Anybody know that Michigan is the #1 source of cherries for the U.S .(adding sweet and tart cherries together)? That when the National Cherry Festival is held every year in early July that the sweet cherries are not ripe and we import them from other states for the Festival? That over half of our economy is based on agriculture? That Michigan is famous for more than Motown, unemployment and cars no one buys anymore?
You didn't?
Well, now you know...
We also grow blueberries...yep, we do. I know because I saw them at the local Save-a-Lot in 5 lb boxes...I get how the blueberries grow, but how do they grow the boxes around them? Gotta think on that one...(we are also famous for a lot of non-high school grads...)
Speaking of blueberries, the ever industrious Alexandra (now age 10, going on smart mouth 15) planted some old pumpkin seeds in a flower pot in the kitchen window. I thought it was a nice exercise in playing in dirt - two days later they sprouted (all 10 of them). They are growing at a rate of 2 - 3 inches a day! (Like looking at a camera fast forwarding cloud movement), She got so excited that she planted red pepper seeds and cucumber seeds in the other flower posts. We discussed having 20 foot pumpkin vines in the house over the winter but she is undeterred. She now wants to work in a greenhouse when she grows up...as soon as she finds out what a green house is...
So what is happening in Michigan besides an unpopular governor (just ask Dave who is a staunch Republican), an out of this world deficit (again, ask Dave), and a broke school system? (ditto Dave)
We are adopting two (not just one, but TWO) girls from China! Despite our age (older than dirt), despite our EXTREMELY LARGE FAMILY THAT NO ONE KNOWS HOW WE DO IT?? (just ask anyone, althoug we are obviously doing something because the kids keep coming back for meals) and despite strict rules from the China Center for Adoption Affairs, they have approved us for two girls - one is 9 (and has a hemangioma - like a port wine stain only red, on her face) and one who is 10 (with mild cerebral palsy). Two different provinces, two different special needs, two different waiting child lists...all of which should have ended up with a big, fat "NO WAY IN HELL ARE YOU CRAZY" answer from the CCAA.
However, they said yes. Let me repeat that - THEY SAID YESS!!! WAHOO!!
So, sometime this fall I will travel alone, venturing out away from the safe craziness of Buckley MI (population 9 Asians and growing - our neighbor has 2 kids from Korea) to Beijing China. From there to Tianjin Province (east of Beijing on the coast), and Anhui (south of Beijing in the south) to collect "TWO MORE KIDS WHO ARE GOING TO BE TEENAGERS SOON HOW ARE YOU GOING TO DO IT ARE YOU NUTS?"
Yep, that's what we are doing. Since we don't get airwaves TV very well, we have to keep ourselves entertained somehow...
So, thank you, thank you...yes we are excited. No, I have do idea how we will do it. We obviously keep dong something because the kids are growing like weeds (about 5 inches a year for most of them, except for Alexandra, the world's smallest 10 yr old). They are all doing well in school, and no we are not nuts.
Dave tends to take the stupid comments to heart - of course the latest one being "How are you going to handle 8 kids?" Well, stupid, the same way we handled 7 - bury them in the back yard, keep them fertilized and watered and take them out when fully grown. I mean - how do you THINK we are going to handle it? The same way we do it every day...ONE DAY AT A TIME.
Sorry to sound disgruntled on such a momentous day...Dave obviously misssed most of the stupid questions when the kids were little (like the day at the mall when a lady asked me if I had a daycare...an Asian daycare?) Yeah, right.
So, now that I have educated all of you in the manners of what not to ask, say CONGRATS and keep praying for us! A miracle has occurred and I had to share. (True comment - when I got a call from our agency a week ago I knew it was our case worker and I knew it was approval for the 2nd little girl even before I answered the phone).
So, who says God doesn't occasionally speak in a clear low voice? Still waiting for the road signs for the rest of my life but seems to me God is doing a pretty good job keeping us along the straight and narrow...ok, the " wavy, sinuous, off the beaten track, oops we backtracked where the hell are we now" road.
Other News - Dave's grown daughter Yvette (about 32 now) is getting married next year. She just got engaged. I told Dave he would be a wonderful grandfather...his hair is getting grayer than mine by the hour but he seems to handing in there.
Just had to share,
Mary
The "HOW ARE YOU GOING TO HANDLE ALL THOSE KIDS" lady from Buckley, MI (home to the fastest Asian population in Michigan)
Friday, September 18, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Dateline March, 2007 – My Imperfectly Perfect Daughter
In my life of almost constant chaos, there are a few bright spots. If anyone ever asked me I’d have to say it isn’t the deafening stillness that comes over the house when all seven kids are outside together (though that ranks right up there). It isn’t when I’m told by the school system that my eldest daughter is so smart that she is being tested for the Talented and Gifted program for next year (just had to throw that one out there), or the fact that my middle son is also a good candidate for the program (despite his struggles with ADHD.) I think I’d have to say, if anyone ever asked (which no one has) that one of the biggest highlights of our chaotic family life is my Korean daughter.
Elizabeth, now eight, was adopted from Seoul, South Korea two years ago. She was an almost seven-year-old hiding out in a baby home, flying under the radar while her caretakers hoped against hope that someone would come forward to adopt her. She had been listed for adoption for European families since she was an infant, with no takers.
It couldn’t have been because she was not a beautiful child – she has dark shiny hair and a complexion to die for. It couldn’t be the fact that she was missing her two front teeth for ever and ever – all kids at one time or another have gapped tooth smiles (although I have a sneaking suspicion her baby teeth were knocked out while learning to walk on cold tile floors at the baby house.)
I think my daughter was aging out of the baby home because she came with a scary sounding label that probably turned most would-be parents bloodto ice. My daughter has Schizencephaly. In simple terms it’s a split between the two brain halves that results in various levels of impairment. My daughter uses a wheel chair and has trouble speaking.
We first became aware of her in the spring of 2005 when we were attending a Christmas party for internationally adopted children. An agency rep was there with flyers from the adoption agency and Elizabeth was there, the top dog of waiting children. She was the oldest (almost seven years old) and on her way to the next level of orphanage by September, where there would be almost no chance of getting a family. Well, by the time we got home, back when we only had five sugar-whacked kids (instead of our present seven) I had made the decision to find out more about her.
I called the agency rep and asked to see her videos. Most of them showed the same scene over and over – a long legged little girl in foot and leg braces, walking along the row of baby cribs, holding herself up and smiling like a mad woman, a sucker clenched between her back molars. It didn’t take long for me to convince my husband that adopting just one more wasn’t as insane as it seemed.
Here it is nearly two years later and my daughter is finishing up first grade. She has gone from a seven year old in diapers with almost no speaking skills, to an outgoing, chattering, friendly, charming, stubborn princess. She is reading at almost grade level, is a social star among the 7-8 yr old crowd, has a smile that can light up a two-mile radius and is finally speaking in full sentences.
Of all the children and all the paperwork, and all the prayers that went into making our show stopping, crowd gawking family, she is surely a star. It truly breaks my heart that she lived so many years in a baby home destined to become a statistic because of a scary sounding label. After two years of taking my daughter to therapy I have seen scores of homegrown children with labels that make “Cerebral Palsy” and “Schizencephaly” seem like a walk in the park. It looks like this time our leap of faith landed us right in the middle of God’s Grace.
She is an angel in a wheel chair, a stubborn princess, a little girl with garbled speech, bright onyx eyes and shiny hair. She is the light of our lives and, at times, the bane of my existence. She is my daughter.
Elizabeth, now eight, was adopted from Seoul, South Korea two years ago. She was an almost seven-year-old hiding out in a baby home, flying under the radar while her caretakers hoped against hope that someone would come forward to adopt her. She had been listed for adoption for European families since she was an infant, with no takers.
It couldn’t have been because she was not a beautiful child – she has dark shiny hair and a complexion to die for. It couldn’t be the fact that she was missing her two front teeth for ever and ever – all kids at one time or another have gapped tooth smiles (although I have a sneaking suspicion her baby teeth were knocked out while learning to walk on cold tile floors at the baby house.)
I think my daughter was aging out of the baby home because she came with a scary sounding label that probably turned most would-be parents bloodto ice. My daughter has Schizencephaly. In simple terms it’s a split between the two brain halves that results in various levels of impairment. My daughter uses a wheel chair and has trouble speaking.
We first became aware of her in the spring of 2005 when we were attending a Christmas party for internationally adopted children. An agency rep was there with flyers from the adoption agency and Elizabeth was there, the top dog of waiting children. She was the oldest (almost seven years old) and on her way to the next level of orphanage by September, where there would be almost no chance of getting a family. Well, by the time we got home, back when we only had five sugar-whacked kids (instead of our present seven) I had made the decision to find out more about her.
I called the agency rep and asked to see her videos. Most of them showed the same scene over and over – a long legged little girl in foot and leg braces, walking along the row of baby cribs, holding herself up and smiling like a mad woman, a sucker clenched between her back molars. It didn’t take long for me to convince my husband that adopting just one more wasn’t as insane as it seemed.
Here it is nearly two years later and my daughter is finishing up first grade. She has gone from a seven year old in diapers with almost no speaking skills, to an outgoing, chattering, friendly, charming, stubborn princess. She is reading at almost grade level, is a social star among the 7-8 yr old crowd, has a smile that can light up a two-mile radius and is finally speaking in full sentences.
Of all the children and all the paperwork, and all the prayers that went into making our show stopping, crowd gawking family, she is surely a star. It truly breaks my heart that she lived so many years in a baby home destined to become a statistic because of a scary sounding label. After two years of taking my daughter to therapy I have seen scores of homegrown children with labels that make “Cerebral Palsy” and “Schizencephaly” seem like a walk in the park. It looks like this time our leap of faith landed us right in the middle of God’s Grace.
She is an angel in a wheel chair, a stubborn princess, a little girl with garbled speech, bright onyx eyes and shiny hair. She is the light of our lives and, at times, the bane of my existence. She is my daughter.
Nature or Nurture…that is the question (Dateline December 2006)
Those of us who have adopted children who look nothing like us know the questions you will be asked by total strangers, even before they open their mouths. Some people phrase it better so it doesn’t sound as intrusive as it really is (try asking a family that does look alike the same questions and see if they don’t start throwing stuff at you). You just get used to it, or you go nuts. I’m too busy to go nuts, so I just answer the question as honestly as I can and go about my business. But sometimes I’m a little surprised with what actually comes out of my mouth, despite my best intentions.
Like the time I had five of my kids at Sam’s Club (warehouse wholesaler,) all riding on a flatbed cart. Easier to keep track of the kids, easier to buy cat litter by the 100 lb weight, easier to get people to get out of my way. I had successfully cleared a path to the cashier (visualize Moses parting the Red Sea and you get the idea) and was almost out the door with my load in tow, when an elderly couple stopped and started staring at the kids. I could just feel the questions coming (know the feeling?) You can almost see their brain shifting into high gear, getting ready for the eternal question “Are they all yours?” (No, I stole them…shhhh…don’t tell anyone). And out comes the question “Where did you get ALL THOSE KIDS???! (Meaning – “We raised two and never thought we’d live through it, and you have HOW MANY?)
Despite my best intentions (and my refined breeding, of course) out popped the only answer I could think of “Over in the produce section…better hurry! They’re going fast!!) The kids just looked confused. Heck, the old couple looked confused. I think I was the only one enjoying the joke…but it got me thinking about the kids and their relation to me. Obviously I don’t have to worry about them having their dad’s green eyes, my Irish complexion and quick temper (I mean excruciating wit). I just have to worry about them doing well in school and cleaning up their mess.
But the older I get the more I see their birth parents in them. For the most part it’s a great thing, linking the past to the present, and so on. But I also see a lot of me in them. Actually I’m starting to see my other relatives in them as well, people they have never met.
For instance, my mother (still alive and kicking in Florida…hi mom!) used to sleep with about 50 books, magazine, knitting and what not all over her bed. You couldn’t move anything off the bed, because she would immediately wake up and said something like “Put it back! I’m reading that!” Well, my daughter Annelise (age 9, from China) does the same thing. Don’t touch her stuff…she is reading that! I don’t care that she can’t find it under all the blankets on her bed (the ones she never folds), or that it has a months worth of dust on it under the bed…she knows where everything is despite never having picked it up in the last year.
Then there’s my daughter Alexandra (age 7, also from China). She has stubbornness down to a science. Much like my younger sister Cathy (living in Virginia, say hello Cathy!) Alexandra can turn from sweet little 7 year old to a stubborn mule in 2 seconds flat. It’s the most amazing thing. She juts her chin, squints her eyes and digs in her heels…just like Cathy did when she was growing up.
My son Tanner (also age 7, from Taiwan) reminds me of my sister Carol (living with aforementioned mother in Florida.) Whip smart, fast thinker and sometimes-slow learner about social mores. The highlight of his 1st grade year at school was the number of referrals (guess who blew it again for bad behavior) we received from the principal. I swear he set the local school district record for the number of dumb things he kept getting caught doing. By May I was halfway considering teaching him how not to get caught so I could spend some time at work in the afternoon, and not in the principals office. This year we have made it through almost four months of school with only one “referral” slip coming home for bad behavior. A big sigh of relief when we finally had him diagnosed as ADHD (emphasis on the H part) and got his meds straight. I had a friend once whose favorite phrase was “Without Chemicals Live Would be Impossible). At the time he was refereeing to illegal drugs (shhhh…don’t tell the kids), but it seems to be true.
As for the other four kids (yep, still holding at seven) I think they must take after my husband’s side of the family. Haven’t met most of them either, but I have my suspicions that somewhere in heaven there is gallery of dead relatives thinking up strange and wonderful things to share with my children.
As aggravating as it can be sometimes to see my kids do some of the dumb things I and my siblings got away with 25 years ago, it’s almost funny to watch. They may be adopted but yes, they are all mine. Funny quirks and all.
That’s it. Merry Christmas from Buckley.
Where we are still waiting for the rain to stop and the snow to fall.
Like the time I had five of my kids at Sam’s Club (warehouse wholesaler,) all riding on a flatbed cart. Easier to keep track of the kids, easier to buy cat litter by the 100 lb weight, easier to get people to get out of my way. I had successfully cleared a path to the cashier (visualize Moses parting the Red Sea and you get the idea) and was almost out the door with my load in tow, when an elderly couple stopped and started staring at the kids. I could just feel the questions coming (know the feeling?) You can almost see their brain shifting into high gear, getting ready for the eternal question “Are they all yours?” (No, I stole them…shhhh…don’t tell anyone). And out comes the question “Where did you get ALL THOSE KIDS???! (Meaning – “We raised two and never thought we’d live through it, and you have HOW MANY?)
Despite my best intentions (and my refined breeding, of course) out popped the only answer I could think of “Over in the produce section…better hurry! They’re going fast!!) The kids just looked confused. Heck, the old couple looked confused. I think I was the only one enjoying the joke…but it got me thinking about the kids and their relation to me. Obviously I don’t have to worry about them having their dad’s green eyes, my Irish complexion and quick temper (I mean excruciating wit). I just have to worry about them doing well in school and cleaning up their mess.
But the older I get the more I see their birth parents in them. For the most part it’s a great thing, linking the past to the present, and so on. But I also see a lot of me in them. Actually I’m starting to see my other relatives in them as well, people they have never met.
For instance, my mother (still alive and kicking in Florida…hi mom!) used to sleep with about 50 books, magazine, knitting and what not all over her bed. You couldn’t move anything off the bed, because she would immediately wake up and said something like “Put it back! I’m reading that!” Well, my daughter Annelise (age 9, from China) does the same thing. Don’t touch her stuff…she is reading that! I don’t care that she can’t find it under all the blankets on her bed (the ones she never folds), or that it has a months worth of dust on it under the bed…she knows where everything is despite never having picked it up in the last year.
Then there’s my daughter Alexandra (age 7, also from China). She has stubbornness down to a science. Much like my younger sister Cathy (living in Virginia, say hello Cathy!) Alexandra can turn from sweet little 7 year old to a stubborn mule in 2 seconds flat. It’s the most amazing thing. She juts her chin, squints her eyes and digs in her heels…just like Cathy did when she was growing up.
My son Tanner (also age 7, from Taiwan) reminds me of my sister Carol (living with aforementioned mother in Florida.) Whip smart, fast thinker and sometimes-slow learner about social mores. The highlight of his 1st grade year at school was the number of referrals (guess who blew it again for bad behavior) we received from the principal. I swear he set the local school district record for the number of dumb things he kept getting caught doing. By May I was halfway considering teaching him how not to get caught so I could spend some time at work in the afternoon, and not in the principals office. This year we have made it through almost four months of school with only one “referral” slip coming home for bad behavior. A big sigh of relief when we finally had him diagnosed as ADHD (emphasis on the H part) and got his meds straight. I had a friend once whose favorite phrase was “Without Chemicals Live Would be Impossible). At the time he was refereeing to illegal drugs (shhhh…don’t tell the kids), but it seems to be true.
As for the other four kids (yep, still holding at seven) I think they must take after my husband’s side of the family. Haven’t met most of them either, but I have my suspicions that somewhere in heaven there is gallery of dead relatives thinking up strange and wonderful things to share with my children.
As aggravating as it can be sometimes to see my kids do some of the dumb things I and my siblings got away with 25 years ago, it’s almost funny to watch. They may be adopted but yes, they are all mine. Funny quirks and all.
That’s it. Merry Christmas from Buckley.
Where we are still waiting for the rain to stop and the snow to fall.
My Favorite Martian (dateline July 2006)
My youngest daughter Alexandra came out of the bathroom recently with a totally new hair ‘do. She had taken her bangs, put a ponytail maker around them and glued them straight up with water so it looked like she had an antennae sticking out the top of her head. She walked around the house impressing everyone with her style sense, and all her sisters were eager to try it out for themselves. Must be an age thing. I thought it looked like she was trying to communicate with the Mother Ship (right about the time THIS Mother Ship was heading out the door to work).
Aren’t kids fun? Must be another time and another place, but I don’t remember growing up being all that interested in foofing with my hair, adorning myself with play jewelry or wearing dresses. I do remember getting black patent leather shoes around Easter time every year, and wondering if they were really so shiny that someone could see my underwear. (Remember that?)
All my daughters are passionate about wearing dresses. Around my house, the emphasis is always on wardrobe issues - dresses or skirts, pink or red, frilly if possible, and tights, tights, tights. It doesn’t matter if it’s 110 deg in the shade, or –40 deg below zero, dresses and skirts are the end-all, be-all of fashion. I have to admit they do seem to have a better grasp on fashion than I do. I’m still trying to figure out what my color scheme is, but my girls can get dressed in a dark room and still come out looking like they had professional help. Fuchsia socks with orange sneakers? No problem. Pink shorts with a teal green sweater? Bring it on. Three pony tails sticking out the right side of the head? Too last week…it’s antennae time now, or did you miss that one?
But try buying girls dresses these days. My girls are all under 10 and have no need to emphasize their chest area (I mean really, they’re flat as boards). But most little girl dresses have a shirt wrap to be tied underneath what will eventually become a chest (five years from now). And the length! (Or should I say “What length?”) Better double tight them up, because they have underwear longer than some of these things.
Of course my daughters can accessorize with the best of them. I eventually gave in one year and bought them all small wooden jewelry boxes to keep their “jewelry” in. Things such as strings of very large wooden beads from Kindergarten, with an occasional bell tossed in for variety; bead projects on white elastic bands to hand out to friends at school; Strawberry Shortcake bracelets worn as chokers around their necks. Makes going to bed a real work out – I do a FOD (foreign object on deck) walk-down on each kid every night to ensure they aren’t wearing things around their neck or extremities that will make their hands and feet fall off by the next morning.
