

2011-09-12T08:53:00.000-07:00

Dixie's birthday, as you can surmise from the cake, had a peace sign theme. For the party favors, I ordered peace sign mugs to put the kids' goodies in. They looked like this:

You must certainly be shocked when I tell you that Charlie claimed a gween one as his own. Not the contents ("Yuk. Dey is stuff fo giwls. I do not need dat stuff.") but the mug.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, he declared it his Chum Bucket and promptly filled it with Lego bits. He walks around the house, mug in fist, asking people, "Do you want to see what is inside my Chum Bucket?"

He clearly does not know what a chum bucket really is. Thank you, SquarePants.

This morning, after a rather long night of him being 'frow-uppy' all over both of us and both of our beds, we are home sick and tired. That's the theory, at least. He is walking around playing and yammering on relentlessly while I try to keep my eyes open and work out the sharp pains in my neck and shoulder muscles that are a courtesy of the long and laundry-filled night.

Unrelenting in his request for me to find his Chum Bucket, devastated by it's lack of proximity to his Lego-clutching grubby fingers, he finally accepted an alternate vessel.

It looks like the largest of these and, due to it's shape and coloring, has been named Chum Bucket of Love.

He's as romantic as his father.

Dixie's Birthday Cake!

2011-09-04T06:12:00.000-07:00

Her birthday was in August, but we waited until school started to have a party. I knew she was apprehensive about starting a new school and I felt it would give her a chance to make friends with the girls in her class.

Four of the girls came, along with two neighbor girls and some family members. It was a peace-sign theme. That was fun to work with.

The cake was not fun. It kept crumbling. But eventually, I had something decent to show for my efforts.

Additional Pet Request

2011-08-30T14:34:00.000-07:00

Charlie would like a pet bumblebee, so he could swordfight with it. But not if it's going to bite him or give him a kiss.

I think I'm going to say no on this one.

All else is well. Going as smoothly as things could go having one parent home with three children and having to catch buses by the dawn's early light.

Halloween Costume Requests

2011-08-23T17:39:00.000-07:00

Melody would like to be Princess Leia in her white robe and sticky bun hair.

Dixie would like to be Princess Leia in her slave getup that Jabba the Hut makes her wear.

Charlie would also like one of Dixie's costume, but with a slight twist. "I want to be Pwincess Leia in her funky underwear but for a man."

Yes.
No.
Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Nocturnal Nomads

2011-08-21T11:41:00.000-07:00

I have often said that, if my house were ever to burn down, all the children would have to fend for themselves because no one could find them.

I swear that I put them to sleep in the same place in their own beds each night, but they can't seem to stay there.

While it has improved since the small piece of velcro days in that their midnight meanderings no longer involve them adhering to my person, I still wish that they would simply stay put.

Saturday morning, Charlie stumbles into my room at about four o'clock. I wake up enough to realize that I'm not making it til dawn without a trip to the bathroom, so I let him know that I'm going to the potty, but will be right back to snuggle.

"I can come wif you to da bafroom. Dat wey I can watch you, if you leave da lights off. I do not like da nighttime wif da lights on, but if you leave da lights off, I can come wif you to da bafroom. If da lights are off, I can come wif you and dat wey you are not alone in dere. But do not leave da lights on because den I don't like dat when da lights are on in da nighttime."

With the sprawling, tunnel-like layout of our house, all that can be said (with great pauses) in the time it takes two people to go from bedroom to playroom, through office through living room through kitchen, into hallway and into the bathroom. It's not even that large of a house--it's just very maze-like.

I always imagined that having children would mean never being alone. Apparently, it also means never peeing alone.

So I go pee in the dark with Charlie holding my hand. After a brief discussion on hand-washing technique, I begin to head back to my room. Charlie stops me and says, "Let's go sweep in my woom. My bed is by da window. Dat way da moon can see me frew da window. Da moon likes to watch me while I'm sleepin'."

After adjusting the body pillow, throw pillows, pillow and pillow pets, I climb into bed with Charlie, who, having the opposite sort of problem from Harold and the Purple Crayon, cannot find the moon outside his window.

I tell him every thing I can think of to possibly get him to lay down and go back to sleep. I think what finally worked was, "It may have gone looking for you. Lay right here so that, when it comes back to find you, you're there."

I may have slept almost forty minutes before the girl nomads began their pre-dawn treks. At one point, with three females and a feline taking up his mattress, Charlie got up and went to the couch.

Smart man.

Why Trees Are Dangerous

2011-08-19T19:04:00.000-07:00

(according to Melody)

1. If it is a coconut tree, a coconut could just fall off at any minute and BOP you on the head and that would really hurt.

2. Even if it's not a coconut tree, say you were playing ball earlier and the ball was stuck in the tree and you forgot about it, but later you're playing under the tree and the wind blows and the branches move and BOP! there goes your head again!

3. If you're touching a tree and it starts to rain, lightning could get you.

She then moved to the perils of dirt.

I forgot to mention

2011-08-17T16:45:00.000-07:00

When I took Dixie and Charlie to the pediatrician for their annual checkups, I was impressed at how much time she took with us. She was thorough and seemed to listen.

All is well with Dixie. She had lost some weight when we changed her meds earlier in the year, but she's gained some of it back. She's gotten taller as well.

Charlie is not growing quite so well. In the last year, he only gained four ounces and grown less than an inch. At 34 lbs, he weighs what an average two-and-a-half year old weighs. He wears 2T clothing, except for pants. I buy him 3T to be long enough, but sew darts in to keep them up.

He's always been small, as has Melody, but he's always grown before. Melody grew on her own slower curve, but she grew every year except for during the waiting-for-a-tonsillectomy fiasco.

So his new diagnosis is Failure to Thrive. I've never known someone diagnosed FTT who was this old, so I really don't know what to think and have successfully avoided Dr. Google.

Mid-September, we get to go visit a pediatric gastroenterologist who, thankfully, comes to our small town two days a month for appointments.

His speech therapist is going to do some tests for sensitivities and mouth problems. I'll give him 2 cans of Pediasure a day. Depending on what the new specialist says, he may end up in eating therapy once a week at the same place he does speech and occupational therapy.

I'll keep you posted.

The Church Balcony

2011-08-14T18:54:00.000-07:00

is sometimes not isolated enough.

During the opening hymn, Charlie attempted to drown out all that boring Jesus stuff with his well-choreographed and sound-effect-enhanced rendition of Everybody Was Kung Fu Fightin.

I know we are, during publicly led prayers, encouraged to add our own thoughts and pleas towards the Heavenly Father. God is now completely up-to-date on Charlie's deep and abiding thankfulness for chocolate, Hot Wheels, stickers and an entire host of specific candy varieties.

Then it was time to sing (and dance) to the Y.M.C.A. This, naturally, sparked Melody's long-standing diatribe on why it is still called the YMCA when both men and women now use it.

At least no one was punched, like in the first song.

Then Charlie begins what I like to refer to as Chocolate Bieber:
"Chocolate, Chocolate, Chocolate, O!" instead of "Baby, baby, baby Oh!"
It's still an improvement over Baby Bieber, which goes something like "Diaper, diaper, diaper BUTT!"

Especially given the location.

At this point, I leave the girls sitting side-by-side on the pew, sharing a hymnal and working through the next few songs. I take Charlie to the aisle where i rock, squeeze, say, rub and, essentially, sensory-input the devil out of him.

He'd calmed back down just in time for the sermon, perfectly-timed, about Jesus calming the storm a and about what a hard day that had been for him. Finding out John the Baptist had been beheaded, trying to have some time alone only to be followed by 5000 men + women and children, preaching to them all and then feeding them fishes and loaves. Walking on water, then letting Peter take it out for a spin.

The whole time, Charlie sat perfectly upright and still next to me. The only motion was opening his mouth for the pinched-off bit of pink Starburst candy that was delivered approximately every two minutes. Two squares of candy lasted through all but the last two sermon points and a sheet of race car stickers covered the rest.

But then it was time to sing again. And, apparently, kung-fu fight some more. If only the calming would last. Jesus and I would have both had better days.

Next project

2011-08-11T12:00:00.000-07:00

is Dixie's quilt. I bought her fabric for her birthday and got this far today:

It's going to be quite cute.

Here are some better windowseat pics:

My mom hosts a family reunion at the end of every June. People bring all sorts of interesting things to share like crafts and pics. This year, my Great-Uncle Gene had moved into a smaller house and brought several quilt tops and quilts of his mother's. He spread them out on the lawn for people to choose.

I got this fantastic queen-sized top, intending to finish it and use it in Charlie's room. It's 2" squares, completely hand pieced and then did a vibrant red stitching pattern between the pieces. All of the fabrics are double-knits, that I'm assuming were clothes from the 60s and 70s.

Even the heavy green fringe was made by hand.

When I started looking it over, I realized it was so heavy that, by the time I added batting and backing, it would be too warm to ever be used in west Texas. The top itself weight at least twenty pounds. I hated to think that it would sit in a linen closet, unused because it never got cold enough.

The project of cushions for the windowseat had been in the back of my mind since buying the house. After pricing out foams and not being able to agree on fabrics, we decided that this would be the perfect use for the quilt top. After all, Great-Great-Aunt Leona did not pour her time into this for it to sit in a closet, never used. This is a space the entire family uses, and on a daily basis.

And perhaps it's the old-fashioned girl in me, but this just looks a lot more home-like and cozy than it would with prissy decorator fabrics.

I finished something!

2011-08-09T16:13:00.000-07:00

Don't seem so surprised.

Before I show off my work, I'd like to reminisce that it was one year ago today that I first showed up for work in our new town, 209 miles from home. When I am frustrated with myself that I am not further along in organizing the house, I remind myself of how crazy those days were. Get hired, show up 8 days later, find a house in five days and sign papers, bring the family to start school, stay in one room of a friend's for seven weeks, travel every weekend to pack and say goodbye, start a new job, get the new house in October, and come down with mono in November while hosting Thanksgiving.

I'm still tired from that mono, but even more tired thinking about it all.

About four months ago, the girls decided they wanted birds. We went through several ideas before settling on two parakeets. Charlie could choose the green one and the girls could choose the other one together. They would get a cage from their Oma.

They've done dishes, put away laundry, swept things, fetched things, cleaned up the yard, picked up sticks before mowing, even saved their spending money from camp. Dixie's birthday swag put them over the $45 goal by $14. A good thing, since we spent $57 and change today on food, gravel, water dish, food bowl and a cuttle bone.

Oh, and these guys.

Dot is female and blue and Perry is male and green. We think.

While the kids spent their afternoon sticking fingers in the cage, I sewed.

Because of the window in the background, I'm going to have to wait til dark for better pics.

In our house is this fabulous window seat, flanked by built-in bookshelves and overlooking the play area of the backyard. Underneath is Dowlan's technology storage chasm that I don't attempt to explore. Now on top are three cushions that I sewed using a quilt top I got this summer, two pillows I got cheap at Wal*Mart and two girls.

When it's dark outside and I can get a better picture, I'll tell you more about the quilt top.

Whoa!

2011-08-08T18:18:00.000-07:00

Dixie is 8.

I'm not sure how that happened, exactly.

Charlie is 5.

Melody got her half. She is 7.5.

In two weeks, I will have three full-time school-aged kids. The girls are in 2nd grade. Charlie's in PPCD.

Every day, Melody empties the dishwasher and Dixie sweeps a porch. We have three porches, so she rotates through. Melody brings me the paper each morning and Dixie brings me the mail each afternoon.

All three of them are old enough to independently tidy a bed and clean a room.

Yesterday, the girls went to see the musical Hairspray with me and behaved. They understood enough to have philosophical discussion about it's central themes of racism and acceptance afterwards. There was that dicey moment where Mel, in the middle of an all-black dance number, burst out with, "She's right! They DO dance better than the white people!" Other than that, they made for good dates to the theatre.

Both girls are old enough to read chapter books in a waiting room or on a car trip. I frequently lose them in the house only to find them holed up somewhere with a library book.

It's just crazy.

