File This Under Ironic

"Mama," Ainsley comes wailing to me. "John called me a tattletale!"

A Day in the Kindergarten

Here's a first for me -- substitute teaching in a kindergarten classroom.

Getting there required a bit of mad dash and the first thirty minutes were a tad dicey, but besides that, all was mostly well. No, I haven't discovered what I want to be when I grow up, but all was mostly well.

Those first thirty minutes reminded of the last time I was in charge in a kindergarten classroom -- ten years ago when I taught art once a week for Tim and his then tiny pals. The key take away: Don't turn your back for a minute. If you can avoid pausing to take a breath, all the better. Don't think back to your days in the high school classroom  and consider such folly as strolling down to the copy room to snag a cup of Joe. Oh, no, no, no. There's a reason that elementary kids think teachers never go to the bathroom -- they don't. That is, until the P.E. teacher, the music teacher, the Spanish teacher, or some other blessed and merciful soul assumes temporary command of their charges.

Yeah, the first few minutes were like playing that Whack a Mole game in which the moles just keep popping up. (Thankfully, no one provided me with a stick, and I didn't whack anyone.)

But they were lively. And talkative. And in non-stop motion.

The biggest challenge? Little children are creatures of habit. This is a good thing, something the teacher, no doubt, has worked long and hard to instill in them. Classroom management is all about routines. Trouble is, you throw a sub in there, and she does things a little differently, and the kids all go bug-eyed.

"No!!!" I kid told me in near horror, "we don't read over there!"

"Jonah's supposed to pass out the paper! He's the classroom servant today!"

"We never put things on top of our cubbies!"

Lord love them, they embrace the letter of the law, and there I was just fomenting rebellion and sedition in the ranks with no mind whatsoever for the Way! Things! Ought! To! Be! They're probably at home telling tales to their parents.

I at least had the good sense to respect the office of Line Leader. If Ainsley has taught me anything, it's that one does not mess with the Line Leader.

Lunchtime rolled around, and I realized I had forgotten to pack anything for myself. John grudgingly shared his Doritos. On the table full of math manipulatives,  I spied a container of pretzel rods. After a brief taste test, I am reasonably confident they've been there being counted and measured since Kolbe was in kindergarten.

In the afternoon we hit phonics -- reading and spelling and rhyming. We read Press Here, one of the coolest books ever. I came home and bought it off Amazon.

Tilt the book a little to the left, the book reads. And all the dots slide to the left. Shake it all up! The dots get bigger. So cool. The kids loved it.

As we moved from one activity to the next, I thought about the variety of jobs I've had. I have mostly good memories of my years in big business. I worked with neat people and did some interesting, challenging work. Too often, however  I left my office, having put in long hours, and wondering if my contribution had made any difference at all.

Teaching is nothing like that.  I knew I could have been a better teacher -- more interesting, more patient  more organized --  but I never struggled to see the point of it all. At the end of the day, I could see a ninth grader who could produce a reasonable essay, a student who actually enjoyed The Odyssey, a senior who could articulate what the Renaissance was and why it mattered.

With these little, little ones, it's even more obvious and in some ways more gratifying. At the end of the phonics lessons, five children understood that I plus CK says ICK and that rhymes with pick and sick and nick and stick.

My hat has always gone off to elementary teachers because their side of the trenches routinely includes shoe tying and trips to bathroom and occasionally descends into fever and, worst of all, vomit.  Even today, I had to pop into the little boys' room to check on a student who was having, ahem, issues. Thankfully, for me and for him, it happened to be my kid. As I helped him and as I opened lunch containers and put straws in drinks and assisted with jackets, I thought that there's a good reason my kids have occasionally called me Mrs.Hebert or Mrs. Phillips. The job calls for a fair amount of Mommying.

Please pray for Mrs. Hebert, the hard working teacher who does this everyday, and for her son who had an emergency appendectomy yesterday.

A Most Excellent Sneaker

A much younger John sneaking coffee.

I'm trying to pass John the last Oatmeal Pie without his sister taking notice.

"Here, John," I tell him. "You've got to be sneaky."

"I'm an excellent sneaker," he assures me.

He's had a lot of practice.

Long and Winding Roads Continued

As I related on Wednesday, we went North, and I managed the return trip solo.

I've already recounted the riveting, heart pounding tale of the first nine miles of the seven hundred mile trip. On to the next 691!

Door to door, Augusta to Detroit is a fifteen hour drive. If I leave from my parents' house on Pelee Island in Lake Erie, we shave three hours off the drive.  I have a theory about long drives.  It sort of fits the 80/20 rule, but please don't do the math. The first "half" of the includes 80% of the time involved; the second "half" is the remaining 20%. On a fifteen hour drive, the first twelve hours seems like "half" of the trip; the remaining three hours feel like the second "half." Bottom line: The three hour shave makes the whole trip seem much more manageable.

Paper airplane flying through the van bearing the message, "Mom, can I have something to eat?"

Except that the 80/20 rule still applies. The first half is nine hours; the second half remains the final three hours.

No matter how we slice it, the last leg kicks our tails.

