I need to go to Walmart.  I know what you’re thinking, there can’t possibly be any reason on God’s green earth compelling enough to justify a trip to Walmart the day before Thanksgiving.  The thing is, I promised DynaGirl that I would make her pumpkin cookies for Thanksgiving dessert.  These special pumpkin cookies (the ones my allergy stricken children can eat) require a spice cake mix.  But not just any old spice cake mix.  No, no, no.  I need a particular brand of cake mix because all of the other brands have milk in them.  And naturally, the only store in our town that carries the particular brand I need also happens to be the only store that I particularly avoid at all costs.  The sacrifices we make for our children.

We typically get together with my oldest sister and her family for Thanksgiving.  It makes sense, seeing how they live just three miles down the road.  We share the meal responsibilities.  We each make a turkey.  I make the potatoes, rolls, jello and a dessert.  She makes the stuffing, green beans, yams and pumpkin pie.  This past year her husband has had some health concerns, which have resulted in changes in their lifestyle and diet.  Instead of my sister’s delicious homemade stuffing (the part of the meal I look forward to the most), we will be having low sodium Stove Top.  There will be no bacony, sweet and soury green beans.  There will be no pumpkin pie.  The yams will not be candied (which is actually fine since as far as I’m concerned yams are a non-food group).  And yes, I’m perfectly aware that there are starving people living under bridges who would gladly give their right pinkies for low sodium Stove Top and bacon-free green beans, but we’re talking about me right now.

While waiting for my girls to get out of school yesterday, I had a brief conversation with the mother of one of Goose’s little friends.  We were having a perfectly lovely conversation until she casually mentioned that she had their turkey thawing in the bathtub.  IN THE BATHTUB.  She further explained that they do this every year, and if it’s not fully thawed by Wednesday night, they just run warm water into the tub.  Thanks to her, I don’t even think I’ll be able to enjoy my turkey this year.

In short, Thanksgiving will suck.

But I am grateful for all of you and hope you have a lovely day of gratitude and thanksgiving.  Please know I will be thinking of you as I’m choking down my fat free pumpkin-like dessert.

I don’t know what is going on with my face, but I’ve developed these dry patches on both eyelids, around the corners of my mouth and all along my jaw line.  I haven’t been using any different products or eaten anything different lately or done anything else I can think of to warrant this kind of facial sloughery.  I moisturize multiple times a day.  It’s not helping.  And now my neck itches.  Woe is me!

Yesterday, while I was in the shower I had the chorus to DM’s Shake the Disease stuck on repeat in my head.  But I’d only get as far as:

Here is a plea
from my heart to you
nobody knows me
as well as you do

And then I would switch to Phil Collins’ Against All Odds:

But to wait for you is all I can do
and that’s what I’ve got to face

It was like one of those mash-ups they do on Glee where they take two songs that seem to be completely unrelated and meld them into one. So I was on this repeat cycle of:

Here is a plea
from my heart to you
nobody knows me
as well as you do
But to wait for you is all I can do
and that’s what I’ve got to face

And for the life of me I couldn’t get out of it.  Maddening, I tell you.  Maddening!

What songs would you like to see mashed up?

What’s wrong with this picture?

I’m seriously considering dumping Dumas’ full-length masterpiece for the abridged version.  Unfortunately, my local library does not appear to carry the abridged version.  I decided to look for it on Amazon, and thought while I was there I would read a few reviews to see if there were any strong opinions about reading the abridged v. unabridged editions.  One reviewer said, “I loved the beginning of this book… Dumas sets the whole thing up perfectly. It was entertaining, entrawling and a great story.”

On Wednesday, I volunteered in Goose’s classroom.  She’s a second grader in a 2nd/3rd grade split.  The teacher had me grading math papers while she gave some writing instruction.  She was talking to the kids about different ways you can begin a story (e.g. setting, dialogue, action), and provided her own examples of how to begin the same story using these three methods.  Her action story start:  “Heather and I jumped on our bikes and peddled down the street as fast as we could.”

Last year, DynaGirl’s teacher had “Daily Schedual” posted on the wall.  Laminated.  

Sigh.

Goose started piano lessons this week.  Mr. T and DynaGirl have been taking piano for a few years now, and Goose has been anxiously awaiting her turn.  Piano lessons for three is a little pricey, but having stayed with the same teacher, we’ve at least been able to pass down the books from kid to kid.  On lesson day, I packed up the kids’ books, including the primer that Goose would be using, and sent them on their way.

When I went to pick the girls up an hour later, DynaGirl got in the car and announced that Goose had to borrow the teacher’s lesson book because I’d forgotten to pack it, and then produced a note from her teacher asking that I please send the primer for next week’s lesson.  I told DynaGirl I had sent them with the primer.  She said she looked in the bag and didn’t see it.  Mind you, this is an average sized tote containing four music books, a theory book, and the girls’ two reading books for each to pass the time during the other’s lesson, not Mary Poppins’s carpet bag in which you’d have to look behind coat racks and under armchair cushions.  There just aren’t a lot of places for a book to hide.  I opened the bag and pulled out the book.  I didn’t even have to look for it.  It practically jumped into my hand.

When we got home I told DynaGirl she should be sure to tell her teacher next lesson that I had sent the book the last time, so that she would know that I’m not the kind of idiot mother who would send her daughter to a music lesson unprepared.  Then DynaGirl said, “But I looked in the bag for the book, and my teacher even looked for the book too.  Won’t that make her look like an idiot?”  Naturally, my first thought was “better her than me”, but DynaGirl’s innocently astute and compassionate observation appealed to the better part of me—the part that is occasionally willing to look like an idiot in order to spare the beholder of my alleged idiocy the same embarrassment.  The sacrifices I make.

And I’m totally not sitting here now, two days later, still trying to figure out how I can subtly and compassionately convey my non-idiocy.  Totally.  Not.

Goose had cheer camp this morning, and I thought after I dropped her off I’d run a quick errand. I’m not at the high school much, so I’m not overly familiar with the roads there. I turned down one I thought would get me where I wanted to go. But it didn’t. It didn’t cut through to the street I needed, so I decided to just head a little farther north.

A little farther north is a bunch of neighborhoods, but I figured one of them would connect to the main street I was looking for. I turned down a street that kind of twisted and turned, making it difficult for me to see if it would actually go through. I saw a road off to my left that seemed to have an excessive number of speed bumps for a residential neighborhood—I took that as a sign that people had probably been using this as a thoroughfare to the main street and turned left. I was right about the excessiveness of the speed bumps (that was quite a ride), but wrong about it leading to where I wanted to go. Turn after turn only led me to dead ends, which was frustrating because don’t they usually post “dead end” or “not a through street” signs? A little warning might have been nice.