Four years ago this month, when I started this blog, I had

and a

What I've been doing

2011-08-05T11:51:00.000-07:00

It started yesterday when I got all of Dixie's clothes out to go through them and get rid of what is too stained, too out or too short for school, pass a few things on to Melody and reorganize things. Halfway through, Melody got a nosebleed that lasted a good ten minutes and part of that clean-up was starting a load of laundry.

I finished Dixie's clothes and had just gotten Melody's all brought into the living room when I realized it was time to make lunch. Not wanting to be overly interrupted by cooking, I went to the deep freeze for what should have been frozen fish sticks.

Uh-oh.

The deep freeze has needed defrosting for about a month and I was waiting for Dowlan to come home so that he could do the grunting and pushing part. Despite having knocked off some chunks of ice and giving the door a good shove, the ice had pushed the door open.

Fishsticks in oven, I lay down a towel, grab a laundry basket, fill it with all teh food, cram the ice cream into the other freezer and remove all the pet and laundry supplies from off the top of the freezer. I then realize that the last time Dowlan had to get to the hot water heater, he failed to move the stacked washer/dryer completely back into place.

(I tried to find a picture of the space, but this is the best I came up with)

Apparently, I can shove two appliances eight inches if I really have to.

Washer/Dryer aside, I began to pull the upright deep freeze forward, only to realize the cord is preventing removal. I shimmy Melody back there, almost burning her on the coils, just to learn that she cannot pull the heavy-duty appliance plug out of the outlet. She can, however, gett it off the thing it's stuck on so that I can get back there.

Unplugged, I wiggle it outside while she turns on the hose. Once sprayed out, she turns off the water, then runs in for a towel. I leave it on the back porch to dry for a moment while I go in to clean the wet, gross floor and hey! There's my ironing board!

Three weeks ago I'd given up on ever finding it again and bought one. Silly me, I didn't think to look for it behind the washer/dryer.

There, I am faced with a Jedi, compelling me to 'choose your weapon.'

I try to grab the pistol, but he really wants that one, so I opt for the green light sabre and start mopping. He won't let me set it down and I have no pocket, so it goes in my bra. This adds an extra element of fun that most housekeepers just don't get to have. Periodically, I pull it out, fend off an attack, then return to the floor.

I get it all cleaned up, dried off, back in place, food back in, stuff back on top, back to clothes, but first I have to knock the coffee filter out of the top of the trashcan, sprinkling wet grounds everywhere.

Bless you, Melody, for your willingness to vacuum things. Then back to laundry.

I learn that the state is asking residences to turn off all unneeded electrical draws from 3-7 to keep the grid from having blackouts. I stop running more laundry, turn off the computer and lights, then get a few more of Melody's things squared away before leaving to pick up Dixie, take the kids to Burger King and the library to use their air-conditioning and coming home to get them to bed and do more laundry.

I'd stayed up late to get things squared away and in decent shape. The last load was washed at about midnight. Sure enough, Dixie dropped her entire cereal bowl on me this morning, splashing it's milky way down all our clothing and onto the rug. I remember thinking 'and just when I ran out of things to wash with it' and took her to gymnastics camp.

I regret thinking that, as it is likely what triggered Charlie to wet the bed. My bed. Two loads of laundry later, I am 31 minutes from having every stitch of clothing and bedding in the house clean.

If only it would last.

Daddy's Brilliance

2011-08-03T19:52:00.001-07:00

Last May, Charlie got to pick out his very own book at the school's Book Fair. It was a big deal to get to pick and an even bigger deal because he found the perfect book.

1. It is about Hot Wheels.
2. They race inside a volcano.
3. The green car wins.
4. The green car in the book is a car that he has.

Could it get any better?

Inside the front cover is a preprinted bookplate area that reads, "This book belongs to:"

Dowlan filled it out with his complete name, address and phone number. I teased him about this being excessive--I know it seems like the end of the world if he loses the book, but I doubt anyone will return it.

He said, "That's not why I wrote it. I wrote it because he makes me read this book to him ten times a day. Every single word. And if I read his full name, address and phone number to him often enough, he will learn them."

Brilliant.

Months later, this book is still read at least two or three times a day and Charlie now reads along with the name and address. He's still not too sure about the phone number, but it's progress!

Good Newses

2011-08-02T07:49:00.000-07:00

There are two of them, so I had to make News plural, of course. And both of them happened last Thursday.

Charlie's therapies (speech and OT) happen each week and the cost for each half-hour session is $90, of which our co-pay is $32.74.

It really adds up. Each month can cost us nearly $300 and he's been attending since January. When you add up all the other copays for dental, medical, prescriptions and counseling, we can easily spend half my monthly paycheck just keeping us all healthy and sane.

I was willing to do whatever it took to pay it, as the center is absolutely fantastic. His therapists keep up with advances and have an amazing way with children. It also happens to be a non-profit and we applied several months ago for some assistance and then promptly stopped paying our bills while we awaited a decision.

When we took him in last Thursday, I finally got there early enough to ask if they knew anything. Four people later, an irked-with-her-coworker administrative assistant came out to tell me that we were still missing a step.

Great. Having had Medicaid experiences with Melody, I was already prepared for another long haul.

Turns out the step was simple--I signed my name on a piece of paper. She started to walk away and I asked what percentage would be covered, thinking that a third or half of that would make my day.

100%.

***

Earlier that morning, I'd finally gotten organized enough to make a phone call. Since Dowlan left to work in another city, I'd been anxious about school transportation. Charlie is bussed to his school, but I was going to have to figure out how to be there to meet his buses, get the girls to their school (now 4 miles away instead of 2 blocks like their old one) and get to me at school by 7:20.

I could drop the girls off as early as 7, but the wild card was Charlie's bus schedule. If his pick up window was 6:40-7, this could perhaps work. If it was 7-7:20 it could not possibly work. If 7:20-7:40, I could take the girls, then have his bus get him from my campus. (Last year, they picked him up at our house and dropped him off, at the end of the day, by my classroom. They're a bit flexible with SpEd kids.)

If his bus were early or late, this would not work. The weeks I have 7 a.m. morning duty it would certainly not work.

Then there is the matter of afterschool care for the girls. No offense to anyone who works in one or whose children are in one, but I am not a fan of the ones I have seen. The environment is loud and chaotic, the children not well supervised.

But while having lunch with some coworkers on Monday, the counselor pointed out that the girls can be bussed, because they are at the magnet school.

I called The Bus Guy. He told me that the girls CAN be bussed, but that GT busing will not pick up at the home like SpEd busing. They will have to be picked up at their home campus and returned there.

I asked if it made a difference which campus--I mean, they are already picking a few kids up from the school I teach at, so it wouldn't add to their trip. He agreed that that would be fine.

So all I have to do now is get us all dressed and to my school in the morning (I say like it is so easy, right?) They can catch their buses outside my door, as my room is on the back edge of campus by where the buses go anyways. In the afternoons, they will be delivered to my door.

Whew.

Mildy Embarassing Internet Fondness

2011-08-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

I love woot.com and so do my imaginary friends.

See, I have a motherboard I belong to of other Sanctimommies and Lazymommies (and Everymommy in between). Many years ago, someone introduced us to Woot and got us all hooked.

Their business model is simple: sell one item a day. When it is gone, go home. You may order 1, 2, or 3 of that item and pay the same flat rate shipping of $5. A ball point pen or a washer and dryer set have the same shipping, as do three ball point pens or three washer dryer sets. In the last 4 years, I've bought 1,2, or 3 of 76 items. Some of them are vitally useful like bacon salt or flying screaming monkeys, some completely ridiculous like robot vacuum cleaners or Mp3 players.

Over the years they have expanded to include kids.woot, shirt.woot, sellout.woot and wine.woot. The shirts are geekishly fabulous and all the other stuff, like all wootables, is refurbs, overstock and things you didn't know you needed til you saw it there. (Like the universal remote with ten buttons to pre-program your favorite channels into with little labels to stick next to those buttons. Perfect for those of us with 100 channels, four of which we actually watch.)

When they get a miscellaneous pileup of junk, they have a woot-off. It is recognizable by its flashing yellow lights and volume bar. Once all of that item has sold, the next appears. These go for up to three days. During that time, we'd start a thread on our mommy message board and hang out on the thread, hitting F5 in anticipation of the next item.

A group of about of us bonded over these threads and splintered off. Fourteen of us still remain and meet up once a year. Through these women, I have gotten to go to places like California and Chicago, gotten really good parenting advice and, occasionally, been talked off the ledge.

I've developed deep and lasting friendships, but what I'm really after is crap. Random Bag of Crap, at $8.33 including tax and shipping, could be anything from a Roomba or a Wii to a bag of Genuine Texas Air.

Seven times have I gotten Crap and seven times has it pretty much been crap.

Well, while meeting up in the D-FW Metroplex this weekend, we went on a tour of the holy land.

Where This Woot Guy gave us a 45-minute tour.

He looked EXACTLY like I'd pictured A Woot Guy to look, except he wasn't wearing birkenstocks, citing 'hobbit feet' as his reason not to ever wear sandals anywhere. The printing press and shipping areas fascinated me, as well as the Woot Off room--where they pretty much camp out until they're out of stuff.

Eight of us were on the tour and he was not quite sure how to handle eight suburban mommy superfans of a site that essentially sells video cards to seventeen year olds buying them with mom's lifted credit card.

But he did give us free monkeys and misprint shirts. My monkey clung to the sign as it said goodbye.

We weren't allowed to take pictures inside, as he (rightfully) assumed they were going straight to the internet. I did sneak one picture in their bathroom where crap is apparently just as elusive as it is on their website.

See? The Genuine Woot HQ Toilet contains no crap.

At the end of the tour, we got monkey autographs from a famous Lemon

before eating In-and-Out.

While I'd half expected two guys in a garage who had trained kittens to apply duct tape to the server, it was everything I'd dreamed of.

Birthday Morning

2011-07-29T06:09:00.000-07:00

Trying to explain to Charlie that his party is today but his birthday is next Tuesday was too much, so, for all intents and purposes, he is five!

When he got his half of 4 1/2, he resisted for months. Only embraced that addition to his name a few weeks ago when Melody explained to him, "But Charlie! You can't get to five unless you have your 4.5 first! If you don't take your half, you'll never have a birthday again!"

This morning he declared himself to be "Five and a half, little" (which takes too much time to type, so I'm designating it 5.5L) and analyzed his 5.5L quite thoroughly with statements like, "I'm 5.5L and STILL FIT IN FOOTED JAMMIES!"

All morning long, he has been ready for his party. He keeps asking, "Will all the people in all the houses and all the stores come to my birfday party? Can I open my presents at my party? Can I open some now? What are my presents?"

The boy is on to this whole birthday gig.

He has afforded himself quite a few rights that I was not previously aware came with the 5.5L age status.

"Now dat I'm 5.5L, I get to steal a car. I get to steal da caw wif da gwown ups in it and dwive it to my birfday party. I have my imbisible license. It is wight here in my pocket, see? No, not dat pocket. It is folded in da udder pocket. Do you know what my license is made of? MARSHMALLOWS!"

I was not aware that marshmallows folded.

He's decided that his birthday means that he will get more Hot Wheels. I told him he is probably right about that, but we can't know until his party. He brought a Green Hot Wheels up to me and said, "I need to get more Hot Wheels at my birfday party because dis Hot Wheels needs a nudder Hot Wheels. It needs a Red Hot Wheels to love and to love him back."

If only love could be guaranteed for 97¢ at Wal*Mart.

He also informed me, "I hafta call Oma and tell her dat it is my birfday so she can be happy! I can dwive her car today!" Good choice, Charlie. Oma's classic Firebird is going to be a sweeter ride than PennyVann.

I gave him his birthday spankings this morning and his analysis was this, "Dat was okay, because it did not make me want to close my eyes and cwy. It made me giggle. But why can you touch my boo-tah-day on my birfday? Dat is where my poop is."

He shivers before pronouncing that to be "Yucky" then thinks a moment before asking, "You don't have to do dat next to my penis, right? Dat would not be good."

No, Charlie. We can add the car stealing and calling people to wish them a happy-my-birthday to the tradition list, but will let that one slide.