Our twelve hour tour began in Sandusky, Ohio.  There I got a bit befuddled trying to get on the Ohio Turnpike and finally opted for the scenic route which would lead us to I-77. Normally I avoid scenic routes because the only scenery I'm really interested in is my bed in Augusta, Georgia, and the faster we get there the better.

What can I say about Ohio? When you grow up in Michigan and attend the University of Michigan, you're really not supposed to say anything nice about Ohio. If I were to be completely honest here, I would admit that a bag of hand-me-downs recently came my way and in it was a perfectly serviceable Ohio State t-shirt.

I threw it away.

How awful is that?

But, really, we simply don't do Ohio State sportswear in our family. No.

But there we were in the Ohio, turning onto Highway 250, and I have to admit, it was lovely. Rolling hills, grass of a shade of green you find only in areas that get heavy snow falls. This is Amish country. The hills are peppered with white houses and bright red barns, The kids spotted horse drawn buggies, little girls in blue dresses, little boys in straw hats.

Our route took us past Dover, Ohio. Our dear friend Bob V. hailed from Dover. As we drove, I prayed for the repose his soul.

Pretty as Ohio is, it's also long. By the time we reached West Virgina, I thought John Denver was spot on when he called this state "almost heaven." It's the most mountainous state along I-77, offering gorgeous views of sprawling farms and, like Ohio, green, green hills. West Virginia also offers two bridges and two tunnels which, of course, the little kids love.

But this go around, West Virgina also offered a challenge we were not anticipating: constipation. Yes, I promised some mention of bodily function, so here we go.

Many mothers think about potty training and ask pertinent questions such as: Is the child ready? Am I ready? I think about potty training and focus on one succinct point: When are we driving to Michigan? A half-potty trained toddler in a car for fifteen hours? No.

So we potty trained in June. Problem solved. But when you're sitting for hours on end and not running around as usual, well, as they say in those commercials, things can get irregular.

"I've got to go potty," Ainsley informed me in the middle of Nowhere, West Virgina. And I do mean Nowhere. Miles and miles and miles from an exit or rest stop. So we pulled over. And this was scary. The road was curvy, and big rigs were everywhere.

 Ainsley looked at me with a woebegone little face and said, "It's just not working."

And we got back into the van. And merged into traffic cruising at 70 miles per hour. And I don't like that.

And fifteen minutes later: Mama, I need to go potty. And it still wasn't working.

And twenty-two minutes after that.

I put her in a pull up and begged her to go. Well, let me tell you, that is an indignity of the highest order. When you've cheered her every success, mounted a chart with stars on the refrigerator to track her progress, invested a bundle in cute, cute panties, well, there's no going back to pull ups.

And on it went.

West Virgina was long. And not very heavenly.

Then we were on into Virgina. What can I say about Virginia? On the far western end, it's skinny -- mercifully, blessedly skinny. In and out. Welcome to North Carolina. Can I hear a great shout out for the state of Virgina? Love you, Virgina!

As for North Carolina, this state offered the nicest rest stops, the cleanest bathrooms, the prettiest wild flowers, and no constipation. Thank you, North Carolina!

But North Carolina, too, is long and by the time we reached South Carolina, the old eighty twenty rule, as stated earlier, was kicking out hind quarters. What can I say about South Carolina? Lived there for eight years. Home to Charleston, which I would deem the prettiest city in The United States. Gorgeous beaches. Of course none of this is anywhere near where we drive. Our route follows a long, boring, non-descript path.

We passed Winthrop College, notable only because Dave and I attended Engaged Encounter there many years ago and because there's a street called Dave Lyle Boulevard. We laugh about it every time we see the sign because Dave's middle name happens to be Lyle.

Dave Lyle Boulevard. How cool is that?

So we were whipping down I-77 at 72 miles an hour, and suddenly I caught a glimpse of green on the side of the road and realized there was a Dave Lyle Boulevard sign lying on the shoulder of the highway. I was going too fast to make a sudden stop, and were already like a zillion hours into a drive that would be a zillion hours plus three. But guess what? I threw caution to the wind, took the next exit, drove eight miles NORTH!, and got back on I-77 South to find the sign.

I slowed down, looked for it, looked for, it, and there it was! I pulled over and told the kids what I was doing. They, of course, were convinced this was Grand! Larceny! They were absolutely undone that their crazy mother was about to "steal" a street sign. I began to freak out just a little and grabbed Kolbe's coat to cover up the contraband sign. I loaded it into the car, and we all had a laugh that we were now the proud owners of a Dave Lyle Boulevard sign.

And on we went.

And let me tell you the last hour or two had all the flavor of the Bataan Death March. Ainsley napped briefly only to wake up wailing, wailing, wailing, "I can't take it anymore!"

I think she spoke for all of us.

I directed Tim to the hidden stash of M and M's and told him to dole it out judiciously-- this was our final cache of chocolate.

We made it home.

We always do.

On every trip like this, there is at least one excruciating moment that gives me pause, that leads me to ask myself, "What were we thinking? Why do we do this? Why?"

The short answer? It's just what we do.

Some years once, some years twice, one year three times -- this is what we do. I wouldn't hazard a guess as to how many miles (both frequent flyer and road) we've clocked. We travel for births and deaths, for weddings and anniversaries, for graduations and Bat Mitzvahs.

It isn't easy.