And somehow the jewelry always migrates back to me. Every couple of weeks I dump out my top desk drawer and parcel it all out again. But every night it miraculously floats back, ending up in my desk drawer by sunrise each morning. I occasionally clean out the drawer and storethe googaws in my hope chest. I save all sorts of things there - first shoes, clothes they came home from the orphanage in, kindergarten baubles, drawings of alien looking people with pointed heads…I mean pictures of Mom and Dad drawn by a three year old. I have a ton of stuff, and someday I’m going to go through it all, and wait for just the right moment to bring it out. You know, first boyfriend, first date, first engagement…something really special.
In the mean time, I have a new ‘do to try. Think the Mother Ship delivers pizza?
As always,
Love from Buckley
Where the girls are beautiful,
Mom wears combat boots,
And the Alien Invasion is expected any minute.
Aren’t kids fun? Must be another time and another place, but I don’t remember growing up being all that interested in foofing with my hair, adorning myself with play jewelry or wearing dresses. I do remember getting black patent leather shoes around Easter time every year, and wondering if they were really so shiny that someone could see my underwear. (Remember that?)
All my daughters are passionate about wearing dresses. Around my house, the emphasis is always on wardrobe issues - dresses or skirts, pink or red, frilly if possible, and tights, tights, tights. It doesn’t matter if it’s 110 deg in the shade, or –40 deg below zero, dresses and skirts are the end-all, be-all of fashion. I have to admit they do seem to have a better grasp on fashion than I do. I’m still trying to figure out what my color scheme is, but my girls can get dressed in a dark room and still come out looking like they had professional help. Fuchsia socks with orange sneakers? No problem. Pink shorts with a teal green sweater? Bring it on. Three pony tails sticking out the right side of the head? Too last week…it’s antennae time now, or did you miss that one?
But try buying girls dresses these days. My girls are all under 10 and have no need to emphasize their chest area (I mean really, they’re flat as boards). But most little girl dresses have a shirt wrap to be tied underneath what will eventually become a chest (five years from now). And the length! (Or should I say “What length?”) Better double tight them up, because they have underwear longer than some of these things.
Of course my daughters can accessorize with the best of them. I eventually gave in one year and bought them all small wooden jewelry boxes to keep their “jewelry” in. Things such as strings of very large wooden beads from Kindergarten, with an occasional bell tossed in for variety; bead projects on white elastic bands to hand out to friends at school; Strawberry Shortcake bracelets worn as chokers around their necks. Makes going to bed a real work out – I do a FOD (foreign object on deck) walk-down on each kid every night to ensure they aren’t wearing things around their neck or extremities that will make their hands and feet fall off by the next morning.
And somehow the jewelry always migrates back to me. Every couple of weeks I dump out my top desk drawer and parcel it all out again. But every night it miraculously floats back, ending up in my desk drawer by sunrise each morning. I occasionally clean out the drawer and storethe googaws in my hope chest. I save all sorts of things there - first shoes, clothes they came home from the orphanage in, kindergarten baubles, drawings of alien looking people with pointed heads…I mean pictures of Mom and Dad drawn by a three year old. I have a ton of stuff, and someday I’m going to go through it all, and wait for just the right moment to bring it out. You know, first boyfriend, first date, first engagement…something really special.
In the mean time, I have a new ‘do to try. Think the Mother Ship delivers pizza?
As always,
Love from Buckley
Where the girls are beautiful,
Mom wears combat boots,
And the Alien Invasion is expected any minute.
True Confessions: How Vacation Bible School Kicked My Butt
I’m tired. Truly, unbelievably, nightmarishly tired. Night out with the girls? An all nighter with a sick child? Making whoopee with my husband in the basement after the kids go to bed? Nah….it’s that dreaded time of year called “Vacation Bible School”.
Sounds innocuous enough, doesn’t it? I mean face it…how hard can it be – drag seven kids to church each afternoon for five days, someone else feeds them dinner and then turn them over to a group of dedicated volunteers who run them around the church for three hours. They do crafts, sing (atthe top of their lungs), eat snacks and at the end of all this you have just given your child enough Christian Education to last them the rest of the summer. Easy, right? Not a chance.
Let me tell you how it really is. Vacation Bible School at our church hasn’t been held during normal working hours in about five years (not enough volunteers). When they went to evening hours we dropped out of it (it’s hard enough to corral seven kids to bed at eight p.m. without the added distraction of coming home two hours later and still needing baths, teeth brushed, etc.)
But this year they got me. I took some time off from church. I admit it. Guilty, guilty, guilty.
This year it seems that Sunday is the only day I didn’t have a therapy appointment, scout meeting, or what ever. My days have started to stretch well beyond the seventeen-hour mark and I just hit the wall. Running. Smack. Right into my face.
Being away from church for a couple of weeks sets you up for other things (God might work in mysterious ways, but sometimes He just hits you over the head with a nerf ball.). You get susceptible to guilt trips (ahh, flash backs to my Catholic school days). Vacation Bible School was coming up the 2nd week after school ended. Guaranteed to be fun, filling (they were cooking) and fast paced. The kids are older and more able to stay up later than normal for a few days. They have the rest of the summer to recuperate. So I decided to sign the kids up for VBS (filling out identical forms for seven kids with identical info is another story in itself). My schedule went something like this:
The first night (Sunday) went reasonably well. The kids ate, played, sang, ran around and generally found Jesus at the top of their lungs. Got to bed at 10 p.m.
Monday morning I got up at 4:30 a.m., dragged my daughter out of bed, drove two hours to see an orthopedic specialist in Grand Rapids (who was on vacation that day). Convinced the nurses at the office that something had crawled inside my daughters leg cast and died. Got the cast changed. Flew home (wheels never touched the ground), went to work, met kids at church, did VBS night #2 stuff, went home, got to bed 10:30 p.m. So what’s an 18-hour day to a mom, right? (And who has time to count anyway?)
Tuesday I got up at 5 a.m., went to work and stared at paperwork, moved my pencil around, met kids at 5 p.m., ate church food, listened to the music program (again), discovered that the music system had only one flavor (loud), went home and did seven baths and seven sets of teeth, crawled into bed at 10:30 p.m
Wednesday, crawled out of bed at 5 a.m., crawled to work, stared out the window, tottered to church, sat there in a dumb founded stupor, got home, threw water at the kids, waved toothbrushes in the general direction of their teeth, got to bed at 10:15 p.m.
Thursday, opened one eye, miraculously showed up at work, imagined I met the kids at church, slept under a table for 3 hours, got carried to my car by several volunteer parents (those still awake) and seven little kids, waved my magic wand and got home, stepped over the door sill and died.
Friday, woke up, blew up the church, locked the kids outside and went back to bed.
So, what did you doing this summer?
As always, love from Buckley,
Where the kids know Jesus, the church won’t let me back in, and I’m still trying to figure
if getting a face lift will put the bags back under my eyes instead of under my chin where
they are currently parked.
Sounds innocuous enough, doesn’t it? I mean face it…how hard can it be – drag seven kids to church each afternoon for five days, someone else feeds them dinner and then turn them over to a group of dedicated volunteers who run them around the church for three hours. They do crafts, sing (atthe top of their lungs), eat snacks and at the end of all this you have just given your child enough Christian Education to last them the rest of the summer. Easy, right? Not a chance.
Let me tell you how it really is. Vacation Bible School at our church hasn’t been held during normal working hours in about five years (not enough volunteers). When they went to evening hours we dropped out of it (it’s hard enough to corral seven kids to bed at eight p.m. without the added distraction of coming home two hours later and still needing baths, teeth brushed, etc.)
But this year they got me. I took some time off from church. I admit it. Guilty, guilty, guilty.
This year it seems that Sunday is the only day I didn’t have a therapy appointment, scout meeting, or what ever. My days have started to stretch well beyond the seventeen-hour mark and I just hit the wall. Running. Smack. Right into my face.
Being away from church for a couple of weeks sets you up for other things (God might work in mysterious ways, but sometimes He just hits you over the head with a nerf ball.). You get susceptible to guilt trips (ahh, flash backs to my Catholic school days). Vacation Bible School was coming up the 2nd week after school ended. Guaranteed to be fun, filling (they were cooking) and fast paced. The kids are older and more able to stay up later than normal for a few days. They have the rest of the summer to recuperate. So I decided to sign the kids up for VBS (filling out identical forms for seven kids with identical info is another story in itself). My schedule went something like this:
The first night (Sunday) went reasonably well. The kids ate, played, sang, ran around and generally found Jesus at the top of their lungs. Got to bed at 10 p.m.
Monday morning I got up at 4:30 a.m., dragged my daughter out of bed, drove two hours to see an orthopedic specialist in Grand Rapids (who was on vacation that day). Convinced the nurses at the office that something had crawled inside my daughters leg cast and died. Got the cast changed. Flew home (wheels never touched the ground), went to work, met kids at church, did VBS night #2 stuff, went home, got to bed 10:30 p.m. So what’s an 18-hour day to a mom, right? (And who has time to count anyway?)
Tuesday I got up at 5 a.m., went to work and stared at paperwork, moved my pencil around, met kids at 5 p.m., ate church food, listened to the music program (again), discovered that the music system had only one flavor (loud), went home and did seven baths and seven sets of teeth, crawled into bed at 10:30 p.m
Wednesday, crawled out of bed at 5 a.m., crawled to work, stared out the window, tottered to church, sat there in a dumb founded stupor, got home, threw water at the kids, waved toothbrushes in the general direction of their teeth, got to bed at 10:15 p.m.
Thursday, opened one eye, miraculously showed up at work, imagined I met the kids at church, slept under a table for 3 hours, got carried to my car by several volunteer parents (those still awake) and seven little kids, waved my magic wand and got home, stepped over the door sill and died.
Friday, woke up, blew up the church, locked the kids outside and went back to bed.
So, what did you doing this summer?
As always, love from Buckley,
Where the kids know Jesus, the church won’t let me back in, and I’m still trying to figure
if getting a face lift will put the bags back under my eyes instead of under my chin where
they are currently parked.
The Wild, Wild…North? (Dateline June 2006)
Life in Northern Michigan is always exciting. You just never know what is going to happen next. Like when the dryer stopped heating in January and we had to string a clothes line across the dining room (any idea how long it takes kids jeans to dry?) Or when the furnace stopped working on a Friday evening in February because the oil tank got so low that the furnace was sucking air.
I had visions of camping around the propane stove in the kitchen during that one. The longer I live here the more great new life skills I acquire - like unstoppering the kitchen sink in under half hour, or working the toilet plunger like a pro when one of the kids toys goes mysteriously missing.
But life in Northern Michigan isn’t all excitement and glamour. Besides the everyday chaotic rhythms of my home life, there are the more natural rhythms of the local wild life to admire. Let me clarify…not my wild life, the natural wildlife. You know…critters. The only wild life I get is on Tuesday evening after the kids go to bed for the 10th time and I get to watch NCIS uninterrupted. My dad, bless his heart, keeps asking me what Dave and I do socially. Let me think…clean house, mow the grass, pick up toys, occasionally throw 50 lbs of toys into a bag and rush to the local Good Will donation center before the kids find out, dishes, laundry, vacuum, dishes, clean up cat hair balls, and did I say laundry? A onetime party girl confession – I can’t remember the last time I had alcohol in any shape or form other than the alcohol I put in the kids ears to get the goo out.
My oldest daughter has just been taught the evils of social vices like smoking, drinking and illegal drugs, and she is just full of questions. I keep telling her I don’t have time to drink, smoke or do drugs…I have one kid on the potty, one kid crossing his legs for the last time, dishes in the sink, counter, dining room, bedroom, laundry room…. you get the idea. I just don’t have time for vices anymore (not that I ever smoked…)
So I get my kicks where I can and one of them is the view from my kitchen window. It’s soothing to watch the local wildlife enjoying themselves in relative peace and quiet. We have a winter visitor every year – a great snowy owl. This past winter I knew he had arrived when I spotted the world’s largest tern (like a sea gull only sideways) flying away from my car and over a nearby field. It took me a few minutes to realize we don’t see the terns in the winter much less terns with 4-foot wingspans. When I got home that evening my husband mentioned the snowy owl had visited us for most of the day, keeping watch on our barn roof. Probably has something to do with the five tons of birdseed I put out every winter for the local bird population.
We do get quite a few birds at our place. In the winter we host the Northern Michigan Local Small Bird Convention and Poop-a-Thon whose members include sparrows, chickadees, mourning doves, starlings, ring-necked pheasants (escapees from the local pheasant farm), and hawks. In the summer we get pileated woodpeckers knocking holes in the trees and nuthatches hanging upside down sucking down bugs. We have the usual gang of suspects as well - red wing blackbirds, robins, yellow finches, yellow martins, barn swallows, bats and, of course, wild turkeys. In the fall we see the Canadian Geese going south and if we are lucky they overnight in the fields behind our house.
We also have a nice selection of ground animals. Our yard is mine fielded with holes made by the chipmunks, gophers and ground squirrels. In the summer it’s a lesson in urban warfare watching them run from hole to hole as they make their way to the piles of birdseed under the trees. We also occasionally get a regular tree squirrel wintering over with us. They are usually gone by spring, up the road to the cemetery to find a mate.
Deer come visiting occasionally as well. I remember the first winter we were here the pickings for deer was so slim I found evidence that a few had licked the bird seed down to the icy ground several times. In the winter they leave hoof marks behind in the snow to show their passing. In the fall they can be spotted high tailing across the local fields into the woods to escape the hunters. In the summer they run across the road in front of my car in groups of three to six, playing chicken.
The local mice population deserves an honorable mention too. Most of the time the mice stay in the basement and leave us alone. But occasionally one will venture through the heating ducts and we’ll hear them scratching around between floors. Woe be it to the mouse who makes it into the main living area. Our cats will sit endlessly at the heater vents listening and watching, waiting to see if any of the critters dare come into their space to play. When that happens the cats launch a reenactment of the D-Day invasion - seventy-five pounds of cat fur whirl around the house chasing, cornering, holding, and generally traumatizing the mouse until I intervene (for the sake of my hardwood floors, if nothing else). It’s not so humanitarian as it appears - deworming a cat is not something I like to dwell on. If the mouse gets lucky I put him in a jar and transport it across the street to the farmers field. In the winter I dump them in the garage (right next to the 150 lb of bird seed I keep there). If they don’t make it, it’s not for lack of food.
Of course there’s always the neighborhood cat population coming over at 3 a.m. to say hi to my gang of five. We’ve also seen foxes, raccoons and coyotes using our yard like the Indy 500 Speedway enroute to more interesting garbage cans. I once spotted a badger sitting in our back yard (picture a thirty pound squirrel sitting up with it’s paws on his tummy). I have seen an osprey in our apple tree, turkey vultures circling the fieldsin front of our house, possums, beavers, and even a baby black bear trying to cross the road.
So when life gets me down and the dishes appear out of nowhere, dirty undies are hanging from the banister and life feels like one endless round of cleaning, I just look outside, watch a desperate hawk tear apart a mourning dove for a February dinner and feel that life is ok after all. (Maybe Garrison Keilor is right – I just need ketchup.)
As always, love from Buckley,
Where the kids have wet pants,
The oil furnace says, “Feed me”
And my husband refuses to come out of the closet on days the kids are home from
school…
I had visions of camping around the propane stove in the kitchen during that one. The longer I live here the more great new life skills I acquire - like unstoppering the kitchen sink in under half hour, or working the toilet plunger like a pro when one of the kids toys goes mysteriously missing.
But life in Northern Michigan isn’t all excitement and glamour. Besides the everyday chaotic rhythms of my home life, there are the more natural rhythms of the local wild life to admire. Let me clarify…not my wild life, the natural wildlife. You know…critters. The only wild life I get is on Tuesday evening after the kids go to bed for the 10th time and I get to watch NCIS uninterrupted. My dad, bless his heart, keeps asking me what Dave and I do socially. Let me think…clean house, mow the grass, pick up toys, occasionally throw 50 lbs of toys into a bag and rush to the local Good Will donation center before the kids find out, dishes, laundry, vacuum, dishes, clean up cat hair balls, and did I say laundry? A onetime party girl confession – I can’t remember the last time I had alcohol in any shape or form other than the alcohol I put in the kids ears to get the goo out.
My oldest daughter has just been taught the evils of social vices like smoking, drinking and illegal drugs, and she is just full of questions. I keep telling her I don’t have time to drink, smoke or do drugs…I have one kid on the potty, one kid crossing his legs for the last time, dishes in the sink, counter, dining room, bedroom, laundry room…. you get the idea. I just don’t have time for vices anymore (not that I ever smoked…)
So I get my kicks where I can and one of them is the view from my kitchen window. It’s soothing to watch the local wildlife enjoying themselves in relative peace and quiet. We have a winter visitor every year – a great snowy owl. This past winter I knew he had arrived when I spotted the world’s largest tern (like a sea gull only sideways) flying away from my car and over a nearby field. It took me a few minutes to realize we don’t see the terns in the winter much less terns with 4-foot wingspans. When I got home that evening my husband mentioned the snowy owl had visited us for most of the day, keeping watch on our barn roof. Probably has something to do with the five tons of birdseed I put out every winter for the local bird population.
We do get quite a few birds at our place. In the winter we host the Northern Michigan Local Small Bird Convention and Poop-a-Thon whose members include sparrows, chickadees, mourning doves, starlings, ring-necked pheasants (escapees from the local pheasant farm), and hawks. In the summer we get pileated woodpeckers knocking holes in the trees and nuthatches hanging upside down sucking down bugs. We have the usual gang of suspects as well - red wing blackbirds, robins, yellow finches, yellow martins, barn swallows, bats and, of course, wild turkeys. In the fall we see the Canadian Geese going south and if we are lucky they overnight in the fields behind our house.
We also have a nice selection of ground animals. Our yard is mine fielded with holes made by the chipmunks, gophers and ground squirrels. In the summer it’s a lesson in urban warfare watching them run from hole to hole as they make their way to the piles of birdseed under the trees. We also occasionally get a regular tree squirrel wintering over with us. They are usually gone by spring, up the road to the cemetery to find a mate.
Deer come visiting occasionally as well. I remember the first winter we were here the pickings for deer was so slim I found evidence that a few had licked the bird seed down to the icy ground several times. In the winter they leave hoof marks behind in the snow to show their passing. In the fall they can be spotted high tailing across the local fields into the woods to escape the hunters. In the summer they run across the road in front of my car in groups of three to six, playing chicken.
The local mice population deserves an honorable mention too. Most of the time the mice stay in the basement and leave us alone. But occasionally one will venture through the heating ducts and we’ll hear them scratching around between floors. Woe be it to the mouse who makes it into the main living area. Our cats will sit endlessly at the heater vents listening and watching, waiting to see if any of the critters dare come into their space to play. When that happens the cats launch a reenactment of the D-Day invasion - seventy-five pounds of cat fur whirl around the house chasing, cornering, holding, and generally traumatizing the mouse until I intervene (for the sake of my hardwood floors, if nothing else). It’s not so humanitarian as it appears - deworming a cat is not something I like to dwell on. If the mouse gets lucky I put him in a jar and transport it across the street to the farmers field. In the winter I dump them in the garage (right next to the 150 lb of bird seed I keep there). If they don’t make it, it’s not for lack of food.
Of course there’s always the neighborhood cat population coming over at 3 a.m. to say hi to my gang of five. We’ve also seen foxes, raccoons and coyotes using our yard like the Indy 500 Speedway enroute to more interesting garbage cans. I once spotted a badger sitting in our back yard (picture a thirty pound squirrel sitting up with it’s paws on his tummy). I have seen an osprey in our apple tree, turkey vultures circling the fieldsin front of our house, possums, beavers, and even a baby black bear trying to cross the road.
So when life gets me down and the dishes appear out of nowhere, dirty undies are hanging from the banister and life feels like one endless round of cleaning, I just look outside, watch a desperate hawk tear apart a mourning dove for a February dinner and feel that life is ok after all. (Maybe Garrison Keilor is right – I just need ketchup.)