Early this morning

2011-07-28T16:21:00.000-07:00

About 6:30 I had three snugglers in my bed and was immediately conflicted--I really, really needed to run to the bathroom, but I also really, really, really needed them to all stay in horizontal positions for at least another hour. I feared getting up and moving lest they follow me and discover their energy for the day.

About 6:40, it was time to risk it. "Stay RIGHT here. I am just going to the bathroom. Nothing interesting will happen. There is nothing you could possibly need to say to me in the next two minutes that you can't wait and tell me in, oh, two minutes. Don't move."

They didn't!

At least not out of the bed. I returned 00:01:48 later to find my mattress perimeter manned--one side by wall and the other three by child. In the moment I contemplated reentry or retreat, Charlie popped up his head and said, "I will move to make woom for you, mi'lady."

What a gentleman. He sits up, I crawl in, he lays back down.

I find myself in the center, stretching out when Charlie voices a pressing complaint. "Dere is a giwl in my stretching-out space." When you share the bed with two sisters and a mommy, that's a real concern.

Thirty more minutes of horizontal peace were afforded to all.

Oops.

2011-07-27T16:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I drag the menagerie to the post office with clear directions: no singing, no touching other people, no running, only whisper. Be as quiet as you would in the grown-up portion of the library.

All the children agree to this, but because I did not specify, Charlie brings in his three-foot-long sword composed of foam insulation tubes and duct tape.

Despite instructions ad nauseum about appropriate venues for swordplay and repeated reminders that you only attack someone if they, too, have a sword, the boy child sees fit to, well, go postal.

There's a back-up plan for swords in non-sword places and that is his scabbard, or shoved down the back of his shirt. He wears it this way so frequently that he can put it down the neckhole of his shirt himself and will walk around that way completely unaware of his presence.

I think so little of seeing a hilt behind his head these days that I do not realize it is there until 7/8 of the trip home, when he informs me that, "This sword makes my car seat not so cozy."

No wonder those straps seemed more snug than usual.

My Kids Rock

2011-07-25T18:00:00.000-07:00

Thursday morning, I woke up with a pending migraine but did not let this distant and dim view of the world keep me from packing up (x4) and heading out of town.

After a brief visit with Daddy at Granny's, the kids went to Oma's for the weekend and I hit the Metroplex with seven of my favorite imaginary friends. (I have a lot of favorite imaginary friends from which to choose, you understand.)

We arrived home this weekend, 1254.8 miles later. All but 91 of them were driven by me, most of them on unfamiliar, heavily-trafficked and construction-plagued roads. The kids were only dragged along for 179.2 of those.

To complicate an already long and complicated trip, I had a funeral to hurry home to. A coworker of mine, a woman I only worked with one school year but already tremendously respected, was laid to rest at 10:00 this morning.

After several days of eating Chuy's and In-and-Out, shopping, playing board games til the wee hours, and throwing in a late-staying visit to my 40-week-pregnant cousin last night, I went to sleep a little after midnight. At 3:30 I awoke and deposited an imaginary friend at Love Field at 4:30 before driving directly to the funeral. Despite leaving my cell phone (and therefore my directions) at the hostessing imaginary friend's house, I arrived only ten minutes late.

I paid my respects, ate lunch with coworkers at one of her favorite spots and dragged a friend back to mom's to pick up the kids. Spent an hour with daddy, got their little gifts of hair clips and Hot Wheels and headed home.

I am so tired. Also, my back did not love this trip.

As we arrived home, the girls sprang to action. While I cleaned out the litter box and made Charlie a sandwich, they brought in every single piece of luggage, bag, pillow and toy from PennyVann, neatly deposited them in the dining room, got jammies on, poured themselves milk, curled up on the couch and turned on Charlie's favorite show for him.

Charlie did come over long enough for this exchange:

Charlie: Why did you buy me da Hot Wheels?
Me: I know you love them. Do you love them?
Charlie: Yes. I do love dem. If you want to, you can buy me Hot Wheels all da time. Anytime you want to buy me a Hot Wheels, I will take a Hot Wheels for you. I can do dat.

Sure thing, kid. Right after this nap.

Today's News

2011-07-23T10:37:00.000-07:00

No job.

At least we know. And Granny needs him now. (Did I tell you she has a collapsed vertebrae now? He took her to urgent care earlier in the week in pain.)

No career, but there is work.

Remember when I was stuck in California for three days?

2011-07-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

I'm hanging out with those friends again, only this time we're in the Great State of Texas so I don't have to hang out at any airports.

not like this trip.

But since I'm one of the people with a car, I get to spend my time picking people up from airports and getting rather lost.

But I have no kids. And I get to tour HQ of woot.com today. And stay up late giggling with friends.

After nine straight days doing the solo parenting thing with the kids, I may try to figure out a way to get stranded in a different part of Texas for three days. Since Dowlan never reads my blog, he won't catch on.

But mom does. Dang . . . *waves*
I'll be picking them up on Monday, as planned.

Back with the Daddy again

2011-07-21T10:27:00.000-07:00

I've had a solo road trip planned for months, so I brought the kids to my mom's for the weekend. It's the same town Dowlan's been working at and, after nine long days, we are reunited for a bit.

Charlie said, "Now my heart can be happy again."

In further news, Dowlan got an email following up from Monday's job interview. It included a long-form application for the job, which he's got filled out and submitted already.

Ooooh, I want this to work out.

Charlie has lost his GWEEN light sabre from his happy meal

2011-07-20T07:25:00.000-07:00

And nothing could be more urgent.

He gave me 100 minutes to look for it before 'dere is an emergency' and is counting backwards. It goes something like this:

One hundred
ninety-nine
eighty-eight
seven-n-seven
seven-n-eight
no, dat is not it.
One hundred
ninety-nine
eighty-eight
NO YOU DO NOT HAVE TIME TO FOLD DA LAUNDRY! IT IS INSIDE AND YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE IT IS!
one hundred . . . .

A Very Urgent Conversation

2011-07-19T12:24:00.000-07:00

While driving home from the library yesterday, I was talking to Dowlan on the phone. This, naturally, meant that Charlie must speak to me about a pressing matter that could only be discussed at that moment, without delay.

Charlie: Mommy, are dere imbisible tigers?
Mommy: I'm talking to Daddy right now, can one of your sisters talk to you about this?
C: Dey do not know about imbisible tigers. I dest need to know if dere are tigers dat are imbisible.
M: Not that I've ever seen.

Back to Daddy, if just for a moment.

C: But are dere imbisible tigers dat you've never seen?
M: If they're there, I haven't seen them. They are invisible.

Back to Daddy.

C: Mommy, do imbisible tigers scratch with dere huge, imbisible claws?
M: No, they only tickle bellybuttons.
C: Do imbisible bite with dere sharp, imbisible teef?
M: No, they do not bite little boys named Charlie. They lick you with their big sloppy tongues and give invisible kisses. You might like that about them, really. All their kisses are invisible, not real.
C: But what if one of dem ate me all up?
M: Well, you'd never know, would you? If one of them swallowed you whole, you'd be in their invisible tummy. But you'd still see around and be able to walk and talk . . . hey, you could be inside an invisible tiger's tummy right now and not even notice.

He ponders this. I talk to Daddy.

C: Mommy, dat is dest too silly. Dere is not an imbisible tiger's tummy dat I am in.

Oh, you may think that. But how would you know???

Technology attempted to defeat him

2011-07-19T07:09:00.000-07:00

but he got through his interview nonetheless.

For some bizarro reason, his phone went straight to voicemail when they called this morning. He tried calling the number back, but it was not a direct line to anything. There was a helpful recording suggesting check his voicemail but no voicemail was left.

He called back the person he'd spoken with last week to set up the interview. She couldn't get through either, so she did the interview herself.

90% of the way through, his phone battery died.

When he called back he did include something about how you sometimes have to be persistent to get technology to work for you. I'm hoping she bought it.

He'd gone through the job listing the night before, taking notes on how he was qualified to do the things listed. Jotted down what experiences he'd had and how they prepared him for this job. Said he felt it went okay.

She said to check his email over the next few days for the next step.

finger-crossing time, again

2011-07-18T20:03:00.000-07:00

I keep staring at a wall, thinking that I don't know what I'm going to do if this one doesn't work out either, but I do. I'll keep going. It's what I do.

He has another job interview in the morning--a phone interview at 8 a.m. for a job that would be an excellent fit for his skills and areas of interest.

It's a job involving lab work, which would finally put that engineering physics degree to use. It would tweak his inner geek. It's not exclusively lab work, which means he'll still get to interact with other human beings and perhaps witness the sun shining from time to time.

It's a solid starting salary for this area, which would mean we can once again put money into savings, get (back) out of debt and focus on retirement. It would mean gymnastics and ballet lessons, co-pays and therapies. It would mean affording gluten-free again. It would mean my stomach could stop hurting and I could sleep at night.

It's nearby, which means he could come home again. It's 158 hours since he left and, as Charlie put it, "How can we be Team Smif if we're not all togedder?"

But it's a phone interview, which is not in his favor. As much as he struggles to present himself as the intelligent and competent human being in person, he is at an even greater disadvantage over the phone. It's not his strong suit.

They're looking for long-term and committed? He's their guy.
They're looking for a scientific thinker with acute attention to detail? He's their guy.
They're looking for someone dedicated and friendly to work with vendors? He's their guy.
He's their guy.
He's their guy.
He's their guy.

Confession

2011-07-18T10:19:00.000-07:00

My favorite restaurant in our new town is the gas station.

There's a local chain called Stripes that was bought out buy a guy who owns the Laredo Taco Company. Each store contains a short order grill for burgers and also has a window with about 2 dozen items under heat lamps.

It started with the jalapeno corn dogs that are 2 for 99¢. They are just the right amount of spicy. Then I started going there for a burger at lunch, as my school is far from any fast food establishments. They butter their buns and put them on the grill while the meat sizzles. Mmmmmm . . .

As their menu expanded, so did I. You can get any entree and two sides for 3.99. A 32 oz Diet Coke is 99¢ and brings my lunch total to $5.32. It's usually enough for two or three days.

My very favorite thing on the way home from church is to stop for the half rotisserie chicken, wedge fries and mashed potatoes. We come home, add some green beans and salad and split it five ways. During the school year, I'd go for a half chicken for lunch on Monday. Eat the thigh and one of the sides. Debone the rest and stick it in the lounge fridge. Tuesday, I'd eat the breast and the other side. Wednesday, I'd bring a tortilla, salsa and beans and have a chicken fajita. (It always comes with a little bell pepper and onion that are grilled to perfection!) and Thursday I'd bring a bowl of greens and cover it with whatever chicken was left.

No matter what I ate on Friday, it was always a disappointment.

So I just ran Dixie over to a friend's to play and went in for some enchiladas. I was thrilled to discover they have branched out and now have both red AND green enchiladas. I'm a bit disappointed at the first bite when I realize they use tomatillos instead of chiles verdes for the sauce, but they are worthy of culinary respect and will easily last me three meals.

You wish you had my gas station, don't you?

I just woke up

2011-07-18T06:12:00.000-07:00

to the words, "No fair, Charlie! I can't spit that far!"

Then Charlie responded, "Miss me, miss me, now you gotta kiss me!"

Before he knew it, I ran in and gave him a kiss. He has now revised his taunting to, "Miss me, miss me, now you gotta imbisibile kiss me!"

Dang. He's on to me.

If you need a bathroom coach

2011-07-17T17:31:00.000-07:00

Charlie is your man. Not only is his bathroom time a constant monologue, he is willing to accompany you to the bathroom and offer advice. Examples include:

"Pee is easy. It's just pee. It's not hard."

"Dat poop is being tricky, but I know it can make it out."

"Dest stand dere and hold it. Da pee knows where it's supposed to go and it will go dere if you just stand dere for a little while."

I wish he'd been there coaching me on this morning. Instead, he was out back in the sand box with Dixie, where the following occurred:

Dixie was building a sand church.
Charlie wanted to put toys in the church.
Dixie said he couldn't.
Charlie said, "You're not part of this family," (because that's what she always yells when she's mad at me).
Dixie told him he could 'build his own damn castle'.
Charlie spit on her.
Dixie threw sand in his eyes and mouth.
Melody looked up from her chapter book long enough to observe, "I don't think Charlie wanted that sand in his eyes."

