Morning Routine

What is it with boys? Or is it just my boys? Can they not go from Point A to Point B without injuring others, injuring themselves, or damaging property?? Katie can easily go from Point A to Point B, or even all the way to Points L & M via Point V, and not have a scratch on her, and her clothes are perfectly clean. Mind you, that's not all the time, but it does happen.

In the mornings before school, we have some semblence of a routine. It includes negotiations on breakfast, lunch, clothes, tv settings, and generally who put what where. The clothes negotiations are often the most heated, and sometimes end with tears and gnashing of teeth. I can't fathom any better justification for a uniform policy if not to keep mothers from eating their young.

Interestingly, a top or pants that Jack loved yesterday - literally yesterday - may be so repulsive to him today that an outsider listening in on our conversation might think I'm asking Jack to cut off his right arm with a dull butter knife. Katie, on the other hand, while often just as upset with my preposterous suggestions, is much more adept at just sending death rays with her eyes. If looks could kill, I surely would have died a thousand deaths by now. She has regularly accused me of wanting her to wear something because I wanted her to look stupid. I've also been accused of laughing at her, which is, of course, patently true. Truly, the girl belongs on Broadway.

You will recall we live on the T.H.I.R.D. floor, which means I have to walk up or down T.H.R.E.E. flights of stairs when I forget my sunglasses, my cell phone, my diet Dr. Pepper...

Every day - and I mean EVERY day - Cole beats me down the three flights. I know, I know - HUGE surprise. Huge.

Annnnnnyway. So Cole beats me downstairs in the mornings, and is usually trying to conceal himself behind any number of shrubs. It just never gets old, him trying to scare me, or actually thinking he is going to scare me! Without fail, every time he seems to get such joy out of this scaring game, this jumping-out-from-behind-the-bushes, and appears genuinely pleased with whatever trifle response I offer whether it's genuine or feigned surprise, disgust, irritation, or even outright anger. He just loves the thrill of the game. I've imagined so many times how he must perch himself there (wherever THERE is) and probably strain under the anticipation of the reaction of whatever poor dupe he takes unawares. I can only dream of such low standards for satisfaction.

Earlier this week, between the time when I walked out of the front door and when I put my foot down on the last step of the last flight, Cole and Jack had some squabble and both boys had the marks to prove it. Cole, of course, had more mud on his clothes than not. It took no less than, conservatively I'll say, four-and-a-half-minutes, to convince Cole to NOT change clothes outside. I should add here that it is about 35 degrees Fahrenheit at this time. All this time, Katie is standing by staring morosely. The bus pulls up, and I have to all but throw rocks at her to get her to wake up and run to the bus when it pulls up to the curb.

Making sure Katie and Jack get on the bus as I drag Cole up the three jillion steps to the apartment to change his clothes, I wonder why I even bother. I mean, there's a very good chance Cole will not make it to school with clean clothes, let alone make it to the end of the day with them clean and intact (no holes).

Cole gets a clean shirt, makes it to preschool, and of course comes home with numerous stains of unknown origin.

Next day: same routine: Cole beats me downstairs. Then the hiding, jumping out, scaring, laughing. The variation today is that not only has more mud/dirt managed to find its way onto his jeans, but he's torn holes in both knees. Both knees! Upstairs, another clean air of pants, another talk about not hiding, jumping, scaring, excavating, etc.

If I can everyone to school dressed in relatively clean clothes and them not feeling like Mom tried to dress them simply to be the butt of the biggest joke of the century, then I feel I should get some smaller, daily version of the Nobel peace prize. If that's not available - if no one is handing out such an award - then I'll settle for a cookie.

A post script: I have tried everything UNDER THE SUN to get the font to be the same, to change it all to match. I have no idea what happened...sorry for the distraction!!

Is an apology appropriate here?

Well, I apologize dear reader. It seems I was messing around with the design a little too much, and when I checked in this afternoon to start a new post - ACK!! My blog was a MESS!!! I think I've fixed it...thank goodness I'm not applying for a job in web graphics or designing websites!

I guess it was time for a new design anyway. The bright orange and pink is nice and festive for the holidays, isn't it?

Speaking of apologies, I am not so sure that there aren't a few people around here who owe ME an apology. If you want too much information - unsolicited - just go hang out at the local grocery store - Giant, or Acme, or occasionally Genuardis - and you'll learn lots of juicy tidbits about random strangers' relatives that you could have happily lived all your life WITHOUT EVER KNOWING!

For example: a few days ago I was in line at one of the aforementioned stores. I was sooo happy to have meandered around the store all alone, checking labels, marveling at the endless choices, and picking up everything on my list. I'm in the checkout line, waiting for my turn, and Great Grandma behind me blurts out,

"I would never show it off like that, even if had it."

Without thinking, I turn around and look to see what she is talking about. It's a magazine cover with one of the Kardashian girls looking dreamily at the camera with more exposed than covered. Frankly, I had not noticed. And if I had, I am sure I would not have cared one rat tail about it. The only magazine covers that grab my attention these days are Time, or Better Homes and Gardens. Occasionally Reader's Digest. And Taste of Home.

Wow. Am I old yet??

If I feel like splurging, I'll pick up the one with interesting looking recipes or a particularly newsworthy event in the headlines. But I won't waste my precious time alone looking at whatever-her-name-is Kardashian, or Cheryl Tieg, or Britney Spears, or George Clooney, or any of the Hollywood stars wearing ridiculous outfits that cost more than the GNP of a small country.

Well, ok, so maybe I'd at least slow down and glance at George. Just a glance.

Back to Great Grandma (hereinafter "GG"). She's looking disdainfully at the magazine cover, shaking her head, and once she sees she has my attention, really starts in on her diatribe about "girls these days." Briefly I wonder if I am being deposited into that group. But no time to ponder this!! GG has got a lot to say!

Speaking of Reader's Digest, I'll give you their version: GG's diatribe involved her sister's alleged virginity some 50 years ago, their sweet little Italian mother's insistence that she was really 5'2"and not just 5', and the rumors that swirled around after GG herself gave birth nine months and four days after her wedding.

GEEEEEEEZZZZZZZ. I have never seen a cashier move so S.L.O.W.L.Y. The transaction was taking so long I would swear the cashier had time to wrap every item separately in tissue paper, tape it enough to be shipped by boat to Hong Kong, label it with a label maker, and alphabetize it before placing it in the bag. I was running out of responses for GG. I think she must live alone. Mental note to self to quit going to the grocery store on a Tuesday at 10 a.m. More like Friday night around 11 p.m. All the GGs will be long asleep, and I can shop with the derelicts of society. They will be scary, possibly drunk, but at least won't try to unload on me their families' dirty laundry.

Back to GG and her lecture. She kept it up until I paid and was walking off with my receipt when she called out, "You have a Merry Christmas, dear!"

"You too!" I replied cheerily.

It was honest - I really meant it. But boy, was I ever glad to get out of there. Sometimes I just go to the grocery store to get away. You moms all know what I mean, right? It is SUCH A TREAT to grocery shop without one of my little ones grabbing at everything, pleading for such-and-such, or accusing one of the others of putting some forbidden item in the cart. And my boys. Well, they have wingspans of no less than 40 feet. You think about it, and you can't come up with any store in America - yes, I know, I haven't been in them all but this is a safe bet I promise - has aisles wide enough for a mother of a four-year-old boy to go down without him touching 90% of what's on the shelf and pulling off 90% of that.

Wait...no...I take that back...a mother of any boy. I am pretty sure my brother, who is what? 26 now? still has trouble not touching everything (sorry, bro). Let me prove my point for you. Brother is finishing med school. He recently finished a surgical rotation of some kind. I'm always asking him for funny stories, interesting things, and am in the process of compiling a list I'll someday publish of "Things Your Surgeon Won't Tell You." Of course, Brother is really my only contributor to this list, so I'll need to work on finding more sources. One thing your surgeon won't tell you is that a medical student and/or resident may or may not handle one or more of your internal organs while you are conked out dreaming nice fuzzy dreams. All in the name of education, of course. At least in the example Brother gave me he admitted he "still likes to touch stuff." And of course Chief Operating Surgeon said, "Why, yes, lowly medical student, you can put your fist in this here uterus!" This is when I thought how great it was Brother wants to be a surgeon so he can be in charge of all the touching of his highly-anesthetized patients!