As always, love from Buckley,
Where the kids have wet pants,
The oil furnace says, “Feed me”
And my husband refuses to come out of the closet on days the kids are home from
school…
Caution: Turtle Crossing (Dateline March 2006)
Anyone with kids knows from experience that kids have a slightly different take on life than adults. As anyone who has read The World According to Garp knows if you don’t watch out the “Under Toad” will get you. Mr. Irving only scratched the surface on that one. He never met the “Box Turtle”.
Living out in the country as we do (in Virginia we would have called it ‘the boonies’, but I don’t want to confuse my Michigan readers) we have to drive about twenty miles to get to the nearest Wal-Mart (The pain! The pain!!) Part of our drive entails playing “spot the wildlife” that makes a habit of crossing in front of the car whenever we pass through a particular section of twisty, winding road between two small farm ponds. (Believe it or not, I had the pleasure of pulling a 30-pound beaver out of the road one morning – one of my bigger road kill acts of mercy. If you’ve never seen a beaver’s tail close up you don’t know what you are missing.) It’s also along this section of road that we spotted a baby black bear peering out of the long grass along the side of the road…never did find out where mommy and daddy were hanging out.
Dave’s favorite story about this road concerns my second daughter Alexandra (the world’s smallest six year old). She was about 20 months old at the time and just learning to speak in two to three word sentences; most of it having to do with food (cookies is still high on the list), and pooping. (News flash – things don’t change much when they get older.) She must have been in the back seat the first time Dave stopped to remove a box turtle from the center of the road, because it made quite an impression on her. Annelise (daughter #1) a budding rocket scientist even at the age of three, began the longest running discussion of box turtles ever recorded (still ongoing), including their feeding habits, housing, how they make babies and why they cross the road.
About a month later, with turtle breeding season in full swing, Dave was fast approaching the same area again with the two girls in the car. The music was going, Annelise was slumped over in her car seat dreaming of strawberries, and out of nowhere Dave heard a clear, bell like voice saying “Box Tur-tle”. Not being too religious he didn’t automatically think it was God thumping him on the head for running one over. He eventually realized that Alexandra, ever eagle-eyed, sitting in her throne-style car seat (the type that puts them 18 inches above everyone else in the car - as prescribed by law) had seen what Dave had missed. Another (the same one?) big, ugly box turtle was hunkered down in the middle of the road (Dave said it was head-defalalting), waiting for cars to go buy so it could continue on to lunch. Ever sensitive to the gore factor (and married to Road Kill Warrior Woman) he pulled over, got out and moved the box turtle to the other side of the road. Alexandra giggled all the way home. One for Daddy!
Now whenever we pass that particular place in the road, no matter how many deer I seem to be seeing in the shadows just waiting to commit Hare Kari on my car antennae, we always pause to pay homage to the little guy that made such an impression on our young daughter. (To this day I’m still not sure why the dang thing didn’t pee on him. The only time I picked a box turtle of the road it peed a gallon and a half of turtle wax all over my pants. Must be a male bonding issue.)
Still saving the wild life in Buckley,
Mary (where the kids successfully passed the 100th day of school, the turtles are all in boxes, and I still have my driver's license)
Living out in the country as we do (in Virginia we would have called it ‘the boonies’, but I don’t want to confuse my Michigan readers) we have to drive about twenty miles to get to the nearest Wal-Mart (The pain! The pain!!) Part of our drive entails playing “spot the wildlife” that makes a habit of crossing in front of the car whenever we pass through a particular section of twisty, winding road between two small farm ponds. (Believe it or not, I had the pleasure of pulling a 30-pound beaver out of the road one morning – one of my bigger road kill acts of mercy. If you’ve never seen a beaver’s tail close up you don’t know what you are missing.) It’s also along this section of road that we spotted a baby black bear peering out of the long grass along the side of the road…never did find out where mommy and daddy were hanging out.
Dave’s favorite story about this road concerns my second daughter Alexandra (the world’s smallest six year old). She was about 20 months old at the time and just learning to speak in two to three word sentences; most of it having to do with food (cookies is still high on the list), and pooping. (News flash – things don’t change much when they get older.) She must have been in the back seat the first time Dave stopped to remove a box turtle from the center of the road, because it made quite an impression on her. Annelise (daughter #1) a budding rocket scientist even at the age of three, began the longest running discussion of box turtles ever recorded (still ongoing), including their feeding habits, housing, how they make babies and why they cross the road.
About a month later, with turtle breeding season in full swing, Dave was fast approaching the same area again with the two girls in the car. The music was going, Annelise was slumped over in her car seat dreaming of strawberries, and out of nowhere Dave heard a clear, bell like voice saying “Box Tur-tle”. Not being too religious he didn’t automatically think it was God thumping him on the head for running one over. He eventually realized that Alexandra, ever eagle-eyed, sitting in her throne-style car seat (the type that puts them 18 inches above everyone else in the car - as prescribed by law) had seen what Dave had missed. Another (the same one?) big, ugly box turtle was hunkered down in the middle of the road (Dave said it was head-defalalting), waiting for cars to go buy so it could continue on to lunch. Ever sensitive to the gore factor (and married to Road Kill Warrior Woman) he pulled over, got out and moved the box turtle to the other side of the road. Alexandra giggled all the way home. One for Daddy!
Now whenever we pass that particular place in the road, no matter how many deer I seem to be seeing in the shadows just waiting to commit Hare Kari on my car antennae, we always pause to pay homage to the little guy that made such an impression on our young daughter. (To this day I’m still not sure why the dang thing didn’t pee on him. The only time I picked a box turtle of the road it peed a gallon and a half of turtle wax all over my pants. Must be a male bonding issue.)
Still saving the wild life in Buckley,
Mary (where the kids successfully passed the 100th day of school, the turtles are all in boxes, and I still have my driver's license)
Mommy got the snowplow stuck! By Luc (Dateline 16 February 2006)
Mommy got the snowplow stuck!! Mommy got the snowplow stuck!!
We was driving to school on Monday and Mommy went down an unplowed road. Then we got stuck! Mommy kept getting in and out of the car, and letting the cold air in. The she called Daddy. Then the snow plow guy came and tried to go around us. And he got stuck too!!
Then daddy came. And he and the snow plow guy used shovels to dig out the plow truck. It had yellow lights on it and they kept turning on and off. Then another truck came and all these men pushed on Mommy’s car. And then they moved some snow and pushed again. Mommy used up a lot of gas. I learned a whole hell of a lot of new words. Then we got unstuck and Mommie took us to school. Mommy told me not to use the new words at school because our teacher would get mad.
Then Mommy went to work and slipped on the ice. She bonked her head really hard. I bet the people in the parking lot heard a lot of new words too. But we aren’t allowed to say them.
Mommy says Monday’s suck…are stupid.
By Luc, age 7. (Giggle. Giggle. Whoop! Whoop! HAHAHAHA!!!)
We was driving to school on Monday and Mommy went down an unplowed road. Then we got stuck! Mommy kept getting in and out of the car, and letting the cold air in. The she called Daddy. Then the snow plow guy came and tried to go around us. And he got stuck too!!
Then daddy came. And he and the snow plow guy used shovels to dig out the plow truck. It had yellow lights on it and they kept turning on and off. Then another truck came and all these men pushed on Mommy’s car. And then they moved some snow and pushed again. Mommy used up a lot of gas. I learned a whole hell of a lot of new words. Then we got unstuck and Mommie took us to school. Mommy told me not to use the new words at school because our teacher would get mad.
Then Mommy went to work and slipped on the ice. She bonked her head really hard. I bet the people in the parking lot heard a lot of new words too. But we aren’t allowed to say them.
Mommy says Monday’s suck…are stupid.
By Luc, age 7. (Giggle. Giggle. Whoop! Whoop! HAHAHAHA!!!)
Kidz is Kidz (Dateline September 2005)
Does it ever surprise you when your kids actually hear anything you say? I mean, mine usually go blank eyed and slack faced when I tell them toadjust their manners or tell them what the school is going to do to them if they use that word again in public. (I don’t care where you heard it! I was fixing the boiler in the basement!!)
I had one of those déjà vu moments this morning while driving the gang to school. During the chaos, bickering, finger jabbing and chattering (me, not the kids) there was one of those sudden quiet periods that sometimes occur, usually when we drive by a particularly gory road kill, or someone sees the group of deer that narrowly missed my front bumper running along side the car. This morning was a little different because I heard Tanner loud and clear from the back seat. (No, not that I heard him, which isn’t all that uncommon, but what he said made me almost drive off the road).
I heard: “Nicholas, they aren’t CP kids, they are just KIDS!!”
I smiled all the way to school. About a week ago, during one of our rowdy get togethers we call ‘supper’ I heard one of the kids say something along the lines of ‘You know, us five and the two CP kids’. I was on my way to the kitchen when I stopped in my tracks and turned to glare at the culprit. I can’t remember now who it was who said the offending words, but Luc and Elizabeth were blissfully unaware they were being talked about (hot dogs have that affect on some of them). I do remember what I said: “I’d like to introduce you to two people you might not have met yet. This is your brother ‘Luc’ and this is your sister ‘Elizabeth’. They are not the CP kids, the handicapped kids or anything else. They are ‘Luc’ and ‘Elizabeth’ to everyone in this house. Any questions?”
I got about what I expected in return, seven bug-eyed stares over seven plates of ketchup (which was obviously the highpoint of the dinner). Nothing like dead silence to really make a point.
So this morning, when I heard the worst culprit in the house repeating (with conviction, I might add) that ‘Kids are just Kids’ I wanted to pull over and cheer. Hey! They really do listen, after all, don’t they?
As always, Love from Buckley
Mary, mom to ‘The Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything’ *(Veggie Tales) http://www.ultimateveggie.com/silly/silly07.html
We are the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything!
Well, I've never been Greenland and I've never been to Denver, and I've never buried treasure in St. Louis or St. Paul, and I've never been to Moscow and I've never been to Tampa, and I've never been to Boston in the fall.
'Cuz we're the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything.
And I never hoist the mainstay and I never swab the poop deck, and I never veer to starboard 'cuz I never sail at all, and I've never walked the gang plank and I've never owned a parrot, and I've never been to Boston in the fall.
'Cuz we're the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay at home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything!
Well, I've never plucked a rooster and I'm not too good at ping-pong, and I've never thrown my mashed potatoes up against the wall, and I've never kissed a chipmunk and I've never gotten head lice, and I've never been to Boston in the fall!
'Cuz we're the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay at home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything!
And I've never licked a spark plug and I've never sniffed a stink bug, and I've never painted daisies on a big red rubber ball, and I've never bathed in yogurt and I don't look good in leggings ...
'Cuz we're the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay at home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything!
Words and Music by Mike Nawrocki. ©1997 Big Idea Productions, Inc.
I had one of those déjà vu moments this morning while driving the gang to school. During the chaos, bickering, finger jabbing and chattering (me, not the kids) there was one of those sudden quiet periods that sometimes occur, usually when we drive by a particularly gory road kill, or someone sees the group of deer that narrowly missed my front bumper running along side the car. This morning was a little different because I heard Tanner loud and clear from the back seat. (No, not that I heard him, which isn’t all that uncommon, but what he said made me almost drive off the road).
I heard: “Nicholas, they aren’t CP kids, they are just KIDS!!”
I smiled all the way to school. About a week ago, during one of our rowdy get togethers we call ‘supper’ I heard one of the kids say something along the lines of ‘You know, us five and the two CP kids’. I was on my way to the kitchen when I stopped in my tracks and turned to glare at the culprit. I can’t remember now who it was who said the offending words, but Luc and Elizabeth were blissfully unaware they were being talked about (hot dogs have that affect on some of them). I do remember what I said: “I’d like to introduce you to two people you might not have met yet. This is your brother ‘Luc’ and this is your sister ‘Elizabeth’. They are not the CP kids, the handicapped kids or anything else. They are ‘Luc’ and ‘Elizabeth’ to everyone in this house. Any questions?”
I got about what I expected in return, seven bug-eyed stares over seven plates of ketchup (which was obviously the highpoint of the dinner). Nothing like dead silence to really make a point.
So this morning, when I heard the worst culprit in the house repeating (with conviction, I might add) that ‘Kids are just Kids’ I wanted to pull over and cheer. Hey! They really do listen, after all, don’t they?
As always, Love from Buckley
Mary, mom to ‘The Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything’ *(Veggie Tales) http://www.ultimateveggie.com/silly/silly07.html
We are the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything!
Well, I've never been Greenland and I've never been to Denver, and I've never buried treasure in St. Louis or St. Paul, and I've never been to Moscow and I've never been to Tampa, and I've never been to Boston in the fall.
'Cuz we're the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything.
And I never hoist the mainstay and I never swab the poop deck, and I never veer to starboard 'cuz I never sail at all, and I've never walked the gang plank and I've never owned a parrot, and I've never been to Boston in the fall.
'Cuz we're the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay at home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything!
Well, I've never plucked a rooster and I'm not too good at ping-pong, and I've never thrown my mashed potatoes up against the wall, and I've never kissed a chipmunk and I've never gotten head lice, and I've never been to Boston in the fall!
'Cuz we're the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay at home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything!
And I've never licked a spark plug and I've never sniffed a stink bug, and I've never painted daisies on a big red rubber ball, and I've never bathed in yogurt and I don't look good in leggings ...
'Cuz we're the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything! We just stay at home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you ... We don't do anything!
Words and Music by Mike Nawrocki. ©1997 Big Idea Productions, Inc.
That Ole Time Gospel Music (Dateline September 2005)
In a house with a lot of kids living in chaos is a way of life. What looks like utter bedlam to most people looks pretty normal to me. Dinnertime is a zoo, bath time is even worse, and let’s not even talk about what happens when seven kids come home from school at the same time. You either develop coping skills or you lock yourself in a closet until they all drop from exhaustion.
So it wasn’t too surprising one morning during breakfast, after successfully putting braces on my daughter’s feet (she has Cerebral Palsy and has braces to hold her feet in proper alignment), that I yelled out “Halleluiah!”. If you’ve never had the pleasure of putting braces on a 7 year old with ankle alignment problems it’s something that’s done with lots of some sweat equity (and internal cursing). So that morning when her foot slipped into the brace without any screaming on her part (or mine, for that matter) it was a matter for extreme celebration. Not to be blasphemous, but “Halleluiah” was the first thing that popped out of my mouth (for a change…)
I have never heard a table full of kids so quiet. I glanced up and seven pairs of brown eyes were staring at me in total awe (which usually only happens when I loose my temper…I’m Irish, I’m allowed.) Nicholas (age 8) was the first to pipe up. “Halleluiah!” he said. Alexandra (the smallest six year old in history) started to giggle “Halleluiah!” she said. By this time the whole table was holding a revival meeting, with the house shaking and the cats running from all the Halleluiah’s being yelled.
Between all the “Halleluiah’s” and “Praise Jesus!” refrains we actually managed to get off to school on time that morning. (Someone must have been listening.) No, we’re not Baptists practicing for a revival meeting, just a houseful of budding Lutherans cutting loose (Garrison Keeler where are you when I need you?)
Later that week, during the typical after school typhoon of activity, I actually managed to get my son Luc (who has CP) onto the potty chair before he had an accident. I must have been pretty loud in my praise about what just happened, because from somewhere in the back of the house one of the kids yelled out “Halleluiah!”
As always, love from Buckley
Mary (who has way too much fun in a big house with too many kids and room for just one more…)
So it wasn’t too surprising one morning during breakfast, after successfully putting braces on my daughter’s feet (she has Cerebral Palsy and has braces to hold her feet in proper alignment), that I yelled out “Halleluiah!”. If you’ve never had the pleasure of putting braces on a 7 year old with ankle alignment problems it’s something that’s done with lots of some sweat equity (and internal cursing). So that morning when her foot slipped into the brace without any screaming on her part (or mine, for that matter) it was a matter for extreme celebration. Not to be blasphemous, but “Halleluiah” was the first thing that popped out of my mouth (for a change…)
I have never heard a table full of kids so quiet. I glanced up and seven pairs of brown eyes were staring at me in total awe (which usually only happens when I loose my temper…I’m Irish, I’m allowed.) Nicholas (age 8) was the first to pipe up. “Halleluiah!” he said. Alexandra (the smallest six year old in history) started to giggle “Halleluiah!” she said. By this time the whole table was holding a revival meeting, with the house shaking and the cats running from all the Halleluiah’s being yelled.
Between all the “Halleluiah’s” and “Praise Jesus!” refrains we actually managed to get off to school on time that morning. (Someone must have been listening.) No, we’re not Baptists practicing for a revival meeting, just a houseful of budding Lutherans cutting loose (Garrison Keeler where are you when I need you?)
Later that week, during the typical after school typhoon of activity, I actually managed to get my son Luc (who has CP) onto the potty chair before he had an accident. I must have been pretty loud in my praise about what just happened, because from somewhere in the back of the house one of the kids yelled out “Halleluiah!”
As always, love from Buckley
Mary (who has way too much fun in a big house with too many kids and room for just one more…)
The Little Raccoon That Couldn’t (Dateline September 2005)
I recently heard that the worst time of year for animals in our area is spring. I heard this on NPR radio so it must be true - cars hit more animals in the spring because they (the animals, not the drivers) are slower moving and not quite awake from their long winter nap. Well maybe in his hometown. But in my neck of the woods open season on animals is all year long. I have some sympathy for the ones that get hit, and if and when I find one thatis a recent kill (translated – not too gooey) I generally stop by the side of the road and scooch the carcass to the shoulder.
My husband doesn’t get it, but I can’t stand to see them turn into red spots in the middle of the road. I especially hate to see someone’s pet, usually cats, being smashed flat by uncaring drivers. I’m afraid my attitude is wearing off on my kids. This past spring we were privy to the mating dance of a male pheasant strutting his stuff along the side of the road in an obvious mating dance. But one day our beautiful pheasant was gone, just one more bag of bones in the middle of the road. Of course I stopped (just me and a van full of kids). The kids asked why the pheasant was dead, and my answer would have made a sailor blush. I don’t think the kids forgot the pheasant for quite a while. (At least I hope it was the pheasant they remembered…)
On any given day my neighbors see me out there bunny hopping to work as I remove slightly squished animals over to the shoulder of the road. My husband, in a moment of weakness, actually told me that I was a nice person for making him stop so I could remove a neighbor’s dead cat off the yellow line to the grass. I know it probably sounds like a strange hobby, but experiencing firsthand the softness of raccoon fur, or the sharpness of prickly porcupine spines makes it worthwhile. I’ve even had the “pleasure” of handling a beaver, and too many deer that cross the road and don’t quite get to the other side. (How a deer ran into my car is another story all together. Getting the deer out of the road required the skills of a much younger person.
So it wasn’t too surprising to me to find a dead raccoon down the road from our house, an obvious victim of one of the many blind drivers that Northern Michigan is famous for. As per my custom I pulled over, picked up the raccoon and placed him way off the shoulder of the road. Coming home that evening the raccoon was right back in the middle of the road. It was a little worse for wear (90 deg heat and a few flies), but still recognizably a raccoon. So, once again I stopped and put him further back in the grass. Early the next morning darn if that thing wasn’t back in the middle of the road. This time I got out and scooched the thing back to the side of the road with my shoe, the raccoon being a whole lot worse for wear and tear.
But by 5 p.m. that evening the raccoon had made it’s way back to the middle of the road. By this time I had declared war on the d#$@ thing! No dead raccoon was going to get the better of me. Using my other shoe this time, I scraped what was left back to the other shoulder this time. But by the next morning I had to admit defeat. What were obviously the remains of a raccoon in a prior life was again back in the middle of the road. This time I kept going. It takes a smart person to admit defeat, and this raccoon was long gone to raccoon heaven. It rained later that afternoon and by the time I drove by on my way home most of what had passed for a raccoon could no longer be seen.
My kids were totally mystified. I mean this raccoon defied mommy and got away with it. Now that was worth noting! So instead of telling the kids a raccoon ghost story, I told them that what was probably going on were crows and ravens in the area were having lunch, and through all the poking and pulling the raccoon ended up in the center of the road. Three times.