It was a lovely, long morning.

So far, so good. Even with a wedding thrown in.

2011-07-16T20:05:00.000-07:00

No one has been discovered roaming through traffic; I haven't left anyone at the grocery store. Every appointment has been kept and I even successfully navigated a wedding this evening with three kids in tow.

In the years he's been unemployed, I'd gotten quite spoiled. I haven't mowed the lawn, taken out trash, emptied the litter box. I've been able to go out with friends on a whim, run out for a diet coke or grocery shop alone. Having them all along, everywhere I go has been the hardest part.

Yet I once had 3 kids, 3 and under by myself for 13 hours a day and never let that slow me down. We've just gotten out of practice.

Melody had gymnastics day camp 8-5 all week, so that helped. Tuesday we went to the library, took a friend to the park, had lunch out and went to a petting zoo thing they had at the mall that turned out lame and so we shopped instead. On the way home, we got Melody, got Sonic drinks, took the friend home and then I couldn't collapse and let daddy take over. I made dinner, mediated disputes, did dishes, got everyone to bed, folded laundry, mopped floors.

Wednesday I was slightly less ambitious, still, by the time I took them to church for me to teach Charlie's class I was not in the volunteering mood. Thursday was the hardest, because I had several things I needed to return to several stores and Charlie had therapy. I also took Charlie and Dixie to get their eyes checked. Dixie needs reading glasses and, praise God, we do not need to try to keep glasses on Charlie's little head.

Friday would have gone far more smoothly had Melody, Charlie and I felt well. I warned Dixie that she either needed to get sick or prepare to be in charge. She gave me the strangest look.

Today I awoke with a sense of dread: Wedding Day. And Room Cleaning Day. After a morning of scrubbing and scolding, their rooms were tidy and shiny just in time to get them tidy and shiny. Melody screamed through the entire hair washing and Charlie kept spraying me with the shower head while I was scrubbing his noggin.

By the time I got them primped I looked like I'd just gotten home from a wild after party. I put makeup on and got dressed quickly, afraid they would undo while I was trying to updo, and headed to the convenience store.

If you ever take three kids to a wedding, I highly recommend M&Ms.

The rest of the ride was filled with admonitions. Upon arrival, my date took my arm and I escorted him to our seats, sisters in tow. They all sat gracefully and with dignity in their seats as I prepared the M&Ms. For every minute that went by without a wiggle or a word, they got one tiny morsel of chocolate delight.

A bag and a half later, we'd reached the recessional with one minor deviation from the script. During the vows Charlie loudly asked, "Mommy? Do snakes like you?"

Yes. Yes, they do.

some odd changes

2011-07-13T16:02:00.000-07:00

Dowlan has been deployed to distant lands for an undetermined amount of time.
Er, not quite.

Dowlan moved in with an older woman.
True, but not really it either.

Dowlan is off to save the day, leaving me to mop up the pee.
Closer.

I'm having a hard time figuring out how to explain this one, especially considering I'd like to respect the privacy of others.

See, we have a branch of the family that we're not related to, but have come to think of as our own. We have several, but one offshoot in particular that we're close to. The head of this family is an elderly woman with dementia, who has two disabled adult children.

For the last two-and-a-half years, 'Granny' has been assisted by live-in companions to help her pass the day, help with meds, make sure she eats, etc. Recently, she made a plan with her daughter to go halvsies on a new house in a retirement community and her caregivers responded to that plan by moving out without notice and taking what they wanted.

It is six+ months before the new house will be done. The daughter is not able to care for her; paying non-live-in caregivers round-the-clock would bankrupt anyone. So Dowlan has gone to stay with her for awhile.

At least the next ten days, perhaps the next ten months.

There are quite a few pluses to this plan: the pay is excellent, it's not a far drive, it's something he's well suited to do, he needs a job and she does make for good company. The kids are all in school full-time this year, I have another month before I have to show up to work and we can go visit at any time.

It's just going to be odd. And hard. But I remind myself that we can do hard things.

But I remind myself that daddies frequently go off to work--they travel for business, they work in another town for awhile, they go off to war. At least we have the benefit of it being nearby and, hey, he's not getting shot at. We can end it at any time, any reason, no hard feelings.

He left Monday morning and I must say we're holding up quite well. I've been trying to do silly, fun things to help them not notice that the silly, fun parent is away for a bit. This morning I jumped on the trampoline with the kids and this evening I made Peace & Carrots, fondue-style for dinner.

Other than the parts of yesterday where Dixie dislodged her orthodontia and Charlie peed on the carpet, things are going well. I steam-cleaned the carpet yesterday, took her to the dentist this morning . . . we march on.

____

Peace and Carrots: I took small glass bowls and put dipping sauces in them--fruit dip, alfredo, marinara, ranch--had a larger plate of Things On Sticks to dip in them. I used baby carrots to make the shape of a peace sign on the plate to section off the meatballs, fruits, cheese cubes, etc.

It was silly and required little effort.

Passive Aggressive Prayer Time

2011-07-10T17:10:00.000-07:00

Charlie: Tank you God for everyting dat I love. And I don't love Real Kisses.

Dixie: Thank you God for all the people that love me and that I love them. And thank you for their hugs and kisses because their Real Kisses show me that they love me.

Melody: Dear God, thank you for this beautiful day and that I got to go to church with my family. Thank you for this meal and for the time we have to spend together. Be with us all as we learn to love you more and love each other more. (slipping into Charlie voice) Tank you God for everting dat I love. And I love Real Kisses. Help Charlie to learn to love Real Kisses. It's the only thing I ask from You.

Really, Mel?

2011-07-09T10:05:00.000-07:00

We got home from getting our new glasses about five hours before bedtime. In that span of time, she lost them at least ten times.

She keeps wearing them upside down, claiming that the entire world appears upside down when she does this. Dixie wants to try and Melody says, 'Oh, it won't look that way for you. They're not yours. If you had glasses for your eyes, they would do it, but they have to be made special for your eyes."

Dixie is not sure if she should believe this.

Now Dowlan has the kids at the park. I hope the glasses return in one piece. I am doing absolutely nothing. Having 'all summer long' to get things brings out the procrastinator in me in the worst way possible.

Eh, I think I'm just cranky. Charlie has started wetting the bed again. About three o'clock this morning, I was up peeling wet footed jammies off his shivering, stinky form. He's also started waiting until the very last minute to go in the daytime and not always making it. I so thought I was done with other people's bodily fluids.

How do we look?

2011-07-08T15:56:00.000-07:00

I lost my glasses last Wednesday. I know they're in the house, but a week's worth of searching has proved fruitless. Glassless. Whatever.

I know the surefire way to find them is to get new ones, so that's exactly what I did. And, while I was at it, I dragged Melody along for the ride.

Turns out her eyes are worse than mine. Ooops.

We'll get there. Getting ours done was work enough. It turns out that making an appointment means nothing if the doctor and staff would rather go to lunch than check your eyes. It also turns out that having insurance does you no good if the places listed on their site won't take it. Or if you call them to ask what to do and the person gives you the wrong advice.

So here are our lovely, unreimbursable glasses.

And now Dixie's green eyes of envy are demanding exams of their own. Sure thing, kid. Just give me time to recover from this weeks' nine medical appointments and copays.

This has the makings of a good conspiracy

2011-07-05T07:32:00.000-07:00

My father is Scoutmaster of a Boy Scout troop. One of their fundraisers is a flag service--people in the community give some amount of money every year in exchange for an American flag being put up in their yard every official flag flying day of the year. (There are quite a few more than one might think.)

Yesterday, dressed in his Scout uniform, with other Boy Scouts and Dowlan in tow, they go from yard to yard, all over town, erecting flags. They notice an orange-bagged paper in each yard, near the curb. As they work, they move the bags up to the porches in order to make it easier for people to get what they assume is a newspaper.

It's a bit different than their regular newspaper, but it is a holiday and, presumably, is a free extra addition to drum up readership and celebrate the Fourth of July.

Nearing the end of their morning, they find one located in the center of the street. Unable to determine which yard it belongs to, they decide to open it up and see what is inside. On one side is facts about the Declaration of Independence.

On the other side? Promotional materials for the Ku Klux Klan.
The rest of the morning was spent un-doing their good turn for the day.

Here comes the Pizza Girl

2011-07-02T07:46:00.000-07:00

We're all in a wedding tonight. Well, not Dowlan. He was going to officiate the ceremony, but we realized that, if I'm matron of honor and Dowlan's preaching, there's no one to chase after Charlie when he decides to run naked through the woods in the ceremony. Papa's in South Carolina and won't make it to the wedding. Oma and Grandma simply don't run.

Last night at the rehearsal, we tried to explain to Charlie that his job is to help Aunt Jackee get married and to practice so he can get married someday. He's very worried about 'gwowing up and gettin mawwied' and has expressed many times that he has to be 'big enuff. I got to be nine to be gwon up and get mawwied.'

Finally convinced that he cannot get married, he has a new goal in mind: to marry a Pizza Girl. 'Dat way, when I get hungwee, I can tell her and she can go make me a pizza in the oven.'

There are worse criteria.

Charlie's couture for the wedding is also a source of great amusement. He's wearing black slacks, a black vest, a gween shirt, a bolo tie and cowboy boots. Two weeks ago, the bride brought the boots over to make sure they fit and he was off and running. That night he wanted to sleep with them on; daddy's hard-won compromise was that he would sleep with them sitting six inches in front of his face, so that they would be the first thing seen in the morning.

His first words the next morning were "Can I wear my cowboy boots now?"

For two weeks, he has clomped and dragged around in them. They're so heavy that he fatigues from the effort and goes barefoot. I think he likes them because he can put them on by himself AND they make him taller. The sound effect helps as well.

Last weekend he tried on his clothes. Once buttoned, he kicked up his boot with a fist pump in the air, announcing, "I'm FANCY!!!"

Later in the week, he explained to my uncle Darrell Lee, "I'm a boy who likes to be fancy, but they won't let me have a dress."

Uncle replied, "Don't tell your mother, she has plenty to worry about as it is."

Fancy dress and wedding dreams aside, he's not too keen on the part of the wedding where he has to stand there looking pretty. But he's practicing for his Pizza Girl--hopefully that motivation will get us through this night. A boy's got to have a goal in life . . .

If you're wondering where I've been . . .

2011-06-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

I've been here.

Doing this.

And it was amazing. Then we spent a few days with grandmothers before coming home to an ex-lizard and a cat gone native.

But I then I turned around and left again for a wedding. Which is quite some story. But I have to go to the hardware store now, so I can't get to it.

Besides, I am tired.

We're not quite done

2011-06-13T16:18:00.000-07:00

traipsing about the countryside, but I thought I'd drop in to tell you something I've suspected about Charlie for a long time: that he doesn't really know how to play Chutes and Ladders.

We're on a two-week, three-camp, four-grandma tour and have a few days yet to go and we're at Grandma Jane's playing games in the hot afternoon between Frontier Camp and Vacation Bible School. Charlie insists we play C&L. The first time, Melody and I make him play by our rules.

(I can't really call them The Rules, because it occurred to me halfway through that I'd never actually played this game before and was inferring heavily, based on the physical laws of gravitational pull and too many years of other board games for ages 3 and up.)

The second time through, I was only allowed to choose the Caucasian boy in an orange shirt as my character, as 'de udder 3 all have gween on dem.' Charlie was all of the others. On my fourth turn, I picked up my cardboard persona and his little plastic orange base stayed on the table. Charlie swept him out of my hand and relocated him back in the box.

"Your chawachter was deleted because his pedestal fell off," he explained. (Yes, pedestal. He can't say 'that' right, but 'pedestal' came out an elocutionist's dream.)

He took his next turn (times three) then held out the box and said, "Choose you next chawacter. You can choose anyone if you want to." I tried to choose first the piece of wadded paper and then the chihuahua toy, but the directions were repeated until I chose more wisely.