What was even more frustrating was finally getting to a street that ran parallel to the one I wanted, and still not being able to get there because they were separated by a large field with no connecting streets. For blocks. I made my way out of that residential neighborhood, annoyed with the unnecessary detours, and went even farther north until I found the street that would get me to the street I needed. Finally, I was on the right street and then the train rails came down. Sometimes you can head off the train farther down the road, but sometimes you just have to wait. So I waited. And I got to where I was going. And it was OK.

It’s still blasted hot. But that’s OK too.

Running errands.

BigHugs, getting into the car yesterday: It’s freaking hot.

BigHugs will be four on Friday.

Yesterday, I had my dreaded dentist appointment.  It was pretty much the uzsh.  My hygienest talked too much (why do they insist on trying to have a conversation with you when you’re incapable of responding?), the dental assistant (who wasn’t even working on me that day and only saw me from the back of my head) admired my foil, and, oh, my dentist (who looks and talks exactly like this–EXACTLY) informed me that the sensitivity I’d been experiencing in my lower right molars is from having two cracked teeth.  Fantastic.  She started to explain something about removing fillings and checking things out and “root canal” might have been tossed in there somewhere.  I couldn’t really say because I was too busy listening to the music.

It all started as I was sitting in the waiting room.  When I first sat down, Foreigner’s Waiting For a Girl Like You*  was playing, which, of course, was awesome.  I mean, as far as dental office waiting room music goes, does it get much better than that?  But then Feel Like Making Love by Roberta Flack came on and I was like, “That’s what I’M talking about.”  I had brought a book, but I didn’t get very far—it’s pretty hard to read and do mental karaoke simultaneously, especially when you’re being constantly bombarded by awesomeness.   Just as Roberta’s voice was fading in the distance, I heard “Can you hear me?  Can you hear me running?” –classic Mike & the Mechanics, Silent Running.  Then something countryish came on and my hygienist came out to fetch me.

Luckily for me, the exam rooms share the same speaker system with the waiting room.  Peter Cetera kept me company while I had my x-rays done.  I can’t remember which song or if it was from his time with Chicago or after he went solo—it wasn’t one of his more familiar tunes, though that voice is unmistakeable.  Then as the hygienist was scraping and picking at my teeth, I started praying for it to all be over while George Michael was Praying For Time.  My hands gripped my chair arms as she poked and prodded my gums, but Lionel told me to just chill.  It was all very soothing.

The assortment of songs that followed was really…interesting.  Next up was Ebony & Ivory (which I can’t hear without thinking of this), then Crystal Gayle’s Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue followed by Missing from EBTG.  And when Mr. Bolton started crooning How Am I Supposed to Live Without You? I thought my dental appointment experience was complete (or at least, I was hoping—my cleaning was over and I was waiting for my exam).  But no, there was more!  I still had to get out of Billy Ocean’s dreams and get into his car and then Anita Baker was giving me the best that she’s got and then just as I was starting to get good and irritated that the dentist still hadn’t come in to do my examination, some chick (I can never remember who she is) was reminding me to breathe, just breathe.

Still waiting for the dentist, I got a little Boyz II Men and an odd cover of Norah Jones’ Don’t Know Why, which I could have sworn was SmokeyRobinson and it was and good frick, where the aitch was this dentist already?  My wait was still not quite over, but not to worry because it was Mike and Ann to the rescue!  (As far as I was concerned, there was nothing almost about this paradise.) 

At this point, I lost all track of time.  I don’t know when the dentist came in because, like I said, I was too busy listening to the music.  There were just three songs left:  Jennifer Warnes’s Right Time of The Night (What’s with all the making love at the dentist? And WHAT is up with this youtube video?), Billy Ocean’s Mystery Lady (You know you’ve been at the dentist too long when you hear two Billy Ocean ditties during the same appointment.  Nothing against Mr. Ocean, who is undisputably awesome, but really, what are the odds?), and A Whole New World (heaven knows I loves me some Peabo). 

So there it is—the soundtrack to my latest dental adventure.  I have another appointment in September to take care of those pesky cracked teeth, and strangely enough, I’m almost looking forward to it. 

*While I was searching youtube for this song, I came across a version Andy Gibb did on Solid Gold (Mad, you HAVE to follow this link—seriously, talk about your solid gold!).  Following that link led me to this, one of my most favorite Andy Gibb songs ever.  Isn’t he pretty?  Sigh.  Yet another life cut tragically short.

We went to the doctor today.  Better safe than sorry, right?  Only a fool would let her accident prone daughter walk around with broken bones hanging out all willy nilly for ten days more than once.  I am no fool, sisters.  No fool!

So that sore pinky is perfectly fine.  Beautiful, intact bones.  WHAT a re-LIEF!  It’s just the hand that’s broken.  Yes, my friends, the hand.  Who needs a broken finger when you can just break the WHOLE DING DANG HAND?!

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It looks like her already paid for cheer camp is out next week.  Piano is a no-go, too.  And she’s actually pretty excited that the swimming lessons I had planned for the first week of August will have to wait as well.  Oh well.  It could have been worse, right?  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  Well, THAT’S not ALL, folks!  Why settle for a broken hand when you can have a broken hand AND, wait for it…

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…a BROKEN ELBOW!

And you know what would be even MORE awesome?  How about we put that broken hand and broken elbow on DIFFERENT ARMS?!

Bonus!  Isn’t that just FAN-TAS-tic?!

As the Dr. splinted her up, DynaGirl started to sniff.  Not because she was crying, but because she needed to wipe her nose. 

Dr:   You poor thing.  You’re not even going to be able to blow your own nose.  I didn’t think about that.  And how are you going to eat?  I didn’t think about that.  And, oh no!  How are you going to wipe your behind when you use the bathroom?!  I didn’t even think about that!

Good questions, Doc.  Good questions.  So far I’ve fed her, dressed her, and taken care of her more personal needs.  Good times, my friends.  Good times.  We see the ortho guy tomorrow (or today, depending on when you read this).  Our doctor wasn’t sure whether or not she’d end up with two casts or one.  We’ll just have to wait and see.  Obviously, I’m tingling with anticipation.

And as if this wasn’t enough excitement, Chuck got called out of town last minute.  He leaves early tomorrow morning and will be back next week on Friday.  Awesome.  Oh, and for just a little more icing on the cake, guess what lucky girl gets to go to the dentist in the morning?  That’s right!  Me!  It’s me, me, me, ME, ME!  I love my life!  It…Just…Keeps…Getting…Better!