My early morning mission still continues - making the roads safer for all the wombat drivers a tourist area is prone too. But I never fail to remember the raccoon that couldn’t, but wouldn’t stop trying, to cross the road.
As always, love from Buckley Where the women are nuts, the men are amazed and the kids don’t play in the road…
My husband doesn’t get it, but I can’t stand to see them turn into red spots in the middle of the road. I especially hate to see someone’s pet, usually cats, being smashed flat by uncaring drivers. I’m afraid my attitude is wearing off on my kids. This past spring we were privy to the mating dance of a male pheasant strutting his stuff along the side of the road in an obvious mating dance. But one day our beautiful pheasant was gone, just one more bag of bones in the middle of the road. Of course I stopped (just me and a van full of kids). The kids asked why the pheasant was dead, and my answer would have made a sailor blush. I don’t think the kids forgot the pheasant for quite a while. (At least I hope it was the pheasant they remembered…)
On any given day my neighbors see me out there bunny hopping to work as I remove slightly squished animals over to the shoulder of the road. My husband, in a moment of weakness, actually told me that I was a nice person for making him stop so I could remove a neighbor’s dead cat off the yellow line to the grass. I know it probably sounds like a strange hobby, but experiencing firsthand the softness of raccoon fur, or the sharpness of prickly porcupine spines makes it worthwhile. I’ve even had the “pleasure” of handling a beaver, and too many deer that cross the road and don’t quite get to the other side. (How a deer ran into my car is another story all together. Getting the deer out of the road required the skills of a much younger person.
So it wasn’t too surprising to me to find a dead raccoon down the road from our house, an obvious victim of one of the many blind drivers that Northern Michigan is famous for. As per my custom I pulled over, picked up the raccoon and placed him way off the shoulder of the road. Coming home that evening the raccoon was right back in the middle of the road. It was a little worse for wear (90 deg heat and a few flies), but still recognizably a raccoon. So, once again I stopped and put him further back in the grass. Early the next morning darn if that thing wasn’t back in the middle of the road. This time I got out and scooched the thing back to the side of the road with my shoe, the raccoon being a whole lot worse for wear and tear.
But by 5 p.m. that evening the raccoon had made it’s way back to the middle of the road. By this time I had declared war on the d#$@ thing! No dead raccoon was going to get the better of me. Using my other shoe this time, I scraped what was left back to the other shoulder this time. But by the next morning I had to admit defeat. What were obviously the remains of a raccoon in a prior life was again back in the middle of the road. This time I kept going. It takes a smart person to admit defeat, and this raccoon was long gone to raccoon heaven. It rained later that afternoon and by the time I drove by on my way home most of what had passed for a raccoon could no longer be seen.
My kids were totally mystified. I mean this raccoon defied mommy and got away with it. Now that was worth noting! So instead of telling the kids a raccoon ghost story, I told them that what was probably going on were crows and ravens in the area were having lunch, and through all the poking and pulling the raccoon ended up in the center of the road. Three times.
My early morning mission still continues - making the roads safer for all the wombat drivers a tourist area is prone too. But I never fail to remember the raccoon that couldn’t, but wouldn’t stop trying, to cross the road.
As always, love from Buckley Where the women are nuts, the men are amazed and the kids don’t play in the road…
If God came to breakfast (Dateline September 2005)
(Dedicated to my dad, who can't fathom the reason for, or the reality of, seven kids at home - but who supports me anyway)
A friend of mine recently told me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer and was undergoing chemotherapy. As she is in one of those states far, far away from Northern Michigan, I can’t be much practical help. I do try and keep her in my thoughts and prayers, and keep up with her by e-mail. The last time I e-mailed her we were swapping medical horror stories (I’m sure everyone has a few scares here and there). The kind that puts things into perspective and makes you reassess where your life is heading. In one of our e-mails I told her it sure would be nice if God was a little more direct about what He wanted us to do. She told me she felt the same way. If only He would lay out daily directions while we slaved over endless PB&J sandwiches for the kids’ lunches, or washed the unending piles of dirty laundry.
So I wondered what would happen if God ever came to breakfast. At my house it would have to be pretty darn early because my kids get up at 6 a.m. But I can see it now – there I am in my husband’s ratty old bathrobe (so ratty that I can’t wash it anymore for fear it would disappear altogether) and God comes to breakfast.
I think if it ever happened I’d show Him my list of requested navigational aids I’d also have a list of questions I’d like answered. Like how come Hecan’t be more specific about what I’m supposed to be doing here and how I’m supposed to be doing it? And how do I know that I’m supposed to go back and adopt that child I can’t get out of my mind, and convince my husband that it’s not my own irrational thinking getting in control…again.
I’d request a road map marked in day-glo pink highlighter showing which way I’m supposed to go and how I’m supposed to get there. I’d ask for a map that showed mountains and tunnels, with sidebars explaining the best way to get around or through them to the other side. I would like clear directions for once, not the whispered response I sometimes hear inside my head during rare moments of quiet reflection.
If not a map, how about a billboard? One that I could put up in the front yard that listed the goals for each day. It wouldn't have to be big and flashy, just detailed enough to show me life’s construction zones, passing lanes and danger areas.
Or how about just a flashlight to help me navigate the dark places. One of those really big flashlights with lots of batteries that don’t need recharging, because sometimes my faith doesn’t seem to be strong enough to pour enough light in the dark places that I keep finding.
And if I can’t have a flashlight or a map in day-glo pink or a billboard, I’d like a really good guide to help me through the fear and desperation all the while holding on to my hand as hard as he can. So, God, if you ever come to breakfast – please bring me a road map. I’ll bring the coffee and donuts. But please bring it soon. The flashlight I’m using is growing dim.
A friend of mine recently told me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer and was undergoing chemotherapy. As she is in one of those states far, far away from Northern Michigan, I can’t be much practical help. I do try and keep her in my thoughts and prayers, and keep up with her by e-mail. The last time I e-mailed her we were swapping medical horror stories (I’m sure everyone has a few scares here and there). The kind that puts things into perspective and makes you reassess where your life is heading. In one of our e-mails I told her it sure would be nice if God was a little more direct about what He wanted us to do. She told me she felt the same way. If only He would lay out daily directions while we slaved over endless PB&J sandwiches for the kids’ lunches, or washed the unending piles of dirty laundry.
So I wondered what would happen if God ever came to breakfast. At my house it would have to be pretty darn early because my kids get up at 6 a.m. But I can see it now – there I am in my husband’s ratty old bathrobe (so ratty that I can’t wash it anymore for fear it would disappear altogether) and God comes to breakfast.
I think if it ever happened I’d show Him my list of requested navigational aids I’d also have a list of questions I’d like answered. Like how come Hecan’t be more specific about what I’m supposed to be doing here and how I’m supposed to be doing it? And how do I know that I’m supposed to go back and adopt that child I can’t get out of my mind, and convince my husband that it’s not my own irrational thinking getting in control…again.
I’d request a road map marked in day-glo pink highlighter showing which way I’m supposed to go and how I’m supposed to get there. I’d ask for a map that showed mountains and tunnels, with sidebars explaining the best way to get around or through them to the other side. I would like clear directions for once, not the whispered response I sometimes hear inside my head during rare moments of quiet reflection.
If not a map, how about a billboard? One that I could put up in the front yard that listed the goals for each day. It wouldn't have to be big and flashy, just detailed enough to show me life’s construction zones, passing lanes and danger areas.
Or how about just a flashlight to help me navigate the dark places. One of those really big flashlights with lots of batteries that don’t need recharging, because sometimes my faith doesn’t seem to be strong enough to pour enough light in the dark places that I keep finding.
And if I can’t have a flashlight or a map in day-glo pink or a billboard, I’d like a really good guide to help me through the fear and desperation all the while holding on to my hand as hard as he can. So, God, if you ever come to breakfast – please bring me a road map. I’ll bring the coffee and donuts. But please bring it soon. The flashlight I’m using is growing dim.
Questions we’d all like the answers to (Dateline September 2005)
Kids are fun. They have to be or they’d get thrown out when you get tired of playing with them. I love the way they think – very literal minded. My daughter Annelise (7 going on 23) always finds time to ask interesting questions. My favorite is “Who is Mississippi?
The latest question came, as usual, at the dinner table. We eat family style, so the food is brought to the table and we just serve it out. This particular night it was spaghetti with meatballs. My husband was doing the serving, and the kids were patiently waiting their turn (ok, ok, they were nagging him to go faster, where was their fork, someone spit at them, and there weren’t enough napkins…but this is my story and I can tell it anyway I want). In between telling the kids to be quiet and sit nicely (read – shut up and sit down or your dinner is going to the cat), Annelise pops up with “Why are spaghetti noodles tangled?”
Dave, dear husband, father and head of household (at least while I’m at work) gives Annelise a really good answer to the question…noodles stick because he forgot to add oil to the water and didn’t have time to lay them out in a straight line, like he’d been taught in Marine Corps boot camp. Ok, she said. Good enough for a nights work. More noodles, hold the meat, and is there dessert?
But for some reason the question just stuck in my mind and I got to thinking that that’s a pretty good question…why had I never noticed that spaghetti noodles were all tangled up? So, I decided (once again, dear audience) to collect questions we’d all like the answer to. Send your replies on a post card to Annelise, c/o Buckley, MI…I’m sure she’d like to hear from you.
1) Why are spaghetti noodles all tangled up?
2) What is a “live bottom system?” (I keep seeing this on the back of massive 18-wheelers that never go faster than 20 mph below the speed limit).
3) Why am I broke all the time?
4) Where do clouds go when it’s dark outside?
5) Where else do babies come from? (Besides China and Taiwan?)
6) What is “The palm at the end of the mind? (Wallace Stevens)
7) Why can’t God be more specific?
I’m sure there are other questions you’d like to have the answer to. Send your questions (and answers) to me and let’s see where we end up. I’m sure Annelise would love to know about the spaghetti (and I’m still wondering what a “live bottom system” is…shades of horror movies!)
The latest question came, as usual, at the dinner table. We eat family style, so the food is brought to the table and we just serve it out. This particular night it was spaghetti with meatballs. My husband was doing the serving, and the kids were patiently waiting their turn (ok, ok, they were nagging him to go faster, where was their fork, someone spit at them, and there weren’t enough napkins…but this is my story and I can tell it anyway I want). In between telling the kids to be quiet and sit nicely (read – shut up and sit down or your dinner is going to the cat), Annelise pops up with “Why are spaghetti noodles tangled?”
Dave, dear husband, father and head of household (at least while I’m at work) gives Annelise a really good answer to the question…noodles stick because he forgot to add oil to the water and didn’t have time to lay them out in a straight line, like he’d been taught in Marine Corps boot camp. Ok, she said. Good enough for a nights work. More noodles, hold the meat, and is there dessert?
But for some reason the question just stuck in my mind and I got to thinking that that’s a pretty good question…why had I never noticed that spaghetti noodles were all tangled up? So, I decided (once again, dear audience) to collect questions we’d all like the answer to. Send your replies on a post card to Annelise, c/o Buckley, MI…I’m sure she’d like to hear from you.
1) Why are spaghetti noodles all tangled up?
2) What is a “live bottom system?” (I keep seeing this on the back of massive 18-wheelers that never go faster than 20 mph below the speed limit).
3) Why am I broke all the time?
4) Where do clouds go when it’s dark outside?
5) Where else do babies come from? (Besides China and Taiwan?)
6) What is “The palm at the end of the mind? (Wallace Stevens)
7) Why can’t God be more specific?
I’m sure there are other questions you’d like to have the answer to. Send your questions (and answers) to me and let’s see where we end up. I’m sure Annelise would love to know about the spaghetti (and I’m still wondering what a “live bottom system” is…shades of horror movies!)
Words to Live By (Dateline August 2005)
I do a lot of driving for my job, so I get to see parts of the county most normal people won’t go to in broad daylight. And sometimes, when I’m really feeling frisky, I drive down a totally unknown road just to see what’s there. The funny thing about where I live is that there are a lot of roads that aren’t paved yet. There are lots of very expensive homes down some of these roads; roads you would expect the Texas Chainsaw Massacre guy to live on.
So, along with all the driving, I see a lot of cars. I also see a lot of cars with bumper stickers. Most stickers are pretty generic, but a couple I saw last week really caught my notice.
To give you some background, let me tell you a little bit about my husband. Dave was a Marine for 23 years. Depending who you ask (me or a former Marine), he is still a Marine, just not on active duty. You can usually spot a Marine at twenty feet because there is just something different about them. The only other military men who even come close are Army Rangers. (Yes, I know there are women in the military, and there are women Marines. I’m retired from the Navy. But this is a husband story, not a gender based story). Marines, even former Marines, still have remnants of that bull neck, that short hair, and that air of being able to get things done despite all the BS. But Dave wasn’t always a Marine (present or former). He was once 7 years old just like the rest of us.
Remember the Wizard of Oz? The movie with Judy Garland? When I was young, I used to watch it once a year when it came out in a television special. In fact my mother used to watch it as a little girl back in the 1930’s. It’s always been a favorite of mine. So when the kids started coming, I bought a copy, thinking to pass down a great movie to another generation.
Well, wouldn’t you know, my husband hates the movie. He tells me it’s a monkey thing. He just can’t stand the monkeys the Wicked Witch of the West lets loose on the Tin Man, the Lion, and Dorothy. The monkeys just give him the willies. Go figure.
So I was sitting in traffic the other day, and right in front of me, on the bumper of a 4x4 extra-large, grocery-getter SUV was a bumper sticker that said, “Don’t make me let the monkeys out!” I about fell over! It was all I could do not scream with laughter! Someone else who understands! (Wonder if they’re married to a Marine too…)
The other bumper sticker I saw was on the back of a 4x4 extra-large, grocery-getter, bright red, pick-up truck. The kind where you have to crane your neck up to see who’s driving. The kind that I look down the tail pipe of because my vehicle is so low to the ground. On this particular day the sun was bright enough for me to look up and spot the bumper sticker on the back. It said, “Get in, Sit Down, Shut up, Hang on.”
Besides the Monkey bumper sticker, I really like this one. It got me thinking. Hey, at my age anything that gets me thinking of something other than how to get my kids to stop talking 24/7 is worth noting.
I can picture it now. St. John at the back gate of heaven (Peter is busy at the front gate). He’s prepping the people who are on their way to get born. As they step up to the next rail car he tells them what to expect, what not to forget, and how to get home again. And when one of them asks about what they are supposed to do when things get really bad, he tells they will only have to remember to do four things:
“Get in” - Life is for living. No sitting on the sidelines.
“Sit Down” - Better take your rest where you find it, you're in it for the long haul.
“Shut up” - How can you hear God giving you directions if you are never quiet?
“Hang on” – It ain’t over till it’s over. Just remember who’s driving the bus (hint, it’s not you)
and you’ll always be OK.
Words to live by.
As always, frantically looking for some quiet time in Buckley,
Mary (mom to seven kids, five cats, and wife to a former (monkey-willied) Marine)
So, along with all the driving, I see a lot of cars. I also see a lot of cars with bumper stickers. Most stickers are pretty generic, but a couple I saw last week really caught my notice.
To give you some background, let me tell you a little bit about my husband. Dave was a Marine for 23 years. Depending who you ask (me or a former Marine), he is still a Marine, just not on active duty. You can usually spot a Marine at twenty feet because there is just something different about them. The only other military men who even come close are Army Rangers. (Yes, I know there are women in the military, and there are women Marines. I’m retired from the Navy. But this is a husband story, not a gender based story). Marines, even former Marines, still have remnants of that bull neck, that short hair, and that air of being able to get things done despite all the BS. But Dave wasn’t always a Marine (present or former). He was once 7 years old just like the rest of us.
Remember the Wizard of Oz? The movie with Judy Garland? When I was young, I used to watch it once a year when it came out in a television special. In fact my mother used to watch it as a little girl back in the 1930’s. It’s always been a favorite of mine. So when the kids started coming, I bought a copy, thinking to pass down a great movie to another generation.
Well, wouldn’t you know, my husband hates the movie. He tells me it’s a monkey thing. He just can’t stand the monkeys the Wicked Witch of the West lets loose on the Tin Man, the Lion, and Dorothy. The monkeys just give him the willies. Go figure.
So I was sitting in traffic the other day, and right in front of me, on the bumper of a 4x4 extra-large, grocery-getter SUV was a bumper sticker that said, “Don’t make me let the monkeys out!” I about fell over! It was all I could do not scream with laughter! Someone else who understands! (Wonder if they’re married to a Marine too…)
The other bumper sticker I saw was on the back of a 4x4 extra-large, grocery-getter, bright red, pick-up truck. The kind where you have to crane your neck up to see who’s driving. The kind that I look down the tail pipe of because my vehicle is so low to the ground. On this particular day the sun was bright enough for me to look up and spot the bumper sticker on the back. It said, “Get in, Sit Down, Shut up, Hang on.”
Besides the Monkey bumper sticker, I really like this one. It got me thinking. Hey, at my age anything that gets me thinking of something other than how to get my kids to stop talking 24/7 is worth noting.
I can picture it now. St. John at the back gate of heaven (Peter is busy at the front gate). He’s prepping the people who are on their way to get born. As they step up to the next rail car he tells them what to expect, what not to forget, and how to get home again. And when one of them asks about what they are supposed to do when things get really bad, he tells they will only have to remember to do four things:
“Get in” - Life is for living. No sitting on the sidelines.
“Sit Down” - Better take your rest where you find it, you're in it for the long haul.
“Shut up” - How can you hear God giving you directions if you are never quiet?
“Hang on” – It ain’t over till it’s over. Just remember who’s driving the bus (hint, it’s not you)
and you’ll always be OK.
Words to live by.
As always, frantically looking for some quiet time in Buckley,
Mary (mom to seven kids, five cats, and wife to a former (monkey-willied) Marine)
The Facts of Life (Dateline August, 2005)
Ok ladies…. it’s your turn to gripe. All you guys go get a beer and sit out on the front porch.
Now, let’s talk about the facts of life. No, not that life. The behind-the-scenes maintenance that allows you to have that life. You know, the stuff you gotta do when your husband is off doing something more fun…like getting a prostate check.
As I think back on it now, I’m sure my mom, or some other woman in my life, told me that pap smears get easier with age. Wrong! They just get more ridiculous. How many of you have been through childbirth – raise your hands. Ok, how many of you have been through it more than once - raise your hands. Ok, now how many of you had any modesty left over after the baby was born, raise your hands…. thought so. The two are just incompatible. Once you’ve had a football team of medical personnel staring at your nether regions modesty just seems silly.
So let’s talk about having an “Annual Exam”. First, the only people I know who call it a Pap Smear is the secretary at the OB/GYN office. I don’t know about you, but when I’m at work that’s not what I call it. I mean face it - I work in an office full of men, and trying to make a private phone call in my office never works. Ever notice that the office gets really quiet the minute you pick up the phone and want to say something personal? You can almost hear them listening, or in my case, almost feel the wind blow by from all the ear flapping that’s going on. Here I am, hunched over the phone, trying to have a private conversation with the doctor’s secretary, and it usually goes something like this:
Dr.’s Office: “Hello, Dr. Icy Finger’s office, Please Hold. (10 minutes later) Are you still there? Didn’t give up, huh? Ok, what can I do for you?”
Me: “Hi, this is me. I need to make an appointment for a mumble mumble mumble…”
DO: “What dear? Speak up, I can’t hear you”
Me: “I need to make an appointment for my annual mumble, mumble, mumble…”
DO: “I’m sorry dear, one more time…. what sort of annual exam did you want to schedule?”
Me: “A mumble mumble mumble…”
DO: “I’m sorry, an annual WHAT??”
Me: “A Pap Smear! I need to schedule a PAP SMEAR!”
DO: “Oh, sure, no problem. Let’s see, the doctor is off on vacation until December, then he has a conference through January…hmmm…will next February 14th work for you? Say around noon?