Remember this post's theme is the appropriateness of an apology. I think, just for the record, Brother should offer his apology to the owner of that uterus. I know, she'll never know, absolutely no harm came from it, he'll be a better surgeon, blah blah BLAH! But STILL. I'm just sayin'...

So back to the enormous flow of unwanted information I get in the grocery stores. The more recent example is when Julia Childs offered me her advice on why I should purchase the big bag to put my Thanksgiving turkey in. I was just perusing the Ziploc containers in which I might use to send the kids' snacks and lunch items, but apparently Ms. Childs thought I needed help with my turkey. And I do. But that falls in the department of the United Brotherhood of the Organization of None of Anyone's Business!!

Not only did I learn how many ways she has attempted to keep her turkey juicy over many Thanksgivings past, but I also had to hear the sad tale of her husband's brother's cousin's unfortunate experience with a turkey fryer. It involved Poor Cousin running naked all over his yard with a Frisbee. I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP. I assured Ms. Childs I was not, nor now would I, going to consider frying my turkey. This did not assuage her concerns about the potential disaster for my Thanksgiving. Then I heard about another sister/cousin/relative whose back half of her house burned down because she forgot to turn the oil/fryer off after the frying was done. That oil just jumped right out of the fryer, which is electric she supposes, and ran all the way down the hall. Then the house took two years to fix, and the front half didn't match the new back half, and now they are using the big bag in which to cook their Thanksgiving bird BE.CAUSE. just putting a foil tent over it doesn't keep the juices in enough and smoking it makes it taste....SMOKEY!

Thank goodness. I was very concerned for a minute sister/cousin was going to attempt another frying!

Really, people??? I really want some answers about the whole turkey-fryer thing. Who thought of this? And why would you do that to a perfectly good turkey? Can you not just get your fry-fix at KFC? Furthermore, who gets an enormous vat of oil good and boiling enough to fry a 20 pound bird and NOT TURN THE FRIGGING THING OFF?!?! Is a fried whole turkey that exciting?? I just don't get it.

[alright...enough of the turkey frying discussion. I think it's out of my system...]

Ms. Childs also offered free advice on some catering woman who sits at a table in a different grocery store than where we were who will tell me how many pounds of turkey I need for the number of people I am serving and the amount of leftovers I want. Whew! WHO KNEW it could be so complicated just looking at Ziploc containers! I managed to make it out of that aisle and out of the store with no more advice or discussions on turkeys.

Again - an apology, maybe?? I want to go to the grocery store alone and be anonymous - be an invisible nobody! Is that too much to ask?!?

It is for the other GG who, staring at my items in my basket, asked me if I liked fresh asparagus better than canned. Well...probably...since I have fresh asparagus in my basket, but then I didn't know we were taking a survey! Or what about the other GG who, several weeks ago, who tried to strike up a conversation with me about her brother's mother-in-law years ago who scolded her for the way she cooked!! That mother-in-law was Sicilian, and came over from...guess where...Sicily in 19-whenever, and well...GG's pasta wasn't like Sicilian Mother-in-Law thought it should be.
WOW!

No where else up here do I find people so free with their opinions as in the grocery store! Something happens to people when they walk in the doors of the grocery store that compels them to share all kinds of details with otherwise uninterested strangers. The topic isn't limited to groceries either - that's just the segue into the more important and uncomfortable topic they really want to talk about!

I won't do it to you, I promise, when I see you at the grocery store. I swear. But if I do, accidentally, feel free to remind me an apology is appropriate, ok?

Perception is Reality

My daughter is quite artistic. She loves to draw. She will draw anything and anybody, real or imagined. She can usually be pacified with even the smallest scrap of paper and a few crayons or markers. We all know darn well the boys can't be so easily distracted, but again, I digress!! The newest trend in her art is that she will either 1) draw some inanimate object down to the smallest detail, or 2) sketch out her perception of her current situation. By way of example of the former, I bought for her for Halloween a small oval ceramic ornament with the classic Halloween black cat silhouette, back arched and hair standing up on ends. It was glittered all the way to Bangkok and back. It still hangs on her wall with a black silky ribbon. In true Katie form, she squealed with absolute delight when she unwrapped it (somewhere glass was breaking). So a few days later I found her drawing of it on my desk. The little ornament was sketched out in black marker complete with her careful reproduction of the words "Made in Thailand" that were printed in 2 pt font on the back, as well as the admonishment that this ornament was "not a toy."
Anyway. Not to beat a dead horse, but Dan has been gone more than he's been here. After Dan left this past Sunday, and well before he returned, I found some of her artwork on Dan's desk:



I was both heartbroken and entertained at the same time. This is how she sees our lives right now: Dad's always headed to the airport while the rest of us stay at the apartment. She didn't put any particular slant on it, just stated the facts. No other details mattered, no explanation necessary, except to make sure he saw it was for him with her note on the back!



One final example of her using art to express her life is below. It probably does not require any explanation, but just to make sure you've got the complete picture - ah, pardon the pun, that just typed itself! - keep in mind we're in quite a small space, and after a few shots by her nerf-gun toting brothers, Katie gets quite perturbed. Her brothers have no less than, um, 87 nerf guns, which shoot with varying degrees of speed. Some of them shoot out the little orange nerf bullets that have velcro on the tips, and some have plastic so they stick to the tv, the ceiling, framed things on the wall, the mirror, the doors, etc. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your age and gender, the boys have pretty good aim, too. Everyone in our family has taken one to the face. At least once. A few of the guns are what Jack refers to as "tommy guns." That makes me think of Marlon Brando, The Godfather, Al Pacino screaming in that great accent "Say hello to my leetal friend!"...all that kind of stuff. As an aside, where Jack heard the term "tommy gun" I do not know. It's sure not something we talk about over dinner in my house. I do wish I had been on the team that developed these nerf products. They must be sitting on mountains upon mountains of cash, thinking of new ways to torture mothers and little sisters. I am continually amazed at the variations of nerf guns and all the accoutrements that are available - little plastic boxes to hold your "bullets," (I have a plastic soap travel container I bought for 99 cents some years back that would have done the same thing but is not quite as cool for my little Marlon Brandos), the strap things that they wear across their chest so they have instant access to extra ammunition, and other stuff I don't even know what it's for. I'm further amazed at how the boys - Jack, especially, can make such a stupendous and convincing case for the necessity of yet another one. "But it shoots five at a time, Mom," or "It reloads itself!," or "I need the new tommy gun 2.0 that has the single green stripe down the side with the yellow trigger! I only have the 1.0 version with no stripes!!!!!"


It's like a disease among boys this age. Just go to an eight-year-old boy's birthday party. It's virtually a Nerf convention! And each boy is a little Nerf-gun toting representative from his own sqaudrant, with his own private stash parts of which he may or may not have brought to the party in anticipation of a shoot-out. They almost start seizing when the birthday boy opens another nerf gun or accessory. Somehow, somehow, these boys can tell which nerf gun is their own. It's like women with shoes!! I have had boys over to my house with nerf guns IDENTICAL (to my nerf-virgin eyes at least) to the guns belonging to my sons. But somehow - it's astonishing - the boys have no trouble identifying their weapons, and even their bullets! Simply astonishing, their skills. I pray the United States military is working on ways to harness these abilities in our real-life war on terror. If not, I know some boys who are equal to the task, and can not only find and capture Osama Bin Laden, but have him singing like a canary! Mr. POTUS, when you are ready to truly end this war on terror, my boys stand ready!

Told you so

I believe I have previously stated that all the crazy stuff seems to go down when Dan is gone. Well, let me just say: I told you so.

This past Monday Cole started his new school (finally!). It's about 15 minutes or so away, but it was his behavior that made the choice for us. Cole and I toured a few schools in the past three weeks, and this was the only one he seemed to like. So much so that when our tour was over, he plopped himself down on the staircase, crossed his arms, and refused to leave. Then he looked up at the director and asked, "Do you have a job for her (motioning to me)?" He knew that if I had a job, I would have to leave him there. At least, that's how it's always worked in his world: you go to school so Mommy and Daddy can go to work.