In all seriousness, I’m actually very glad it’s just a couple of broken bones.  Thankfully, she was wearing a helmet.  She’s OK.  Inconvenienced, greatly, but OK.  And, as usual, my blessings are too many to count.

And, as a TOTALLY unrelated aside, here’s some classic PSB for you (I think Neil Tennant’s hair is wondering this same thing):

You know, I’ve noticed lately that come 2 or 3 o’clock in the afternoon if I try to sit down to do something like read or watch TV, I can’t keep my eyes open.  I’m literally nodding off with the droopy lids, startling head bob and all.  (I think one time I even noticed a little moisture at the corner of my mouth.  But that does not leave this blog.  Do you hear me?  I know where most of you live.)  And I can’t help but think if you’re only as old as you feel then I’m just a shuffle away from the front of a Smucker’s jar.

And what is up with that recurring whisker under my chin?  Seriously!

Do you know what I LOVE about the end of the year?  Elementary school yearbooks.  There is seriously NO better use for my $17 x 2. 

For some insane reason, seven years ago I felt the need to purchase my eldest child a yearbook.  He was in first grade.  You can’t possibly leave first grade without a yearbook, right?  It seemed silly not to buy one the next year too.  I mean, it would be like collecting only one saucer in a place setting, right?  Totally pointless.  And incomplete.  We all know how I am about incompleteness.  So I set a precedent for this child and all the Bythelbs children that were yet to come.

A couple of months ago my girls brought home a “last chance to order your yearbooks” notice.  I had never seen a “first chance” notice, but thought I’d better get my sweet fanny down to that school and order those yearbooks before it was too late.  I asked the lady in the office for some order forms.  She said they didn’t have any, but I could just write the check and include a note that said it was for a yearbook.  No official forms, huh?  Just include a note, eh?  The whole thing sounded sketchy and more than a little unadvisable, but what was I to do?  It was my last chance!  So I wrote out the checks (one for each child) for $17.  (When on earth did elementary yearbooks start costing $17?  They were always $8-10 at the other school.  You’d think the ridiculous price would be enough for me to refuse to purchase on principle, but we’ve already started the set, see, so there’s just no going back now.)  I was sure to make a note in the memo on the check with my child’s name and that it was for a “yearbook”, and then I wrote another note on a full size sheet of paper with my child’s name, teacher, grade and FOR YEARBOOK.  I stapled the checks to the notes and then hand delivered them to the office.  (This is what you call foreshadowing.)

Well, last Friday Goose comes home from school and wants to know why she didn’t get a yearbook.  They’d handed them out in class that day and she didn’t get one.  Of course she didn’t.  So I looked at our checking account online to make sure that the checks had cleared, which they had, and printed out copies of the canceled checks to present to the school office on Monday.  I went into the office and told the lady (the same “just put a note with your check” lady) that my daughter did not receive her yearbook.  “Did you check with her teacher?” she asked with more than a little hint of the “You’re kind of an idiot, aren’t you?” tone.  I told her that no, I hadn’t.  She told me to check with her teacher.  So I traipsed down to the end of the school with BigHugs in tow and checked with the teacher.  She consulted her list and surprise, surprise, Goose wasn’t on it.  I went back to the office and explained that my daughter wasn’t on the list.  The lady consulted her own list, which coincidentally looked IDENTICAL to the one the teacher had.  (I might also add that the lady picked up the list from the counter right in front of her.)  Sure enough, Goose was missing from that list too. 

“And you paid?” she asked.  I told her I had paid and had copies of the canceled checks with me.  She waved me off and said she didn’t need to see those and proceeded to hand me two yearbooks.  She was perfectly happy to take my word for it.  Coolio.  And then she added Goose’s and DynaGirl’s names to the list with the special notation “says she paid”.  Um, excuse me.  I didn’t “say” anything.  I didn’t “pay”.  I paid.  It was all I could do to keep my mouth shut.  I just kept thinking that now I would be That Woman.  That Woman who “pays” for things.  Next year I’ll walk into a room of PTA moms, introduce myself and then watch as they exchange knowing glances and under-the-breath, behind-the-hand mutterings.  “Says she paid.” My reputation will forever be suspect. 

And for what?  The yearbooks suck.  Worse than usual and at twice the price.  I am such a chump.

So last night I watched Made of Honor.  Have any of you seen this movie?  It’s one of the stupidest movies I’ve seen in a long time.  Of course, I did manage to watch the whole thing.  But what bugged me most about it was that Tom, the Patrick Dempsey character, who plays the romantic lead and who you are supposed to be rooting for to get the girl, is really just a big fat jerk.  He’s like a total man ho who doesn’t realize his dream girl is his best friend until she’s ready to marry someone else.  And even then, he doesn’t really want to marry her himself, he just wants to keep her from marrying the other guy so he can still have her to hang out with.  I understand that stories need flawed characters to make them more real and relatable and all that junk, but it really bugs when movies expect you to root for the jerks (spoiler alert!) and then be happy when they get their way.  So lame.  And I don’t know what they did to try to make Patrick Dempsey look younger in the college flashback, but it was really creeping me out.   And don’t even get me started on the sophomoric humor.  Plus Kevin McKidd didn’t get nearly enough screen time, and when he was there he was kind of a dork.  Kevin McKidd is no dork.  This movie was just wrong on so many levels.

And now I don’t have anything else to say.  I guess all I really wanted to do was vent some frustration over the stupidity of this movie.  And you know it’s bad when I’m complaining because when it comes to entertainment, I don’t have particularly high standards or expectations.   Have you seen any good movies lately?  Or stupid ones the rest of us should avoid?  Can you spare us some of the “That was two hours of my life I’ll never get back!”s?

Dear Mr. T’s Social Studies Teacher,

I would just like to thank you for giving Mr. T the opportunity of repeating a homework assignment you somehow misplaced.  It was totally cool of you to give him a chance to make up that assignment he had already completed.  Unfortunately, Mr. T was so busy working on the major project you assigned for the last week of school, that he didn’t have time to do that other assignment.  AGAIN.  So I did it.  So there.  Pppbbbtt.