So, there you are, four months later, feet in position, hands gripped across your chest and scooched so far down you are in danger of falling off the exam table, trying to look nonchalant. So you lay there trying to appear interested, when all you’re really wondering is where do they keep the littlebutton they push to get the nurse into the room.
So you lay back and think about your sins (sorry, I was raised Catholic) and stare at the ceiling, trying not to bear down too hard when the spatula thing goes in. It’s not warm by the way. Regardless of what they tell you, that thing is never, ever, evereverever warm. So there you are, feet in the air, butt scooched, staring at the ceiling, thanking God that this happens only once a year, and then you see it…. the poster on the ceiling.
Now seriously, who in heaven’s name had enough time on their hands to decide that a poster belonged on the ceiling over the exam table? And why, oh why, are they so dumb? I mean what’s with the flowers, and baby animals? I don’t know about you, but by the time I have spotted the poster, baby animals are not what comes to mind. Maybe a picture of the Chippendale dancers or something. I mean really…I’ll never see 40 again (ok, ok, 45, but who’s counting)…At least make it worth my while to look at the darn thing while I try not to clench down so hard the doctor can’t get the spatula thing back out.
And we all know what happens after the exam, right? No, you don’t get candy. You get another appointment! Wowee!! Another appointment. This one’s called a Mammogram!!
As I lay in bed last night trying to figure out why my chest was so sore, I remembered that I had joined 60 of my female neighbors in getting a mammogram earlier that day. I don’t know about your clinic, but the one I go to seem to have hired the perkiest people they could find to run their radiology department. What “perky” and “radiology” have in common, I have no idea, but for some reason, Northern Michigan has the happiest radiology techs in the U.S. It usually goes like this:
“Mary? Your turn…Yes it is. No, there’s no one else left…Get out from under the chair or I’ll tell your doctor…Yes I will…Ok, then I’ll tell your kids…Thank you”.
“My name is Janet and I’ll be your happy, happy, happy radiology tech today. You are my 47th patient today! How long have I worked here? Just today. Not to worry, we practiced on each other at school…Me? No, I don’t find it painful. What size do I wear? Why, AA, why?"
Did your OB/GYN ever tell you what happens when you turn 40? Mine either, so listen up. Everything drops. And I mean everything - your butt, your chin, your knees (yes they do!) and your chest. Remember when your breasts poked out and not down? Here’s the thing - when the majority of your body parts get down around your waist - you die. Get used to it. Until then you get mammograms.
Having a mammogram is sort of like giving birth. After it’s all over you wonder what all the fuss was about. Until then you’re lucky if your screaming doesn’t break any windows. I don’t know about your clinic, but at mine, once they get one of your body parts in the squeezer, you are trapped. They’re so fast you don’t see it coming. First the foot pedal brings the two parts together and you are sandwiched. This isn’t too bad, you think. Then she starts with the hand crank. And just when you are beginning to wonder what would happen if you faint from the pain the tech says something stupid like “Hold your breath!” Excuse me?? Hold my breath?? Who can breath?? Everything is in shock from my neck down…I couldn’t breath even if I wanted to.
I suppose, in all honesty, it only takes about 30 seconds and it’s over. Almost. They then do it all again, and this time they do it sideways! You think you’re ready for it this time. You clench your teeth, think of England, and close your eyes. Then she hits the hand crank again, trying to make your not-so-C-breast flat as a pancake. “Now hold your breath!” About this time, your vision is getting black around the edges and you are holding on for dear life, trying not to think of what would happen to your squished body parts if the rest of you drops to the floor.
Then the pressure is off, and you stand back, gasping and staring, sure that the tech has totally rearranged your anatomy forever. And then she reaches for the left one. We won’t go there.
But, hey, going to the clinic isn’t all bad. It’s the only place you can sit in a three arm-holed gown in a room full of women who are older and droopier than you, and think to yourself "I’m glad I’m not THAT Big!”
As always, love from Buckley,
Where the women are flat, the men have their legs crossed and the kids eat pizza whenever mom goes to the doctor.
Now, let’s talk about the facts of life. No, not that life. The behind-the-scenes maintenance that allows you to have that life. You know, the stuff you gotta do when your husband is off doing something more fun…like getting a prostate check.
As I think back on it now, I’m sure my mom, or some other woman in my life, told me that pap smears get easier with age. Wrong! They just get more ridiculous. How many of you have been through childbirth – raise your hands. Ok, how many of you have been through it more than once - raise your hands. Ok, now how many of you had any modesty left over after the baby was born, raise your hands…. thought so. The two are just incompatible. Once you’ve had a football team of medical personnel staring at your nether regions modesty just seems silly.
So let’s talk about having an “Annual Exam”. First, the only people I know who call it a Pap Smear is the secretary at the OB/GYN office. I don’t know about you, but when I’m at work that’s not what I call it. I mean face it - I work in an office full of men, and trying to make a private phone call in my office never works. Ever notice that the office gets really quiet the minute you pick up the phone and want to say something personal? You can almost hear them listening, or in my case, almost feel the wind blow by from all the ear flapping that’s going on. Here I am, hunched over the phone, trying to have a private conversation with the doctor’s secretary, and it usually goes something like this:
Dr.’s Office: “Hello, Dr. Icy Finger’s office, Please Hold. (10 minutes later) Are you still there? Didn’t give up, huh? Ok, what can I do for you?”
Me: “Hi, this is me. I need to make an appointment for a mumble mumble mumble…”
DO: “What dear? Speak up, I can’t hear you”
Me: “I need to make an appointment for my annual mumble, mumble, mumble…”
DO: “I’m sorry dear, one more time…. what sort of annual exam did you want to schedule?”
Me: “A mumble mumble mumble…”
DO: “I’m sorry, an annual WHAT??”
Me: “A Pap Smear! I need to schedule a PAP SMEAR!”
DO: “Oh, sure, no problem. Let’s see, the doctor is off on vacation until December, then he has a conference through January…hmmm…will next February 14th work for you? Say around noon?
So, there you are, four months later, feet in position, hands gripped across your chest and scooched so far down you are in danger of falling off the exam table, trying to look nonchalant. So you lay there trying to appear interested, when all you’re really wondering is where do they keep the littlebutton they push to get the nurse into the room.
So you lay back and think about your sins (sorry, I was raised Catholic) and stare at the ceiling, trying not to bear down too hard when the spatula thing goes in. It’s not warm by the way. Regardless of what they tell you, that thing is never, ever, evereverever warm. So there you are, feet in the air, butt scooched, staring at the ceiling, thanking God that this happens only once a year, and then you see it…. the poster on the ceiling.
Now seriously, who in heaven’s name had enough time on their hands to decide that a poster belonged on the ceiling over the exam table? And why, oh why, are they so dumb? I mean what’s with the flowers, and baby animals? I don’t know about you, but by the time I have spotted the poster, baby animals are not what comes to mind. Maybe a picture of the Chippendale dancers or something. I mean really…I’ll never see 40 again (ok, ok, 45, but who’s counting)…At least make it worth my while to look at the darn thing while I try not to clench down so hard the doctor can’t get the spatula thing back out.
And we all know what happens after the exam, right? No, you don’t get candy. You get another appointment! Wowee!! Another appointment. This one’s called a Mammogram!!
As I lay in bed last night trying to figure out why my chest was so sore, I remembered that I had joined 60 of my female neighbors in getting a mammogram earlier that day. I don’t know about your clinic, but the one I go to seem to have hired the perkiest people they could find to run their radiology department. What “perky” and “radiology” have in common, I have no idea, but for some reason, Northern Michigan has the happiest radiology techs in the U.S. It usually goes like this:
“Mary? Your turn…Yes it is. No, there’s no one else left…Get out from under the chair or I’ll tell your doctor…Yes I will…Ok, then I’ll tell your kids…Thank you”.
“My name is Janet and I’ll be your happy, happy, happy radiology tech today. You are my 47th patient today! How long have I worked here? Just today. Not to worry, we practiced on each other at school…Me? No, I don’t find it painful. What size do I wear? Why, AA, why?"
Did your OB/GYN ever tell you what happens when you turn 40? Mine either, so listen up. Everything drops. And I mean everything - your butt, your chin, your knees (yes they do!) and your chest. Remember when your breasts poked out and not down? Here’s the thing - when the majority of your body parts get down around your waist - you die. Get used to it. Until then you get mammograms.
Having a mammogram is sort of like giving birth. After it’s all over you wonder what all the fuss was about. Until then you’re lucky if your screaming doesn’t break any windows. I don’t know about your clinic, but at mine, once they get one of your body parts in the squeezer, you are trapped. They’re so fast you don’t see it coming. First the foot pedal brings the two parts together and you are sandwiched. This isn’t too bad, you think. Then she starts with the hand crank. And just when you are beginning to wonder what would happen if you faint from the pain the tech says something stupid like “Hold your breath!” Excuse me?? Hold my breath?? Who can breath?? Everything is in shock from my neck down…I couldn’t breath even if I wanted to.
I suppose, in all honesty, it only takes about 30 seconds and it’s over. Almost. They then do it all again, and this time they do it sideways! You think you’re ready for it this time. You clench your teeth, think of England, and close your eyes. Then she hits the hand crank again, trying to make your not-so-C-breast flat as a pancake. “Now hold your breath!” About this time, your vision is getting black around the edges and you are holding on for dear life, trying not to think of what would happen to your squished body parts if the rest of you drops to the floor.
Then the pressure is off, and you stand back, gasping and staring, sure that the tech has totally rearranged your anatomy forever. And then she reaches for the left one. We won’t go there.
But, hey, going to the clinic isn’t all bad. It’s the only place you can sit in a three arm-holed gown in a room full of women who are older and droopier than you, and think to yourself "I’m glad I’m not THAT Big!”
As always, love from Buckley,
Where the women are flat, the men have their legs crossed and the kids eat pizza whenever mom goes to the doctor.
A Funny Thing Happened on the way to School (Dateline: April 2005)
I was taking my kids to school the other day, twenty miles one way at O-dark-thirty. First stop to off-load two of them... Kisses! Waves!! Goodbye, goodbye!! See you this afternoon!
The second stop is Luc’s school across town. He attends a Special Ed class five days/week (sort of like a special ed preschool, where they teach life skills to special needs kids.) Can’t beat it - probably the only fully funded school program in the state! Luc gets to go swimming, attends concerts, visits museums, eats at McDonald’s. And, they potty trained him! What a deal!!
Anyway, I’m parked in front of the school, scouting for early buses (because my husband has the “Handicapped” sticker and I don’t want toP*ss off any more bus drivers (long story). As we get out of the car, and I unload the stroller out of the back of the car, a lady passes by and I hear ‘Hi Luc!” I look up in time to see my son waving madly at a woman I have never seen before.
I finally get him loaded into the stroller (his wheel chair is left at school) and work my double handed magic trick of getting a stroller through doors with no handicapped button, and escape getting wacked in the back of the head just in time to hear: “Hi Luc!” This time it’s the school maintenance man. “When we gonna race again? I’m gonna beat you next time!” He calls as he rounds the corner. I look down at my son and he is waving madly at the disappearing man.
Half way down the hall way a group of girls passes by and giggle at me, “Hi Luc! Hi Hi!!”
Who ARE these people? And why do they know my son?
I finally drop him off in his class (Hi Luc!) and off to work I go. Later that morning I'm talking to a nurse who’s been job shadowing me. We get to talking and I mention that I have six (!) kids at two different schools. She mentions that one of the other nurses she works with helps out withswim lessons at the Civic Center for several special needs kids. (Small world, thinks me). Then she mentions that just the other day this nurse mentioned this handsome little boy from Taiwan that she helps with (somewhere in the back of my head I hear “Hi Luc!”).
So, query me this Bat Man - how does my six year old son whose only been in the country for six months, who can’t get around with out assistance, know so many people? And they keep getting these goofy smiles on their faces when they talk about him...
Must be the potty training, I think.
Then again, maybe not. Probably the full body giggle.
My son Luc. He’s going places. You have been warned.
Love from Buckley,
Six kids (Hi Luc!), five cats, 5000 red-wing black birds and two mating pairs of starlings...Life is good.
The second stop is Luc’s school across town. He attends a Special Ed class five days/week (sort of like a special ed preschool, where they teach life skills to special needs kids.) Can’t beat it - probably the only fully funded school program in the state! Luc gets to go swimming, attends concerts, visits museums, eats at McDonald’s. And, they potty trained him! What a deal!!
Anyway, I’m parked in front of the school, scouting for early buses (because my husband has the “Handicapped” sticker and I don’t want toP*ss off any more bus drivers (long story). As we get out of the car, and I unload the stroller out of the back of the car, a lady passes by and I hear ‘Hi Luc!” I look up in time to see my son waving madly at a woman I have never seen before.
I finally get him loaded into the stroller (his wheel chair is left at school) and work my double handed magic trick of getting a stroller through doors with no handicapped button, and escape getting wacked in the back of the head just in time to hear: “Hi Luc!” This time it’s the school maintenance man. “When we gonna race again? I’m gonna beat you next time!” He calls as he rounds the corner. I look down at my son and he is waving madly at the disappearing man.
Half way down the hall way a group of girls passes by and giggle at me, “Hi Luc! Hi Hi!!”
Who ARE these people? And why do they know my son?
I finally drop him off in his class (Hi Luc!) and off to work I go. Later that morning I'm talking to a nurse who’s been job shadowing me. We get to talking and I mention that I have six (!) kids at two different schools. She mentions that one of the other nurses she works with helps out withswim lessons at the Civic Center for several special needs kids. (Small world, thinks me). Then she mentions that just the other day this nurse mentioned this handsome little boy from Taiwan that she helps with (somewhere in the back of my head I hear “Hi Luc!”).
So, query me this Bat Man - how does my six year old son whose only been in the country for six months, who can’t get around with out assistance, know so many people? And they keep getting these goofy smiles on their faces when they talk about him...
Must be the potty training, I think.
Then again, maybe not. Probably the full body giggle.
My son Luc. He’s going places. You have been warned.
Love from Buckley,
Six kids (Hi Luc!), five cats, 5000 red-wing black birds and two mating pairs of starlings...Life is good.
“Does Everyone Know What Time It Is?”* (Dateline May 2005)
(My thanks to Tim "the Tool Man" Taylor - I now know what time it is!)
“Ok, round ‘em up, head ‘em out! It’s bed time! Nicholas - clean up your mess! Tanner - leave the cat alone! Annelise - upstairs! Alexandra! Simone! Time to pee!”
“Yes, right now.”
"No, you can finish tomorrow."
"Yes you can..."
"Ok, you can do it after school."
"Now."
"Right now."
"I SAID RIGHT NOW!"Luc**, I’ll be right back - just sit there for a minute and I will get your bath started. Nicholas leave the cat alone! Did you pee? Why are youstill standing there? Move! Faster! A little faster! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!"
"Tanner - did you pee? Luc, I’m coming...Annelise! Time for bed!! Alexandra - no, you are too heavy for daddy to car upstairs. You don’t want to rip his hernia any more, do you?"
"It’s a rip in the muscle....no, his tummy won’t fall out on the floor - it’s still connected....Look - I’ll get the anatomy book out tomorrow - it’stime for bed!"
"Luc, hang on, I’m coming. Luc? Are you sleeping in your spaghetti plate? Wake up! You’re blowing tomato bubbles! Ok? Ok...I’ll be right back."
"Nicholas are you in bed? Tanner - why are you peeing for the 5th time in 10 minutes? Alexandra! Get out from under my bed! The cat is not STUCK!"
"Simone - where are you? Ok, I love you. Good night."
"Annelise - all tucked in? I love you too..."
"Alexandra - leave the cat alone....no you can’t have 14 more blankets - we wouldn’t be able to find you in the morning. "
"I’m just kidding! Calm down! I love you too..."
"Nicholas, stop fighting with Tanner! Tanner, stop scaring your brother! Kisses...I love you too...Good night...."
"Luc? Luc! Get your head out of your bowl! I’m hurrying...I know you’re tired... Yes, you can sleep through your bath...Just don’t breath when I shampoo your hair. Yes, that’s the goey stuff I put in your hair...no, it doesn’t come in green...I know you like green...No, they don’t have boy shampoo...no, you don’t smell like me....Yes, I’m sure..."
"We already told Daddy you pooped the potty. You want to tell him again? OK...DAVE! Luc pooped the potty today!" (Giggling in the background...)
"Yes, I am very proud of you. I love you too. Yes tomorrow is school. No, you can’t have hot lunch...because I’m broke...because I have too many kids...because I must be nuts....I love you too..."
"Nicholas! GET BACK IN BED! TANNER! LEAVE THE CAT ALONE!"
"Dave, I can hear myself think...are the kids asleep?"
WAHOO!
“And to all a goodnight”.
** Luc (pronounced 'Luke" ) has Cerebral Palsy and has to be carried (that's his picture up top). He is sooo patient. He recently got potty trained(he's 6). When he giggles, it's a full body wiggle! Too funny! And, yes, we are very proud of him. (Adopted from Taiwan 10/04 at 5 yrs old). Florida Home Studies and Adoption. Tell Bonnie I sent you..
“Ok, round ‘em up, head ‘em out! It’s bed time! Nicholas - clean up your mess! Tanner - leave the cat alone! Annelise - upstairs! Alexandra! Simone! Time to pee!”
“Yes, right now.”
"No, you can finish tomorrow."
"Yes you can..."
"Ok, you can do it after school."
"Now."
"Right now."
"I SAID RIGHT NOW!"Luc**, I’ll be right back - just sit there for a minute and I will get your bath started. Nicholas leave the cat alone! Did you pee? Why are youstill standing there? Move! Faster! A little faster! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!"
"Tanner - did you pee? Luc, I’m coming...Annelise! Time for bed!! Alexandra - no, you are too heavy for daddy to car upstairs. You don’t want to rip his hernia any more, do you?"
"It’s a rip in the muscle....no, his tummy won’t fall out on the floor - it’s still connected....Look - I’ll get the anatomy book out tomorrow - it’stime for bed!"
"Luc, hang on, I’m coming. Luc? Are you sleeping in your spaghetti plate? Wake up! You’re blowing tomato bubbles! Ok? Ok...I’ll be right back."
"Nicholas are you in bed? Tanner - why are you peeing for the 5th time in 10 minutes? Alexandra! Get out from under my bed! The cat is not STUCK!"
"Simone - where are you? Ok, I love you. Good night."
"Annelise - all tucked in? I love you too..."
"Alexandra - leave the cat alone....no you can’t have 14 more blankets - we wouldn’t be able to find you in the morning. "
"I’m just kidding! Calm down! I love you too..."
"Nicholas, stop fighting with Tanner! Tanner, stop scaring your brother! Kisses...I love you too...Good night...."
"Luc? Luc! Get your head out of your bowl! I’m hurrying...I know you’re tired... Yes, you can sleep through your bath...Just don’t breath when I shampoo your hair. Yes, that’s the goey stuff I put in your hair...no, it doesn’t come in green...I know you like green...No, they don’t have boy shampoo...no, you don’t smell like me....Yes, I’m sure..."
"We already told Daddy you pooped the potty. You want to tell him again? OK...DAVE! Luc pooped the potty today!" (Giggling in the background...)
"Yes, I am very proud of you. I love you too. Yes tomorrow is school. No, you can’t have hot lunch...because I’m broke...because I have too many kids...because I must be nuts....I love you too..."
"Nicholas! GET BACK IN BED! TANNER! LEAVE THE CAT ALONE!"
"Dave, I can hear myself think...are the kids asleep?"
WAHOO!
“And to all a goodnight”.
** Luc (pronounced 'Luke" ) has Cerebral Palsy and has to be carried (that's his picture up top). He is sooo patient. He recently got potty trained(he's 6). When he giggles, it's a full body wiggle! Too funny! And, yes, we are very proud of him. (Adopted from Taiwan 10/04 at 5 yrs old). Florida Home Studies and Adoption. Tell Bonnie I sent you..
