99 Problems but a t shirt ain't one

My son has 47 t shirts in his closet. 47.

The origin of this over abundance started out pretty inaccous.  He grew. With the whole growing thing came the need to buy him clothes that fit properly and cover his navel.  Then I placed his sister in charge of laundry.  When I couldn't find anything to put him in, generally while in a hurry to get some place important, I would ask

"Doesn't he have more shirts than this?'

"No."

"But I thought..."

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

So the next time that there was some spare quarters and a half off sale at the thrift store, home with more shirts I would come.  Repeat this a couple times, add in a huffy mother who commandeers laundry duty when there are no clean socks, and now we have 47 shirts.

There are still some in the laundry.

 No wonder I am overwhelmed caring for all the things and the stuff in our house.  I am not even really sure what to do with this problem. Since it is the end of September in Michigan, I can pack most of them away and switch out for turtleneck and sweaters, but how many do I even keep?  He still has a little brother to hand things down to.

That little brother is the same child who is the most destructive and messy child I have ever seen while simultaneously hating having anything on his clothes - ever.  Not even water. No, it will dry is not a suitable answer. He MUST CHANGE! So, consequently, he goes through three to four shirts a day, and some are not salvageable by my standards.  He may justifiably need more shirts when he reaches the same size as his big brother's current one and does not require each and every second supervision.

Who I am kidding?  

Due to the recent

 "Snake in the Wall Incident"

 Children will require constant surveillance until no longer at my residence.

Being brave

Last night the boys were wild. 

Bouncing, rolling, tumbling through the house in thumps and bumps they alternated between loud laughs, wails of outrage  and thwack smacks of retaliation.  Fall allergy season with a family of asthmatics has caused them to be more cooped up than usual, with no real outlet for their energy - despite being allowed to ride a tricycle through the house. Getting school work accomplished had been almost unbearable for both parties involved.  So at 9:00 at night, well past bedtime, as they trolloped through the living room with a blanket as hump 1 and hump 2 of a camel, it was clear that they must be taken OUTSIDE AT ONCE.

Get jackets and shoes - we are going out

But it is dark

But there are mosquitoes

There are also wood floors, hard corners, and a used up amount of patience from sisters who had been used as trampolines, stepping stones, furniture, carnival rides and jungle gyms by little brothers trying to amuse themselves.

And so into the wet and the dark and the lawn we ventured

At first there was wonder - we were out at night - and amazement - look at the stars - and a slight bit of mischief - I can stomp your shadow.

But then the dark seemed closer, bigger, darker.

Monsters! 

Nonsense - let's walk

But it's dark

It is also light - see the street lights, and the stars, and the headlights from the cars?

This is our house, our yard.  Our school house and its yard, Daddy's cottage and the orchard.  We own all of this - it is all ours - where we live and play every day.  There is nothing to be afraid of in our own space

And then we stepped out of it.

We kept walking out of our own space, its safety and security, and all that is familiar, with one foot and than the other.  We turned down the next street, less lit, with barely discernible shapes looming half obscured in the darkness.

Monsters!

No, no monsters.

Home? !

Yes, but not yet, just a little further.

Hand in hand we walked, arms swinging.  In those quiet moments my boys learned to be just a bit braver.

They learned they could venture out beyond what they knew, and come back okay.  

They learned that what they thought was scary could also be beautiful.  

And in the end, there is no place like home.

It is a statement of fact that I love books; to me they are as necessary as breathing.  I check out and purchase books on books, and have recently been perusing books on libraries, which house books and are equally fascinating.  One particular volume that was a photo documentary on public libraries in the United States, I maxed out renewals on simply because I wasn't ready to part with it.  Seriously, this is an issue and I should probably join some kind of 12 step program.  I have begun using a professional program to inventory my books simply because it upgrades my status from "hoarder" to "collector."  (Apparently the hoarder bench mark is passed somewhere around the first thousand in inventory).

When I am not reading books to my children, or books about books for my children, or books about how to teach my children, or books about books in general, I like to sneak in chic lit.  It is a guilty pleasure just like some people may purchase a candy bar (which I can buy three books at the thrift store for the price of).  I love it.  The characters are shallow, the plot line predictable, and my brain does not have to do anything other than pretend it is at a day spa getting a delightful and comforting word sauna.