A few more rounds of Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, Mommy then my character was attacked by a monster mummy. His characters ran and turned on the (imaginary) lights so that the Monster Mummy would 'get scawed away' and then, next time the turn fell to me, I could once again 'choose any character.'

The pickings remained slim.

Then he decided that I needed two characters, only they had to, 'share dat pedestal cuz de udder one is in da dungeon.' I was allowed to add to my pedestal the African-American girl with the orange-striped shirt who wore brown shoes and green socks. I'm guessing my street cred is improving, as those two microscopic dots of green had previously made her inaccessible to me.

Adding the second character to the first pedestal did not give me additional turns, as, 'dey hafta go togedder'.

Charlie, Charlie, Mommy. Charlie, Charlie, Monster Mummy attack and I have to start over. Charlie, Charlie, Mommy. Charlie, Charlie for the win, cue Victory Music.

I was not allowed to sing Victory Music. 'You is not da winnah.'

Here's what I did yesterday

2011-06-02T10:59:00.000-07:00

Well, we. This is certainly not a one-man job.

My last day of the school year was Saturday and we hit the ground running. We got a whole-house water filter in, got everything clean, ordered doors for the closet, got hinges and door fixtures swapped out to be more Charlie-friendly, started packing for a trip and, oh, yeah, made a backyard wonderland.

Notice how the monkey bars lead straight to the trampoline? And, just to rub it in a little to you big-city dwellers, this takes up about 1/5 of our backyard.

I have a more detailed picture saga coming later, but just know that this came in a comparatively small box and included a 48-page instruction booklet printed, I kid you not, entirely in French. Not the kind of French you speak when you hit yourself with a hammer, not the kind of "It's all French to me" feeling you get when you first look at any assembly book. It parlez-vous'ed the francais. Fortunately, I parlez-vous en peu of the francais.

When I look to the left, this is exactly what I see.

Except there are monkeys on the monkey bars. Totally worth the blister on my thumb.

Yeah, I should have known that was a bad plan.

2011-05-25T17:48:00.000-07:00

Dixie had a tooth extracted this afternoon and has been sleeping it off. I had an allergist/ENT appointment because my sinuses are all jacked up* and I have oozing blisters on the bottom of my feet from field day yesterday, so I've been sleeping it off.

Dowlan took Melody and Charlie to church, leaving us a quiet house so that we may sleep it off together.

I got up to go to the bathroom, only to discover that Dixie cooked. Ingredients: a box of red Jell-o, four packets of Sweet-N-Low, some of my lip gloss, enough Crystal Light to make 6 quarts, chocolate Nestle Quik powder, peanut butter, water and three ice cubes.

She generously offered me a glass (after recovering from the 'uh-oh' look) which I politely declined. "I'm sure it's delightful, but sinus headaches make me want to throw up."

She poured a glass for herself, looked in it, and declared her sinuses were also hurting.

*Important medical term

The Piggy Bank

2011-05-22T14:38:00.000-07:00

A few days before Spring Break, I went to Michael's and loaded up on craft projects. We had suncatchers, beads and ceramic things to use permanent markers on. The biggest hit was the small piggy bank.

Charlie's, surprisingly, was a very green little piggy.

As they were coloring them, I gave them each a few pennies to put in their banks. Charlie, not completely realizing that each child had their own, generously told Melody, "I take you pennies. I put dem in my piggybank. I keep them safe fo you and share dem wit you."

Melody was indignant, but we talked her down.

Since then, the piggy bank has been a major thing for Charlie. Since one of his great joys in life is a Happy Meal, he frequently talks about how, "I'm gunna fill up my piggy bank all da way to da top, den go to McDonald's and get a Happy Meal and play wif da toy and even get ice cweam. Den, if I don't like da toy, you can take me to da store and I can get anudder one."

Sure thing, kid. He knows I'd never buy him a Happy Meal, ice cream and toy all in one day, so he's on his own.

When his school had a book fair, he was going to take his piggy bank and buy all the books 'wif cars in dem'. As it was, Dowlan took him (sans piggy bank) and bought him what has to be the ultimate in Charlie joys--a Hot Wheels book where they race through a volcano. The green car in the book is a car that he actually has AND wins the race. It doesn't get much better than that in his world.

(He reads this book at least ten times a day. If he doesn't know where it is, he makes you draw the pictures and tell him the words that should be on the page. It's really fun to be driving with him looking through the book in the backseat, saying, "NO! Read da words dat I'm looking at!" when you can't see the page. He also makes you read every word on the front and back cover, inside cover and title page. Dowlan, smart man that he is, has written Charlie's full name, address and phone number in this book. He hopes that the endless repetition will help him learn those things. So far, all we have is that Charlie will tell you, "M is my middle initial.")

Wanting money is something we've used to our advantage. He won't normally go to the bathroom without company, so we pay him off for going alone. We also give him a few cents for being a helper or eating something that's not green. It has its drawbacks, though. Last Sunday, he did NOT want to put the quarter I handed him into the offering plate. The entire church got to hear, "God does not NEED da quarter. My piggybank needs it more!"

Recently, Charlie has decided that stealing sips of my Diet Coke and Dowlan's Mountain Dew is simply not enough and he has been campaigning for his own Mountain Dew.

Charlie: I NEED da Mountain Dew.
Dowlan: Sorry, Charlie, but we can't have Mountain Dew. It's not for little guys.
C: But I'm a big character. And my big character needs a Mountain Dew.
D: We don't even have any Mountain Dew right now.
C: Den make some.
D: I can't make Mountain Dew. They make it in a factory.
C: Den I'll use da money in my piggy bank and buy a factory and have some Mountain Dew.

To quote Charlotte, that's some pig.

See, here's the problem

2011-05-16T18:45:00.000-07:00

My netbook is having issues. The keys A S D F J K L and ENTER do nothing, 90% of the time. When they DO do something, they issue a long string of characters. So, if I type the sentence 'We wanted pizza for dinner, but I was cheap and cooked instead' I get either 'We wnte pizz or innr, but i w chep n cooe inte' or 'We waaaaaaantedddddddd pizzaaaaaaaaa ffffffffffffor ddddddddddddinneeeeeeeeeer, but i waaaaaaaaasssssss cheaaaaaaaaap aaaaaaaanddd cookkkkkkedddddddd insteaaaaaaaaaddddddd.'

Or some combination of the two. And sometimes, no amount of pressing down for a long time makes a letter appear and so I type out the frame of my sentence, find the letters somewhere else, then copy/paste them into the space.

As a result, a basic sentence takes about two minutes. Logging into my bank account is grueling. Typing a facebook status is marginally doable, except that the enter key is pretty well needed to get my words out there into the ether. An email response has to be a dedicated cause and a blog entry is herculean.

Except that, well, some days the whole thing works perfectly fine.

I assure you that we are all still alive and well. With nine days of school left, it feels like we're on a big roller coaster ride to the finish.

The only major change we've got going is that we've reintroduced gluten into Charlie's diet. We were finding diminished returns from the effort and it was costing as much to feed one child as the rest of the family. I hate to say we gave up a child's therapy because we could not afford it, but that's it in a nutshell. We could afford either continued diet or continued speech/OT and we were getting so much more out of the others.

Not to mention that the kid is a peanut to begin with (He's almost 5 and only weighs 30 lbs, even less than Melody weighed at this age) and had begun refusing many of the GF alternatives available. It had gotten to the point that the kid was clearly hungry, but would not eat the food that was there.

We have had some resurgence in repetitive behaviors and impulses. It's not as drastic as I'd feared--remember that he did not become effectively communicative until the diet was introduced--but we have had to go back and refocus on some things that we thought were behind us, such as potty training.

I'm not entirely comfortable with the decision, but am keeping in mind that we can always go back at some future date when we're no longer faced with the Sophie's Choice of who to feed or which bill to pay.

That said, Dowlan's been hitting the job hunt pretty hard lately. He couldn't really work while Charlie only had 3 hours of school a day, but now I'm home for the summer and next year is full time school. Keep him in your prayers. Something's gotta breakthrough before we break.

Let's end on a positive note--a friend attended the recent walk for Autism Speaks and bought Charlie a fetching blue satin cape that he now wears with great dignity.

Mother's Day

2011-05-08T18:27:00.000-07:00

Given that my comparisons are Concussion Mother's Day at the Hospital, the Mother's Day where My Mom's Uncle Died At The Same Time We Were At My Aunt's Funeral, & the Baby Dedication From Hell, I can only sum up Angry Hysterical Mother's Day in two words: precedented disaster. I hope yours went better.

Library books

2011-05-05T18:30:00.001-07:00

I stopped checking books out from the library many years ago when I finally accepted that late fines and lost book fees exceeded the cost of the actual books.

Now, thanks to the magic of public schooling, I have small people checking out books that I may never see, yet am financially responsible for. It was bad that Dixie lost the second book she checked out last fall and didn't tell me until January. It was more frustrating that Melody lost a book that I could swear I saw recently, but can't quite place. But the icing on the cake is that Charlie gets to check out library books.

Charlie is an awesome kid with many fantastic skills, but library book responsibility is yet beyond his capabilities. What are they thinking?

I wish I could simply tell his teacher that this home contains no fewer than seven fully-stocked book cases. Two of them are in his room and contain books that are exactly the same level as the ones he brings home and loses. He reads multiple books every night. There is no shortage of books.

What there is a shortage of is the ability for Charlie to communicate what his book looks like, what it is called and where he had it last. Or that it is even missing. Or that there was a book in the first place.

This is costing me and I'm not loving it.

OH!

2011-05-04T20:27:00.000-07:00

In the cast list of characters, I forgot SuperChar and Secret Agent Charles Michael. After all the heavy quizzing, you'd think I'd remember.

It seriously cracks me up that we* named this child Charlie and he goes and nicknames himself Charles.But he lets us be on his team, so we're willing to go along with it.

*By 'we' I mean 'Melody'. Melody named him Charlie. The rest of us just went along with it.

***

I cannot believe there are only 17 days of school left. I know things began in a blur with that whole eight-days-notice thing followed by the seven-weeks-of-back-and-forth while we packed and moved. The mono, flu, four rounds of strep, three sinus infections, two stomach bugs and killer increase in allergies (all mine!) definitely kept it blurry, and everything from Spring Break on just flies by.

But it's exciting to think that we've nearly completed a school year in this new home. We're quite nicely settled--the girls know all the neighbors, I've made some good friends at school, we've found a church and Charlie's thriving in his class. I keep hoping Dowlan will make some friends, but it's hard when he's home all the time and I know that will pick up once he finds a job.

Now that we're hitting summer, he has started to really look. While Charlie was in school only 3 hours a day, there weren't many things available to him. (In this smaller town, childcare options for an autistic four-year-old did not seem to exist.) I'll be home all summer and Charlie's PPCD program will be full-day next year, so we're finally to a place in life where all the kids are in school all day.

Hopefully, something will happen in the next few months. Having our other home rented out is helping to keep it all afloat, but I'm rather looking forward to another paycheck entering the house on a regular basis.

Speaking of our old house, Melody was quite worried the other day. She couldn't quite remember what parts of the old house looked like. She remembered her room and all the other rooms, but couldn't quite picture how they all fit together and how you would get from one room into another. I described it all until she connected it and she seemed quite relieved.

It's strange to think that they may grow up not remembering it. Charlie won't. I certainly don't remember my first home, although I was two when we moved away. I didn't move again until I left for college and my parents are still in the home I grew up in. This large-scale change isn't really something I know how to do.

There are things I so greatly miss (like a bathtub and a second bathroom!) but this is definitely home. Even Charlie has accepted that he can't only have Wound Wock Peopwe on his Team.

Big Characters

2011-05-02T19:57:00.000-07:00

If you've been around awhile, you may remember that the way we helped pull him out of his own world enough to begin genuine communication was by pretending to be Mama Kitty and Baby Kitty. We spent much of a summer on the floor, being animals. Baby Kitty would ask for water and Mama Kitty would give it to him. Baby Kitty would ask for food and Mama Kitty would provide. After a few weeks of this, Human Charlie, nearly 3, realized that he could ask for water and ask for food and that Mama Human would provide. It was such a fantastic alternative to hysterical crying while I guessed.