I am Mommy, hear me ROAR! (Dateline March 2005)
For those of you who have kids, do you remember the first time you actually felt like a mom (or dad)? I think the first time for me was during our second adoption trip to China to adopt daughter #2. Annelise, daughter #1, was about 2.5 yrs old then (and the cutest kid on the face of the earth. I have numerous pictures of strangers coming up to us and asking to have their picture taken with her.)
It was just after receiving daughter #2 (known the world over for her famous Gale Force 20 screaming). Alexandra (15 months and 15 pounds) was extremely angry about being whisked away from her foster mom and being given to a whole new set of parents. (In fact, she spent the first four months at home screaming at the top of her lungs whenever I approached her, or God forbid, touched her.)
In order to save my sanity, and to prevent myself from running down the street to the local civil affairs office and trading her in for a quieter model, I gave her lollipops. It took me about a day to figure out that lollipops meant her mouth was too busy to scream. I must have single handedly driven up the price of lollipops at the hotel kiosk, due to an unforeseen run on their inventory. (Just an aside - Alexandra has been daddy’s girl from day one, and still is. Mommy comes in a close second because I have a bag of old makeup she is allowed to use. Can you say “fire engine red” lipstick?)
Funny how being a parent can sometimes completely change your personality. I would have thought that 16 years in the military would have toughened up me up to deal with anything . Not so, it turns out. Inside my touch cookie exterior is a melted chocolate chip. Make that two….twelve….ok, ok, a whole bag.
During that adoption trip, Annelise became friends with two daughters of another family in our travel group. One afternoon, after several hours of playing, the sisters tired of Annelise’s company and went to a separate room and locked her out. Annelise took one look at that door and out of her mouth came the most heart piercing cry I have ever heard. It was at that moment I learned what a broken heart was, because mine shattered into a million pieces. I just wanted to hold her and wail right along with her. The intensity of her pain was so vivid that I would have happily moved a mountain if it meant taking away her pain. Being 2 ½ yrs old, the moment didn’t last long for her, but for me it lasted an eternity.
I suppose most parents have memories like this stuffed away in the dusty attic of their mind; memories that come to the surface during quiet times(you know - when you have your kid’s mouths stuffed so full of McDonald’s French fries they can’t argue with you).
I rediscovered the mommy lion inside of me just recently while dealing with school issues concerning my son Luc (“Luke” for those English speakers out there).
Luc is son #3, adopted from Taiwan last year. Luc also happens to have spastic Cerebral Palsy . He’s the kid who needs a lot of help throughout the day just to do the things that most of us take for granted. But Luc is an angel on earth. You couldn’t ask for a nicer child - sweet tempered, loving, great sense of humor and, even after 5 years of benign neglect, probably the smartest of my kids.
Because of his CP, Luc will need an aid to attend Kindergarten. Ok, how many parents out there can spell “IEP”? Fun, isn’t it? When I was growing up (ice age, dinosaurs, the earth was young) I’d never heard of an “IEP” or Special Ed. Main streaming was something you did when you tried to get on and off the beltway.
However, in the land of “Mommies of special kids” you live and die by the IEP. In order to get an aid, Luc needs to attend the local school district. However, due to geographic anomalies, (and personal preference on my part) my other children go to a totally different school district. Now, instead of six kids at the same school, it appeared that my son with the greatest need was being relegated to the local community school due to funding issues (you want an aide – the money comes from the school district you live in).
How many of you have felt your lion stirring? You know - the lion that lays dormant inside of you until someone messes with your kids. You know – the mommy lion that can be so fierce that even the noisiest kid in the house stares in awe at your raw power?
Well, the lion stirred at my house this week. It got poked by too many unreturned phone calls, jabbed by the indifference of the school system to my son’s needs, and hammered by the politics of school funding. The lion got out of bed this morning ready to chew up and spit out anyone and anything that got in the way of my child getting the help he needed at the best school possible for him.
After dropping the kids off this morning, the lion got a cup of coffee and started making phone calls. The battle plans were drawn, the guns wereloaded and the lion was waiting. The battle flag was flying and I could here “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!” in the background!!
Until I read my e-mail. And there it was. An e-mail from the lady who was #1 on my Mommy Lion hit list. The e-mail said that things were working out to our favor and my son would be attending the school of our choice for Kindergarten, with the necessary aid.
Ever see a lion deflate? Sort of like air going out of a hot air balloon. Lucky for me the office was empty this morning while I quietly deflated in my chair…
The lion returned back to its cave for a nap (and dreams of chocolate chips, no doubt).
I transformed back to whatever it is I’m supposed to be in my non-mommy moments.
But first I asked God’s forgiveness for having so little faith. You would think I’d know by now that when you are doing God’s work, you don’t have to worry about the stones in your path. You just have to keep walking.
Love from Buckley,
Where the lions are fierce, the kids are in awe, and I keep putting one foot in front of another
It was just after receiving daughter #2 (known the world over for her famous Gale Force 20 screaming). Alexandra (15 months and 15 pounds) was extremely angry about being whisked away from her foster mom and being given to a whole new set of parents. (In fact, she spent the first four months at home screaming at the top of her lungs whenever I approached her, or God forbid, touched her.)
In order to save my sanity, and to prevent myself from running down the street to the local civil affairs office and trading her in for a quieter model, I gave her lollipops. It took me about a day to figure out that lollipops meant her mouth was too busy to scream. I must have single handedly driven up the price of lollipops at the hotel kiosk, due to an unforeseen run on their inventory. (Just an aside - Alexandra has been daddy’s girl from day one, and still is. Mommy comes in a close second because I have a bag of old makeup she is allowed to use. Can you say “fire engine red” lipstick?)
Funny how being a parent can sometimes completely change your personality. I would have thought that 16 years in the military would have toughened up me up to deal with anything . Not so, it turns out. Inside my touch cookie exterior is a melted chocolate chip. Make that two….twelve….ok, ok, a whole bag.
During that adoption trip, Annelise became friends with two daughters of another family in our travel group. One afternoon, after several hours of playing, the sisters tired of Annelise’s company and went to a separate room and locked her out. Annelise took one look at that door and out of her mouth came the most heart piercing cry I have ever heard. It was at that moment I learned what a broken heart was, because mine shattered into a million pieces. I just wanted to hold her and wail right along with her. The intensity of her pain was so vivid that I would have happily moved a mountain if it meant taking away her pain. Being 2 ½ yrs old, the moment didn’t last long for her, but for me it lasted an eternity.
I suppose most parents have memories like this stuffed away in the dusty attic of their mind; memories that come to the surface during quiet times(you know - when you have your kid’s mouths stuffed so full of McDonald’s French fries they can’t argue with you).
I rediscovered the mommy lion inside of me just recently while dealing with school issues concerning my son Luc (“Luke” for those English speakers out there).
Luc is son #3, adopted from Taiwan last year. Luc also happens to have spastic Cerebral Palsy . He’s the kid who needs a lot of help throughout the day just to do the things that most of us take for granted. But Luc is an angel on earth. You couldn’t ask for a nicer child - sweet tempered, loving, great sense of humor and, even after 5 years of benign neglect, probably the smartest of my kids.
Because of his CP, Luc will need an aid to attend Kindergarten. Ok, how many parents out there can spell “IEP”? Fun, isn’t it? When I was growing up (ice age, dinosaurs, the earth was young) I’d never heard of an “IEP” or Special Ed. Main streaming was something you did when you tried to get on and off the beltway.
However, in the land of “Mommies of special kids” you live and die by the IEP. In order to get an aid, Luc needs to attend the local school district. However, due to geographic anomalies, (and personal preference on my part) my other children go to a totally different school district. Now, instead of six kids at the same school, it appeared that my son with the greatest need was being relegated to the local community school due to funding issues (you want an aide – the money comes from the school district you live in).
How many of you have felt your lion stirring? You know - the lion that lays dormant inside of you until someone messes with your kids. You know – the mommy lion that can be so fierce that even the noisiest kid in the house stares in awe at your raw power?
Well, the lion stirred at my house this week. It got poked by too many unreturned phone calls, jabbed by the indifference of the school system to my son’s needs, and hammered by the politics of school funding. The lion got out of bed this morning ready to chew up and spit out anyone and anything that got in the way of my child getting the help he needed at the best school possible for him.
After dropping the kids off this morning, the lion got a cup of coffee and started making phone calls. The battle plans were drawn, the guns wereloaded and the lion was waiting. The battle flag was flying and I could here “Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!” in the background!!
Until I read my e-mail. And there it was. An e-mail from the lady who was #1 on my Mommy Lion hit list. The e-mail said that things were working out to our favor and my son would be attending the school of our choice for Kindergarten, with the necessary aid.
Ever see a lion deflate? Sort of like air going out of a hot air balloon. Lucky for me the office was empty this morning while I quietly deflated in my chair…
The lion returned back to its cave for a nap (and dreams of chocolate chips, no doubt).
I transformed back to whatever it is I’m supposed to be in my non-mommy moments.
But first I asked God’s forgiveness for having so little faith. You would think I’d know by now that when you are doing God’s work, you don’t have to worry about the stones in your path. You just have to keep walking.
Love from Buckley,
Where the lions are fierce, the kids are in awe, and I keep putting one foot in front of another
Phone call from Home (Dateline January 2005)
Ring. Ring. Ring. RING. RING!!! Marine Corps anthem in background….da dah de da dah de da daaaahhh..…
“I’m not home. Leave a message. If you’re not a Marine, associated with a Marine, or a Squid – hang up now and save yourself the trouble."
Beep.
“Mary, this is your mother.”
“Hi Mom”
“Thought you weren’t home…”
“The kids are taking a bath, Dave is burning dinner, the cats are puking up hairballs and the news is on…took me a minute to figure out the ringing wasn’t in my head…”
“So, how are the kids?”
"Good”
“How is Dave?”
“Good.”
“You never visit…when are you coming to visit?”
“Mom, you live in Florida…”
“When you come down we can go to the beach…the kids would like the beach”
“Ok.”
“Are you still skinny?”
“Skinny as any almost 50 year old has a right to be.”
“You know, you should really think about getting a hysterectomy…you would feel better.”
“Mom, the kids are adopted…”
"I know, but you won’t believer the difference…when the kids come to visit, give them name tags…how do you keep them straight?”
“I don’t…I gave them numbers.”
“Numbers? Are you still drinking?”
"Only in my dreams…”
“Speaking of that, have you spoken to your sister recently….Cathy is getting a hysterectomy. All my friends have had hysterectomies and everyone feels soooo much better. It will do wonders for your outlook.“
"What’s wrong with my outlook”
“I’m just saying….so when are you coming to visit?”
“As soon as I get my prescription refilled…”
“Are you still skinny?”
“I love you too mom, but the bathroom is flooding and I just saw two cats float by belly up…gotta run…”
“Ok, dear….don’t forget the hysterectomy! I love you! Are you still skin…” Click.
Aren’t moms fun? Mine lives in Florida. Eat your heart out.
As always,
Love from Buckley
“I’m not home. Leave a message. If you’re not a Marine, associated with a Marine, or a Squid – hang up now and save yourself the trouble."
Beep.
“Mary, this is your mother.”
“Hi Mom”
“Thought you weren’t home…”
“The kids are taking a bath, Dave is burning dinner, the cats are puking up hairballs and the news is on…took me a minute to figure out the ringing wasn’t in my head…”
“So, how are the kids?”
"Good”
“How is Dave?”
“Good.”
“You never visit…when are you coming to visit?”
“Mom, you live in Florida…”
“When you come down we can go to the beach…the kids would like the beach”
“Ok.”
“Are you still skinny?”
“Skinny as any almost 50 year old has a right to be.”
“You know, you should really think about getting a hysterectomy…you would feel better.”
“Mom, the kids are adopted…”
"I know, but you won’t believer the difference…when the kids come to visit, give them name tags…how do you keep them straight?”
“I don’t…I gave them numbers.”
“Numbers? Are you still drinking?”
"Only in my dreams…”
“Speaking of that, have you spoken to your sister recently….Cathy is getting a hysterectomy. All my friends have had hysterectomies and everyone feels soooo much better. It will do wonders for your outlook.“
"What’s wrong with my outlook”
“I’m just saying….so when are you coming to visit?”
“As soon as I get my prescription refilled…”
“Are you still skinny?”
“I love you too mom, but the bathroom is flooding and I just saw two cats float by belly up…gotta run…”
“Ok, dear….don’t forget the hysterectomy! I love you! Are you still skin…” Click.
Aren’t moms fun? Mine lives in Florida. Eat your heart out.
As always,
Love from Buckley
What it’s really like to have 6 kids… (Dateline February 2005)
So, how many of you have kids at home? Raise your hands?
Ok, how many of you have more than three kids at home? Keep your hands up…
Ok, how many of you have more than five kids at home? That many? (We have to talk…stick around after this essay and let’s do wine!)
When I was growing up (you know, dinosaurs, Jesus as a kid, new dirt) I was one of four kids. I was the 2nd child, but the first daughter. We were nicely spaced, about two years apart, and looked nothing alike. However, this didn’t keep my mom from being confused as to who she was yelling at… Life in our house went something like this:
Mom: “Carol! Leave your sister alone!”
Carol: “It’s not me! It’s Cathy!!”
Mom: “Cathy, leave your sister alone!”
Cathy: “It’s not me, it’s Mary”
Mom: “Mary, LEAVE YOUR SISTER ALONE!”
Me: (I’m not even home).
When things really got going and my mom really got excited it went something like this:
“MaryCarolCathyEdward!!!! Where the HELL is the ________ (insert four letter adverb followed by a noun).” This usually occurred when she was staring right at you and the rest of the gang was nowhere within a five mile radius.
I never understood why she couldn’t keep our names straight until I became a mom. Now that the kids are a little older, it is becoming difficult to tell who is who, especially from behind. Two of my daughters (Annelise and Simone) look almost exactly alike from behind. It doesn’t help that Simone is two years younger, she wears the same size as her older sisters and their hair is the same length. I catch myself calling Simone by Annelise’s name and vice versa. I have even run down the list of names when talking to my son (usually when I get excited about something).
“Nicholas!”
“I’m not Nicholas”
“Luc!!”
“I’m not Luc!”
“I don’t care who you are! Stop doing whatever I don’t want you to be doing, right this minute!”
Sound familiar? Well, I have found a solution to this problem. (For further information, have your credit cards handy and call 1-800…)
Numbers. No, not your number. My kids have numbers.
Each child gets a different number, depending on when they first joined the family. Annelise is #1, Alexandra is #2, and so on down the line. So instead of yelling out “AnneliseAlexandraSimoneNicholasTannerLuc!! I just yell out “#1! Put this away! #2! pick up the trash on the floor! #3! Turn off the TV, it’s time for dinner!
Hey, saves time, embarrassment (mine) and I no longer have to remember who I’m talking to! (A great memory saver for those of us who are “older” parents!) My next trick is to get them all football jerseys, with their numbers stenciled on the front and back.
Wonder if it would work with cats …..
Ok, how many of you have more than three kids at home? Keep your hands up…
Ok, how many of you have more than five kids at home? That many? (We have to talk…stick around after this essay and let’s do wine!)
When I was growing up (you know, dinosaurs, Jesus as a kid, new dirt) I was one of four kids. I was the 2nd child, but the first daughter. We were nicely spaced, about two years apart, and looked nothing alike. However, this didn’t keep my mom from being confused as to who she was yelling at… Life in our house went something like this:
Mom: “Carol! Leave your sister alone!”
Carol: “It’s not me! It’s Cathy!!”
Mom: “Cathy, leave your sister alone!”
Cathy: “It’s not me, it’s Mary”
Mom: “Mary, LEAVE YOUR SISTER ALONE!”
Me: (I’m not even home).
When things really got going and my mom really got excited it went something like this:
“MaryCarolCathyEdward!!!! Where the HELL is the ________ (insert four letter adverb followed by a noun).” This usually occurred when she was staring right at you and the rest of the gang was nowhere within a five mile radius.
I never understood why she couldn’t keep our names straight until I became a mom. Now that the kids are a little older, it is becoming difficult to tell who is who, especially from behind. Two of my daughters (Annelise and Simone) look almost exactly alike from behind. It doesn’t help that Simone is two years younger, she wears the same size as her older sisters and their hair is the same length. I catch myself calling Simone by Annelise’s name and vice versa. I have even run down the list of names when talking to my son (usually when I get excited about something).
“Nicholas!”
“I’m not Nicholas”
“Luc!!”
“I’m not Luc!”
“I don’t care who you are! Stop doing whatever I don’t want you to be doing, right this minute!”
Sound familiar? Well, I have found a solution to this problem. (For further information, have your credit cards handy and call 1-800…)
Numbers. No, not your number. My kids have numbers.
Each child gets a different number, depending on when they first joined the family. Annelise is #1, Alexandra is #2, and so on down the line. So instead of yelling out “AnneliseAlexandraSimoneNicholasTannerLuc!! I just yell out “#1! Put this away! #2! pick up the trash on the floor! #3! Turn off the TV, it’s time for dinner!
Hey, saves time, embarrassment (mine) and I no longer have to remember who I’m talking to! (A great memory saver for those of us who are “older” parents!) My next trick is to get them all football jerseys, with their numbers stenciled on the front and back.
Wonder if it would work with cats …..
Ketchup – the miracle food. (Dateline January 2005)
Do your kids have a favorite food? I mean, one that they just can’t live without? Mine do. For Tanner (home from Taiwan about 10 months) that food is pepper. He puts pepper on just about everything, including his breakfast cereal if I'd let him. But the rest of the household (those under four feet tall) are dangerously addicted to ketchup.
I remember when I was young (you know, dinosaurs roaming the earth and dirt was new) and my dad’s relatives visited us from Florida. Up until then I thought Ketchup was for hamburgers and French fries. Seems in some places in the Deep South they put ketchup on eggs. (Don’t get me started…) In fact, they called those who put ketchup on hamburger “uncouth”. (A Southern euphemism for “Have you been chewing paint chips again?)
Now that I’m all grown up and older than dirt, my kids have shown me a new use for ketchup. Ketchup goes with everything. They’d eveneat it on chicken if I let them. Here’s a typical scenario at my dinner table.
The menu consists of hamburgers, French fries and peas. (An aside - I hate peas. They are green, round, yucky, smushy, and gross. They are also my husband’s idea of health food. The funny thing is my kids will sit down and eat a whole pot of peas at one sitting…somehow the word “uncouth” comes to mind)
Anyway, once all the kids are seated and the peas are rolling around their plates (all except Tanners who won’t willingly eat anything green) the calls for ketchup start rolling in.
“Pass the ketchup, please.”
"Simone’s using it all!”
“Mom…”
"Alexandra put her arm in it!”
“Someone gave Lilly (the cat) French fries with ketchup”
“Can I have the ketchup please?”
“MOM…”
“Simone is still using it all!”
“Tanner put in on his potatoes.”
“Annelise is eating it with a spoon!!”
“MOM!!”
“Pass the DAMN ketchup!” (me)
“Sorry mom, there isn’t any more…”
I’ve got them fooled, you know. I keep an extra bottle (an overly large, family size, two gallon plastic jug) under the sink next to the garbage bags. How else do you think I get them to behave? They behave or they don’t get any. Works wonders. You’ve never seen so many well manneredchildren in your life when I mention my stash!
Hey, it works… Just one more parenting idea from someone who knows.
Ketchup…don’t leave home without it. (Brought to you by “Prairie Home Companion" and their Ketchup League series of Life’s Little Moments.)
I remember when I was young (you know, dinosaurs roaming the earth and dirt was new) and my dad’s relatives visited us from Florida. Up until then I thought Ketchup was for hamburgers and French fries. Seems in some places in the Deep South they put ketchup on eggs. (Don’t get me started…) In fact, they called those who put ketchup on hamburger “uncouth”. (A Southern euphemism for “Have you been chewing paint chips again?)
Now that I’m all grown up and older than dirt, my kids have shown me a new use for ketchup. Ketchup goes with everything. They’d eveneat it on chicken if I let them. Here’s a typical scenario at my dinner table.