But we continue to do it.

And now for the long answer . . .

We do this because, despite growing up seven hundred miles from their grandparents, my kids think Grandma's basement is magical and that Grandpa is the best chess player ever.

Because my children cheer for the Wolverines even though they've never lived in Michigan.

Because all of them remember sitting on Papa's lap listening to colorful renditions of that Dolin family classic, Harvey's Hideout.

Because my kids are so close to their cousins, you'd think they grew up a block apart.

Because John and Ainsley will never forget the evenings we spent catching fire flies in Grandma's yard or the afternoons playing in her little pool.

Because Tim and Kolbe remember the year Papa grew pumpkins for all the grandsons and carved their names into them.

And, finally, we do this because of  the phone call I received on the road, just north of Charlotte. It was my sister calling to say my mother had fallen and re-fractured her collar bone.

While we sit in the Dodge Caravan hour after hour, we wish time would only move faster. But in reality, it's moving fast enough, and not a one of us knows how much longer we'll have together.

Decades ago, Dave and I left Michigan, but we didn't leave our families. The road is indeed both long and winding, and we'll keep on travelling it.

Eyes and Ears and Mouth and Nose

1. A friend calls this morning.

What she says: I just stopped by. You weren't there.

What I hear: Do you want to have coffee? I'll be right there.

So I respond: Sounds Good.

And hang up the phone on her.


2. This reminds me of a problem I've had with my cell phone, admittedly the cheapest and now surely one of the oldest in the history of cell phones. The dinosaur records minutes. I look down at the micro-screen and read, "428 minutes, Kel."

I thought that Dave, who generously handles all our techno-issues, had personalized my menu and added the name Kel. Sort of sweet, you know.

After years of viewing this message, I finally looked at while wearing my glasses and discovered that it actually reads "428 minutes left."

Left, Kel - what forty-eight -year-old woman can tell the difference? And does it really matter?


3. These day I have fewer problems of this variety because I have my glasses with me at all times. I tired of going to the grocery store and wondering if I were about to pay $7.92 per pound or $1.78 per pound. Life's full of gambles, but I'd rather place a wager on something more interesting than ground chuck.

Now my principle struggle is in the shower where, understandably, I do not stow a spare pair of specs. While staying at Dave' s parents, I held a plastic bottle as far as my short arms could reach trying in vain to decipher whether the label read conditioner or shampoo. Eventually I decided to live dangerously and just guess.

I have the same issue with shaving my legs. Now, rather than looking to see if I need to shave, I just shave.


4. Meanwhile back to ears . . .  I've just picked up John from school because his left ear is stuffed with green Playdoh that seems to be migrating brainward. The classroom, he informed the principal, was getting a little loud for his liking. His pediatrician was very sympathetic to John's attempt to muffle unwanted noise, but recommended he try ear plugs instead. After a fair amount of poking and prodding followed by a lavage rinse, I think John just may follow the doctor's orders the next time his classmates get on his nerves.

For the moment John is all about safety, walking around the house offering pearls of wisdom like: Never put sausage up your nose.

Sound advice, that.

5. And finally, on the issue of mouths . . .  My precious, darling girl now has one of the loud variety. Oh, does she have a shriek and do we ever get enough of it! Some kids pull out all the stops at two; Clearly, Ainsley was saving it up for age three.

Loud or soft, there's nothing like the voice of a three-year-old. "Oh, my stickers! They rip did," she tells me.  "Oh, the bathtub! You cool off did it!"  "Daddy's not here. He go did."

Did -- the all-purpose suffix that converts the present tense into the past tense without all that pesky conjugating.

I love it.

I'm Going to Prepare a Place for You

My sister may or may not have turned fifty this year. There was a rumor of this milestone on the horizon, but I think she squelched it, declaring herself perpetually 43.

Meanwhile, my mother claims to be sixty-five.

On our recent visit, Mom became a touch, ahem, irritated with dear old Dad and said, rather forcefully, "I'm sixty-five years old. I think I can decide that for myself."

Kath and I tried not to laugh -- oh, how we tried! --  but we just couldn't contain ourselves.

But, you know, if Mom's sixty-five, Kath's a mere forty, and I'm a youthful thirty-eight.  And we're all good with that.

So for Kath's birthday (whatever the number), I framed a cross stitch I had made for her years ago. It reads: In my Father's house are many mansions. I want the one next to yours.

The year I originally cross stitched this and gave it to Kath, the house next door to hers was renovated and sold. The price tag? If memory serves, it went for a cool 1.3 million dollars. I told her that though the sentiment was sincere, I wouldn't be moving next door anytime soon.

This morning as I toted two little girls to pre-school, we listened to The Donut Man singing I'm going to prepare a place for you up in my Father's house. I'm going to build you a mansion, too, up in my Father's house.

I love The Donut Man, and I especially love this tune.

Years ago I experienced a season of deep consolation in prayer. For reasons I only partially understand, I had a grace on my prayer life, and all my struggles with consistency and distraction and dryness just seemed to be evaporate. I experienced the reality of God's presence in a way I had never understood before and haven't been able to be recapture since.

It was a grace, pure grace.

One day I was sitting on the backyard swing and began singing that line from The Donut Man: I'm going to prepare a place for you up in my Father's house.