Until....

Until a book claiming to be humorous and celebratory of a protagonist that is of ample girth predictably make her eat butter on Twinkies to justify her size.

Until the same book inevitably makes the woman loose weight through a series of devoted exercise regimes and fad diets.

The female character ends up thin in the end more often than she ends up with the man of her dreams.  And the latter is only because of the former.

This has struck a more personal chord and twanged it considerably out of tune recently.    I spent an entire weekend not to long ago in the emergency room getting tested because they thought I might have a blood clot. I still might actually...but that is relatively unimportant to the current caveat.

I was dutiful this time and went to a follow up appointment immediately with my doctor - this was necessary in order to get the more extensive testing done required to see what is actually wrong.  The doctor came in, looked at me, looked at my weight, told me to eat 1/4 less than what I have been and get my arse up and play with the kids instead of watching from the sidelines.   Then he walked out.  He did not order the tests, or give any concern to what multiple doctors, residents, and PA's had voiced all weekend long.  He did ask what I eat a day, but when I explained that I eat limited red meats, no fried foods, no pop, and lots of fruits and vegetables - he said that the LOTS was the key term and part of my issue.

Perhaps it is. In social settings with family and friends I tend to eat more, because I feel it is okay to indulge then.  But if that is the only way people see me it, they assume that is how I eat all the time.  I don't.  I remember portion sizes, skip seconds, and avoid things that I feel are violations of the pallet, which includes most canned pasta.  Desserts are special occasions only.  I DO NOT buy candy.

I certainly don't sit on the sidelines with my kids.  He obviously is mistaking them for kids that have been raised to be automatons   more obedient and less terrorizing rambunctious than my children.  We live by a river and a woods.  There are five of them and their main interests are in survival skills like animal tracking and edible plants.  You cannot just SIT and watch these children.  When they get bored they pretend their oldest sister is a vampire and try to use stakes they have made out of branches to vanquish her or force her to call in her bat brethren.  No...sitting passively is rarely involved when they are awake.

The bottom line is that I am big.  I am.  There is no getting around it.  I have lost and gained the same sixty pounds since 2007.  I had three kids between 2007 and 2011 and five total c sections.  I recently quit nursing and my hormones caused me to question the local bookstore on why they did not have a display of patriotic related materials in the children's section for the 4th of July.  Silly associate was new and obviously had not heard the warning to hide and quake in terror when I enter the store.  He knows better now. ( I don't think this unfair to ask by the way.)  Clearly I am not jolly, but more of the Persian cat with the squashed nose disposition.

ANYWAYS.  I am big.  I am probably going to be big until I have children who are all over the age of 10 and I can then devout the necessary three hours a day to work out safely without using any stomach muscles to reduce my mass  within chart ranges that don't have a skull and cross bones over my end.  I am big because I am.  I am not a couch potato, and I don't generally eat potato chips.  I just come from a long line of people who look like potato head toys, and they don't make those in the waif n' whisper size.

I would like to see a protagonist stay big.  I would like her to be admired and respected as a woman and portrayed as desirable.  It wouldn't even hurt to through in a bit of intelligence with those color coordinated nails and highlights. 

So, now that we have theoretically reached the time of the day labeled Malay "bedtime" I can revue and see how much I got accomplished on the "To Do" list, such as it was.

I woke up this morning to the sound of the dog whimpering.  I let him out to go "do his business" and he proceeded to make wretched noises that made me realize the larger the dog, the louder the sound when they are experiencing digestive unrest.  I covered my ears, attempting to return to sleep, but the noise continued to the point that I decided I had a certain level of civic responsibility to the neighbors that reside drastically downhill behind us to see exactly what was going on.  Bracing myself I opened the door...and was greeted with an enthusiastic and overly affectionate 100 plus pound dog.  I sat down on the porch and cuddled him as he continued to make the disastrous noises because apparently he is allergic to the plants in the yard and it affects his breathing. Or he is allergic to himself.  Either way it is loud.  Very loud, and more than a little unnerving.