Sincerely,

Bythelbs (aka Big Fat Cheater Pants Mom)

Dear Yellow YMCA Shirt Lady,

No offense, but what kind of inconsiderate idiot chooses the elementary school drop-off lane to put sunscreen on her child and then spends the next several moments rubbing the excess sunscreen all over herself before getting back in her car and finally, mercifully driving away?  It’s the fracking drop-off lane!  Watch the hail!*

Sincerely,

Bythelbs (aka Big Fat Raging Pants Mom)

Dear BigHugs,

OK, I get that you find the image of me in my underwear disgustin’.  You really don’t need to say so every time you see me in such a state of undress.  I get it.  Disgustin’.  Totawee disgustin’.  Message received.  And noted.

Sincerely,

Mom (aka Big Fat Under Pants Mom)

Dear Gerard Butler,

I had the pleasure of watching your film P.S. I Love You last night, in which you were magically delicious.  Thank you.  For being delicious.  Magically.  So magically.

Sincerely,

Bythelbs (aka Not-so-very-Big-or-Fat Smokin’ Hot Mom…with pants.  Hot pants.  Well, not literally hot pants.  Never mind.)

*Told you, Tawnya.

I usually walk my girls to school every morning as it is only a few blocks away, but this morning it was cold and Goose has a cold and, well, let’s be honest, I was feeling kind of lazy so I decided to drop them off.  There are no words to describe the depth of my loathing for that special circle of hell that is the elementary school parking lot.  The parking lot has a lane designated for drop offs.  You pull into the lane and wait until you are in the safe drop off zone, let your child out, and then get the heck out of there so that the other parents can do the same.  And, of course, all the while remembering to pull forward as to not waste any of the precious drop off zone space.  It’s really not that hard until you have some joker who takes a good 5 minutes to push their kid out the door, and then you’re screwed.  Everything’s all backed up.  And then you have the other jokers who just can’t wait, so they completely bypass the drop off lane and pull directly into the drop off zone.  There is no bypassing, people.  No bypassing! 

Today I was in the zone letting out my girls.  The code of the zone is sacred, people.  Wait your turn, pull forward, drop off quickly, move along.  I know the code.  I live by the code.  And poor Goose this morning pinches her finger in the handle as she’s trying to pull the van door shut.  Do I get out of the car to comfort her?  No, you don’t get out of the car.  There is no drivers exiting the vehicles in the code.  Only pulling forward and moving along.  I do my best to console her through the window, making my sincerest face of sympathy, blowing a kiss, and then nodding vigorously with a smile to reassure her she would be fine.  The two cars ahead of me pull out and just as I’m easing my way out after them, another car cuts right in front of me, blocking off my exit.  She’s not even pulled in next to the curb, so I can’t get around her. Finally, after her kid is out the door, she realizes she’s going to have to back up to get out and almost hits me!  I have nowhere to back up—there’s a line of cars behind me, for crying out loud!  This woman does not live by the code.  Who is she to think she can live outside of the code?

So I’m good and bothered by the time I get home.  And hungry.  I figure a forkful of leftover birthday cake will be just the thing to chase my troubles away.  But there’s no birthday cake.  Nope.  Uh-uh.  The cake is gone.  No trace of the cake.  Not a sprinkle.  Not a crumb.  I can only assume that Chuck took the entire container of leftover birthday cake (which was easily like three pieces worth) to work with him.  The whole thing!  I’m totally not telling him where the Halloween candy’s stashed.  When I get the Halloween candy.

On Friday, Mr. T went on a campout with his boy scout troop.  This was his second attempt.  The first campout did not go over so well as it was raining and cold and there were irritating boys whose sole purpose in Mr. T’s estimation was to make everyone else miserable.  Friday afternoon I reminded him it was time to get ready and he heaved a heavy sigh.  Chuck and I decided long ago that scouting would not be something we would force upon our son, but Mr. T is the type of kid who occasionally needs a little nudging to do anything besides sit at the computer so we’re still trying to gently encourage him.  He agreed to go and got everything ready.  We were to meet at our church at 4:50 pm so they could leave at 5 pm sharp.  The scoutmaster ended up being over an hour late.  Whatever.  It was also raining and cold.  And there were irritating boys whose sole purpose was to make Mr. T miserable.  I’m not sure we can talk him into going a third time.  I’m not sure we’ll even try.

Saturday night DynaGirl woke up sobbing.  She’d had a nightmare.  She said she dreamed that Mr. T, BigHugs and I had all died.  Yikes.  That’s a nightmare.  The kind I have frequently.  I have times where my subconscious is a little too preoccupied with death.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had nightmares about losing members of my family.  They’re awful.  And even the relief of waking up and realizing it was just a dream isn’t enough to take away the feeling of dread.  It just lingers and makes me want to cry. Sometimes I do, like DynaGirl.

My favorite death dreams are the ones where someone dead comes back to life, specifically my mom.  I used to dream about her all the time—that she was still alive and everything was back to normal.  Those were actually good dreams, and even though I would wake up only to realize she was still gone, that repeated grief and disappointment was totally worth having her back for a few imaginary moments.  Sometimes I would dream that she was still alive, but then she would die again in my dream.  Those sucked.  No fair to have to relive it.

On Sunday night, we were all sitting at the dinner table when I noticed this weird noise in the background. My kids were convinced it was the dryer.  I thought, “It damn well better not be the dryer because that is definitely not how the dryer is supposed to sound, which could only mean that something is terribly, terribly wrong with the dryer and didn’t we just do the whole dead washer routine?”  I decided to investigate and ended up poking my head out the front door to find an ambulance and fire engine outside my neighbor’s house.  The weird background noise was the fire engine idling.

We go to church with these neighbors (an older couple with mostly grown kids and one 16 year old son at home), and have lived across the street from them for over seven years.  My first thought was one of them must have had a heart attack.  They’re both large people.  Lovely, lovely people, but large.  I was afraid.  I sent Chuck over to investigate, and it turns out Mrs. Lovely large neighbor had her leg just collapse out from under her.  She heard a pop and then it just folded.  Ouch.  Her husband said it happened in their bedroom, which is downstairs, while he was away, so she called out to her teenage son, who was upstairs, but he couldn’t hear her so she called him on his cell phone.  This is a small house, but thank goodness for cell phones, I guess.  Her son called his dad and he came home.  Chuck said the son was still upstairs when he got there.  I was wondering if he was still upstairs or upstairs again.  Surely he didn’t just stay upstairs and leave his poor mother alone in her misery until dad arrived.  Surely.

I was just so relieved no one had a heart attack.  I’m going to check on her today.

Today Chuck left for a 10-day business trip.  Again with the business trips.  It would have been a full two weeks only DynaGirl’s birthday is next Thursday and Chuck missed her birthday two years ago while on business in Italy, and DynaGirl has never let him forget it.  She still brings it up at random non-birthday related times.  “Remember that time you missed my birthday?” 