For an unforgettable instant, I fully understood the reality of this. I was overwhelmed by God's love for me and me alone. Out of the vast sea of humanity spanning century after century, millennium after millennium, the God of the universe was preparing a place for me.

So personal. So true.

This morning I grabbed John's sweet brown cheeks and peered into those gorgeous brown eyes and told him that God could have given him to anyone on planet Earth, and he chose us. How amazing is that!

I was doting on John in part because, well, he's my John and so very, very sweet (except when he's not). And, in part, I was doting on John because I was on the brink of investiagting far away military academies willing to house his older brothers.

This time last year we dubbed two of my nieces Serbia and Croatia in light of their uncanny ability to foment dissension and unrest at a moment's notice. No issue was too trivial; no opportunity was overlooked.

Well, let me tell you, my oldest boys have absconded with the title. Move over, Lissi and Hannah; Serbia and Crotia have moved South.This morning's bout of internecine warfare left me overwrought, newly aware of how blessedly uncomplicated the little people are, and absolutely certain my boys will never, ever, ever express -- in cross stitch or any other medium  -- a desire to live next door to one another.

I wonder if they'll exchange Christmas cards.

Since this less than blissful morning, I've spent time with my friend Annette, mother of fifteen, including eleven -- yes, eleven -- boys. Part of the picking and jabbing and needling is, she tells me, both normal and even a sign of affection. As odd, unfathomable, and even perverse as it all sounds, boys just do that.

A unique love language, you might call it. One wholly indecipherable to the average mother.

I'm accepting this premise on faith.

It's either that or cry (and I've already tried crying).

In the midst of all the strife, it is so good, so very, very good to dwell on the eternal, to ponder the truth that God has indeed prepared a place for me -- a place for me and a place for adorable five-year-olds, a place for aging parents and, yes, even  a place for quarreling brothers.

Splinched

The bags were packed. They were ready to go. The gang of four started school today.

For those of you who wondered why I had fallen off the face of the electronic world, first, thank you for your concern. Second, let me site three reasons for Internet silence:

1. We were in Michigan and Canada for about three weeks.

2. We returned just in time for a three day frenzy of uniform and supply shopping

3. I've been splinched.

Regarding the third reason, Harry Potter aficionados will recognize the term "splinched." Splinching occurs when one attempts to magically move from one destination to another, a process called apparating. When apparating, one should remember the three D's -- destination, determination, and I can't remember the third one which may explain why I keep splinching.

The result of splinching is that some body part -- ranging from a leg to an eyebrow -- gets left behind.

I've done a lot of moving this summer -- home to mountains, home to Michigan, Canada to home. I've facilitated a lot of moves -- Dave and Tim to Boy Scout Camp, Tim to Boot Camp, Tim to a vocations' retreat. And while in town, we've moved quite a bit as well. Mostly home to pool, pool to home.

I've had lists and bags and tables covered with gear.Suitcases and backpacks and wet bags (or are they called dry bags?) have gone up and down the attic stairs again and again and again.

It's been good, really good. Our recent visit to Michigan and Canada was probably our best ever. In fact, this summer has probably been our best ever. That's if you disregard last Friday and Saturday which were just this side of gruesome. Boys and clothes shopping? Too, too fun, don't you know!

The highlight was heading out for boys' white button down shirts, size 16. Sounds easy enough. Walmart? Sold out! Target? Nary a one in sight! Sears? I found two -- same size, same brand, slightly different design. One was $5.98; one was $16.98. Sold!

Ignoring these rather trying and lengthy shopping excursions, we've had a good summer. Not perfect, but really, really good.

I've been mentally debriefing and attempting to pinpoint exactly why things went as well as they did. I've come up with five reasons:


1. It wasn't last summer. Summer 2011 wasn't a banner one for the Dolins. One hundred and twenty days above 90 degrees. Two non-swimmers. John in, ummm, a challenging season. A bored teenager. A husband working like a dog. Not a horrid summer, but not a great one.

2. This year I made a conscious decision to refrain from whining about the weather. A ten year drought lifted. No joke. Really, if I had known my paltry little whine-fast would alter the entire meteorological pattern of Augusta, believe me, I would have tried this long before now.

3. Our resident teenager had a variety of interesting and challenging opportunities. This was huge.

4. We joined a different pool, one that offers a lengthy shallow end for the little people and diving boards for the big people and lots of friends to hang out with.

5. John learned to swim. We bought Ainsley a puddle-jumper.


And this is all good, very good. But somewhere along the way, I splinched.

Even when it all goes well, summer has a certain intensity. A relaxed intensity in that we typically don't have deadlines and school bells and homework. But we're all together almost all of the time, and that alone can be intense.

In this world, there are introverts and there are extroverts; I would have to call myself a hybrid. I do not do well when I'm alone day after day. Isolation and cloudy weather are a particularly difficult combination for me.

But the opposite is also true.

When I'm never alone -- when I have to post rules detailing the circumstances in which my offspring can knock on the bathroom door -- when someone is nearly always right there needing or wanting something -- eventually, I splinch. Honestly, I don't think I've been alone of two hours since May.

When I splinch, I'm fairly sure the part I leave behind is my cerebral cortex.