Waiting until my own eyes swelled shut, I removed my clothing and raced to the laundry room - where I discovered some of my recent book purchases had been put in a puddle next to the mice hacienda  (more about the current stand off on the mouse front another time)  proving my inclinations about having a print journal absolutely correct.  Wheezing and puffy eyed I stumbled through the kitchen and called upstairs for the children to get up.  Pausing only a second, I headed to the closet to get Abigail a shirt, and narrowly missed stepping in a terrarium of pee. 

Deep breaths.

There was no church.  There was no Veggie Tales (this was only because I mistakenly put on an episode I hadn't seen previously, and it involved a startling amount of bag pipes I wasn't prepared to deal with).  No dancing clothes.  No homemade play doh or stories.  But, and not entirely due to my worsening case of strep throat,  I did not yell.  I didn't even use an excessive amount of firm tone - which was not entirely because Starlet was so pale this morning that she made Songbird look tan.  Since Starlet skin is generally "naturally tan" this caused me to pause mid sentence repeatedly and play guess and check with her symptoms.  She claimed perfect health, but the "eye of Mommy" knows otherwise.

By dinner time three of the five were clearly so far under the weather that they had weather tread marks, I had already administered a few rounds of the alternating ibuprofen and acetaminophen, and even though they had not eaten enough of their dinner, I allowed them all to have healthy servings of ice cream. 

The laundry did get all put away, and the floor was swept repeatedly.  It is dark now, and the fireflies dancing in the field across the street, safely away from my children, are accompanied with a few final celebratory fireworks in the neighborhood. 

Good night house.

To do...

I thought about writing a to do list for tomorrow. 

If I wrote it at this moment, it would have an item like

 

Remove all dirt placed in the new retaining wall garden that is necessary to keep house from floating away or crumbling into dust because we forgot to put the damn black plastic down.

This item would be followed with

Try not to yell

Then another item like

 

Help children put away the four baskets of laundry I assigned them to put away on Monday, because the four baskets are now part of what obviously must have been a reenactment in which the clothes played the part of lave erupting from a volcano and I going to have to rewash at least half of them

 

This item would be followed by

 

DO NOT YELL. 

 

Take deep breaths and remember children get more accomplished when having fun verses other, easier options, like being yelled at.  Put on music and dance the clothes onto the hangers.  Invite the children to join in the dance party and get laundry cleaned up in a snap.

 

That particular item may also be followed with

 

Walk back to reality.  In fact, take a walk, claiming it is for health reasons, and advise the clothing be put away before returning home.

 

Give a time limit. For myself.

 

Also state as well the bathroom trash I assigned to be taken out and was then argued about with before noon on Saturday, that should disappear too. Strongly suggest that the trash can also be clean and lemony scented. 

 

Keep the DO NOT YELL. 

 

May apply duct tape to personal mouth as necessary and write instructions on white board.  Use underlines and exclamation points.

 

After returning from walk, begin process of removing all dirt and pavers already in place.

 

See above references about yelling. 

 

Remember no one listens  except the neighbors when there is too much yelling.  If that doesn't help, remember that I hate chamomile tea and that is the only thing I have to help with strep throat at the moment. 

 

My actual matter of factual list includes the above items as well as:

 

TSP the walls of the cottage in order to prep them for patching and painting this week

Water all plants in the am

 

Fill back of pick up with debris from yard

 

Finish retaining wall

 

Remove all 80 pavers from pathway, make a frame for the front pathway/brick patio.  Fill with fill dirt until completely evenly level.  Replace 80 pavers, add additional 200.

 

Return to store and purchase 200 more - argue with associate that I have already driven 200 home previously and yes I am sure the van can hold it

 

Track down a tiller and till an 8 x 6 plot of land in the orchard so that cucumbers, watermelon, and pumpkin plants already purchased may be planted before completely dead

 

I will be happy if I only accomplish:

 

Snuggle with children and read them some chapters from The Fire Within by Chris D'Lacey so that they gain a healthy suspicion that our dragon lawn ornaments may really be alive.

 

Make some homemade play dough

 

Charge the cameras so that I can capture the final moments of swim class as they independently swim and gap tooth grin. 

 

I must remember how I want my children to remember me.  How I want them to see me, and feel about me now.  The cuddly squishy mom who allowed them to be who they were and make age appropriate choices, or the stern spikey mom who expected perfection and demanded more than they could possibly accomplish - removing fun and instilling fear.  In truth I want a bit of both.  I want them to remember the fun, and how I encouraged them in what they were interested in. How I filled their minds with stories and words, their bodies with nourishing food, and their souls with a loving divine God. But I also want them to remember that I was firm, demanded respect, and taught them that having good character is better than having ghetto mannerisms.