He broke the news to the kids Friday night over dinner.

Chuck:  I’ve got good news and bad news.  Which do you want first?

DynaGirl:  Bad news.

Chuck:  I have to go on another trip.

DynaGirl and Goose:  What?  Again?

DynaGirl:  You’re going to miss my birthday!  Again!

Chuck:  Wait for the good news.

DynaGirl, sulking.

Chuck:  I’m coming back on your birthday.

DynaGirl:  Yay!  Wait, what time?

He’ll be home before she gets home from school, but I love how quick she was to make sure he wasn’t trying to pull a fast one on her.  Like not getting home until nighttime would have been totally cheating because he still would have basically missed her birthday.  Again.

So, to sum up:

stupid campouts = bad

death = bad

jacked-up leg = better than a heart attack

DynaGirl = forgive, but not forget

How was your weekend?

So I sent a note with DynaGirl’s math homework, saying I didn’t understand how she was supposed to answer these questions without any context.  Her teacher told her that since there was not enough information to really determine the answer, she was to mark one of the middle boxes.  Wha?  Since when does “there’s no way of knowing based on the information provided” = “kind of unlikely or kind of very likely”?  Whatever.  It’s still a dumb math program.

As for Mr. T’s teacher, I questioned Mr. T a little more about it today.  He said he likes his teacher.  She’s nice and fun.  Hmmm…  Apparently he wasn’t traumatized by the experience.  It sounds like she’s fairly young, so I’m going to give her a break and chalk up this particular incident to poor judgment and inexperience.  We’ll just have to wait and see if a pattern develops.

And for those of you who are interested, here are the answers to the non-IQ test “test”:

1.  26 L of the A (26 letters of the alphabet)

2.  7 D of the W (7 days of the week)

3.  7 W of the W (7 wonders of the world)

4.  12 S of the Z  (12 signs of the zodiac)

5.  66 B of the B  (66 books of the bible)

6.  18 H on a G C  (18 holes on a golf course)

7.  39 B of the O T  (39 books of the old testament)

8.  5 T on a F (5 toes on a foot)

9.  90 D in a R A (90 degrees in a right angle)

10. 3 B M (S H T R)  (3 blind mice, see how they run)

11. 32 is the T in D F at which W F (32 is the temperature in degrees Fahrenheit at which water freezes)

12. 15 P in a R T (15 players in a rugby team)

13. 3 W on a T (3 wheels on a tricycle)

14. 100 C in a D (100 coins in a dollar—I think this should have been 100 P in a D)

15. 11 P in a F (S) T  (11 players in a football team—I’m guessing the “S” is for starting?)

16. 12 M in a Y  (12 months in a year)

17. 13 is U F S  (13 is unlucky for some)

18. 8 T on an O  (8 tentacles on an octopus)

19. 29 D in F in a L Y   (29 days in February in a leap year)

20. 27 B in the N T  (27 books in the new testament)

21. 365 D in a Y  (365 days in a year)

22. 13 L in a B D  (13 loaves in a baker’s dozen)

23. 52 W in a Y  (52 weeks in a year)

24. 9 L of a C   (9 lives of a cat)

25. 60 M in an H (60 minutes in an hour)

26. 23 P of C in the H B  (23 pairs of chromosomes in the human body)

27. 64 S on a C B  (64 squares on a chess/checker board)

28. 9 P in S A  (9 provinces in South Africa—well, duh)

29. 6 B to an O in C  (6 balls to an over in cricket—wha?)

30. 1000 Y in a M  (1000 years in a millenium)

31. 15 M on a D M C (15 men on a dead man’s chest)

32. 52 C in a P (W J) ( 52 cards in a pack without jokers)

33. 13 S in the U S F  (13 stripes in the United States flag)

I used to be one of those people who thought homeschooling was insane.  Why would anyone do that?  Why would you want to do that?  But now that I’m older and see the differences in children’s needs and learning styles and am better acquainted with the public education system in general, I can understand why some parents would choose this road.  It’s still not for me, but I no longer think they’re off their rockers.  For the most part.

Last year our school district implemented a new math program at the elementary level designed to teach math skills in a way that students could apply them in everyday life.  I guess the idea is that if they can see the practical applications they will more readily understand the concepts.  This sounds like a good idea in theory, but I think the execution still leaves something to be desired.

This worksheet was part of DynaGirl’s homework last night:

Number 6 says, “How likely is it that my head will explode?”

DynaGirl (who is in 3rd grade this year) started her homework while I was out running errands.  When I came home she was very frustrated.  After reading over this worksheet, I totally understood why.  There was no accompanying sheet of instructions or story or math book to consult in reference to these questions.  We determined that number 1 was very unlikely because turkeys just don’t get that big, do they?  But the other questions?  Who the hell is Hugh, and how are we supposed to know how old he is likely to be?  What do they mean by “mosquitoes for company”?  If they’re asking how likely it is that Hugh invited them over for tea, I would say not likely, but if Hugh’s camping or hanging out by a lake or something, then sure he’s more than likely to have a few mosquitoes hanging around.  And apparently Hugh is hanging out by a lake because he’s catching a million fish.  Only a million likely an exaggeration—you know how men (or boys named Hugh who may or may not be 8 years old) are with their fish stories.  And where did these pirates come from?  Why cypress trees?  Would the answer be any different if they were palm trees?

It’s all so random.  Where is the context?  What exactly is the lesson here?  It’s just stupid.  And pointless.

Mr. T is in 7th grade this year and is part of an honors program, which includes advanced math and social studies and English classes for the “gifted” students.  On Monday, his social studies teacher told his class that they had over-enrolled the honors classes that year and would be administering an IQ test to determine which kids would stay in the class and which would be dropped.  She gave them a 33 question test, and before they started told them that if they got 19 questions right, they would be assured a place in the program and if the got 15 questions right they still had a really good chance, but anything less than that would be iffy.

Needless to say, a lot of the kids were stressed out, and Mr. T said one boy was near tears while taking the test.  The test was a series of word puzzles or phrases that included numbers and letters.  The letters represented the first letter of a word in a phrases.  For example, 24 H in a D would be 24 hours in a day.  After the test was over, the teacher informed the class that it was all a joke and that they had just taken the test for fun.  Mr. T said he was very relieved as after they corrected the test he found that he had only answered 12 questions correctly.