The menu consists of hamburgers, French fries and peas. (An aside - I hate peas. They are green, round, yucky, smushy, and gross. They are also my husband’s idea of health food. The funny thing is my kids will sit down and eat a whole pot of peas at one sitting…somehow the word “uncouth” comes to mind)
Anyway, once all the kids are seated and the peas are rolling around their plates (all except Tanners who won’t willingly eat anything green) the calls for ketchup start rolling in.
“Pass the ketchup, please.”
"Simone’s using it all!”
“Mom…”
"Alexandra put her arm in it!”
“Someone gave Lilly (the cat) French fries with ketchup”
“Can I have the ketchup please?”
“MOM…”
“Simone is still using it all!”
“Tanner put in on his potatoes.”
“Annelise is eating it with a spoon!!”
“MOM!!”
“Pass the DAMN ketchup!” (me)
“Sorry mom, there isn’t any more…”
I’ve got them fooled, you know. I keep an extra bottle (an overly large, family size, two gallon plastic jug) under the sink next to the garbage bags. How else do you think I get them to behave? They behave or they don’t get any. Works wonders. You’ve never seen so many well manneredchildren in your life when I mention my stash!
Hey, it works… Just one more parenting idea from someone who knows.
Ketchup…don’t leave home without it. (Brought to you by “Prairie Home Companion" and their Ketchup League series of Life’s Little Moments.)
Socks (Dateline January 2005)
I hate socks.
I HATE socks.
I hate SOCKS!!
Go ahead. Repeat it as many times as you need to. Feel better? Me too.
Because winters are soooo long up here (ending around 13 August, give or take 2 weeks) my kids dress for cold weather most of the year. On top of snowsuits, hats, gloves and neon colored jackets, my kids wear boot socks. I’m not talking about cute, pink, size 5 little girl socks. I’m talking about big, honking, manly-colored heavy boot socks the kids wear nine months out of the year.
This season the major bone of contention in our house is “where did all the socks go?” According to my kids they never existed. I know better - I still have the receipts for the darn things. So…instead of yelling and nagging and pounding my head against the wall over missing socks - I have given up and given in.
Doesn’t sound like me, does it? Well, I’ve turned over a new leaf (and ran out of unbruised places on my head). I have decided that going around the mountain instead of through the mountain will save me some time that I could be putting to better use (such as opening up another bottle of wine).
Every evening it’s the same thing. Picture a house of five kids all under the age of eight lifting up couches, overturning beds, ripping bureau drawers apart and never, ever, seeing any socks that were left behind just five minutes ago. Not even one, einie, weenie, tiny pink, size 5 baby sock. Zilch. Zip. Nada.
It’s sort of like living in an X-Files episode – Aliens Invade Home and Take off with Children’s Socks! (Film at 5!) The thing is, I don’t think it’s limited to just my kids. Try it sometime…have your kids take off their socks. Now, wait five minutes and have them find the socks. They can’t, can they? It’s like children become suddenly unable to recognize anything that remotely resembles a sock in any way, shape or form. I don’t care if the sock is a size 18, neon pink, glow in the dark, Monkey-smelling wad of yarn two inches from your child’s nose – he will not see it. If it’s under the bed, under the couch, or in plain sight it makes no difference - it becomes instantaneously invisible. I figure it is some kind of supernatural occurrence, or else my children are suffering from an over indulgence of oatmeal.
Soooo…in an effort to keep my sanity, I decided to call off the Great Sock Hunt. If the socks make it to the dirty laundry basket they get washed, dried and put away. If they don’t, oh well.
I give it two days (three max) when the socks run out. I can hear it now:
“Mom! I don’t have any socks!!”
“Where did you leave them?”
“Nicholas put them in the toy box!”
“I did not! Alexandra left them outside!!”
"I did not!! Tanner put them in the cat litter!”
“I did not!! Dad used them in the cracks of the windows!”
When that day comes, and the kids voluntarily go looking for something besides newspapers to wear on their feet, I expect the sock blindness to clear up all by itself! (But I’m not holding my breath…)
I HATE socks.
I hate SOCKS!!
Go ahead. Repeat it as many times as you need to. Feel better? Me too.
Because winters are soooo long up here (ending around 13 August, give or take 2 weeks) my kids dress for cold weather most of the year. On top of snowsuits, hats, gloves and neon colored jackets, my kids wear boot socks. I’m not talking about cute, pink, size 5 little girl socks. I’m talking about big, honking, manly-colored heavy boot socks the kids wear nine months out of the year.
This season the major bone of contention in our house is “where did all the socks go?” According to my kids they never existed. I know better - I still have the receipts for the darn things. So…instead of yelling and nagging and pounding my head against the wall over missing socks - I have given up and given in.
Doesn’t sound like me, does it? Well, I’ve turned over a new leaf (and ran out of unbruised places on my head). I have decided that going around the mountain instead of through the mountain will save me some time that I could be putting to better use (such as opening up another bottle of wine).
Every evening it’s the same thing. Picture a house of five kids all under the age of eight lifting up couches, overturning beds, ripping bureau drawers apart and never, ever, seeing any socks that were left behind just five minutes ago. Not even one, einie, weenie, tiny pink, size 5 baby sock. Zilch. Zip. Nada.
It’s sort of like living in an X-Files episode – Aliens Invade Home and Take off with Children’s Socks! (Film at 5!) The thing is, I don’t think it’s limited to just my kids. Try it sometime…have your kids take off their socks. Now, wait five minutes and have them find the socks. They can’t, can they? It’s like children become suddenly unable to recognize anything that remotely resembles a sock in any way, shape or form. I don’t care if the sock is a size 18, neon pink, glow in the dark, Monkey-smelling wad of yarn two inches from your child’s nose – he will not see it. If it’s under the bed, under the couch, or in plain sight it makes no difference - it becomes instantaneously invisible. I figure it is some kind of supernatural occurrence, or else my children are suffering from an over indulgence of oatmeal.
Soooo…in an effort to keep my sanity, I decided to call off the Great Sock Hunt. If the socks make it to the dirty laundry basket they get washed, dried and put away. If they don’t, oh well.
I give it two days (three max) when the socks run out. I can hear it now:
“Mom! I don’t have any socks!!”
“Where did you leave them?”
“Nicholas put them in the toy box!”
“I did not! Alexandra left them outside!!”
"I did not!! Tanner put them in the cat litter!”
“I did not!! Dad used them in the cracks of the windows!”
When that day comes, and the kids voluntarily go looking for something besides newspapers to wear on their feet, I expect the sock blindness to clear up all by itself! (But I’m not holding my breath…)
Favorite Family Recipe (Dateline November 2004)
If you have young children, you probably already know that they love to play in water. Any water. Dish water, bath water, cat bowl water, toilet water. Water is water. Way back in the dark ages when I only had two kids I used to let my two young daughters help wash the dishes. They would stand on a kitchen chair, one behind the other. The older (about 3.5 yrs old) would wash and rinse, and the younger (then about 2.5 yrs) would place them in the rack. They actually they did a pretty good job. But with the addition of two more children (under the age of five) within six months of each other life just got too complicated and the dish washing stopped. So in an effort to keep the kids entertained and promote fine motor skills I let the kids “help” me cook.
I don’t know about your kids, but my kids think cracking eggs is the epitome of a legal high. I’m not talking about the type of egg cracking where the yolk goes into one bowl and the shell goes into the garbage. I’m talking about the demolition derby of egg cracking where you wack the egg really hard on the side of the bowl. If nothing happens (and even if it does) wack the egg really fast 15 or 16 more times to ensure the egg is totally, completely cracked, then slide resulting mess into the cake batter.
My kids have also learned how to stir cake batter (using their fingers). (Needless to say, I stopped eating cake about 2 years ago).
All this reminiscing got me to thinking about favorite family recipes, and specifically favorite local recipes from Buckley. So here it is - my take on a favorite local recipe. I call it ”The Gummere Family toy car headless Barbie dirty finger and nasty dish water” recipe. Serves eight.
Pre-heat the oven to 2000 deg. C (if oven doesn’t go that high check with your local nuclear regulatory agency for any available ovens in your area).
Open favorite bottle of wine. Start drinking.
Get a large, empty, cat litter bucket (the kind that holds “scented” 40 lbs of multi-cat household cat litter). Rinse and set aside. Or not, depending on how many glasses of wine you’ve had…
Dig out your retired Marine husbands cache of black grease paint (you know, the kind that looks like shoe polish that he keeps it in the medicine cabinet “just in case”). If grease paint is not available use your favorite red lipstick (the kind you don’t have time to wear anymore but your 5 year old does). Grease bottom of cat litter bucket with it. Drink another glass of wine.
Have Child #1 (son #1) drag in large paper garbage bag of “paperwork” that he uses when he can coerce one of the other kids to hold a “meeting” with him. Take about 1/3 of paperwork and place in food processor. Add 2.5 cups of dirty dish water. Blend until lumpy and nasty. Pour into bucket. Return remainder of paperwork to son. Drink another glass of wine.
Have Child #2 (daughter #1) round up every headless Barbie doll in the house. You know the ones – the naked, headless dolls that have been colored with your black laundry marker. You know - the dolls that keep poking out from under the couch when the minister of your church drops over to actually witness you parenting six (6!) children at once.
Finish dismembering dolls. Place in food processor. Blend. If the blender breaks don’t worry – place in microwave until dolls melt. Scrape up, mix with all the toy cars you stepped on in the middle of the night on the way to the bathroom and vowed to throw in the trash. Add one can diet Pepsi (the kind you never get to drink anyway as you keep getting taste testers who want “just one sip”.) As you are now suffering from acute dehydration anything you do cannot be held against you in Probate court. Stir. The batter will be lumpy. Don’t worry about it. Drink more wine.
Have Child #3 (daughter #2) bring in all the mate less socks in the house (probably because you waited two weeks to find the mate and then threw them out, only to discover the missing 15 socks two days later in the bottom of the toy chest with the local mouse population.) Cut off the toes. Place toe pieces directly into cat litter box. Discard remainder. Stir. No, not with your wine glass. What the hell…use your fingers.
Have Child #4 (daughter #3) daughter bring in a carton of eggs. Spread newspaper under cat littler bucket. Let #3 daughter practice her egg cracking skills and throw just the shells into the bucket, and place the yolk in a bowl. Nah… never mind…just put the whole egg (what’s left of it after the 15th crack) into the bucket. Wash child’s hands. Take picture of greatest smile in history. Kiss child. Call in Child #4. Drink rest of bottle of wine. Open new bottle.
Have Child #5 (son #2) brings in crayons. Have child put crayons in a microwavable bowl. Place in microwave. Cook for 8.5 minutes. Remove mess and dump (bowl and all) into bucket. Send son #2 to dry cleaners. Drink directly from bottle. Kick wine glass pieces under counter.
Have Child #6 (son #3) wave his arms around and say the magic word “Candy”. Watch child #6 laugh like a mad man and practice his favorite English word about 6 more times “Candy!” “Candy!” “CANDY CANDY CANDY CANDY!!””
Mix well, add canned cat food and beer to taste. Top off with your favorite bottle of wine (if there’s any left in the bottle.) If no wine, use beer. Make sure husband isn’t looking.
Close lid and shake. Place bucket in leaky barn (“garage”). Let ferment until spring (Please note - if you live in Michigan spring starts on July 4th). Turn off oven. (Think of it as an exercise in futility if you actually went looking for a 2000 deg C oven – at this stage of your life you will take any exercise you can get).
Let bucket ferment for at least six months. (By that time your wine cellar should be restocked). Have husband remove bucket from barn and place at least 20 yards from the house. Reposition bucket to the back yard, away from the line of sight of neighbor’s ducks. Do not open the bucket! Ok, maybe a peek. Just one peek. I SAID ONE PEEK! AND IF YOU THROW UP ON MY RECIPE PREPARE TO DIE!”
Now – get husband’s antique black power rifle. Aim carefully at center of bucket. Put down rifle. Remove husband from line of fire. Pick up rifle. Put down rifle. Remove child #1 from line of fire. Yes, you have to. Yes, even him. No it won’t be called an accident. No, jail is not quieter than your house….no, the food is not better….JUST MOVE THE KID!
Now – raise husband’s rifle. Aim carefully at the center of bucket. Fire rifle.
If nothing happens, fire again. And again. And again again again again again….until bucket either explodes and goes into orbit or neighbors call the Sheriff’s department.
Feel better! Good. Repeat again next November when the kids haven’t been out of the house for three days and the wine is gone and the minister is bringing along a social worker to view the naked headless Barbies under the couch and you just can’t take the noise anymore!!!
It just doesn’t get any better!
As always, love from Buckley.
I don’t know about your kids, but my kids think cracking eggs is the epitome of a legal high. I’m not talking about the type of egg cracking where the yolk goes into one bowl and the shell goes into the garbage. I’m talking about the demolition derby of egg cracking where you wack the egg really hard on the side of the bowl. If nothing happens (and even if it does) wack the egg really fast 15 or 16 more times to ensure the egg is totally, completely cracked, then slide resulting mess into the cake batter.
My kids have also learned how to stir cake batter (using their fingers). (Needless to say, I stopped eating cake about 2 years ago).
All this reminiscing got me to thinking about favorite family recipes, and specifically favorite local recipes from Buckley. So here it is - my take on a favorite local recipe. I call it ”The Gummere Family toy car headless Barbie dirty finger and nasty dish water” recipe. Serves eight.
Pre-heat the oven to 2000 deg. C (if oven doesn’t go that high check with your local nuclear regulatory agency for any available ovens in your area).
Open favorite bottle of wine. Start drinking.
Get a large, empty, cat litter bucket (the kind that holds “scented” 40 lbs of multi-cat household cat litter). Rinse and set aside. Or not, depending on how many glasses of wine you’ve had…
Dig out your retired Marine husbands cache of black grease paint (you know, the kind that looks like shoe polish that he keeps it in the medicine cabinet “just in case”). If grease paint is not available use your favorite red lipstick (the kind you don’t have time to wear anymore but your 5 year old does). Grease bottom of cat litter bucket with it. Drink another glass of wine.
Have Child #1 (son #1) drag in large paper garbage bag of “paperwork” that he uses when he can coerce one of the other kids to hold a “meeting” with him. Take about 1/3 of paperwork and place in food processor. Add 2.5 cups of dirty dish water. Blend until lumpy and nasty. Pour into bucket. Return remainder of paperwork to son. Drink another glass of wine.
Have Child #2 (daughter #1) round up every headless Barbie doll in the house. You know the ones – the naked, headless dolls that have been colored with your black laundry marker. You know - the dolls that keep poking out from under the couch when the minister of your church drops over to actually witness you parenting six (6!) children at once.
Finish dismembering dolls. Place in food processor. Blend. If the blender breaks don’t worry – place in microwave until dolls melt. Scrape up, mix with all the toy cars you stepped on in the middle of the night on the way to the bathroom and vowed to throw in the trash. Add one can diet Pepsi (the kind you never get to drink anyway as you keep getting taste testers who want “just one sip”.) As you are now suffering from acute dehydration anything you do cannot be held against you in Probate court. Stir. The batter will be lumpy. Don’t worry about it. Drink more wine.
Have Child #3 (daughter #2) bring in all the mate less socks in the house (probably because you waited two weeks to find the mate and then threw them out, only to discover the missing 15 socks two days later in the bottom of the toy chest with the local mouse population.) Cut off the toes. Place toe pieces directly into cat litter box. Discard remainder. Stir. No, not with your wine glass. What the hell…use your fingers.
Have Child #4 (daughter #3) daughter bring in a carton of eggs. Spread newspaper under cat littler bucket. Let #3 daughter practice her egg cracking skills and throw just the shells into the bucket, and place the yolk in a bowl. Nah… never mind…just put the whole egg (what’s left of it after the 15th crack) into the bucket. Wash child’s hands. Take picture of greatest smile in history. Kiss child. Call in Child #4. Drink rest of bottle of wine. Open new bottle.
Have Child #5 (son #2) brings in crayons. Have child put crayons in a microwavable bowl. Place in microwave. Cook for 8.5 minutes. Remove mess and dump (bowl and all) into bucket. Send son #2 to dry cleaners. Drink directly from bottle. Kick wine glass pieces under counter.
Have Child #6 (son #3) wave his arms around and say the magic word “Candy”. Watch child #6 laugh like a mad man and practice his favorite English word about 6 more times “Candy!” “Candy!” “CANDY CANDY CANDY CANDY!!””
Mix well, add canned cat food and beer to taste. Top off with your favorite bottle of wine (if there’s any left in the bottle.) If no wine, use beer. Make sure husband isn’t looking.
Close lid and shake. Place bucket in leaky barn (“garage”). Let ferment until spring (Please note - if you live in Michigan spring starts on July 4th). Turn off oven. (Think of it as an exercise in futility if you actually went looking for a 2000 deg C oven – at this stage of your life you will take any exercise you can get).
Let bucket ferment for at least six months. (By that time your wine cellar should be restocked). Have husband remove bucket from barn and place at least 20 yards from the house. Reposition bucket to the back yard, away from the line of sight of neighbor’s ducks. Do not open the bucket! Ok, maybe a peek. Just one peek. I SAID ONE PEEK! AND IF YOU THROW UP ON MY RECIPE PREPARE TO DIE!”
Now – get husband’s antique black power rifle. Aim carefully at center of bucket. Put down rifle. Remove husband from line of fire. Pick up rifle. Put down rifle. Remove child #1 from line of fire. Yes, you have to. Yes, even him. No it won’t be called an accident. No, jail is not quieter than your house….no, the food is not better….JUST MOVE THE KID!
Now – raise husband’s rifle. Aim carefully at the center of bucket. Fire rifle.
If nothing happens, fire again. And again. And again again again again again….until bucket either explodes and goes into orbit or neighbors call the Sheriff’s department.
Feel better! Good. Repeat again next November when the kids haven’t been out of the house for three days and the wine is gone and the minister is bringing along a social worker to view the naked headless Barbies under the couch and you just can’t take the noise anymore!!!
It just doesn’t get any better!
As always, love from Buckley.
A Legacy (Dateline September, 2004)
I was walking back from the neighbor’s yard one morning a few weeks ago after chasing a flock of ducks out of the road and it occurred to me that I had created a legacy. Funny how these things start…
It began about four years ago when our neighbors received a breeding pair of Muscovy Ducks to populate their barnyard. If you do your research you will find out the Muscovy ducks come from South America, and are the only domesticated duck in the U.S. not from Mallard stock. (See how smart I am?) They are also the ugliest duck you will ever encounter – black and white, with a large red knobby schnozz and big orange feet.
“The neighbors” being “the neighbors”*, didn’t pen the ducks up, but let them roam the neighborhood to do whatever ducks do in their spare time (eating, pooping, procreating, pooping, sunbathing and more pooping). As we live in a rather small neighborhood (just us, “the neighbors” and a whole lot of cows) Ma and Pa Duck would come over for extended visits, returning home only when we ran out of bird seed or a clean place to poop.
All things being equal it was bound to happen. I came home one day to find Fred (the male duck) wistfully sitting by the side of the road gazing out at his mate – who was by that time not much more than a dark streak in the middle of the road. Being the kind-hearted person that I am, I retrieved what I could, called "the neighbors" and prayed that they didn’t eat road kill.
If you think this was the end of the story (like I did) – you don’t know much about ducks. Early the next morning as I was leaving for work I was stopped in my tracks by a very angry 18lb duck sitting in the middle of our sidewalk glaring at me. He was soon a very wet angry duck and I was on my way to work. Fred remained at his post for the next several days, marching from the front door to the back door (sort of like a Marine on guard duty) glaring balefully into our house.
After about three days, when I just couldn’t stand one more minute of being stared as I paraded by in my underwear, it occurred to me what was going on. Fred had convinced himself that his wife was being held captive inside our house and he wasn’t leaving until he got her back. Faced with that much dedication I finally gave in. At work that day I started educating myself on ducks and began a search for a female replacement.