I can't think.

You know those calls you get reminding you about a doctor's appointment? They irritate me, at least the ones that require you to call back and confirm the appointment all in some vaguely threatening voice. I already confirmed the appointment, I think to myself. I confirmed it when I made it. My tirade usually ends with the smug thought that it's been ten, maybe fifteen years since I've missed an appointment.

This summer I've missed two doctor's appointment and very nearly missed a third.

Splinched!

I can not think.

While vacationing in Michigan and Canada, I had a dozen thoughts I wanted to write about, but most of the trip involved grandparents and aunts and uncles and lots and lots of cousins. It's wonderful, and it's intense. And I couldn't string two sentences together. Rather than fighting it, I simply recognized my splinched state of mind, put people before things, and enjoyed our vacation.

I've now been alone for one hour. The kitchen is clean. My fingers are typing. Blogger is acting up rather badly. I'm hoping that as I once again take possession of my cerebral cortex, I can sort this mess out.

Maybe then I'll reschedule my dental appointment.

Yo Mama

Invariably the Scouts return with a plethora of icky socks and a fresh supply of Yo Mama jokes. Among my favorites:


Yo Mama is so big I swerved to avoid her and I ran out of gas.

Yo Mama is so dull she went to the dentist for a bluetooth.  (Okay, so they say stupid, but it's not one our nice words)

Yo Mama is so slow it takes her two hours to watch Sixty Minutes.

Yo Mama is so old she sat behind Moses in the third grade.

Boundaries

Ainsley comes charging in while I'm, ahem, in the bathroom.

"Close the door," I say. "Mama needs her privacy."

Ainsley immediately steps inside and closes the door. She runs to the map of the world shower curtain and asks, "Where I live, Mama?"

Instead of ordering her little caboose right out of the bathroom, I point to southeastern North America. She says, "That's my 'Gusta, Georgia. Where Timmy live?"

We go through Daddy, Kolbe, John, and Mama. She nods and says, "That's my 'Gusta, Georgia. Can I fwush the toilet?'

If you follow the Wall Street Journal, you may be aware that a year ago, Chinese mothers were declared superior. They set the bar high, demanding straight A's, excellence in music, and beautifully appointed homemade birthday cards. We sorry, western mothers hung our heads in collective shame. This year the Journal says top marks go to the French.

If I had to summarize the Chinese approach it would be high standards. The French approach seems to to rest on clear boundaries. The incident with Ainsley in the bathroom made me stop and ponder the issue of boundaries. What boundaries have we set for our children? Where, besides the restroom, do we lack clear boundaries?

The Journal article discussed the French tendency to have set meal times with little or no snacking in between. The author cited an example of a young child (maybe four?) who made pastries with his  mother but knew there was no tasting until it was snack time.

Where's the fun in that, I'd like to know. But, I have to say, reading this heightened my awareness of how much grazing we do as a family, of how few boundaries we have in the area of food. My older children attend school, so they have set meal times, but my younger ones seem to nibble all day long. They are hunter-gatherers of the highest order. Food, glorious food -- whatever, whenever, wherever! Yesterday, as I was visiting with a friend, John pushed a step stool across the kitchen, climbed on the counter, and helped himself to a few cookies. I intervened and was met with an epic fit.

John and the kitchen? Clear boundaries needed.

I delved into a little deep cleaning the other day and reflected on how so much of the mess in our house is related to boundaries. I should not need to clean up cereal in the living room. Popcorn after a movie night? Not a problem. But cereal, empty drink boxes, and Valentines candy? No.

I have a friend who is so diligent about enforcing a one toy at a time rule. The kids have free access to all their toys, but the key is that they clean up one item before moving to another. They have boundaries. The children have boundaries because the mom is self-disciplined.

Children are entitled to certain things without conditions or limitations -- love, protection, respect, clothing, adequate food. But in other areas -- principally in the material realm -- our generosity, our largess, can send a message we really never intended to send: You are entitled to this, we seem to say even when we don't intend to say that. Kids grow up thinking: I am entitled to a cell phone, a ticket to every new release, clothes at least as nice as the neighbor's, a college education, highlights, fill in the blank.

I love to buy books for my kids. Snacks, toys, anything electronic,  more plastic c-r-a-p that will all too soon be abandoned -- in these departments, my kids  know their mother is nothing but miserly. But bring home that Scholastic book order? I pull out the checkbook. Do they appreciate this or expect this? Can they both expect this and appreciate this?

At the moment Dave and I feel we have just run a marathon -- Dave's 50th birthday, my visit to Florida, demands at work, the Pinewood Derby, the Boy Scout camping trip, the diorama, and -- my personal favorite -- the Science Fair -- good gravy, we are ready to crack. Is it the stress or the lack of sleep that's making all us hack and ache and sneeze? In a few moments I'm heading to the doctor with high hopes of evicting the little man with the sledge hammer who has taken up residence in my left sinus cavity.

What does this have to do with entitlement? Oh yeah . . . I collapsed into bed late, late, late and woke up around 7:00 to find my sweet Ainsey curled up next to me, and John cozily ensconced in his favorite spot at the foot of our bed. I have a vague memory from about 4:00 a.m. of John telling me, "Mama, I'm wet."