Are you kidding me?  It was a joke?  Most of these kids were all freaked out about the possibility of being dropped from the program, and some of them, close to tears, had nearly cracked under the pressure.  What kind of teacher does this?  So.  Lame.  And.  Wrong.

Just out of curiosity, I took the test and got 18 1/2 right.  How many can you get?  If anyone gets #28 right, I’ll eat my hat.

1.  26 L of the A               

2.  7 D of the W

3.  7 W of the W              

4.  12 S of the Z               

5.  66 B of the B                                       

6.  18 H on a G C            

7.  39 B of the O T           

8.  5 T on a F

9.  90 D in a R A              

10. 3 B M (S H T R)                     

11. 32 is the T in D F at which W F         

12. 15 P in a R T                           

13. 3 W on a T                  

14. 100 C in a D               

15. 11 P in a F (S) T         

16. 12 M in a Y                 

17. 13 is U F S                  

18. 8 T on an O                 

19. 29 D in F in a L Y       

20. 27 B in the N T                       

21. 365 D in a Y               

22. 13 L in a B D              

23. 52 W in a Y                

24. 9 L of a C                   

25. 60 M in an H               

26. 23 P of C in the H B    

27. 64 S on a C B             

28. 9 P in S A                   

29. 6 B to an O in C          

30. 1000 Y in a M

31. 15 M on a D M C

32. 52 C in a P (W J)

33. 13 S in the U S F

OK, so yesterday I called Chuck at work to let him know the washer part came, so he could hopefully come home a little early to repair it because he had other appointments yesterday evening, and as I had already established we were getting into a serious crisis of underpants.  He came home about an hour early and installed our new timer in less than 30 minutes.  We decided to run it through a super short cycle with no clothes just to make sure it was working properly before we through a bunch of clothes in there only to end up with a big sopping wet mess of half-clean duds (I’m liking this duds thing, although, maybe next time I’ll try threads.  Threads would be cool–it’s so Huggy Bear.)

Anyway, we run it through a cycle and it kind of has this extra long pause before the rinse cycle, which is where it was totally stopping before.  It would agitate through the wash cycle and then just stop dead, not draining or rinsing or spinning.  There were a couple of times that I was able to coax it into the other part of the cycle with some creative knob-turning (or so I thought—a little foreshadowing for you there), so we assumed it must be the timer.  We had had to replace the timer about 5 years ago, and at the time when I complained to the repair man about the washer being less than two years old and shouldn’t the dang timer last longer than that, he replied, “You never know about timers.  They could last 30 minutes or 30 years.  You just never know.”

But coming back to the present now (or the not as past past since I’m talking about last night), it seemed like a really loooong pause, so we were worried it wasn’t fixed after all and I was about ready to cry.  I had already sorted 7 loads of laundry and I was ready to go!  I leaned forward onto the washer to hang my head in my hands in despair, and the rinse cycle kicked in.  We thought, huh, maybe we just don’t have an accurate idea of how long each part of the cycle takes.  I mean, it’s not like we ever sit in the laundry room and watch the washer.  I don’t even have one of those cool front loaders with the glass doors so that you can see the clothes swishing around.  I suppose if I did, that might be a tempting pasttime.  So with a great deal of relief I went about my merry way cooking dinner while the washer finished washing all of my underwear.  Success!

With one load of victory under my belt, I decided to tackle the rest of my mountain, and threw in another load.  Well, I went upstairs to tend to this and that, and when I came back downstairs, I noticed that the machine had paused again after the agitating part of the cycle.  I stood there for a full five minutes waiting for it to kick in.  I knew something was wrong.  Terribly, terribly wrong.  Some drama ensued, which included some loud and emotional muttering on my part.  I leaned forward on the washer, putting my weight on the lid while I peered over the back to see if there was something weird going on with the drain pipe or some other washing machine ailment that would miraculously make itself known to me and that I would then know what to do about, and the washer kicked back on again.  Startled, I jumped back a little and it stopped.  I pushed back down on the lid and it started.  I eased back and it stopped.  Push, on.  Pull back, stop.  Hmmmm.  Push, on.  Pull back, on.  Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I figured it must have something to do with the little sensor thingy under the lid that lets it know if the lid is open or not.  Our washing machine will continue to agitate when the lid is open (I always thought this was strange as our last washing machine always stopped whatever it was doing when we opened the lid), but will stop spinning, rinsing, etc.  I let the washer finish its cycle, because hey, it was working, so better not to interrupt its workingness—I had a load of colors at stake here, including the shirt Mr. T was supposed to be wearing for school pictures today.

After that load was done, I threw in another, and when it stopped this time, I opened the lid and fiddled with the little sensor button thing.  (By this time everyone was in bed, so I was left to my own devices.)  When I pushed it down the washer came back on, but I also noticed that it had quite a bit of give to it.  It was loose, so when the lid was shut, the little pointy thing that was supposed to push on the sensor to indicate the lid was closed was just pushing the whole piece down and thus not making the right connections.  I tried tightening the screws to keep it in position, but the screws just kind of spun.  So I did the next best thing to actually repairing something, and pulled out the duct tape.  My washing machine lid sensory doohickey thing is now being held securely in place with the cure all of home improvement and repair.  The cycle, of course, finished.  And when I threw in another load, it ran all the way through without incident.  I fixed my not really broken washing machine all by myself with a roll of duct tape!

So the moral of the story is threefold:

1.  Don’t call a washer repairman to look at your “broken” washing machine because even though the thing you thought was wrong with it, wasn’t actually and you spent $150 (with shipping) on a part you didn’t need, you have 90 days to return said part, and while you’ll lose the $15 shipping charge (and whatever it will cost you to ship it back, which I assure you will not be any $15 for a 1 lb part!) you will still end up paying considerably less than a $60+ whatever bogus work/part they’d tell you you’d need service call.

2.  Sometimes when it ain’t broke, you still have to fix it.

3.  Never underestimate the power of duct tape.

Chuck offered to look into replacing the sensor, but I’m thinking it’s not that it’s broken, it just doesn’t want to stay put, and since I’ve already remedied that with the duct tape, what would be the point?  And I do apologize to all of you who may feel I’ve betrayed our sex with the employment of the infamous duct tape for a home repair project.  But I’m really having a hard time feeling too badly about it, sitting here in my soft as a summer’s breeze and fresh as the morning dew undies.

Do you have any home improvement/repair success stories to share?  Or maybe some stories about being totally wrong about something and feeling kind of dumb and that you’d wasted a bunch of money and time and energy being stressed out about the something and even devoting a number of blog posts to said something that wasn’t even an actual something, but just a kind of something yet it all worked out in the end so you guess it doesn’t really matter to share?