From there, we progressed to the dragon stuffed animals. We have a Mama, Daddy, Baby and two Sisters. With the dragons, we could say things to Charlie that he couldn't hear us say to him. When Mama Dragon showed Baby Dragon that it was a dangerous thing to stand in the road, Human Charlie stopped running out to stand in the middle of the street and look at the shiny part where there was a penny in the asphalt, oblivious to all cars.

A year ago, when Charlie entered speech therapy, one of my goals was to be able to have a conversation with my son. His articulation was fine--you could understand nearly anything he tried to say--but the back-and-forth of conversation is something that his autistic brain doesn't find very valuable. As I've written recently, a lot of interaction with Charlie still goes back to animal role play. He doesn't connect well as a human some days.

This is where the Wii saves the day. On a Wii, you have a Mii, a character you make to look like you and then use in all your games. You pick your favorite color for it's shirt and you change it's features to resemble yours. On the Wii Fit exercise program, it automatically makes your belly and booty to match, a feature I'm not so fond of. Charlie is fond of every aspect of his Mii. To put it mildly, Charlie identifies with his character more closely than anyone I've ever met.

There are no limits, as far as I can tell, to how many Miis you can have. Melody, unwilling to choose a favorite color, has seventeen in varying hues. Dixie has a couple for her and has also created one for each pet. Charlie has quite a few Big Characters and they all have different personalities.

First is Regular Charlie. He looks like Charlie and does ordinary Charlie things. He has regular eyebrows.

Next is Sunday Charles. That is his superhero name. Sunday Charles is tall, has brown hair and green eyes and likes to play the adventure games. He has handsome eyebrows.

My favorite is Charlie Alien Bagohead. (Bagohead=Big Ol' Head). He wears a green cap and they used the features adjuster to push his eyebrows far above his head and they look like antennae. These are called Stickin' Up Eyebrows.

There are a few more who don't get as much use, but are all quite important. Now when Charlie chooses a character to be in real life, the Miis have entered his repertoire. Just as his cat is markedly different in behaviorisms than his dog, Sunday Charles and Charlie Alien Bagohead are nothing alike.

As strange as this all can be at times (he spends the car ride home from school each day quizzing me on the various attributes of each Big Character) it's exciting to me that Charlie can express himself in human form. Not quite the traditional approach, but we're unconventional people here.

Oddly enough, when you try to call him a nickname, he gets all flustered. Last fall, my assistant principal told him 'You're a cute pie' to which he responded, "I not a Pie, Miss S. I just a Big Boy Named Charlie." Now she calls him Charlie Pie and hears, every time, "I still not a Pie. Dest a Chawlie."

(Surprisingly, Big Boy Named Charlie has not become a character. I think BBNC is who Charlie is when he's being Charlie).

He also responds this way to all the other nicknames we have for him. Yesterday, he explained it like this: I do not like nicknames. Nick is not in my name.

Charlie logic

2011-04-22T09:34:00.000-07:00

Remember when Charlie asked me if I would take off his shirt the next time he needed to punch a guy? After some confusion, I figured out he was talking about Wii Boxing. His Mii wears only boxing shorts for the game and being a character is very important to Charlie these days.

I bought him a set of summer-weight pajamas two years ago when I found them on clearance at Old Navy. The top is a t-shirt and the bottom is, essentially, a pair of boxers. They are white and grey with little airplanes on them. Since, despite turning 5 this summer, he shows no signs of ever outgrowing 2T, he has dubbed them his Boxin Pants and wears them at every opportunity.

I find myself arguing that Boxin Pants, despite the clever title, are not suitable for public wear. They're not even okay for the backyard. "But dey Boxin Pants, mommy. Dey are named pants and pants are otay for outside."

"You named them pants, Charlie. They are not pants, they are underwear," I rebut. "No one wants to see your underwear."

We've had this conversation for weeks. Today, he takes a new approach--wearing them inside out.

"Dat way, dey do not haff to see dem. Dey are inverted."

Imparting Wisdom your way

2011-04-19T16:55:00.001-07:00

I have long felt that age three was far worse than two. No question. Four is your reward for not beating your three-year-old to death. Then, about the time they start to get sassy again, you send them to kindergarten to be an SEP*

*somebody else's problem

I think she's missing the point

2011-04-12T19:31:00.000-07:00

We went to the PTA meeting tonight so that the girls could receive their Proud Eagle awards. Dowlan was at a class, so I took the kids and, as is often the case, the menagerie made for an interesting evening.

We're sitting with a friend from Melody's class and her mother in a middle school cafetorium on the front row, but all the way to the end. I'm not there long when one of my students comes in, looking quite confused. I leave my kids with the friend's mom and walk him over to the band hall for the meeting he's supposed to be at. I return to the cafeteria to find an unhappy Charlie.

He wants the girls to sit in different chairs so that he can be by all of them. I try to explain that there are three girls and only two sides of a Charlie. This does not go over well. I bribe him with gum to get him to sit. It lasts just long enough to be swallowed.

His attention returns to the new source of excitement in his life: his swirly spoon. It is from an eight-pack of yogurt. It's like those wooden flat spoons that came with ice cream cups as a kid, only this is orange on one side, red on the other and has a swirly design. It also, apparently, possesses magical properties. It can change anything into any flavor.

He explains this to me. Loudly.

Meanwhile, the girls have moved to the floor. Charlie goes to sit on the floor. Bored by his spoon, he begins chanting, "Oooh! Oooh! FART! Oooh! Oooh! FART!"

I ask him to pick a better word.

"Choco-choco-chocolate! Choco-choco-chocolate!"

Well, he DID follow my directions. I decide it's time for more gum. He tells me how much he likes it six times before he swallows it.

The talking part is over and now it is time for the Proud Eagles to be awarded. As they work their way through the kindergarten classes, Charlie begins getting worked up. "Am I going to be da pwoud Eagle?"

"No, honey. You don't go to this school. At your school, you are mustangs."

"But I tan't be a pwoud one of dat. I need ta be an Eagle."

"You can be an eagle in two more years. But I need you to be quiet and watch your sisters."

They move on to first grade and I move to the middle to take a pic. I get this one in before Charlie follows me over.

I see the swirly spoon entering my field just in time to move six inches to the left and take this one.

They call a couple of kids from other classes while he pleads, "Take a pickcha of da Tchawie! You need dat pwoud pickcha."

Then I pin him down with one hand to take the next picture.

Since my phone was quickly running out of space, I deleted the two spoon-infested versions of this picture.

Then we returned to our spot while the other grade levels were called. At his insistence, these were taken.

After hearing about fifty third graders play three songs on recorder, they announce that homework passes are available. The girls ask what those are and I explain them to an increasingly agitated Melody.

"That is irresponsible. Why would a FIRST GRADER want a homework pass? Even if my homework is easy or boring, I do it every day because it full of things I need to LEARN. If I skip my homework, how am I going to do well on my tests? How am I going to know the things I need to know?"

Dixie had a different take, entirely. "Can I save this for second grade when it gets hard?"

Proud of my turkeys, er, eagles

2011-04-12T04:53:00.000-07:00

Each six weeks, the teachers at the girls' school pick a boy and a girl to be Proud Eagle. Guess who is the mommy of two proud eagles?

When Melody's teacher announced to the class last Friday that she was Proud Eagle, she told them, "Melody is an -er and -est student. You are all kind children, but Melody is the kindest. There are many in my class who work hard,, but Melody works harder."

I thought that was such a good description of my sweetie.

Dixie didn't learn about hers until yesterday. I didn't get the verbatim description out of her that I got out of Melody, but I know that Dixie is becoming the patient, thoughtful Dixie we always knew she could be.

We get to go tonight and watch them get their awards.

Breakfast FAIL

2011-04-07T05:20:00.000-07:00

Dixie: Daddy, this french toast is spicy!
Mommy: How could french toast be spicy?
Melody: Water! I need water!
Daddy: The cinnamon all floats at the top. Let me give you one from the next batch.
Dixie: This is STILL spicy!
Daddy goes to make some new FT, leaving out the cinnamon.
Melody: Daddy, you put pepper in here! This bottle says pepper.
Daddy: No it doesn't, it says . . . oops . . . cayenne pepper. Well it LOOKED like the cinnamon bottle. It started with a C. Same color . . .

More about the aminals

2011-03-28T18:43:00.000-07:00

Melody, with her constant efforts to educate Charlie about the animal kingdom, has complicated his "What kind of aminal are you?" game.

Originally, we'd settle on an animal, he'd curl into a ball and hatch from his egg, then make little noises appropriate for that animal. He'd snuggle up a bit while he grew, then he'd learn to fly/walk/slither/hop and promptly fly/walk/slither/hop away.

Melody has informed him that not all animals hatch.

So now, the game has a new caveat.

Charlie: What aminal are you?
Mommy: I'm a cat.
C: Den I'm a cat, too. Do cats come fwom eggs?
M: No. They come from tummies.
C: Den I am not a cat. I do not come fwom a Girl. Dat is yuk. Yuk-kee! Pick a diffwent aminal.

What kind of aminal?

2011-03-26T07:47:00.000-07:00

Remember when Charlie was almost three and wouldn't talk or communicate much and I realized that he would do anything if we pretended to be animals? After weeks and weeks of Baby Cat asking Mama Cat for food or a drink or to play, Baby Human figured out he could also ask for food or a drink. It was amazing because we could finally drop the infant-stage game of scream-and-guess.

Baby animals are back in a big way. Charlie doesn't want to snuggle, but Baby Animal wants to snuggle. Baby Animal knows that he only snuggles with his Mama Animal.

Charlie: What kind of aminal are you?
Mommy: A gorilla.
C: I don't want to be a gowiwa. Dey eat dere boogers. I am not hungwee for boogers wight now. What kind of aminal are you?
M: A cheetah.
C: Dey are not nice aminals. I want to be a nice aminal. What kind of aminal are you?
M: A hippo.
C: Dey have teef. [chomp, chomp, chomp] Huh. I don't want to be dat. I want to be a bird. What kind of aminal are you?
M: A crane.
C: Dat is not a bird. It is like a truck.
M: There is a bird crane as well.
C: Is it gween?
M: No. It is white with long skinny legs and some black feathers/
C: I only want to be birds dat are gween.
M: Then I am a green jay.
C: I cannot be dat. But you can be dat kind of bird and I can be a different kind of bird dat is gween.
M: Okay baby parrot.
C: Okay mommy gween jay. How do baby pawots get here?
M: They come from eggs.
C: Where is my nest?
M: Right here.
C: Otay. You have to sit on me so I will cwack and get bowrn.

This is where my snuggle comes in!

The almighty dollar

2011-03-17T10:12:00.000-07:00

Dixie decided a few weeks ago that she wanted a parrot. She wanted a pet she could talk to; that would understand her. She wanted a pet she could train so that, for example, her parrot could help daddy fold and put the laundry away.

She did not appreciate the suggestion that it would be far easier for her to help with the laundry herself.

After a rather detailed conversation about the cost of parrots she was unfazed, but, within a week of earning money, futility had crept in. Distraught at the hopelessness, she came to me with her troubles.

I pointed out that parrots are very expensive birds, but there are birds that are cheaper to come by. I mention that I'm fairly certain Oma still has a cage and that a pair of finches only costs about thirty dollars, plus another five for food and a nest. A far more attainable sum.

She's excited about the prospect and, wisely, recruited her siblings. So far, she's up to six dollars, but she keeps phrasing it in cents in the hopes that I'll be fooled and go out right that moment to buy birds on her behalf.

Most of the money has been earned via picking up trash in the yard and helping with laundry, but it's interesting to hear their money-making proposals. Melody suggested that I could pay her a dollar to not watch television, which I declined.

Later, I hear Melody's indignant voice drift from the other room. "No, Dixie, we will NOT go dance for people to throw money at us! There are better ways!"

technological difficulties

2011-03-12T19:53:00.000-08:00

I got my current netbook in November. I wasn't completely pleased with it at the time--despite 10x the memory of my last one and many other upgrades, it doesn't seem to function as smoothly--and now I'm rather displeased with it.