He got out of his soggy clothes, and we found him a drier spot. As I settled him back in, He said, "Mama, your breath is on my face. Can you please move it?"

Okay, whose bed is this anyway, buster? Free free to mosey on back to your own bed and leave me and my morning breath alone!

A friend shared struggles she has with a particularly trying child. The child's father told her something, and the girl -- a ten-year-old -- told him to shut up. Shut up, Daddy! Truly I cannot conceive of telling my father to shut up when I was ten or sixteen or forty-seven. And it wasn't because my father was  mean. But we had boundaries. We were on one side of the boundaries and, believe me, the words Shut Up were clearly on the other side.

Few of us consciously choose to raise kids without boundaries. We don't shout, "Smorgasbord, kids! The fridge is all yours!" We don't suggest the pre-schoolers trash the house. We don't encourage our teenagers to set their father straight.

But we (or me) can be inconsistent or distracted or blind or just plain lazy. When I'm helping Tim and Kolbe get out the door for school, it's both easy and lazy to hand John and Ainsley something to nibble on and not insist that they eat at the table. When I find the remnants on the piano bench or in my bed or in the fish tank, should I really be surprised?


We will continue to bake lots of cookies around here, and we'll continue to gobble up lots of batter as we go. But I am taking a fresh look at some of the boundaries we have set . . . and some of the ones we clearly haven't.

Dave Barry, How We've Missed You

For years my husband and I had a weekend tradition. On Saturday morning, we would read James Kilpatrick's column, The Writer's Art. On Sunday morning, we would enjoy a laugh courtesy of Dave Barry. Jimbo has since died, and Dave Barry quit his weekly column a few years back. Our weekends have yet to recover.

Today I stumbled on this and instantly was reminded of how blasted funny this man is. Among the gems:

1. On the economy:

The economic outlook is also brighter in Washington, where Congressional leaders, still working night and day to find a solution to the problem of the federal government spending insanely more money than it actually has, announce that they have a bold new plan: They will form another committee. But this one will be even better than the Supercommittee, because it will be a SuperDUPERcommittee, and it will possess what House and Senate leaders describe, in a joint statement, as “magical powers.”

2. File this under Yes, I'm the Mother of three boys:

In Egypt, demonstrators take to the streets to protest the three-decade regime of President Hosni Mubarak following revelations that “Hosni Mubarak” can be rearranged to spell “A Bum Honks Air.”

3. And more on Europe:

… the European economic crisis worsens still further as Moody’s downgrades its credit rating for Spain following the discovery that the Spanish government, having run completely out of money, secretly sold the Pyrenees to China and is now separated from France only by traffic cones.

Dave, thanks for the laugh.

Sorry - We're Fresh Out

Boy Wonder: We're supposed to wear Christmasy clothes. Do we have any antlers?

The Gift of John

Dave is cruising to McDonald's with John in tow. John reaches into his pocket and pulls out ... a shock collar.

Yes, a shock collar. The kind a large dog wears. The kind that is connected to an invisible fence or a remote control held by owners hoping to keep their pet from becoming road kill. The kind that comes with a hefty price tag.

And we haven't a clue where it came from. So begins the interrogation. We have to move carefully with John. He clams up fast and no amount of cajoling or bribing or threatening will wring the truth out of him. We haven't resorted to water-boarding in the kitchen or a phenobarbital drip, but, then, he's not a teenager yet, is he?

Kidding!

Dave realizes the interrogation is going nowhere fast and  finally says -- very gently -- "John, did the dog take off the collar and hand it to you?"

John's eyes instantly brighten. He gives an enthusiastic nod and says, "Yes! Yes, he did!"

That's the ticket!

How do you restrain the laughter? He's lying, darn it! Stifle it, Kelly!

But I can't. Because this is John.

Last summer I walked into my sister's bathroom to find a suspicious wet trail going straight across the shower curtain. Gosh, I could write a novel about showers curtains and boys, except that it would be pure non-fiction or possibly a photographic essay with a scratch and sniff fold out.

But I digress . . .

Attempting to assume the best, I asked my sister if her dog had occasional accidents. When she said No, Jasper is fully housebroken, I moved to the next usual suspect -- our wonderful, brown-eyed bundle of vim and verve -- John.

"John, did you pee on the shower curtain," I calmly queried.

"No," he said in a solemn tone, "I peed on Jasper."

Yes, he peed on Jasper, the dog who likes to snooze next to the shower curtain. His aim being, well, not particularly precise, both Jasper and the shower curtain got the shower.

And I nearly split a gut laughing. Thankfully so did my sister. I tried to restrain mysef, really I did, but I just couldn't manage it.

So back to the shock collar . . . We gently get him to cough up the real story: He took the collar off the dog who was probably black but might possibly have been silver and it all happened yesterday or maybe not.

Helpful details, one and all.

A string of phone calls to various dog owning neighbors eventually leads us to our friends up the street who are so very grateful to get their rather pricey collar back.

Meanwhile John comes home from school and informs me that his teacher was out today.  "Miss Rebecca can break into a movie theater," John informs me. "She's really tough. Also she can sleep with the lights on."

You gotta be tough to handle a roomful of four-year-olds.