Little pointy thing:

Duct tape repair:

Non-broken timer Chuck will be putting back in this weekend so we can return the non-necessary timer:

Paper towel I used to wipe down my washer before I took the pictures:

Some of my happy, little piles of clean laundry:

Some of my laundry still waiting to be ready for placement in a happy, little pile of cleanliness:

So the appointment went fine.  She did ask about the eating, but said she wasn’t too concerned since BigHugs gained 5 lbs over the last year and grew 3 1/2 inches, so she’s doing great.  She only said to try and make sure she gets some protein.  Something about brain develo…blah, blah, blah.  Now with the potty-training, she had a big talk with BigHugs about being a big girl and using the potty and only wearing diapers at night and told me I could make her the bad guy, “The doctor said no more daytime diapers.”  She says BigHugs is ready, it’s just a control issue.  Well, duh.  But we’ll see.   I’m trying to psych myself up for tomorrow being the big day.  I gotta go get me some m&m’s, I guess.    With the sleeping, she said she totally knew where I was coming from (BigHugs ends up in bed with us at some point every night) as her youngest tried to sleep with them until she was 6.  She offered some suggestions that I think I might actually try (after we get the potty thing figured out—can’t do too many things at once).  And thank heavens she didn’t ask about the television!  Woo-hoo!

But more importantly, my washer part is here!  It’s here, it’s here, it’s here!!!  I might actually get to wear clean underwear tomorrow!  (Don’t worry, I’m wearing clean underwear now, but I’m on my last pair.)

Or could you maybe just beam me down some fresh duds? 

Bythelbs:  Washer…still…broken.  Part…in…transit.  Our underwear supplies…dangerously low.  We’ve…got to do something!

Chuck:  Dammit, Bythelbs!  I’m an engineer not a Maytag man!

I’ve spent the past 6+ months talking up the potty to BigHugs.  We even purchased some fancy shmancy Dora and Curious George pannies.  (Yes, I know it’s “panties”, but they’re “pannies” at our house.)  The one time I tried to actually put her on her little potty, she screamed.  She was fine until her bare bum hit the cold plastic and then it was all over.  That was probably five months ago now.  Ever since then, whenever we would say, “BigHugs, do you want to try going potty on the toilet?” her response was always, “No, thank you.”  At least she was polite about it.

As her third birthday approached, we thought we’d use the big girl angle.  “You’re going to be three, BigHugs, and you’ll be a big girl.  Will you be ready to use the potty when you’re three?”  At first she balked at the idea and offered her usual “No, thank you”, but after a few weeks she gradually seemed to be coming around.  We even heard an occasional “When I’m three I’m going to be a big girl and sleep in my own bed and go potty on the toilet.”

Well, three has come and gone, my friends, and all is quiet on the porcelain front.  She absolutely refuses to even entertain the idea.  We don’t even get the no thank you’s anymore—now it’s, “Stop talking to me.”  Or rather, “Stop talking to me!!!”

The other day I thought we had a breakthrough.  BigHugs had been complaining about a sore bum.  I explained to her that it was because of the diapers, and once she started going potty on the toilet she wouldn’t have that problem anymore.  I dared ask, “Are you ready to go potty on the toilet now?”  She responded with a heavy sigh, “Ohhh-kay.  Sure.”  Huh?  What was that?  Well, at that point it was bedtime, so I thought we’d give her chair a spin in the morning.  Puh-haw!  By morning we were back to, “Stop talking to me.”  Minus the exclamation points, though, so that was nice.

Here’s a conversation we had 30 seconds ago.

Me:  What do you think about the potty, BigHugs?

BigHugs:  Give me a kiss.

Me:  Do you want to go potty on the toilet?

BigHugs:  No.

Me:  Why not?

BigHugs, running from the room:  Because.  Voice fading in the distance. I’m going to bed!

Having done the whole potty training thing three times already, I have a little bit of experience with this.  I have long ago come to the conclusion that you can not force a child to go potty on the toilet.  Sure, you can try, but for me it was a road to nowhere.  Or a road to pain and frustration and an inordinate number of pee pee pants and floors.  When I allowed my children to decide they were “ready”, it was a much more pleasant experience.  With my first two this was around three years old, one a little before and one barely after.  With Goose it took a little longer (surprise, surprise), but she was potty trained before three and a half.  So I suppose BigHugs still falls in the normal range for my offspring.

I’m just ready to be done with the diapers.  So very ready.  And by all accounts, so is BigHugs—she wants her diaper changed almost immediately at even the slightest hint of moisture, she retires to a private room and shuts the door when she needs to take care of business, and waits until we get home to do so—except for the whole refusing to sit on the potty thing.  I’ve tried bribery.  With toys.  With candy.  With money.  She didn’t bite.  I’m afraid I find myself at the mercy of a three year old.  Again.  Sigh.

Do you have any potty success stories to share?  Sorry, Madhousewife, feel free to make an off-topic comment.

As I’ve been writing this, I keep hearing “Potty talk.  I see your potty talk.  You make my potty talk when you’re next to me.”

Oh, and while we’re on the subject, I’m babysitting tomorrow morning for another diaper wearing almost three year old.  I can’t remember the last time I babysat a child in diapers.  I just hope her daily constitution does not take place between the hours of 9 am to noon.  I have always had the hardest time with other people’s children’s diaper deeds.  I mean, as a mother, at some point you stop dry-heaving when taking care of your child’s fanny fallout, but other people’s children are a whole different animal.  It’s almost other-worldly—like they’re a different species or something.  Is it just me?  I don’t know what it is, but I’m not sure I’m up for it tomorrow.  *shudder*shudder*  Keep your fingers crossed for me!

Yesterday DynaGirl came home with her first homework assignment for third grade.

Dear Parents,

This year I am going to live as a writer.  I am bringing home my writer’s notebook to decorate the covers as homework this evening.  I can use copies of pictures, stickers, scrapbooking paper, magazine pictures, or anything that is flate, tells something about me and is important to me.  I can put clear contact paper over the covers to protect my pictures, if I want to.

My teacher shared her writer’s notebook with me today and she explained how the items on the notebook were important to her.  She also told me that I can jot down ideas (or story seeds) in my notebook.  We are starting a unit on personal narratives, which means that we are writing about things that have really happened in our lives.

Whenever I bring my writer’s notebook home, it is becase I have homework in it.  I will not write entire stories in my notebook, but I will get down some ideas that I might want to write more about in class.