Of course, the director thought it was quite funny, but didn't understand his reasoning behind it.

She then had to leave us alone for a few minutes as I patiently explained to Cole that he had to either walk out of there on his own two feet, or I would throw him over my shoulder and carry him out. Gratefully, he chose the former.

Cole talked about that school for the next two weeks. He continually asked when he would get to go back, why I wasn't taking him to school, Jack and Katie get to go to school, blah blah blah!!

After more school tours, talking to other moms, and a lot of discussion between us, we signed him up for the school - let's just call it.....The Benton School. Kind of pooty, huh?

So. Monday morning was his first day. The school had Open House last Saturday, so we made a big deal of the whole family touring Cole's new school, let him lead us around, try out a computer games, find his cubby, etc.

Monday morning...I am up bright and early, but it's the first day I've gotten the four of us all ready to leave at the same time. It's been too long apparently, because it took me over two hours. TWO HOURS, PEOPLE!! Even I don't know what I was doing all that time. I do know I wasn't sitting on the couch eating Dove chocolates watching "Law & Order." BUT I digress.

Jack and Katie head to the bus stop, and Cole and I are headed out of the door a few minutes later. I'm really talking up his first day, what fun he's going to have, and all the friends he is going to make. We aren't even halfway there, and the elementary school calls. It's the school nurse (never a good sign).

"Mrs. Callaway, this is so-and-so, the school nurse? And I have Jack here, he's got hives all over him."

"Huh? What?"

"HIVES. Jack has HIVES all over his body."

"Well, he had some bug bites from this weekend, so -"

"Nooo, Mrs. Callaway, these are NOT bug bites. Do you want me to give him some Benadryl?"

"Uh, yeah - yes, please. I will come pick him up, but I'm all the way over across the county taking my other son to his school, so it will be a while before I can get there."

"Alright, he'll be in the nurses' office."

(Really? Liiiiiike where else would he be?)

After much hub-bub, promises and threats, I manage to peel Cole off of my right thigh and coax him into his room, and am finally on my way to pick up Jack. It's one full hour after I got the nurse's call that I arrive to pick him up. As I have been admonished many times by school personnel that "there are rules here," and "we probably do things differently," I know to stop by the school office to sign him out. Three days later, after I've been re-educated about the signing out process and why this particular absence won't be counted against him because it's a "nurse's exclusion," and the next day there's no need for me to send a note for Jack to deliver to the office staff because the nurse called me and it's not a parent-note-sick day or a doctor's-note day or a vacation day or a pigs-were-flying day since-he-was-sick-since-the-nurse-called-me-to-come-get-him-I-can-just-sign-my-name-right-here-in-this-blank-and-the-date-here-and-the-time-here-and-then-his-name-jack-callaway-right-here-and -ALRIGHT I GET IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I-HAVE-A-DOCTORATE-IN-LAW-I-BET-I-CAN-FIGURE-THIS-OUT!!!!!

I'm just exhausted. My beautiful, lonesome morning is quickly going down the toilet.

Fiiiiiiinallllly I am allowed to go around the corner to the nurses' office where I find Jack and his hives waiting on me. Much to my dismay and surprise, there are hives all over his belly, and I can see where some on his face were but are now fading. There are some on his arms, and back as well.

It's not hard to read the nurse's face and know she is disgusted with this ignorant hayseed of a mother standing before her who would send her child to school with visible hives all over this body. I feel compelled to explain. I said that "this most definitely happened after he walked out of my door this morning, and under no circumstances would I have sent him to school this way. And furthermore, he DID have some bug bites from last weekend, that he fell asleep on a pallet watching movies Friday night (as he has done thousands of times), and woke up Saturday morning with THREE or FOUR bites that we thought were from a spider or but that got into the blankets, but then we went to an old plantation Saturday where he rolled around on some hay bales and had a short sleeve shirt on, but then his forearms broke out that night, so we thought it was skin irritation from hay and didn't really panic! ANNNND this morning he looked FINE."

Whew! (See why I'm exhausted??)

[blank look from the nurse]

"Well. Thank you, and I'm going to take him home now."

"Yes. This looks much better since I gave him the Benadryl. It was much, much worse, swollen here [raising his shirt], and here [touching his jawline], and all over his arms [taking both Jack's arms by the wrists and lifting them in the air as if for extra emphasis].

We leave, and I set him up with movies and popcorn while I attempt to get some work done Three hours later I have to pick up Cole. Jack's arms and belly and back and jawline look great. You can barely tell he had hives a few hours ago. So I take the boys with me to get the oil changed on the Suburban. I go to a popular national chain, one we'll call EnergyRoom Boys. They advertise the "29 minute oil change." That's about 27 minutes longer than Cole can usually wait, but they have a small waiting area with some toys, and I have the ipad, and I've got 8,500 miles on the Suburban without ever having had an oil change.

For the first 35 minutes we occupy ourselves by walking across the tundra- er, I mean, parking lot (it's about 40 degrees with what seems to be a windchill factor of 12 degrees and winds around 189 mph), and picking up a few things at a craft store. We get back to the waiting room, and the boys are entertained with the ipad and the toys, so I don't immediately go pester the mechanics. However, when I find Cole tracing his new craft item on the concrete floor with black markers, I wait at the service desk until a mechanic-person meanders that way, and tell him that if my vehicle isn't ready in about two minutes, I am going to turn my five-year-old loose in the shop.

Rude, you say? What.Ev.Er. It was one hour and 20 minutes over the advertised "29 minute oil change." And guess what? LESS THAN two minutes later, a mechanic announces my vehicle is ready!! As I am paying, Jack comes up to me with outstretched arms:

"MOM! Look!"

They're baaaaa-aackk.

It's 3:00, and I spend the next two or three minutes weighing my options and navigating the arctic winds to get to the vehicle, and decide that I now have to go to the doctor. I call and gratefully the receptionist says there is a spot open in 30 minutes, can I make it? Barely, I say, but we're on our way!

We make it just in time, again negotiating Icelandic-like winds to get in the doors, and now Jack and I are having our third or fourth, or maybe sixth, I'm not sure, conversation of the last two days about how you cannot keep wearing short sleeve shirts with a sleeveless jacket (I mean, what's up with a sleeveless jacket anyway? It's one of those puffy vests I see teenagers and children wearing and so of course, I caved and got Jack one, not thinking he would perpetuate the stupidity of a sleeveless coat/jacket by wearing short sleeves, but he has to learn consequences, so sometimes I just don't fight it!). We're still having this "discussion," while I am checking him in and paying my copay. I swear it took Cole less than 15 seconds after arriving in that room to start deflowering the nearest potted plant. He manages to de-flower, de-plume, and de-stroy most of the plant before I can grab his wrist and wrangle some huge green leaves away. Unfortunately, most of the green leaves are ON THE FLOOR amid dirt that surely came out of the same pot.

The only thing I know to do is to put the soon-to-be dead leaves back in the pot, and shove the dirt behind the pot and behind a chair leg. It's better than just leaving it there, right? The man standing in line behind me thankfully laughs, and says kindly, "It's ok, I've been there."

I manage a grin, and mutter a thanks. Then I look for a large blunt instrument to strike myself with. Not finding one, I have to sit there with the little monkey until Jack's name is called. I paid $15 for the doctor to tell me he's having an allergic reaction to - get ready - "SOMETHING." He writes a script for a steroid, which he has to take for seven days, as well as OTC Zyrtec. If at the end of those seven days it's not better, he will send us to an allergist for allergy testing. I am not sure he meant to say it out loud, but then he half-whispered "And good luck with finding out THOSE results!"

In all fairness, we love our doctor. He is great. The man can only work with what we give him. And I had to go to the doctor so I can tell the gestapo the next day he's been seen by the appropriate, licensed medical personnel. Further, I did want him to give Jack something that would bring relief.

So, in the end, it's just another day of me just livin' the dream. All was fairly calm by the time Dan arrived home around midnight Tuesday. I just wanted to make sure you knew, though, that I TOLD YOU SO!