She's a good teacher, too. John seems to be picking up the alphabet nicely. "G is for grappling hook," he informs me. I swear, when I was a kid, G was for grape or girl or some other object much less thrilling than a grappling hook.

Tonight as I'm making dinner I hear Ainsley shrieking and spy John in the vicinity.  He reminds me of Sergeant Schultz from Hogan's Heroes: I know nothing! I know nothing! A little prodding produces a confession.

"I gave her a hurt hug," he finally tells me.

A hurt hug. Hmmmm. Yes, she's feeling the love all right.

And we are feeling the levity, the brightness, the occasional drama, and the endless parade of surprises that come our way thanks to this one-of-a-kind little boy who has graced our family with his presence.

No Bieber Fever in this House

Tim and Kolbe are adding Bieber Fever to each other's Christmas list. This book provides all the details about the teen who rocks, oops, I mean, nauseates our world.

All this reminds me of the time Amazon mixed up my order and a slew of Hannah Montana music arrived in the mail. In a houseful of boys? Just not gonna wash.

Spelling!

"ABC's," Ainsey says, spying this educational wonder. "I play with dat!"

Yes, sweetie, you can learn your ABC's with this. And your brothers have oh-so-thoughtfully provided your first vocabulary word.

First Prize!

Four-year-old John comes running to me to say, "Ainsey and I just made everything normal."

Remarks like this tend to make me break out in a cold sweat.

I go to investigate what, exactly, is meant by normal and where, precisely, normal has taken place. I find that the two of them have attempted to plunge the, um, slightly challenged toilet that is awaiting Daddy's return. The bathroom floor is flooded, and -- I swear I'm not making this up -- there's a trophy sitting on the middle of the floor.

Clearly they were quite impressed with their efforts.

Later Dave returns and goes to work with a plumbing device known as a snake. In short order he retrieves one soggy baby sock and the spindle that holds the toilet paper. I've got to say that Dave is getting frightfully adept at this sort of thing. As for the snake, it is well-used and worth every penny we spent on it.

Haircuts and Hems - A New Low

I'm gunning for some award for Superior Parenting. Last week I truly outdid myself. Examples abound, but I'll limit myself to just two:

1. During Mass I glanced over at Kolbe's pants and noted that one leg was noticeably longer than the other.

2. I cut John's hair and left his sideburns looking like a cross between Harry Potter's scar and Mr. Spock's stylish coif.


On the issue of the hem, let me confess that minor mending and repair jobs are not my strong suit. I enjoy sewing. Years ago my dear friend Laurie introduced me to the world of quilting. Let me tell you, I can produce a twin-sized step ladder quilt -- pieced, quilted, and bound -- in less time than it takes me to replace a button on a pair of shorts. Think I jest? Just ask my husband.

Mending. Ugh. When it comes to mending, my track record is nothing short of gruesome. I just don't do it. In this regard, I can rejoice that I was born in the late 20th century when things like darning are no longer required. I mean, if I had been Ma Ingalls, poor Pa would have lost his toes while riding out that three day blizzard in a hay bale.

No, we don't have to darn these days, but a small sewing job occasionally rears its pesky head.

Enter the nice lady down the road who charges a reasonable fee for most minor jobs. For reasons I can't fully explain, she charges an arm and a leg for things like Boy Scout patches. I can justify shelling out $4.00-10.00 for hems of varying difficulty, but $4.00 for that Patrol Leader patch? Hard to swallow. If Tim should one day make Eagle Scout, I will have invested well over $100 bucks adhering all those merit badges to a sash he'll probably wear twice. Tim just became pack historian. I think that means he's expected to tote my camera along to meetings and camping trips. I'm hoping it doesn't mean a new patch.

Customarily, Kolbe's school pants go straight down the street for a hem. Last year, however, I found the sewing lady's hem was just a little too permanent. My homespun hem was loose enough to pull out in a jiffy. I managed to buy myself another inch of school pants and eek our way to the end of the year without replacing them.

A few weeks back, I plopped in a movie, grabbed Kolbes' chinos, and began to hem. Pathetic though it may be, I finished one leg and put off the second leg for a more auspicious moment.

So we're sitting in church, and I notice that Kolbe is not wearing the chinos I had set out for him. Oh no. He's wearing the pair with one hemmed leg. One hemmed leg. One leg clearly -- glaringly! -- shorter than the other. I should have been embarrassed, chagrined, and mortified. In actuality, I really found the whole thing hilarious.

The haircut debacle wasn't quite so funny. In theory, I know a little bit about cutting hair. I've had lessons. The problem is that I also have this troublesome eye condition called I'm Nearing Fifty. I am horribly far-sighted. Bad eyesight and hair cutting do not a good combination make.

The sideburns were an unmitigated disaster. The back of his head? Well, it reminded me of a comment Dave usually makes during carpentry projects: I've cut it three times, and it's still too short. Naturally I got out the hacksaw and accomplished all this just an hour before John left for pre-school.

By way of penance for my sins of omission and commission, I dutifully pulled out the dusty sewing basket and hemmed the second leg of Kolbe's pants. Even Steven! My deepest thanks go out to my friend Heather who not only redeemed John's hair, but also refused to charge me. Blessings, Heather!