The keyboard works intermittently. Well, not the entire keyboard quits on me, just the letters A S D F and L. And the shift key. Other than that, it is Perfectly Good* so I have changed all my passwords to require none of these things. I cut and paste letters from other places on a page when it really need to type something in for a moment. I perform internet activities that rely heavily on point-and-click. Oh, and sometimes, to compensate for all those times that I push A and no A appears, I will push it once and get AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

Aaaah!

Blogging is a bit of a sticky point, however, since I'm too verbose for all that cut and paste nonsense and I primarily blog about my children and all three of their names have at least one of those letters. I could resort to Thing 1, Thing 2 and Thing 3, but they'd just fight over who got to be first.

So this week's neglect was not entirely my fault. Blame Compaq. I could have blogged from work, I suppose, but since the district's looking for ways to save money, I should avoid any undue attention.

Speaking of technology, Dixie has her heart set on a touch phone. She really, really wants an iPhone. I snorted and said, "Get in line."

You're seven years old. Not iChance, kid, not iChance.

And, while on the subject of my Luddite lifestyle, the garden is halfway planted. We have red onions, green onions, potatoes, asparagus, bell peppers, poblano peppers, carrots, tomatoes, rosemary and beets in the ground. Still to plant are corn, strawberries, green beans, sugar snap peas, cucumbers, zucchini, yellow squash, acorn squash, spaghetti squash, spinach and various lettuces.

After all that is done, we're going to clear out the space around the barn and plant a little fruit tree orchard. There's room for six or eight trees. I'm still bummed that we moved from our old place just as the fruit trees were producing and the garden was starting to resemble dirt.

Still, the yard on our new house is so much better than I ever thought I'd have and we're excited to see what will grow in this new space! Having moved from a big city, I never imagined a half acre yard with fenced in growing areas and all these wonderful trees. The girls are doing a great job of helping and Charlie just jumps up and down on the trampoline, yelling at us for being boring.

Heck, if the technology keeps not functioning, I could get a lot done this year.

*My mother once had a Perfectly Good television. The old faux-wooden console type that could sit directly on the floor. The sound went out and had to be route through speakers, but other than that it was Perfectly Good. Then, the rest of the cable-watching universe upgraded beyond its capacities, so all programming had to be routed through the VCR, but other than no channels or sound, it was Perfectly Good. And, periodically, you would turn it on and, instead of a large rectangle of viewing space, all of the light and images would be concentrated into a very bright quarter-inch horizontal stripe across the screen and you had to leave it on for a few hours to 'warm up' because there was no external device one could plug into it to compensate for a lack of picture.

But it was a Perfectly Good television.

2011-03-06T20:18:00.000-08:00

Charlie's kisses are imbisible. He is troubled by the idea that a kiss is not a tangible thing and that he cannot really 'give' a kiss. So, now, every time he kisses someone, he grabs their chin to get their full attention and says, "My tisses are imbisible. You tannot see dem."

I guess that way we can't come back and ask where it went?

Being naturally a stinker, he's using this imbisibility to his advantage. In church he blew me a kiss. When I pretended to catch it he told me, "You tannot see it. You tannot get it. It is imbisible. My tisses twicked you!"

Grr. He'll just have to start giving me direct ones.

Poor Schrodinger

2011-03-01T15:28:00.000-08:00

Suddenly, Charlie is afraid of our cat. Any time Schrodinger walks in the room, Charlie starts to scream. He hops up on the nearest piece of furniture, points at him and yells for us to remove him from the room. He wants him kept out of the house or in the dining room with the door shut. Even when Schrodinger is asleep, Charlie will walk into a room, see him, and panic.

We've tried to explain that this is Schrody's home. He needs to be allowed to eat and sleep in his home. He does like being an outdoor kitty, but is not always going to be outside. Oh, and Charlie refuses to go outside on the grounds that Schrodinger could be there.

We've tried to show Charlie that he is a nice, sweet kitty. As he's nearing age 2, he's tamed a lot. No more pouncing or surprise ankle attacks. Still, Charlie insists that, "Schwodinjuw will want to wesssle me," No matter how many times we tell him that Schrodinger no longer wrestles. He insists, "Simon is my only kitty. I will call him Simey-Wimey and I will wuv him, but I will NOT wuv dat udder cat."

I emailed his teacher today to ask if something had happened or been talked about at school involving cats. As I couldn't for the life of me think of an incident at home, I wondered if a kid had talked about a mean cat or something.

She remembered that, on their field trip to the fair last week, he'd seen the white tigers, wrestling and pouncing on one another and menacing with their fangs. The guy there talked about how he 'would not be in the same room as one of these cats without a cage.'

Something must have flipped a switch in Charlie's head, because Schrodinger is no white tiger by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps his orangey color is why Simon got a pass that the grey kitty didn't?

We're going to put up a united front here and work on the differences between cats and tigers for the next few days at home and at school.

If that doesn't work, we may just dye the cat.

shower cake for a coworker

2011-02-28T08:59:00.001-08:00

They wanted it to replicate her dress. It's pretty close!

Shameless brags

2011-02-25T17:01:00.000-08:00

Dixie cartwheels so well that her instructor stopped the rest of the class to watch her and see how it's done.

Charlie can spell butt. Also mommy, but mostly butt.

Melody was chosen to speak at the K-2 assembly this morning. It was stuff she'd written about Texas and she was one of five children chosen out of all three grades.

We get her up, dressed a little less scraggly than usually and make sure her hair gets brushed. We get to school a few minutes early and sit through the usual perfect attendance and most improved before she gets with the other four children to speak. This is when I realize that one of the other children is, in fact, Dixie.

Melody's covered facts about Texas' statehood and government. I'd tried to change the wording a bit, but she steadfastly refused to say, "The Governor of Texas is Governor Goodhair," and instead chose the original wording, "The Governor of Texas is Rick Perry."

Dixie's contained the sentence, "The state tree of Texas is the pecan tree." Which, I'm surprised to say, was not followed with the sentence, "And my mommy's very allergic to pecans."

the promised cake pics

2011-02-24T20:46:00.000-08:00

Gardens

2011-02-24T19:25:00.000-08:00

For seven springs in our old house, we attempted vegetable gardens. Some years it was a monumental undertaking, some years we briefly stabbed at it, but there were seven gardens planted there.

When we first moved, in there was no yard, no driveway and no paved road. We spent many an evening of our young married life chucking large rocks across the street to the empty field. What we didn't chuck, we used to make perimeters around our intended gardens. We'd lived there about eight months before they laid sod and they just plopped it down on top of a layer of weeds gracing the top of the poo-brown clay that smelled about like it looked. Needless to say, it was not successful.

In trying to grow something in that yard, we soon discovered that the rocks were not only on the ground. An inch or two under the ground was a solid layer of limestone. Dowlan took a steel bar and jammed it into the earth to break it up, then we dug it out in giant chunks. More layers to the perimeter, more rocks chucked across the road. We'd then lay good dirt on top of the clay and try to mix them together.

When we planted trees, it would take several hours to get a hole deep enough plant the tree. We'd buy one per weekend.

So, when we first looked at this house, one of the many wondrous appeals was the fenced off 40x50 foot garden area on the southwest corner of the yard. The woman we bought the house from told me that this had been her grandfather's garden and his father's before that. Over seventy years of gardens were planted in this plot. The soil is fertile and can grow pretty near anything.

Over the weekend, we grabbed the shovels and gloves and all five of us got to work. I'm in love with this dirt. Even the girls can use a shovel in it. Getting the grass and weeds of it has proven simple. Such a different experience than our last garden.

We had a good time out there, all five of us. Even before the chainsaw.

Next time you're navel gazing, contemplate this:

2011-02-23T22:06:00.001-08:00

Melody asked me last week, "If my bellybutton had a baby, would the baby bellybutton have a bellybutton?"

Amazing friends have I

2011-02-22T20:36:00.000-08:00

For those of you not hip to the ways of the elementary crowd, please know that American Girl Dolls are a Big Deal. They're well-made dolls that are 18" high and can stand independently. They are girls, not babies, and their hair does not crap out on you like most doll hair is wont to do. Each doll is from a different time and place in American history and has a book (or books) to go with it. There are also custom dolls available.

They are also crazy expensive and the expense of the doll itself pales in comparison to the cost of the accessories. It would be easy to blow a few hundred dollars in their catalog or store. Part of the idea is that you buy a doll that looks like you, then get matching outfits.

Fortunately, Target has a knockoff version called Our Generation. And fortunately for Melody, they were on clearance in mid-January. Even better, they have a horseback-rider faux-AG doll named Lily Anna for $17.44.

Happy Birthday, Mel! She even looks a little like you!

And her house is 75% off! less than $15! (The stock photo is tiny. The house is about two feet tall, three feet wide and two feet deep. It's big enough for Lilly Anna to stand in and we have a little bed for her in there.)

Melody opened them up and went cuckoo for cocoa puffs.

Now, part of having like-twins is having like-wants and like-needs and you can't go overboard on one girl's birthday present like that, especially since nearly every toy in our house is a Sharing Toy and Lilly Anna is distinctly NOT a Sharing Toy. Normally I spend about $15 on a kid for a birthday and this, at full price, would have been closer to a hundred dollars. And Dixie's August birthday is a long ways away.

As Melody is opening this up, Dixie is trying to figure out how to react. I take her aside and explain that I have already planned to get her a doll, but will need her help picking it. I can see her still struggling with jealousy and anger, but she pulls it together well.

So, the next afternoon, we go to Target to find a very empty shelf. We go online to find two dolls that look rather like Dixie and appeal to her. Out of Stock.

So I mention on facebook that Dixie would like one of these two dolls, but that we cannot find them anywhere. Does anyone have one? Several friends respond that their Targets claim to have them in stock, and would I like them to go look.

My friend April in Idaho is the first to respond and I am in awe of her kindness as I take her up on the offer. Within a day, Victoria Marie is headed our way.

But that's not the best part. The best part is the little book that was taped to the box. See, Victoria Marie was not in the full accessorized set like Lily Anna was, and has no book to tell her story.

So April MADE one for her. She took her out of the box, took pictures of her on the couch in this family full of boys and out in the Idaho snow and made them into this sweet little story book. In the tale, she's looking for someplace warmer and less boy-trapped, so she decides to hop into a box and go live with the most perfect little girl . . . Dixie!

Pure awesomeness that only another mommy could ever understand . . . I have amazing friends!

Mel's seven!

2011-02-21T18:25:00.000-08:00

Melody's birthday party was a few weekends ago. If anyone who was there would email me cake pics (dad!!) I'd happily post them. It was pretty spectacular.

Like any January birthday girl, she wanted a beach party. Uh-huh. So I made little suitcase-shaped invitations. From one handle hung a luggage tag with the invitee's name. It opened to reveal party details and was jazzed up a bit with super fancy sea creature stickers. I threw this poem in for fun:

Melody thinks that cold weather's a bummer,
She looks out her window and longs for the summer.
She wishes her friends, on the day she turns seven,
Could splash in the ocean! It would be just like heaven!
But packing our bags isn't really in reach,
So head to our backyard--it will be like the beach!

Melody has magical weather predicting and altering skills, so the January weekend in question was 80 degrees and sunshiny. It had been so cold for so long that eighty degrees was sweltering and they kept running inside to cool off. I told them that life on the beach is supposed to be hot! By the next weekend it was bitter cold again. When it got down to 18 it was hard to believe a few days before had really been 80.

We had a mostly backyard party with the giant trampoline and scooters from Christmas for entertainment. There was some surfer girl dancing and a sand pit where they dug for buried treasure. (Or at least a kiddie pool filled with sand that had shells and chocolate inside). Oh, and a colorful seahorse pinata. The buckets they'd filled with sand treasures and leis got a nice layer of candy added on top. I threw in a few more party favors at the end and called it good.