And he's gone. Again.

Dan left today. Again. Another business trip. To Little Rock. It's not fair! He gets to sleep in our house...and see his parents...and go to Sonic.

I could never be a single mom. Wait...he's gone so much these days...I am a single mom! I am sure neighbors think I am. My hat goes off to all you single parents out there. No one to help carry out the trash (down three flights of stairs...across a parking lot...toss into the dumpsters...back across the parking lot...back up the stairs...), no one to clean up after dinner, empty the dishwasher and load it again, no one to run to the grocery store to grab the milk you forgot or to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription, no one to pick up clothes at the cleaners, no one to help herd three people into bed at night and make sure all have brushed their teeth. No one but you.

But.

In the mornings, though, it is my sole joy to kiss their sweet faces, rub their little backs, brush the hair out of Katie's face, and rouse them out of bed. It's my joy alone to be there for those few minutes as they wake from a sound sleep and want to be held. There's that tiny window of time when they will let me kiss them all I want, hold them close, with no arguing, fighting, whining, or crying. Those days I am the only one who answers in the middle of the night, and who they run to when nightmares jolt them out of their slumber, who goes to them and I feel their little bodies relax in my arms, hear the tears stop, and know I brought them comfort. I made all the world better. And my heart hurts for a minute with the love I feel for them.

In some ways, it's odd when he's here for several days in a row. Now he shares both chores again, and the joys of being Dad. The second he appears at the door, they are climbing on him, pulling on every arm, leg, jacket sleeve. They are assaulting him when he arrives home, wanting, wanting, wanting Dad. I'm almost jealous. He does not have enough attention to give them, and I know he is tired. But he soaks up all the love and attention they offer. One airport blends into another, and sometimes even I forget where he has been, what airports he flew from and through. The trips blend together, the hotels are all the same.

In the 11 years since he accepted his first position in the pharmaceutical industry, the way we travel has evolved drastically. Until September 11, 2001, I would walk him all the way to the gate, and stay glued to the window until I could no longer see his plane. Sometimes I could see him in the plane's window, and I could see the melancholy on his face. That is, if I could see through my tears. The tears usually accompanied me all the way back to the car. And I would still be looking for a plane in the skies I thought he might be on...

Now, when I even take him to the airport, it's a quick hug and the obligatory photo. For his first trip in 1999 for training to New Brunswick, New Jersey, I took his photo of him by the door with his luggage. It morphed into a must-do or, well, the plane will explode. I hesitate to even type those words lest I jinx today's trip...

These days we panic if I forget the camera, and several times I have taken his photo with his phone or mine. On the way home, he has to get someone to snap a picture of him. For safety's sake, you know!

I'm not really a crier these days. It has to be really traumatic. But the first time he left for a business trip - back to Little Rock of course - after we moved into the apartment, I broke down on the the landing between the third and second floors as I watched his car drive away. I was so absorbed with fear, all alone in a foreign country with these people! How would I ever make it? WHO is going to help me? It was the first time in years I had lost it like that as he left on a business trip.

Somehow we made it. Bumbling along, we figured out how to do this thing by ourselves. So many of the experiences I've blogged about were when he was gone, and somehow this is when all the crazy stuff goes down. Hmmm...

Once again, we'll bumble through the week, but with fewer tears I hope. The day is young, though, so don't anyone hold your breath. So many possibilities, so much to do and see that I can't just stay in this apartment-the-size-of-a-college-dorm-closet, and so we will explore somewhere today - missing Husband and Dad.

It's My Potty and I'll Climb it if I want to

I can't believe I haven't blogged about this story yet, as it's already one of Dan's favorite to tell to anyone who will listen.

A few weeks ago, Jack had a ballgame. It was a Sunday afternoon, and Dan had - of course - just left for the airport. This, of course, means I have to take all three people with me anywhere I go. It was the first game, so we really did not want Jack to miss it. It was at Oakbourne Park. I typed "Oakbourne Park" on Lola's keyboard, and we set off. I was so proud of myself, because I left FORTY-FIVE MINUTES EARLY. Yes, if you know me, this is a complete shocker. And I even had all of Jack's ball equipment, snacks, wet wipes, antibacterial gel, cash in case there was a snack bar, and my camera.

We make the turn into what is marked by a wooden sign as Oakbourne Park, but somehow it doesn't look like a baseball field. There are several fields, but not baseball fields. And there is this really old, majestic stone building - kind of like a museum? Or maybe it's the clubhouse. Well, maybe we're just really early. So I circle around a bit, still confused about the peculiar fields, looking for people who might look like they are getting out of their cars with baseball equipment and eight- and nine-year-old boys. The more I circle around, the more protests come from the backseats, and the more I become convinced this isn't right. Lola is protesting, too: "Turn. Around. Re.Calculating. Turn. Around. Re.Calculating. Take first left in Point.Two.Miles. Re.Calculating. Take first right in Point.Four.Miles.Re.Calculating." Ugh. Such a know-it-all!!

I try to find Oakbourne Park on my Blackberry, which takes For.Ev.Er. It's about 20 minutes before the game starts...still enough time for him to get there and get his jersey, warm up, etc. The Blackberry is not super helpful. I try to call Dan. He doesn't answer. I scroll through the messages on my phone, find the coach's email from two weeks ago, and call his number. No answer of course. I search all parks on Lola, and get NOTHING else even closely named Oakbourne Park. However, there are quite a few parks to visit in the area...

The only thing I can think of to do - after considering just skipping the thing altogether, but what kind of mother would I be? I mean, we worked so hard to get him in a fall league, and it's the FIRST GAME. I can do this, I really can - is to go back to the apartment, get on my computer and MapQuest it. This may entail getting everyone out of the car, which will mean lots of explanations, negotiations, pleading and threatening. But I think it's the only way I can find where this Frigging game is going to be played in about...oh, five minutes.

Back to the apartment. All the way back, I explain to the people why I have to go back, yes we WILL make the game, and if you'll just pleeeease stay in the car I can make it really quick, and it will save a few minutes, and it will be sooo much easier, and if you can just keep your seatbelts on, it'll just take a minute!!

This is a huge risk...I know...

So I run upstairs and get on MapQuest...guess what???

THERE ARE TWO OAKBOURNE PARKS IN WEST CHESTER!!

I just can't put into words my disgust for the fool who did that. I mean, really. Why.

Of course, my computer isn't hooked up to a printer, so I have to write down the directions! Wow, we are such a lazy society!! Or maybe it's just me.

Back to the car. Everyone's alive! And still buckled in. It's a miraculous event, but not without its costs. A few toys have been relocated (code for "thrown at someone"), and some threats were exchanged. Mr. Parliamentarian was, of course, taking mental notes which he promptly relayed to me all of my rules Israel and Palestine broke in the few minutes I was gone. According to him, none of the threats were ever acted on, but they are only a hair-trigger away from changing that.

Once the car door is open, I have perfected the acts of throwing my cell phone and purse on the seat beside me, thrusting the key in the ignition and turning the car on, hitting the seat memory button to return the seat to my preferred position, buckling my seat belt, and admonishing my children all into one swift move. This means by the time I'm out of any parking spot, I feel "ahead" of any other similarly-situated persons, and feel like I've accomplished something in a timely manner. Plus, it's just a huge time-saver.

Meanwhile, we're on the way, I think, to the actual Oakbourne Park where Jack's game is. We get there - it's less than a mile from our house - and we can't tell which game is ours! We stand there, like four people completely lost and forlorn, until I decide I MUST approach someone and ask which game is this...why is this so hard??? The baseball gods had pity on me, for the first person I asked answered that this was the game we were looking for! They even had a jersey for Jack - no. 1! - and put him right in the game.

THIS Oakbourne Park is huge - open, sprawling, and the dugouts appear lonesome on the oversized fields used now for little league games. High chain-link fences mark the perimeters of the fields, but the park extends beyond that to woods and private homes. It's set almost in a little valley, with homes and deep woods rising on most of the west side. Parking is on a rock/dirt/grass/field with "No parking on the grass" signs (?), and the fields are several yards away, up a small incline, which does have wooden steps. Nevermind that on either side of the wooden steps are the most ragged, jagged, little-boy-inviting, treacherous ditches that were never filled in after the steps were constructed. No stands to sit on, and of course no snack bar either.