 

A turn for the....

I am going to turn this blog into more of  a personal journal (albeit a bit more satirical and not meant for literal interpretation unless duly noted).  I am quite certain that the three readers I have are not going to mind a bit - it's just that I need time to journal and collect my thoughts, and the only time I have to do that is when I am in front of a computer screen and multitasking in about 100 other windows.  If I do not start writing things down I am going to forget them entirely and then I will spend my time looking for my thoughts rather than actually getting anything accomplished.  Unfortunately there is a varying level of opinion on how accomplishment is actually impacted.

 I would still rather use a traditional journal, but odds are high that it would be drawn in with permanent marker that bled through all the pages, fall into some void between furniture and become encrusted in a sticky AND crumby coating, and then end up sopping wet in the end, with all the necessary thoughts and emotions entirely irretrievable.

Tomorrow is Sunday.

 Sundays hold a bit of trepidation for me that is on a level in between Field Day as a pudgy elementary school student with asthma and sweat issues, and first encounters of any sort.  As that Sunday's come around regularly each week, this is rather sad.  The anxiety part starts Friday evening, as children casually ask " Are we going to church this week?"  It morphs from a little nibble in the corner of my mind to a quite large elephant size when, as the children are being put to bed and saying their prayers on Saturday, they ask if they could please, pretty please, attend church in the morning.

I don't have anything against church attendance.  I am nothing if not pro-Jesus, having attended the Mormon church on Sundays, taught VBS at the Methodist church as well as led a mom's group (you know the one), and played softball for the local parish while attending Mass on Wednesdays.  All at once.  For years.  You would think that maybe then I am just suffering a tad bit of church burn out.  And perhaps I am a bit singed on the edges.

The reality is that getting five children up, fed, cleaned, and dressed for church, as well as making sure appropriate gear is gathered (Bibles, spare outfits, diaper bag) is exhausting and time consuming.  Even if we lay out the clothes the night before, even if we get up three hours before we need to be at the church 15 minutes away, we never make it on time.  We never have everything for everyone.  Someone always cries.  There is a fifty-fifty shot that someone is me. There is almost always a firm voice, gritted teeth, and sometimes even a yell.

In the past few years, my children's theological views have come into play as well as the differing ones I have with their father, which means that no matter where we attend, someone is going to be the voice of dissent, and that someone is probably one of the hands needed to help with the morning pre church circus. 

I look at it, the yelling, the pomp and circumstance, the façade we put on that we are happy to be there, a happy family at that point in time, and that we generally wear our clothes inside right, and I think that this isn't what Jesus would want.  He wants the children to be taught of Him, to follow the principles that He laid out for us like a road map. To teach them to help others, to share of what we have, both in gifts/talents and possessions with those around us, to forgive, and to love both in action and in word.  But I don't think He wants children to be dragged, tear stained and uncomfortable, to church.  I think that it hardens their hearts and closes their ears.

Each Sunday I do try to take them, but I also try to take the pulse of the family.  This week I have a budding case of strep throat and over tired children from four days of fireworks exploding around our house and lighting our windows well past midnight.  If we can get up and ready reasonably, we will go.  If not, a suitable lesson and a Veggie tale video will have to do.  Or maybe just a Veggie tale video.  I might even settle for whatever they put on as long as I get to finish one complete cup of coffee. 

 

 

 



Expectations

At lunch with my father the other day, he stated:

 "Let's face it, none of your children are ever going to be doctors."

He went on to explain that he wanted my daughters to attend some luncheons with his wife where they could meet successful powerful women of considerable stature and influence in their careers so that they would have something to aspire to.

There is some good to take away from what he said, and I do think that the luncheon would be, theoretically, a marvelous idea.  It is always a good idea to meet different people, especially ones successful in their careers. I am not sure how much a bored 15 yr old, a prepubescent 10 yr old, and a 6 year old who lives to move and dance, would take away from it.  Looking back at the different conferences I was able to attend and people I met between the ages of 10 and 20 years old, there was a fairly impressive roster.  What do I remember from it? Nothing...not a single thing.  Except my peanut butter and jelly sandwich was warm and squished the one time, and the sun shone too brightly and made my head hurt at another.  Not exactly the "take aways" that well meaning adults intend from those kind of events.