It didn’t take long for me to track down the local 4-H coordinator, who recommended I contact a young man who lived not far from my house. It seems he’d been raising Muscovy’s for quite a while for show at the local fair (probably winning the “Best Ugly Duck” contest or something… is there an award for projectile pooping?). So that Saturday, husband, daughter (we only had one kid back then… the peace, the quiet, the money!) and I set off for the local duck farm.
It didn’t take long before we returned home with a very mad 10 lb female duck in the cat carrier (should have rinsed the darn thing out, I guess). Getting out of the car I released the duck right into the arms of her waiting husband - who proceeded to do the one thing ducks do best…make that the 2nd best thing. This caused one of those “motherhood” moments you are never quite ready for – explaining to my 18-month-old daughter why Fred was playing so hard with the female ducky that she was squealing…
The summer passed and Fred and Ethel set up housekeeping in our side yard. Ethel sat on her eggs for about 2 months and at the end of the summer we had a brood of 10 babies (yeah, ok, cute babies). Sometime around October "the neighbors" showed up to collect the ducks.
After a peaceful winter interlude (which included a relatively clean driveway, and a non-bitching husband) the ducks returned. Early that spring two more mating pairs came back to set up housekeeping. It got so bad that leaving the house was like traipsing through a mine field – avoiding duck poop is a skill that takes time and lots of patience. By the end of the summer we were up to about 45 ducks in various stages of maturity.
I spent my summer evenings chasing ducks out of the road, and was mostly successful. The tourists visiting our area must have gotten used to seeing me dash out of the house in various stages of undress screaming like a mad woman, and swinging a broom to corral the ducks out of the road and under the fence. Some tourists got so enamored of my performance that they would purposely drive by and honk their horn just to see if I remembered to put my pants on before barreling out of the house…(go figure).
Occasionally I wasn’t fast enough, or even at home, and a duck was killed. We would call over to "the neighbors" with a fatality count and they would send over some of their kids with a bucket to collect the remains. I’m not sure what they did with them, and I really don’t want to go there (as I seriously doubt they had a ducky graveyard…they’re from Detroit you know).
Well, "the neighbors" must have thought that 45 ducks were a bit much (or the ducks started pooping on their driveway) because by the next spring there were only about 15 left, including Fred and Ethel.
Ethel died later that summer, having succumbed to the road. A wake was held by about ten of the half grown babies for about an hour before I chased them back under the fence. Fred must have died of a broken heart that winter, as I didn’t see him after that.
All good things come to pass and so did the ducks. We didn’t see them much after that. "The neighbors" kept the ducks penned up pretty well (not sure if it was my call to the Sheriff’s Department or my husbands threat to make duck pie).
Then a few weeks ago, as I was finishing my coffee over the kitchen sink staring vacantly out the kitchen window – there they were. About 20 big, ugly, black and white ducks marching single file across our yard, heading right for the cornfield across the road. After intercepting them and turning them back to their own yard, I walked them home. That’s when it occurred to me that one small act of kindness on my part (or insanity, depending on whom you talk to) had taken on a life of its own - a legacy had been created (well, I guess there are worse things to be remembered for).
It’s funny, but I sorta miss seeing the ducks doing their FOD** walk down in our side yard every morning, like so many black and white cow patties marching in formation. I wonder if they'll come back ….
Love from Buckley.
*"The Neighbors" - No, they aren't the Adams Family...it's just how the kids refer to them ... but sometimes I wonder...
**FOD (Foreign Object on Deck) – usually referring to an inspection conducted on aircraft carriers or runways before airplanes take off – to prevent aircraft engines from sucking up strange things like ducks, or loose "neighbors".
It began about four years ago when our neighbors received a breeding pair of Muscovy Ducks to populate their barnyard. If you do your research you will find out the Muscovy ducks come from South America, and are the only domesticated duck in the U.S. not from Mallard stock. (See how smart I am?) They are also the ugliest duck you will ever encounter – black and white, with a large red knobby schnozz and big orange feet.
“The neighbors” being “the neighbors”*, didn’t pen the ducks up, but let them roam the neighborhood to do whatever ducks do in their spare time (eating, pooping, procreating, pooping, sunbathing and more pooping). As we live in a rather small neighborhood (just us, “the neighbors” and a whole lot of cows) Ma and Pa Duck would come over for extended visits, returning home only when we ran out of bird seed or a clean place to poop.
All things being equal it was bound to happen. I came home one day to find Fred (the male duck) wistfully sitting by the side of the road gazing out at his mate – who was by that time not much more than a dark streak in the middle of the road. Being the kind-hearted person that I am, I retrieved what I could, called "the neighbors" and prayed that they didn’t eat road kill.
If you think this was the end of the story (like I did) – you don’t know much about ducks. Early the next morning as I was leaving for work I was stopped in my tracks by a very angry 18lb duck sitting in the middle of our sidewalk glaring at me. He was soon a very wet angry duck and I was on my way to work. Fred remained at his post for the next several days, marching from the front door to the back door (sort of like a Marine on guard duty) glaring balefully into our house.
After about three days, when I just couldn’t stand one more minute of being stared as I paraded by in my underwear, it occurred to me what was going on. Fred had convinced himself that his wife was being held captive inside our house and he wasn’t leaving until he got her back. Faced with that much dedication I finally gave in. At work that day I started educating myself on ducks and began a search for a female replacement.
It didn’t take long for me to track down the local 4-H coordinator, who recommended I contact a young man who lived not far from my house. It seems he’d been raising Muscovy’s for quite a while for show at the local fair (probably winning the “Best Ugly Duck” contest or something… is there an award for projectile pooping?). So that Saturday, husband, daughter (we only had one kid back then… the peace, the quiet, the money!) and I set off for the local duck farm.
It didn’t take long before we returned home with a very mad 10 lb female duck in the cat carrier (should have rinsed the darn thing out, I guess). Getting out of the car I released the duck right into the arms of her waiting husband - who proceeded to do the one thing ducks do best…make that the 2nd best thing. This caused one of those “motherhood” moments you are never quite ready for – explaining to my 18-month-old daughter why Fred was playing so hard with the female ducky that she was squealing…
The summer passed and Fred and Ethel set up housekeeping in our side yard. Ethel sat on her eggs for about 2 months and at the end of the summer we had a brood of 10 babies (yeah, ok, cute babies). Sometime around October "the neighbors" showed up to collect the ducks.
After a peaceful winter interlude (which included a relatively clean driveway, and a non-bitching husband) the ducks returned. Early that spring two more mating pairs came back to set up housekeeping. It got so bad that leaving the house was like traipsing through a mine field – avoiding duck poop is a skill that takes time and lots of patience. By the end of the summer we were up to about 45 ducks in various stages of maturity.
I spent my summer evenings chasing ducks out of the road, and was mostly successful. The tourists visiting our area must have gotten used to seeing me dash out of the house in various stages of undress screaming like a mad woman, and swinging a broom to corral the ducks out of the road and under the fence. Some tourists got so enamored of my performance that they would purposely drive by and honk their horn just to see if I remembered to put my pants on before barreling out of the house…(go figure).
Occasionally I wasn’t fast enough, or even at home, and a duck was killed. We would call over to "the neighbors" with a fatality count and they would send over some of their kids with a bucket to collect the remains. I’m not sure what they did with them, and I really don’t want to go there (as I seriously doubt they had a ducky graveyard…they’re from Detroit you know).
Well, "the neighbors" must have thought that 45 ducks were a bit much (or the ducks started pooping on their driveway) because by the next spring there were only about 15 left, including Fred and Ethel.
Ethel died later that summer, having succumbed to the road. A wake was held by about ten of the half grown babies for about an hour before I chased them back under the fence. Fred must have died of a broken heart that winter, as I didn’t see him after that.
All good things come to pass and so did the ducks. We didn’t see them much after that. "The neighbors" kept the ducks penned up pretty well (not sure if it was my call to the Sheriff’s Department or my husbands threat to make duck pie).
Then a few weeks ago, as I was finishing my coffee over the kitchen sink staring vacantly out the kitchen window – there they were. About 20 big, ugly, black and white ducks marching single file across our yard, heading right for the cornfield across the road. After intercepting them and turning them back to their own yard, I walked them home. That’s when it occurred to me that one small act of kindness on my part (or insanity, depending on whom you talk to) had taken on a life of its own - a legacy had been created (well, I guess there are worse things to be remembered for).
It’s funny, but I sorta miss seeing the ducks doing their FOD** walk down in our side yard every morning, like so many black and white cow patties marching in formation. I wonder if they'll come back ….
Love from Buckley.
*"The Neighbors" - No, they aren't the Adams Family...it's just how the kids refer to them ... but sometimes I wonder...
**FOD (Foreign Object on Deck) – usually referring to an inspection conducted on aircraft carriers or runways before airplanes take off – to prevent aircraft engines from sucking up strange things like ducks, or loose "neighbors".
The Day I Cleaned The Basement (Dateline August 2004)
When my husband and I were “expecting” our first child from China several years ago, we didn’t have much of a support group. I didn’t know about adoption groups on Yahoo!. So my husband and I weren’t aware of the effects of “THE WAIT” on previously normal people. Our agency never mentioned it, and as we don’t have any neighbors to speak of, we just came across it blindly one day towards the end of the eight month period BR (before referral). We had been dealing with our last eight kid-free months by carefully marking off the days on the calender. The effects of “The Wait” weren’t noticeable until about the six month mark. A day that will live in infamy. The day I cleaned the basement.
I’m not speaking of a normal basement in a normal house, where most people put their rec room, their spare bathroom and their in-laws. No, I’m talking about a 110 year old Michigan basement. The kind only seen in Michigan, and haunted houses in Virginia (and other places in the deep south). I’m talking about the kind of basement that Stephen King would feature in one of his books, or the type that murder victims would be found in 46 years later by new owners putting up canned tomatoes.
You enter our basement by a hole in the kitchen floor. At one time the hole was covered by a door in the floor that was about 8 feet long by 3 feet wide, operated by a pulley system by what was then the front door. Since then it has been reduced in size to about four feet long and two feet wide, and opened by pulling on a piece of rope that pokes out of the floor. You the put the rope over a hook and hope like hell it doesn’t fall back and hit you on the head as you descend the stairs.
The basement is under the original part of our house, and the walls are made of field stone stacked on top of each other filled with whatever farmers filled their cracks with back then. The floor has been concreted over, but was probably a dirt floor at one time. There is a ladder that leads up to a set of Bilco Doors (picture the basement doors that Dorothy’s Auntie Em had to get into when the tornado came and you get the picture.) The basement ends under the original part of the house and a crawl space (beginning about 3 feet up the back wall) is under the rest of the house (covered in dirt, dead mice and stalactite rocks that hang from the underfloor of the living room). Although I personally haven’t seen any skeletons in this space I’m not discounting old in-laws resting in peace under there...
The basement wasn’t as crowded then as it is now. But there wasn’t any shelving and things were stacked up against the wall. When you opened the door in the floor and hooked the rope back the first thing you saw in the light coming down from the kitchen was a dark shadow escaping back to the crawl space on the other side of the room. I’m still not sure if the shadows moving over to that side of the room were just plays of light and dark, or the spiders, zombies, ghosts and ghoulies returning back to the crawl space under the house..
Now, one doesn’t just march into a Michigan basement, vacumn cleaner hose in hand and start sucking up spiders. One must dress for the occasion. One wears one’s husbands old flight suit (but any one piece jump suit will do). This ensures that the spiders, and other squirmy things, don’t wiggle down the back of your pants into your unmentionable areas. You place your hair in a pony tail and put it up inside your husbands old Marine Corps helmet (to insure no spiders land on your head) and you put on jump boots (with those little elastic things under the pants leg to ensure that your legs are sealed off to the aforementioned spiders). Gloves are optional. Now you are ready to clean.
Armed with just an extension cord, a vacumn cleaner and hose, you bravely wave goodbye to your husband as he shuts the door behind you. You are now alone. Alone with the spider webs (the spiders are smart enough to hide), the dusty furniture, and any ghosts of that might be disturbed by the noise. You turn on the vacumn cleaner and start cleaning. You start with the ceiling first, to ensure that no aerial attacks occur. Next you clean at face level, same reasoning. Then down the walls to the floor. You clean one square foot at a time, ensuring that you leave yourself a wide enough escape path that no spiders can reach you if you have to leave the room at mach 5 because you finally discovered what really happened to dear Aunt Agnes or the “missing cousin” no one talks about.
After about two hours it’s time to switch vacumn cleaner bags. You’re not sure if it’s all the small chips of rock wall filling, dirt, or spiders you have sucked up but the vacumn cleaner isn’t working as well and the vacumn cleaner bag is moving all on it’s own. You scream for your husband to throw down a water bottle, PB&J sandwiches and another vacumn cleaner bag, because you know if you leave the basement unfinished you will never return.
You are now half way through the room and half way to the crawl space, which remains eerily black regardless of how many lights you have turned on. You continue to chase spiders, cleaning out dead pill bugs, large furry exoskeletons of who knows what (and you don’t really want to go there right now, do you?) and strange pieces of confetti that litter the floor. You occasionally wipe a spider web off your face, dust your helmet for things that shouldn’t be there and continue to vacumn at the speed of light (thinking Martha Stewart has nothing on your cleaning skills!)
By the time you are done the place is in apple pie order. For not only have you gotten rid of 2.3 lbs of spider webs, 8.6 lbs of exoskeletons, 14.5 lbs of rock pieces and confetti, but you have also organized everything by size, color and usefulness. You are now just inches from the crawl space. Being the intrepid cleaner you are you slowly put your vacumn cleaner hose to the edge of the space and tentatively start sucking up monster size dust bunnies. Then you stop. What was that? Was it just a light reflected back from the bathroom plumbing or something more sinister?? Not pausing for reflection you slowly back up, clutching the vacumn hose in one hand and the vacumn cleaner in the other. Slowly you turn, step by step, then run like hell to the stairs and out the door (doubting all the way that your feet even touched the ground).
Two weeks later your husband goes down to get the vacumn cleaner you dropped, as the upstairs is now as nasty as the basement was before you cleaned.
Your DH (dear husband) tells you to stand in the yard so he can hose you down. You stand there covered in grey stuff, not really caring that the neighbors are watching you getting sprayed off like a dirty car. You are just trying to ignore the creepy feeling that somehow something with at least eight legs has found it’s way down your back and is heading towards your underwear.
This concluded the cleaning cycle of my “Wait”. Afterwards, to fill my time I obsessively joined adoption groups, tracked FedEx Airplanes and searched for the phone my husband hid because the agency threatened us with legal action if I call “just one more time!”
Mary Who survived the wait five times successfully and is now surviving it “just once more”.
I’m not speaking of a normal basement in a normal house, where most people put their rec room, their spare bathroom and their in-laws. No, I’m talking about a 110 year old Michigan basement. The kind only seen in Michigan, and haunted houses in Virginia (and other places in the deep south). I’m talking about the kind of basement that Stephen King would feature in one of his books, or the type that murder victims would be found in 46 years later by new owners putting up canned tomatoes.
You enter our basement by a hole in the kitchen floor. At one time the hole was covered by a door in the floor that was about 8 feet long by 3 feet wide, operated by a pulley system by what was then the front door. Since then it has been reduced in size to about four feet long and two feet wide, and opened by pulling on a piece of rope that pokes out of the floor. You the put the rope over a hook and hope like hell it doesn’t fall back and hit you on the head as you descend the stairs.
The basement is under the original part of our house, and the walls are made of field stone stacked on top of each other filled with whatever farmers filled their cracks with back then. The floor has been concreted over, but was probably a dirt floor at one time. There is a ladder that leads up to a set of Bilco Doors (picture the basement doors that Dorothy’s Auntie Em had to get into when the tornado came and you get the picture.) The basement ends under the original part of the house and a crawl space (beginning about 3 feet up the back wall) is under the rest of the house (covered in dirt, dead mice and stalactite rocks that hang from the underfloor of the living room). Although I personally haven’t seen any skeletons in this space I’m not discounting old in-laws resting in peace under there...
The basement wasn’t as crowded then as it is now. But there wasn’t any shelving and things were stacked up against the wall. When you opened the door in the floor and hooked the rope back the first thing you saw in the light coming down from the kitchen was a dark shadow escaping back to the crawl space on the other side of the room. I’m still not sure if the shadows moving over to that side of the room were just plays of light and dark, or the spiders, zombies, ghosts and ghoulies returning back to the crawl space under the house..
Now, one doesn’t just march into a Michigan basement, vacumn cleaner hose in hand and start sucking up spiders. One must dress for the occasion. One wears one’s husbands old flight suit (but any one piece jump suit will do). This ensures that the spiders, and other squirmy things, don’t wiggle down the back of your pants into your unmentionable areas. You place your hair in a pony tail and put it up inside your husbands old Marine Corps helmet (to insure no spiders land on your head) and you put on jump boots (with those little elastic things under the pants leg to ensure that your legs are sealed off to the aforementioned spiders). Gloves are optional. Now you are ready to clean.
Armed with just an extension cord, a vacumn cleaner and hose, you bravely wave goodbye to your husband as he shuts the door behind you. You are now alone. Alone with the spider webs (the spiders are smart enough to hide), the dusty furniture, and any ghosts of that might be disturbed by the noise. You turn on the vacumn cleaner and start cleaning. You start with the ceiling first, to ensure that no aerial attacks occur. Next you clean at face level, same reasoning. Then down the walls to the floor. You clean one square foot at a time, ensuring that you leave yourself a wide enough escape path that no spiders can reach you if you have to leave the room at mach 5 because you finally discovered what really happened to dear Aunt Agnes or the “missing cousin” no one talks about.
After about two hours it’s time to switch vacumn cleaner bags. You’re not sure if it’s all the small chips of rock wall filling, dirt, or spiders you have sucked up but the vacumn cleaner isn’t working as well and the vacumn cleaner bag is moving all on it’s own. You scream for your husband to throw down a water bottle, PB&J sandwiches and another vacumn cleaner bag, because you know if you leave the basement unfinished you will never return.
You are now half way through the room and half way to the crawl space, which remains eerily black regardless of how many lights you have turned on. You continue to chase spiders, cleaning out dead pill bugs, large furry exoskeletons of who knows what (and you don’t really want to go there right now, do you?) and strange pieces of confetti that litter the floor. You occasionally wipe a spider web off your face, dust your helmet for things that shouldn’t be there and continue to vacumn at the speed of light (thinking Martha Stewart has nothing on your cleaning skills!)
By the time you are done the place is in apple pie order. For not only have you gotten rid of 2.3 lbs of spider webs, 8.6 lbs of exoskeletons, 14.5 lbs of rock pieces and confetti, but you have also organized everything by size, color and usefulness. You are now just inches from the crawl space. Being the intrepid cleaner you are you slowly put your vacumn cleaner hose to the edge of the space and tentatively start sucking up monster size dust bunnies. Then you stop. What was that? Was it just a light reflected back from the bathroom plumbing or something more sinister?? Not pausing for reflection you slowly back up, clutching the vacumn hose in one hand and the vacumn cleaner in the other. Slowly you turn, step by step, then run like hell to the stairs and out the door (doubting all the way that your feet even touched the ground).
Two weeks later your husband goes down to get the vacumn cleaner you dropped, as the upstairs is now as nasty as the basement was before you cleaned.
Your DH (dear husband) tells you to stand in the yard so he can hose you down. You stand there covered in grey stuff, not really caring that the neighbors are watching you getting sprayed off like a dirty car. You are just trying to ignore the creepy feeling that somehow something with at least eight legs has found it’s way down your back and is heading towards your underwear.
This concluded the cleaning cycle of my “Wait”. Afterwards, to fill my time I obsessively joined adoption groups, tracked FedEx Airplanes and searched for the phone my husband hid because the agency threatened us with legal action if I call “just one more time!”
Mary Who survived the wait five times successfully and is now surviving it “just once more”.
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