I was quickly relieved to find that the person I chose to ask about the game was one of the players' moms, and also the assistant coach's wife. She was very reassuring, reiterating that I shouldn't worry about being late, it just got started, and the fall league is pretty casual. We visited a bit, of course she could tell I was not from the North, and I told her why we were here. Some other parents came up, and she introduced me to them and we all visited as the game progressed.

Every minute or two I would glance around and find Katie and Cole running along the length of the fence, or throwing rocks into a patch of woods, or digging in the dirt. A few times they were chasing each other, and a couple of other siblings.

A few more minutes of visiting, and I happen to look behind me in my usual scan to find Katie and Cole. I did a double-take. Cole was sitting on top of the port-a-potty.

On. Top.

I felt the blood drain from my face as all eyes around me stared. I was temporarily frozen to the spot. In a flash, I saw myself disappear from this spot, never to have to face these people again!

I stuttered an apology, and ran towards him. He was so proud of himself, seemingly confused about my upsetment. I think he even giggled. I do know he made no move towards getting down.

"COLE CALLAWAY! GET DOWN FROM THERE THIS MINUTE!" I hissed.

"HEEEEHEHEEHEHEHEEE! Mommy! Look where I am!!!! HEEHEEHEEHEE!"

I'm sweating now.

Still hissing: "COLE. GET. DOWN."

I considered trying to get him down, but quickly dismissed this idea. The potty was inside a wooden shed-like structure, but he still had to have had spidey-like skills to scale it. Naturally, I was not about to touch that thing, and still shudder to think how much he had to touch it.

I looked around for something to poke him with. Nothing (Nothing I would touch anyway).

It's sort of fuzzy in my memory - I was soooo mad - but he finally climbed down.

Why didn't I take a picture? I had my camera in my pocket. It would have been priceless.

The fun doesn't stop there, though. He knew he was in trouble. So he made a beeline for the nearby woods bordering the park. It's not like the woods I think of in Arkansas, but with thick underbrush covering the ground. All kinds and manners of ivy and creeping vines, and who-knows-what wound all over the ground, around bushes and tree trunks, layered on probably years of dead leaves, with plenty of cover for anything and anybody. Temporarily I shift my thinking from different forms of punishment to his allergies and asthma. He's allergic to basically every blade of grass in America, so no telling how this little foray will affect him.

It's so thick I can't see him. I can hear him - giggling - but I can't see him. This section of woods is not very deep, just thick. By now a small crowd of children has gathered, and so I'm trying not to be veeery careful what I say. I knew if I went in after him 1) he'd run, and he can run faster than me; and 2) he can run faster than me, and so I'd never catch him.

God Himself must have had mercy on me by now. I was definitely praying for help. Cole finally came out. Before I marched him - by his ear - to the Suburban for a spanking, I marched him up to the group of parents and asked one of the moms to tell Jack that we were in the car where we would remain until the game was finished.

Poor Katie! She was a product of "Guilt by Association." She didn't receive a spanking, of course, but I couldn't leave her alone. I didn't know any of these parents well enough to trust my daughter with them, and so she had to accompany the accused to the Suburban with me and listen to him stridently plead for mercy (which had no influence on me; he still got a spanking).

After he got a spanking and finally quit blubbering, I raised the back of the Suburban and instructed him to stand in the back while I wiped him down with wipes. Then I wiped his shoes off with antibacterial gel, and wadded his clothes up to be washed in acid later. I put him in his seat with only his underwear on and buckled him in, and called Dan. Much better for him he didn't answer, but I left him a nice message letting him know how well things were going. Then I sat down behind my vehicle and cried.

How will I ever make it with Dan gone so much? I think we may have to be hermits...

Multiculturalism

Dan needed some dress shirts for work, so we go to Macy's. Together. All of us. It was one of those weekends when we're all out together, going somewhere, and along the way, we pass the mall, and we're going in to get lunch anyway, so well...let's just pick up a few shirts while we're passing through Macy's.

Foolish. Very foolish mistake by this veteran mom of the people!

Israel and Palestine are engaged in full warfare, while Jack is whining why can't he have such-and-such Eagles jacket (You can assume here that Jack has made it his goal to become the Philadelphia Eagles' number 1 fan...he tries to pick up everything Eagles he sees and wants to go to a game), or this Eagles jersey.

Dan doesn't seem to notice all the excitement going on around him. He is coolly picking up this shirt and that one, examining the sizes, the colors, the threadcounts, whether it was made in Pakistan or China and Heaven knows what else. I mean, seriously, this man is supposed to be a buyer, not a shopper. Since when does he examine clothes this closely! He picks up a blue shirt that looks very similar to the two in his arms, turns it around, appears to be reading every single detail on the tags - really!! WHAT IS HE DOING!! BUY THE $&*##@! SHIRT OR NOT I DON'T CARE!!!

"Heather...what do you think of this one?"

"IT'S GREAT. FINE. GET IT."

"No, really, do you like the stripes? Will it go with my black pants?"

Israel is somewhere in the middle of a rack of clearance XXXL t-shirts, providing nice coverage for him, while Palestine runs around poking her head in between clothes trying to find where he is. Periodically shrilly screaming as well. Jack is alternating tugging on my sleeve and Dan's, whining why he can't get this $139.99 Eagles jacket "right now, because I don't have one of these! Puhleeeeeeease Mom and Dad!!!!!"

"Uh, sure, whatever, JUST GET IT ALREADY!!!!!"

Simultaneously, Jack and Dan respond...

Jack's face lights up like an airstrip, and he clutches the jacket to him, almost screaming, "REALLY, MOM?? THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!"

Dan acts like he has reason to be exasperated with me: "Heather, I am trying to buy some clothes here. I do not appreciate you talking to me like that. I am seriously trying to find out if I can wear this shirt with my black suit pants. Are you going to help me or not???" Yeah, I'd like to help you...HELP YOU GET A CLUE!!

"No, Jack, I was talking to your father. And Dan, I am really trying to help you here...but I'm kind of handicapped with these people, can't you see that?? I mean, really, hurry up!! Yes, they'll go with black pants, now JUST BUY THEM!"

Dan FINALLY goes to the desk to pay, and I'm trying to soothe Jack's sore feelings, by the Eagles clothing section which is out in the middle of a huge aisle, by a mannequin display. I guess Katie and Cole ran out of steam - I don't really remember, but we had all sort of gathered in this spot as Dan waited to pay....it's about this time when a Muslim woman walks through, in traditional black clothing, complete with a black hijab that hides her hair and face but not her eyes. This is apparently where I have work to do as a mother, as it is totally alarming to my innocent, Southern Baptist children. Israel sticks out his finger in her direction and yells, "SHE LOOKS LIKE THE BAD GUY IN SCOOBY DOO!"

As if they had synchronized it, Palestine is pointing and almost shrieking, "WHY IS SHE DRESSED LIKE SHE'S GOING TRICK OR TREATING?!?"

Before both statements are totally out of their little mouths, I am grabbing them up and have collected them under the mannequin display, and am almost trembling with embarrassment. I'm stammering around about she's not trick-or-treating, she is not a bad guy, and so on, when guess what? Member no. 2 in the Macy's League of Nations comes around the corner...this time it's an Indian woman in her sari. Beautiful she was, but again, alarming to my children. She is followed by at least two other Muslim women, also wearing a hijab, dressed completely in black. Then another Indian family...it must be Multiculturalism Day here at Macy's. I definitely missed the memo.

Annnnd here we go again with the trick-or-treating comments, dressed like a bad guy (??), etc. I think I'm actually sweating at this point, I know my face was a million shades of red, and I also know the first two women must have heard my children's comments. I was, to say the least, mortified. Katie and Cole's eyes must have been the size of dinner plates, and by now Jack has realized what is happening and is slightly embarrassed himself. He thinks, I am sure, he is helping, but with all his arm-flailing and exasperated shushing to his brother and sister, he's just drawing more attention to our little circus under the mannequins in the center aisle. I think this is where the blood pressure headache came on.