He is right though, it is highly unlikely that any of my children will be doctors. But is it really necessary for them to be?

I am not a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer.  I don't, after 15 years of college give or take, even have a degree.  And I am okay with that.  I happy.  I am content.  In as much as I may not have succeeded in college, or in a career, I am succeeding in life.

My children dream.  They dream in bright vivid colors of a world wide open with possibilities for them to do whatever they set their hearts upon.  They aren't limited to a picture book list of careers to chose from, deterred by gender roles, and feel free to create their career if it doesn't already exist.

When asked how they are going to accomplish their dreams when met with a struggling economy and limited market, they have answers.  They can explain profit margins and overhead costs, as well as projected marketability.  They know what the world out there is going to hit them with, and instead of letting it weigh them down like a boulder tied to their ankle, they figure out how to use it as a stepping stone to launch and propel them forward.

They know to do what they are passionate about.  If they are passionate about helping people be healthy, then yes, they will be doctors.  But if I were to go off what they are passionate about at this very moment, I would have a princess party planner, a mechanical engineer, a Broadway star, a video game designer, and a dentist, and that list isn't to shabby either.

I haven't set up high profile careers as things they should strive to achieve.  Why?  Because as cliche as it is, money really doesn't buy happiness.  I have an aunt, and a cousin (my aunt's daughter), who are doctors.  They are well respected in their field, have won prestigious awards and are in high demand.  The waiting list to see my cousin is months long. My aunt is rarely in the country, let alone the state where we reside. Her days at her home are kept track of, because they are so few.  If that busy lifestyle is happiness to them, then I am grateful for their happiness and I raise my glass to their continued prosperity.

My happiness is different...I love the smell of the dirt in the garden after it has just rained, and the feel of it between my toes when I am weeding and picking the tomatoes off the vines.  I love it when my children run to me grinning wildly while holding eggs that are still warm, fresh from the chickens, so that I can feel the warmth and share in the magic too.  I like teasing them about their berry stained faces when they were supposed to be gathering, not eating, and watching them catch fireflies at dusk.  I love the leaf piles, smells of bonfires, and bright colored cardigan sweaters matching the leaves.  I love running out to catch fat snowflakes on construction paper, curling up under quilts, and reading stories with different voices.  

Yes, I am sure that my extended family is able to do this too - in fact I know that they carve time out to make a point to do it.  But this is my happiness and joy, and I get to do it all day, every day.  We aren't wealthy, and it isn't always easy.  Of course I have other dreams - and I plan on doing those too. That is exactly my point.  I live my happiness everyday - and it is work.  My children see that it is work and sacrifice and frustration and challenging. (However grammatically incorrect, all those ands were necessary) They see that there are obstacles that fall in every path, and that you have to be able to work around those obstacles, and that sometimes you have to change course - because there is more than one road to every goal.  They see mistakes and set backs, and learn that there isn't a "Game Over" screen.  You can majorly screw up, and choose to make different choices from that point, and still have a pretty good life. They see everything it takes in order to "live your happiness" and know to do it anyways.

Having a "Dr" at the beginning of your name doesn't necessarily make you a better or happier person.  Though the plastic surgeon that makes a living off of correcting perceived cosmetic flaws for the sake of someone's vanity makes multiples of the money of an urban teacher or library story time lady, it doesn't mean they are more intelligent, more capable, or more qualified for respect.  My children know that too.

I want my children to go into whatever utilizes their talents and gifts and brings them joy, and then shares that to the betterment of others.  If being a doctor, or plastic surgeon does that, then so be it, but if being a cake decorator, or a chef, or a wildlife conservationist does it, then that is just as good in my eyes.  Even a princess party planner - because in that moment, the make believe princess becomes real in a child's eyes in a way that is magical and precious, and they are filled with wonder.  That is an amazing thing, and a gift to experience.

Money doesn't come with us, and is a fickle friend.  It's the hearts we touched, the smiles we gave away, the laughter we shared that people remember after we are gone - those are our true legacy.