Inside was a bowl of goldfish (the cracker) and juice boxes (the first grade set rose an eyebrow at juice boxes. Did they expect Mt. Dew and Red Bull?). The cake was four tiers with sand, starfish, seaweed and shells at the bottom; fish, a seahorse and a sea turtle in the middle two tiers and the top tier was a desert island with crumbly sand and a Polly Pocket in a bikini on a lawn chair, drinking something out of a coconut shell under an umbrella. All fondant, except Polly and her ecoutrements. Each layer was a different flavor cake.

There were three girls from school, a girl from church, one from the neighborhood and my friend Mindy's kids as well as a tag along little brother just right for Charlie. My friends Amanda and Fred came, along with my parents and Grandma Jane. I was not sure if the party would be drop-off or hang around, but all the moms stayed. It was nice to get to know them a bit.

I'll tell you tomorrow about what I got her. Promise!

My Nighttime Nomads

2011-02-20T19:08:00.000-08:00

If all three of them ever once slept through the night, I'd probably wake up ten times thinking they'd been dragged off by wolves or flown off with Peter Pan. I realize that having three ups the odds of something going wrong on any one night, but they don't even have the decency to take turns.

Lately, Dixie's been getting up and not coming into our room, which I'm finding to be far worse than getting up and coming to our room. In the morning, we'll find little traces of her activity. It's really like being visited by fairies or something. There will be a half-empty cereal bowl in the kitchen, makeup redistributed in the bathroom or toys strewn about.

We've had to put passwords on everything because she passed the time one night by googling things for entertainment. This ended rather badly, as one might imagine. When she found she couldn't get onto the computers anymore, she passed time with my cell phone. I found all sorts of dimly lit pictures and my friend Mindy got a mumbled midnight message.

Our house is fairly spread out and our rooms are completely opposite ends. I guess it's time to break out baby monitors again, because there's no way we can hear her with a play room, dining room, kitchen and hallway between us.

It does come in handy. Charlie often has nightmares and, if we don't get to him quickly enough, he can be up for awhile. Sometimes Dixie gets there first or runs to get us if we don't hear him.

Two weeks ago, I run in there while he's screaming and hold him to calm him down. Part of what makes it hard for him to calm down is that he can't iterate what he just experienced. He cannot tell what his dream was and so we cannot really talk about it. He just knew that it was about a cat and that we need to go outside and cut grass with scissors. If we could cut all the grass with scissors, his bad dream would go away.

Yeah, no idea where that idea came from. Did I mention the blanket of snow covering the sheet of ice covering the grass?

I told him that I could not cut the grass, but that I was a Mommy and Bad Dreams do not like Mommies. As long as I was holding him, he'd be just fine. After many efforts to go outside and cut the grass with scissors, and many reminders that I was his talisman against whatever happens to cats in bad dreams, and promises to get up and cut grass with him first thing in the morning, we got to sleep. I never realized that Dixie was up this whole time, listening.

We were up for over an hour. He'd finally gone to sleep when the cat needed out. I'd almost drifted off when the storm began to howl and wail and dance against my windows. Fortunately, the next day was a late start day and I got to sleep in a bit.

When I woke up, Charlie was still asleep by my feet. Next to the couch was a small basket of freshly scissor-cut grass. Dixie had gone out as soon as the sun rose to cut the grass and keep her brother safe.

Siblings are Dangerous

2011-02-14T14:55:00.000-08:00

Melody, after a scuffle with Charlie: Mom, how many layers of skin do we have?
Mommy: Seven.
Melody: Well, I think I'm down to six now in some places.
Mommy: Don't worry. They'll grow back in a few days.

really sick. again.

2011-02-03T17:30:00.000-08:00

fortunately, as i am nearly out of sick days, one of the days was a weather day, one was a short day i could muster through and the other two are days with major scheduling interruptions.

i started allergy shots today. i get to self administer them, which i think i can handle. and, hopefully, they will restore my immune system and result in a healther, happier and, frankly, not cranky gretchen.

dixie is enjoying my misery. she pointed out last night that my fever makes me a warmer snuggler. i breathed on her a bit, just to say thank you.

melody's very quiet. i asked, 'what are you reading?' and she answered 'greek mythlolo . . . greek mylthollo . . . i'm reading greek myths.' I told her auntie kelcy would be proud.

and this little gem is from last night:

charlie's running about the house, using his farts as jet engine power. with each burst of fuel, he is projected in a different direction with a spurt of energy that tapers off until the next arrives to send him in a different vector. with sound effects.

it's my mommyversary!

2011-01-26T18:12:00.000-08:00

Oh, and Melody's birthday as well. We've been quite the team for seven years now! I can't believe my little squishball baby can read and write and think and all that good stuff that seven year olds can do.

She can even aim into a cup when she's carsick!

I know. Great story to use, right? But you'll love it.

Last week, we learned that my cousin, who just moved to the town we left last August, has cancer. (This is the part of the story that is not to love. The part that is incredibly unfair and makes me want to scream and throw things. But also the part of the story I'm hoping you'll say a prayer about before going on to the rest of the cute funny kid story.)

Dowlan and I went back to our old house to clear it out after the renter (who had not left yet and is being evicted. I know . . . this story just has all kinds of happy twists) and then spend the weekend with my cousin, her family and her mom/my aunt. Because my children aren't exactly of an age to be helpful in crisis situations, we left them with my parents to enjoy their weekend of spoilage while Dowlan and I headed off to do the dirty work.

We were seven miles from mom's when Melody announces "I feel rather unwell in my tummy," which, as we know, is how all children speak a few days before their seventh birthday (or at least the ones on British cartoons). I grab an empty 32 oz styrofoam cup and quote that sage-of-our-times, Wayne Campbell: If you're going to spew, spew in this.

She holds it for a minute or two as the urge passes, then returns it. Dowlan (inexplicably) tries to offer her a beverage, only to learn that her only option is old, flat Diet Coke. Charlie pounces on the old, flat Diet Coke offer and downs a watery ounce or two before it is retrieved. This proffering is in a cup identical to the empty cup and I don't think Charlie realizes that there are two cups.

A minute or two later, Melody has an urgent request for the returning of the cup. As I am now a mere three miles from my mother's house, I keep driving. Her aim is accurate; stopping will do no good.

When she is finished, there is an odd pause before Charlie says, "We're going to need some more Diet Coke."

He thinks about it a moment longer.

"And a new cup."

Gecko Love

2011-01-21T17:07:00.000-08:00

Dixie: That's it! No more gecko love!
Melody: Mo-om! Dixie said, 'No more gecko love!'
Gretchen: Uh . . . what's gecko love?
Melody: when we look at each other and stick our tongues out. And in. And out. And in. And out and in and out and in and out and in and out and in.
Gretchen: Ah, get her mad enough and the tongue will come right back out.
Dixie: Mo-om! Melody's being mean to me and I can't stick my tongue out at her because it will only make her happy!

2011-01-20T19:41:00.000-08:00

Tonight, Melody came along while I got supplies to start birthday party preparations. In the store, she told me that it bothered her that only the girls in her class were being invited to her party. She said, "The boys are my friends, too. We play crazy games at recess while the girls are busy talking about . . . I don't know what."

Ah, what's another dozen hand-made invitations?

We went for some pizza at Cici's and chatted a bit. Sometimes it's nice to carb-load when Mr. Gluten Free isn't around. While there, I mentioned that Miss Mindy knows of a place here that's like the one Kris-Kreen worked at. If we wanted to start helping people again, we know where to help now.

Her eyes lit up.

Then we headed up to my school to make a few more invitations. While I was cutting things out, she found some loose change in my desk and started asking what we could use for a bank at the new house.

She's just so big. So seven-year-old-ish. And awesome!

Something I Always Meant to Tell You About

2011-01-19T14:26:00.000-08:00

I have this friend named Christine. When the girls were little, they called her Kris-Kreen, so she still gets called that a lot. Kris-Kreen works at a domestic violence shelter and is always in the mood for donations of any type. So now, when I go through junk to clear it out, I offer it to her before taking it to the Salvation Army. In fact, I used to have a laundry basket that I kept in my closet and would throw stuff in there as I came across it. We had a standing date every week and I'd give her the basket one week and get it back the next.

At least a year ago, I went through the toy cabinets and got rid of a lot of things the girls had stopped playing with as they got older. One of the things I passed on to Kris-Kreen was a toy that Grandma had gotten Melody for Christmas two years prior.

At least four months had passed and no one had missed it. It was a 4-year-old toy and I had six-year-old girls, afterall, but I had not been diligent enough in collecting all the pieces. One day, we're cleaning up their room and Melody finds a piece that was behind their dresser and she ran to put it with the rest of the toy. Unable to find it in it's usual spot, she starts frantically searching for it. When I tell her that I gave it away, she becomes hysterical, then despondent. I try to tell her, 'If you haven't missed it in four months, it can't have been all that important,' but this does not help matters.

Once she has had time to calm down, I explain to her, 'Kris-Kreen works with boys and girls who do not have good daddies. Their mommies take them to a new home to be safe, but they have to leave quickly to go there. They often don't have anything besides the clothes they're wearing when they get there. They may have a stuffed animal that is precious like Dixie's Baby Elephant, but they certainly don't have nice toys like that one to play with once they get to their safe new home. Christine helps those boys and girls and their mommies. One of the ways she helps them, is that she gives them clothes, books and toys. That is why I take her the things that we don't need anymore.'

She pauses in her sniffles and looks up, wide-eyed. "Well, that means we need to find more things to give her!" The girls finished cleaning their rooms and also filled up a large sack of things. We talked about how they don't want broken junk; they need things they can actually used. So they tested the toys and made sure they rounded up parts and sets and such.

Then, Melody comes to me with her purse, asking if they can use money. I tell her that she always needs money to help with diapers and things. She opens it up and has a ten dollar bill and a one dollar bill inside. I think that most kids would give the one dollar bill, but Melody, with only the slightest hesitation, hands me the larger bill.

Then Dixie started a money jar. Any coins found around the house were always thrown in it, and then given to Kris-Kreen every week. They would earn money to put in it if they felt they weren't finding enough spare change. In fact, we were at Walgreens one day and Melody found some pennies and a dime on the ground outside. She immediately picked them up and said, "Oooh, we can take this and give it to the babies at the shelter who need diapers!" A woman walking by paused, and then gave Melody her change to add to it.

From about April until we moved in August, every cent found, even some tooth fairy money, was given for this purpose. Toys we came across were given as well as clothes as they were grown out. It was such a heart-swelling thing as a mom, to have such eager and compassionate children.

More reasons I miss home!

Charlie the yogi

2011-01-10T15:29:00.000-08:00

With colder weather, comes extra time spent on the Wii. Normally Charlie prefers 'ford fighting' (swordfighting) or 'punching da guys' (boxing). In fact, he will pretend to play the boxing game in his carseat on roadtrips, even singing the little victory song at the end of a round.

A few weeks ago, we had this conversation:

Charlie: Mama, next time I need to punch a guy, you take off my shirt?
Gretchen: Why do you need your shirt off to punch a guy?
C: Dey like it when I punch da guy. But dey don't like my shirt. Dey dest like it when I got da gween pants on.
G: Well, take off your own shirt.
C: I tan't do dat. But you can do dat for me. Deal?
G: No deal. You have to learn to prepare for your own battles in life.

I try to only purchase Wii games that involve movement and activity. I' m not generally a fan of video games for the 4-7 crowd, but I like the indoor exercise that it encourages. We have the Fit Plus with the balance board, the Sports Resort, the Fitness Coach and I just ordered the Active Life Explorer, which promises to be Indiana Jones-like in its games.

Today, we get home from school, do a little homework and eat a little popcorn. Charlie gets first crack at the Wii and chooses to do a 15 minute yoga routine. Watching his little awkward body try to bend and twist lithely from pose to pose with his boo-tah-day in the air and oversized head aimed at the screen provided great entertainment. Melody came in to do it with him and attempted to coach him along. I told her she'd be better off just doing it next to him, so a slightly-larger little awkward body went from forward bend to downward dog to crocodile and back.

Today, Charlie is wearing a little stripey gymboree one piece romper with a puppy face in the front and a puppy tail appliqued on the heiny. So each time he did downward dog, his little tail was in the air. And each time the fitness coach said 'downward dog' he and Melody both let out a tiny, strained, 'bark!'