I am doing my best to explain to them that not everybody believes like we do, and that sometimes they wear clothing according to the religious beliefs, and that that doesn't make them bad. They are good people, too, they don't deserve to be made fun of, they might have kids in your school, they chose to dress this way and no it was not for Halloween, and sometimes people's clothing has very important meanings to them. I felt like it was the best I could do under such pressure.

Finally the parade of the League of Nations has stopped, or at least slowed. Dan's through, and thankfully no one noticed the Indian man who was Dad's cashier today. He comes over to us, and wants to know why we're huddled under the mannequins like we're hiding.

Huh. I wonder.

"I'll explain it later. Let's just get out of here!"

And so through lunch and the rest of the day I struggled with the right words. It's not a mystery, you might think, but in today's time, and living where we live with the wide melting pot of cultures that we didn't have in the South, I have to be very careful what I put in my children's minds. Especially with what appears to be the first (dramatic) exposure to such a display of other religions. We talked throughout the weekend about it, and thankfully they didn't ask me any major religious philosophical questions, but I still wondered how far to delve into such a sensitive topic just yet.

All I could come up with for certain is that I'm staying away from Macy's for a long time.

Out of the Mouths of (my) Babes

Recent Quotes heard 'round the People's house:

Earlier this week I cooked dinner: Lemon Chicken, rice, green beans - basic fare. As the people were eating, I asked each of them how it was. Katie and Cole just replied that it was "good." But Jack didn't immediately respond. So I asked, "Jack, how is the chicken?"

Jack replied between bites of rice that he hadn't tasted it yet, and then said quickly,

"But if I know you, it's good."

Ahhhhh, bliss. True bliss.

My heart was full that night.


I was sitting at my computer, reading the latest news on MSN. Cole was sitting behind me at the bar coloring, and said, "Momma!"

I turned around and he had his arm extended, clearly wanting me to hold his hand. I grasped his hand, and he said in a quiet voice,

"Momma, I care for you."

And then he sang me a song of his own about how he loved his momma!!


As a contrast, one day this week, I was helping Katie get dressed for school. Much to my chagrin, our school district does NOT demand uniforms. This very often allows for "disagreements" regarding what Jack or Katie will wear on any [every] day. This particular morning, I laid out a skirt and top, along with - silly me - socks and shoes. She dressed herself except for the socks and shoes, and came out of her bedroom proclaiming,

"This-looks-bad-you-lied-to-me-you-just-want-me-to-look-stupid-so-everyone-will-laugh-at-me!"'

Uh, excuuuuuuse me, ma'm, what planet are you on????

Dan had to intervene. I could not find words to address her in an appropriate manner.

She finally left in the outfit I had picked out, but with different socks and shoes, Dan having convinced me to "pick my battles."

What-ever.

My children are - believe it or not - the light of my life. They keep me alive, and motivated to keep going. I must have been so bored before...whatever we did with our time I'll never know. The days and nights seem to drag by, but the years keep flying by. I try to write down all the funny, innocent, and witty comments they make, but the task of every day living doesn't always permit it. They amaze me with their observations, raw candor, and innocence. I try to remind myself daily that it won't last, that I should thank my God for their sweet innocent hearts, that my time with them is precious. If this is what childhood is like, however will I deal with them as teenagers? One day at a time, one comment at a time...

Adventures in Bureaucracy

Pennsylvania law states that you have 60 days after moving here to obtain a Pennsylvania Driver's License. PA law also states that you have 20 days to obtain valid car tags and re-title your vehicle. Guess what you need in order to obtain your new car tags? You guessed it!!! Your new PA driver's license. Does anyone see a problem here?? As you probably know, I'm not very mathy, but that doesn't seem to add up... As a Pennsylvanian, I am ashamed of the nincompoops who are responsible for approving THAT law.

This week I finally got my Pennsylvania driver's license. Lemme tell you, people are sent to the electric chair with less proof.

Let me set this up for you...

So the lease on this apartment is in Dan's name only. That is largely owing to the simple fact that after one week of house-hunting with the people in tow (remember the house where the toilets in both bathrooms were occupied by my children???), I didn't give a friggin' flip where we lived, and finally put my foot down and said I would NOT look at another house, apartment, townhouse, domicile, single-family dwelling, place of habitation, cardboard box, or anything remotely similar. I was D-O-N-E. The last apartment we looked at it was IT. I-T it. We spent 10 days living in a hotel, and as long as this apartment had bedrooms with locking doors, I wanted it! Furthermore, I was NOT taking Buckner, Israel and Palestine inside to sign a lease. I would sooner have a root canal than to take the three stooges inside a business office to institute utter mayhem while I perused a legal contract (And I mean, that, too...I've had a root canal. It's not altogether unpleasant if you get the nitrous oxide...one of the best naps I've had in almost nine years come October 15 of this year). Therefore, I strongly suggested he go inside by his lonesome and sign a lease and I would stay in the Suburban and listen to Scooby-Doo for the 27th time that week. So it's just Dan on the lease.

I am sure you are familiar with the saying, "You don't know what you've got til it's gone." This is true in my case, as I am increasingly more convinced that Arkansas is doing it the correct way with so many issues beyond just parking lots and football (again...an issue for another blog...I can only digress so many times). Many a time I have loathed Arkansas' Revenue offices. However, I now regret that.

Pennsylvania's Department of Transportation (hereinafter "PennDOT" as referred to locally) has determined that the services provided by one revenue office should be divided into as many separate offices as possible, geographically separated as far away as possible. Furthermore, the event otherwise referred to as "obtaining your driver's license" is, here in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, divided into two distinct operations. Naturally, these operations do not operate on the same days!

This past Monday, Dan and I set off to get our drivers' licenses. I had, of course, read the relevant Pennsylvania statutes, and gave Dan a written list of the things he would need to obtain his new PA driver's license (can we just shorten this for my convenience? PENNSYLVANIA is hard enough to spell, and just as inconvenient to type, so henceforth I will refer to PENNSYLVANIA as PA and "driver' s license" as DL, ok? I trust you will be able to keep up). According to the statutes I had read, read, and re-read, we needed our birth certificate OR passport, Arkansas DL, Social
Security card, and two items that proved residency such as lease agreement, utility bill, etc. I only had one bill in my name, and since I was not on the lease, Dan himself had to be one of my proofs of residency, which meant we had to go together.

The PA Photo DL Center closest to us was closed on Mondays, so we drove 15 miles or so down the highway to the next-closest one. We have Cole with us, and so we have brought the ipad, Jack's DS (no he didn't know we took it), a quart-size ziploc of crayons and a coloring book, and three different kinds of snack bars along with drinks for each of us. Dan had his iphone, too. It looked like we were moving in. Or preparing for hibernation. Either way, we were prepared for a long wait.

Just inside the door is a little machine that dispenses numbers. Ok, this looks familiar. And - a little glimmer of hope: only THREE people are waiting!! Maybe it won't be so bad after all!! We are loving the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania!!!

(This is what it looks like on Mondays!)


In about four or five minutes, Dan's number is called. He gathers up his papers, and after he stands up there a minute, he turns to me and says, "Let's go."

What??

"Let's go, they don't work today."

I'm sorry...what???

Employee sitting behind the desk says very loudly in my direction, "PennDOT doesn't work today. You'll have to come back tomorrow. [big toothy smirk]".

PennDOT doesn't work today?!? It's MONDAY. Let me check...it's not a holiday. The roads aren't iced over...and this office wasn't open Sunday, annnnndddd you appear to be an employee of "PennDOT" sitting behind your desk here at the PENNSYVLANIA DRIVERS LICENSE CENTER which is clearly open right now sooooo I am not following you...

By now Cole is immersed in a game on the ipad, and we have to negotiate him out of there, after I've gathered up our rations we've spread out on the seats next to us. Back to the apartment.

Next day: Round Two.

I still have my "stash" of snacks and entertainment accessories, so today is a little quicker getting ready. Bonus: we already know the way!