We may ship him off to start boot camp at Parris Island with hair that short. On second thought, Marines probably wear lots of patches.

Life and Laughter

Someone manages to get stranded on the roof of the neighbor's shed. Dave is working late, so I wind up enlisting the help of  our neighbor and his extension ladder to get the someone down.




Dinner conversation revolves around leeches and their many uses throughout the ages.




Tim recalls an elementary science textbook that failed to inspire him. "There was like one random fact about science," he shared. "And then this whole section about manners."

"Would you like a piece of gum; it's sugar-free," Tim recalled a girl asking a boy.

"No, thank you," the boy apparently replied. "It's healthy, but we shouldn't chew gum in the library."

Was it Tim's deadpan delivery or perfect recall that made this unbelievably funny to me?

Other Than That

Anonymous: Dr. Who is perfectly human except that he has two hearts and a sonic screwdriver.

Overheard

John, in the middle of Mass: Mama, do you like my belly button? I like your belly button.

***

Tim, on afternoon plans: Mom, you take a long nap. We'll be gaming. It's all good.

***

John, to a snoring Dave: Dad, can you quit making that noise so I can sweep?

***

Kolbe: My health book is full of lies. It says fruit makes a great dessert, and that's just nuts.

***

Me: There's a wet bathing suit on the floor.

Nameless: I thought that's where I'm supposed to put it.

***

John, handing me an elaborate drawing he has finished: It's a map to Grandma's house. You're leaving tomorrow.

***

Ainsley, anxious to watch Winnie the Pooh: Pwess Pway, Mama!

The English teacher groans. The mother dashes off for an uninterrrupted cup of coffee.

***

Tim, quoting Mr. Spock: I have never understood the female capacity for failing to give a clear answer.

Only when you're harrassing me for more computer time.
***

Kolbe, watching a furniture commercial: Who wants new furniture? We want furniture we can eat on and jump on.

***

Tim, who had been fighting with his brother non-stop over some code that came on the back of a cereal box: I gave him the code. I figured one of us had to be mature, and it wasn't going to be him.

Horrid Example!

Lovers of language will remember the late James Kilpatrick whose syndicated column, The Writer's Art, was both entertaining and informative. Jimbo, as we called him, provided a little Saturday morning levity as Dave and I would take turns reading his column aloud. With his acerbic wit and ear for language, Mr. Kilpatrick could by turns make us laugh and teach us something about writing mostly by using Horrid Examples sent in by alert readers.

Agreement errors, over-cooked cliches, misused homonyms -- Mr. Kilpatrick would summon his Court of Peeves, Crochets, and Irks and render judgment.

In my sorority days, my friends and I would pour over Glamour magazine. Our favorite feature was The Glamour Don't. A roving photographer would snap pics of Horrid Examples in the fashion world. Errant bras straps, panty lines, a peasant blouse paired with a tailored skirt? Glamour Don'ts and Horrid Examples, one and all.

I always felt a bit sorry for the women in those pictures. I mean, did they buy Glamour? Imagine the shock of seeing your backside held up as a Horrid Example!

Seared deep into my psyche is the time I myself provided a Horrid Example, this one of the academic variety.

I was a mere first grader sitting at my desk in my green plaid jumper. We were finishing worksheets. The directions were straightforward: Color the picture and write the word below it. I came to a picture that had a round/oval shaped object with lines running through it.  

Lettuce, I concluded, thinking of my favorite food. I pulled out my green crayon and got to work.Writing was a little trickier. I was six! What six-year-old can spell lettuce? I gave it my best shot. Just imagine my shock when a visibly agitated teacher held up my paper as a Horrid Example and began lecturing about the hapless student who had colored a nut green and thought it began with the letter "L." Oh, the pain!

Forty years later I find  myself once again providing Horrid Example.

Kolbe spent Saturday afternoon at the local food bank sorting food. Their service project began with a review of what food was good and what food was bad. Bulging cans, ripped bags, moldy fruit - Horrid Examples! The most egregious example was an opened jar of peanut butter that  had several bites taken from it.

"Mom, you're not going to believe what some people do," Kolbe shared in a tone that spoke of dark  scandal. "They taste the food and if they don't like, they donate it to the food bank!"

"Oh, is that ever gro..." I started to concur with Kolbe's shocked assessment, but suddenly I was going back in time.

The Cub Scouts were going door to door collecting non-perishable goods. I rifled through the pantry trying to find items that were both nutritious and tasty. I wasn't going to be the Horrid Example who used a food drive to get rid of stewed tomatoes and canned okra. I found macaroni and cheese, peanut butter, and a few other items.

Later that day I grabbed a jar of peanut butter. I pulled off the lid and was surprised to see the safety seal intact.

"Oh no," I groaned to myself. "I gave the open jar to the Cub Scouts!"

I hopped in my car and tried to track down the cache of goods, but it was gone, baby, gone. Gone to the food bank. Gone to one day provide Horrid Example to young Cub Scouts.

I am happy to report that this was not nearly as humiliating as my rear end appearing in Glamour nor as traumatic as my first grade misstep. In fact, when I realized that I was quite likely the source of the Horrid Example, I excused myself and laughed until I cried.