The parking lot is a little fuller this time. We get our numbers, and set up camp to wait our turn. About 10 minutes later, Dan's number is called. Once again, he stands there for a minute and then turns around to me, rather irritated, and tells me he can't get his license. Apparently he didn't bring his Social Security card (Nevermind I told him he HAD to have it...later he would tell me that he lost it sometime between yesterday's trip and today's trip, and that he 'thought he could just do without it.' Huh??? "The other proof should be enough!" Men.).

My number is immediately called next. I start pulling out all of my proof, and tell the employee that my husband is part of my proof, since I only have one piece of paper proving my residency. Apparently, I can't get my license because Dan would have to sign an affidavit stating I live with him, and he can't sign said affidavit because he doesn't have a Pennsylvania driver's license!!!!!!!!!!!! CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE!!!!!!!!! Who wrote this crap?!?!!

Soooo we leave. Cole is, understandably, getting irritated by now, as he repeatedly expresses to us. We go back to the apartment. After a feverish search, still no Social Security card. Of course, we have to go to the Social Security Administration office here in West Chester. This time Cole and I wait in the car. In 15 minutes or so, Dan comes out with a piece of paper that any fool could have typed up that says this is an "official notice Daniel Callaway has applied for a duplicate Social Security card, and that such-and-such Social Security number is issued to him."

Somehow I have my doubts that is going to work.

And back to the PA Driver's License Center we go...

We spread out the rations again, and get Cole set up with a game on the ipad.

Several days later, Dan's number is called. So is my number. Fate would of course dictate that he and I have to do the eye exam at the exact same second thus enabling Cole to run wild throughout the building gesturing with the very expensive ipad and screeching like a banshee on fire. You'll remember the eye exam is where you have to virtually insert your entire head into a 1970s time machine to read a few lines, which eliminates any and all peripheral vision. I mean, really. Could there not be a five-second gap between eye exams? I keep glancing five stations down at Dan to try to time my eye exam so he can at least be looking at Cole, but no such luck.
I give up and just do the eye exam. When I'm done, Cole is still doing sprints up and down the length of the room, but there does not appear to be any property damage or personal injury.

However, Dan is walking toward me grinning like the Cheshire cat!

"What's up with you?" I ask nervously.

"I can't get my driver's license. I can't pass the eye exam."

Speaking of eyes, I SAW RED!!!!

The fool lost his eyeglasses a couple of years ago, and apparently, well, I guess he's been feeling his way down the highways and bi-ways of life ever since.

Back to my eye exam. I passed. Of course. Because I had my contacts in. Miraculously, I had a receipt from a camera store where I had had prints made, and the clerk had mercy and allowed me to use that as one of my proofs of residency. Yes, it had my address on it...

And so I got my driver's license and we lived happily ever after!!

Hahahahahahahaha JOKE!!!

Of course I did not receive my driver's license! I had to go back to the little box at the front door and pull yet another ticket and sit in another section to wait to have my photo taken.

What seemed like days later, they called my name - again. I had my photo taken, and had to sit in another section to wait for what I thought would be my PA DL. Well, it was my PA DL I was handed some 15 minutes later, but IT WAS A TEMPORARY LICENSE!! I calmly and politely asked the PennDOT employee why it had the word "temporary" plastered in giant red letters across my license. Automatically without looking up she replied that they gave me a white card that explained all that.

??

Uh, no ma'm, I don't think so.

I am sure she hears this a zillion times a day, as she didn't look up or even really register that she heard exactly what I said, but just repeated the exact same thing - that I was given a white card that explained all that.

By now I truly didn't care if it had "Green-Eyed-Purple-People-Eater" stamped across it. I just turned around and left. And in all the time I had been in and out of there, I had not seen anyone resembling what might be a PennDOT employee standing by the front door, but today, just now, there she was. Fuming, I asked if she knew why my license said "temporary." Mercifully, she told me that the state would check my background and issue me a new one within 15 days, and that most of the PennDOT employees forget to give people the "white card that explains all that." Duh.

Two days later, I received my permanent PA DL. Meanwhile, Dan's still driving around southeast Pennsylvania half-blind...

Open House at Sarah W. Starkweather, PART I

Categorically, universally, without a doubt, it was one of my worst decisions ever. I will never forgive myself. If I can find someone to do it, I need 40 lashes with a cat o'nine tails. I took all three to Open House Monday night for 1st grade (Katie's class).

In my own defense, I didn't think I had a choice. Dan had just left the previous morning for a week, and given my limited opportunities to set foot inside the school, I wanted to meet her teacher again and hear what was going on in the class. Jack also had baseball practice (for fall ball - we found a league up here) at 6:00, but I had talked to a few of the other moms at his game Sunday and realized we were all in the same situation - too many activities scheduled at the same time. And since I'm single-mom'n it, I decided we'd forego baseball practice, but I did not want to miss the Open House.

Well.

SOMEONE or SOMEBODIES took for granted that we all knew how this was going to go down...or just forgot to tell me I should just stay home and try to catch up later.

It all started innocently enough. I laid out the ground rules before we got out of the car. Make good choices, don't run off, be quiet while the teacher is speaking, or face certain death when we get home.

A sign directs us to the gym/cafeteria. It's lecture-style at first, with the principal discussing how we fared last year vis-a-vis other PA schools, the 2009-2010 parent survey in which 89% of parents said they approved of Starkweather's safety policies (Really? How couldn't they? The place is locked down tighter than Fort Knox), and other similarly stimulating bits of information. All fine and good, stuff I would ordinarily want to know and might even take notes on, but I had all three people, PLUS two of Katie's friends sitting with me (before you judge - NO I DID NOT INVITE THEM I AM NOT THAT CRAZY). By the grace of God, I had a small notebook in my purse and a ziploc bag of crayons - I have learned to be prepared for any contingency - and this occupied all three girls for the entire time. The boys, on the other hand, were not satisfied unless a national emergency was broadcast to the entire crowd, or they were inflicting pain on someone in the tri-state area.

As an aside, what is it with girls and coloring? We could probably drive Katie to Alaska with a box of crayons and couple of pieces of paper, whereas we can not drive the boys down the street without property damage or severe personal injury.

It's interesting that at some point during the "lecture" I looked around and thought how easy it would be to give a summation or opening statement to them if they were in a courtroom. Or how much more comfortable I might feel if I were speaking about juvenile law, or if I were voir-diring them for jury selection. And I thought I was sooo smart - I chose the very back seats, where the cafeteria tables were set up so that they would have a surface on which to color. It seemed to be a magnet for Katie's friends, which was fine. But the boys didn't find the principal's power point presentation very interesting, and had significant trouble sitting still. Or keeping their hands to themselves. Or staying seated. Or generally not acting like rabid, feral monkeys.

Promptly at 7:30, the principal said we were "dismissed to our classrooms." Huh?? I thought I was done with school...I'm starting to feel a little nervous...

The boys want a drink. Katie and her friend want to go on to the room.
( I did manage to snap this photo with my phone of Katie and her friend as they darted down the hall - they were holding hands!!!)

I stupidly say ok, go on. By the time I find the right hall with Jack tagging along still asking for water, I find that Cole, Katie and her friend are zooming down the hall shrieking like banshees. They screech to a halt at the door of Katie's classroom, where, when I finally - nervously - approach it, find Katie's teacher with her arms spread out as if she is keeper of the gate. As she is shushing them and saying, "Whoah, whoah, whoah..." she realizes that I am guardian of at least one of these hoodlums, and shows only slight relief. I grab Cole up, and notice that all of the other parents are seated at their children's desks, and there are only three other children in the room. I'm suddenly feeling somewhat hot...

I have to cross what seems to be an enormous expanse to get to Katie's desk in the back. I sat down in her chair, next to Henry's parents, who I can only pray are kind and forgiving people. Teacher is babbling about sign this...your child wrote you a note...learning to read...blah blah blah I DO NOT KNOW WHAT ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH SHE SAID. For all I know, she said she was about to give birth to a litter of kittens. And frankly, I probably would not have noticed, for Israel and Palestine were really going at it it this time. Why I sat there more than one minute I will never know.

Two other children whose parents are not paying one frigging iota of attention are pecking away at the keyboards for the computers, while Katie loudly and indignantly proclaims, "WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO TOUCH THE COMPUTERS WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO TOUCH THE COMPUTERS WE ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO TOUCH THE COMPUTERS," while I try to whisper to her that I can't help what those children do, don't worry about it, etc. All the while, Cole is wriggling around and though I try to hold him or pull him close, he seems to have lost all bone mass. His body has mysteriously turned to taffy. Disgruntled, uncontrollable taffy no less. He manages to slink out of my lap and make it under the forbidden computer table, and commences to disconnect/rearrange the 18,000 computer cords. I actually have to get on the floor and pull him out from under the kid-sized table.

The two children pecking on the computer keyboards are now alternating between that and with trying to perform circus tricks, and Katie takes a break from her announcements to ask me for water. I advise her she is going to have to wait, but she does not relent. I inform her she will not die if denied water, but she insists that yes, she WILL die if she doesn't get water and that it will be my fault!

Jack is now asking for a quarter for the pencil machine (what??), and pleading for a drink of water. WHAT IS IT WITH THESE PEOPLE AND WATER!!!!!!!!!

The rest of it is a blur, but I know it involved death threats, and sweaty palms. I finally carried (actually, he was half-slung over my shoulder) Cole out to the hall, with Jack and Katie trailing behind, and the teacher still talking. I waited a minute, and before I could form any rational thoughts, the teacher concluded. Hesitantly I trudged back in and gathered the papers and my purse, and we left. I left. Without getting to speak to her teacher!

Mercifully, we made it to the Suburban with no more fanfare. I was exhausted. And, I still had Open House coming up for Jack's class...

First Day of School report

A little late, I know...but here's the first day of school report.

Thankfully, they went to the right classrooms, and got off at the correct bus stop. However, the bus was running extremely late in the afternoon - like 40 minutes late. Apparently every other well-informed parent knew this would be so on the first day. As usual, I'm finding things out accidentally and/or after the fact.

So Jack was not a happy camper, reporting that it was hot and noisy. Julie the bus driver apparently lacks - at least in Jack's opinion - the intestinal fortitude necessary to quell the near-riots going on in the back of the bus. Is it that bad, really, Jack? I inquire skeptically (when the bus pulled up, I heard no such rioting...but then they'd had over an hour by then to get it out of their systems).

"MAH-AHM!!! YES IT IS I'M ABOUT TO THROW UP THEY WOULDN'T SHUT UP!"

Well, I say, I'm sure it will be better tomorrow. By the way, who's they?

They, as Jack so impatiently explained to his ignorant mother, are the middle-school boys who live in our apartment complex, and are "so retarded they should not be allowed to ride the bus besides you should be taking me to school anyway Mom whyyyyy can't you get in the car and drive us to school that way I won't have to get feeling like I'm gonna throw up when they are so loud! and besides Julie just says be quiet and doesn't do anything else!" All of this was said in his head voice, three whiny octaves above normal. I mean, veins are starting to pop out in his neck he is straining so much. Relaying this information in a normal voice is not an appropriate option in which to make me understand, I guess. Of course it's also accompanied by the flailing of arms, and exasperated slapping of the thighs with his hands.

Hmmm.

"How was class, though?'"

"MAH-AHHHHMMMMM! Did you hear what I was sayingggggg!!!!!!!!!!!!! I am going to throw up if I have to ride the bus with them again!"

The ignoring technique was not working.

"Uh, yes Jack, I heard you, as did the rest of Chester County. Can you please talk to me in a little quieter voice, and maybe with not as much arm-waving? I heard you about the bus. There is nothing I can do about it right now. It's over, and you don't look - or act like you are about to throw up at this minute. I'm sorry you had to endure that. The bus was very late today, and I don't expect it to happen again. You however, will ride the bus again, as no one takes their child to school in their car, ok? Everybody rides the bus - the school discourages parents from taking their kids to school themselves and strongly encourages bus transportation, ok? Besides, you'll make friends a lot quicker and easier if you are riding on the bus with them and are not the only child whose mother drives him to school, ok? So let's talk about something else, like how you liked your teacher." I reply in my best motherly voice.

"MAH-AHHMMMMM!" More arm-flailing, backpack slinging, and exasperated teeth gnashing and general disgruntlement.

Diplomacy was not working, either.

Turning on my heels, and walloping Katie with Jack's backpack I just confiscated to avoid just that, I bend down and at his eye level, enlighten Jack on what will happen to his backside, his Wii, and his freetime if he does not STOP TALKING LIKE THAT and start speaking to me in a calmer voice. Veins may have popped out on MY neck for a minute...

Finally he's quiet.

Back to the ignoring technique.

"Katie, how did you like your new class?"

"It's ok. I sat by Henry."

"Is he cute?"

Giggles...then, "Mom! I don't know!!"



"Did you meet any of the girls in the class?"

"Yessss....I met Ava, and Molly. They are in my class."

"Are Ava and Molly your friends?"

"Yes!"


Ok! Great...a real conversation with my daughter about school. She genuinely seemed pleased. On the way up the 273,487 steps to our apartment, I asked her how the bus ride was. She conceded it was a little hot, and long, but didn't make it out to be the federal case that Jack had.

Later that night, all tucked in bed and with the lights off, she would confide to me in a giggly whisper that the "school has rules. Mrs. Ansel (her teacher) told them to us." She was covering her mouth with her hands, and pulled up her shoulders - you know that look little girls take on when they are about to impart to you a secret fit for a national treasure. I wasn't sure why this was so funny, until she followed with, "And one of them is no kissing!" I laughed and pulled her close to me, grateful she was still young and innocent. Of course, I also wondered why the school felt it so critical that it bore going over on the first day of school, but unfortunately could imagine a few scenarios that might have prompted said rule and first-day discussions.

After Jack calmed down and felt his stomach had settled, I was able to pry from him such tidbits as, "Class is ok." And other jewels like, "It's fine."



Since we parents are practically banned from the premises, it is kind of difficutl to glean much information about his teacher, classroom, the atmosphere in the class, etc. I suppose that if a major tragedy had occurred, the topic du jour would not have been the noise level on the bus, or the "no kissing" rule; therefore, I can only deduce that they are fairly comfortable in their new school. This week is "Open House" at the school, a rare opportunity for a parent/persona non grata to check out the place. I'm looking forward to meeting Katie's neighbor Henry, and getting a second look at their classrooms, so check back in for the Open House report...should be fairly entertaining since Dan is in N'ahlens all week for work and I have to take ALL THREE to both Katie's and Jack's open house. OF COURSE they are on separate nights... I can only pray Dan enjoys his week of solitude since I plan on disappearing for no less than seven - ten hours when he gets back.

Who says Northerners don't have manners?!?

So last night after his bath, I was helping Cole get dressed. He put on his underwear. He put on his pajama pants. I started to help him put on his pajama top, when he said, "No, no, no, Mama, I don't want to wear a shirt."

In the last week, the weather has dipped down into the high 60's during the night, and with a breeze, it's quite chilly in the mornings and even in the evenings. We are so accustomed to 90 and even 100 degree heat at this time of year, with high humidity to boot, that this weather seems like winter to us! In fact, I really only packed our summer clothes, reserving the long sleeves and jackets to be packed and brought up later. Neighbors have already begun warning me about winter, and how much fun it will be to tunnel our way through the snow to our cars. Sure, they shovel the sidewalks, but you are on your own to dig out your vehicles. At any rate, it's begun getting cooler much sooner than we are accustomed to, and it's been a pleasant surprise.

So this particular evening, I knew it would be cooler than usual, and thought Cole would get a little cool. So I just said, one time, "Cole, I think you'll get cold if you don't wear a shirt." And without missing a beat, he blinked very slowly, and replied quite plainly:

"I accept your offer."

I just lost it. I could hardly help him get his shirt on because I was laughing so hard. To make it even funnier, he followed it up in about 30 seconds with, "As you wish."

What??!? Someone has been watching "The Princess Bride."

Here's a picture of him in his pajamas...including the shirt he accepted my offer to wear. Just about the time I think I may have to put him on the steps of the local firehouse with a note pinned to his shirt, he pulls a stunt like this and melts my heart all over again.