Any way, could you please help me gather some items that I can put on my notebook?  I need to decorate it tonight.  I want to be proud of the work I do and I need to bring it back to school to share in the morning.  I am not ever supposed to leave my writer’s notebook at home.

Here are a couple of example.  (Two pictures of students holding they’re notebooks up that you can clearly see.)

Thank you,

Ms. V

I can already tell I am going to love this teacher (despite the fact that she started out the letter as one of the kids and then signed her own name).  There is nothing more frustrating as a parent than dealing with vague homework instructions.  OK, there are probably a few things more frustrating, but this is definitely a pet peeve of mine.  I can’t tell you how many times my kids have been almost completely clueless when it comes to a specific project or assignment.  I ask for details and the response is inevitably, “I don’t know.  Maybe.  I don’t remember.  She didn’t say.  I don’t think we have to worry about it.”  But I always worry about it.  This teacher thoroughly explains the assignment, what is expected and suggests how to accomplish it.  She tells me exactly what this notebook will be used for in very specific terms and even makes it clear where this notebook should be (school/home).  And she provides examples!  In color!  I love it!  Plus, it just sounds like a great idea.

So DynaGirl and I spent all afternoon on this thing, leafing through magazines, cutting out pictures, printing stuff out on the computer, arranging, pasting, etc.  I do not keep a supply of clear contact paper in my crafty bag of tricks (aka the laundry room), and while the teacher said that the clear contact paper cover was optional, it occurred to me that glue-stick and magazine cutouts and frequently handled notebooks was not a recipe for durability, so I decided to make a quick run to the store. 

I headed to my friendly neighborhood Freddy’s because it’s conveniently close, and there’s always the possibility I might run into Jananne (I did give her another chance and she has not let me down—yet).  I searched high and low in Freddy’s for clear contact paper.  They didn’t appear to have any, so I looked around for laminating sheets.  They didn’t appear to have any of those either.  I headed up to the customer service desk just to make sure they didn’t have some stashed some place that had never occurred to me to check.  The gal said, “I don’t know.  I guess if we had some they’d either be in (the first place I checked) or (the second place I checked).”  She didn’t know.  And didn’t offer to try to find out.  Customer service my…

We do have a Staples, but it’s across town and it was already 8:30 pm and I really needed to get home to get the kids in bed.  I had one other option—a last resort I don’t usually bother to even entertain the idea of using unless I’m seriously desperate.  Seriously.  I’m speaking, of course, of Kmart.  The Big K.  As in Krapfest.  I hate Kmart.  Despise.  Detest.  Loathe.  I don’t know what it is exactly about that store that so disgusts me.  Maybe it’s the haphazard stocking of aisles (not shelves, aisles) with random wares.  Maybe it’s the lack of prices on 75% of their goods.  Maybe it’s the fact the Kmart is more expensive than more desirable places to shop.  Maybe it’s the distinct Kmarty smell—a moth balls meets body odor meets picked up fast food in my car three days ago but the ghost of crappy meals past lingers on kind of smell.    I don’t know.  I just don’t like it.

But I was a woman on a mission—a mission to safely encase her daughter’s customized writer’s notebook in a protective cocoon of clear contact paper.  And flip-dee-dippin’-hurray, what do you know?  Kmart had what I needed.  I checked in office supplies first thing, and found a 10 pack of single-sided 8 1/2×11 laminating sheets perfectly suited for the protection of my daughter’s notebook.  It was a Krapfest miracle.  I paid for my item and got the hell out of there.  (Incidentally, the woman ahead of me was purchasing a padded toilet seat.  I hadn’t realized that they still sold padded toilet seats.  A beige padded toilet seat with pink roses with mint green leaves.  She had the toilet seat and a small package of trash liners.  Who goes to Kmart at 9 o’clock at night to buy a padded toilet seat?  Who buys a padded toilet seat?!)

Long story short, Kmart had what I needed and I breathed a sigh of grateful relief and then vowed (again) never to return.  Because I hate you Kmart.  Yes, I’m grateful, but I still don’t like you.

Why I ever thought it was a good idea to go away for the weekend before school starts is beyond me.  Wait, I didn’t think it was a good idea, but I had to go and I’m so very glad I did.  We had a great visit.  My uncle still looks well—older and more weary, I suppose, but still very full of life.  He was still the uncle I knew and loved, goofy and witty and so very enjoyable to be around.  I see so much of my mom in him, which made me a little sad as I thought of her longingly, but also very happy to have pieces of her in the flesh (ew, that was not a good visual).  I mean, it was great to see what I remember of her features, her expressions and her mannerisms right there in front of me.  I hope I make it back there again.  It should be possible, seeing how they’re only 5 hours away.  But then there’s life.  And stuff.  Sigh.

So yesterday was the mad dash to get all the last minute ready for school stuff done.  I needed lunch stuff and shoes for so and so and medicine for such and such and blah, blah, blah.  And last night we went over to my sister’s to have dinner with her family and my brother (who drove back from the uncle’s with us) and brother’s girlfriend (who I introduced him to, thank you very much, and I think I may have found a new calling in life because…) and brother’s girlfriend’s family (see, family—must be getting serious!).  It was fun, but we left later than we should have, and instead of having everyone tucked into bed for a good night’s sleep before the first day of school at 9 pm, it was more like shoving everyone into bed for hopefully a good enough night’s sleep at 9:45 pm.  Double sigh.

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention DynaGirl’s attempt at giving herself bangs while I was gone.  Luckily, she was a big fat chicken with the scissors and didn’t get very far or chop too much off.  It still needs to be fixed, though, so today she went to school with her “bangs” up in a clip.  Stinker.  I doubt she’ll ever do that again.  If you ever need a lesson in guilt-tripping, come see the master.  “It’s not so much that you cut your own hair, DynaGirl, it’s that you did it after I had told you not to, knowing full well that I would be upset about it.  And that just makes me sad because now I’ll have to wonder if I can trust you in the future.”  That’s the condensed version.  DynaGirl has a highly developed sense of guilt already, so I just twisted the knife.  I felt kind of bad about it afterward.  Triple sigh.

But we made it—the kids are back to school.  The routine is back.  Life can return to normal.  Whatever that is.  Oh, and my washing machine is broken. Big fat sigh.

I woke up at like 6 am this morning and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I just got up.  At 6:30.  In the morning.  I’m so tired.  I got up and watched the end of Masterpiece’s A Room With a View that I had started last night at 12:30 am.  I really don’t know what possesses me to stay up so late.  A Room With a View has been on my DVR for months, and I just now watched it.  It was sad.  I know I’ve seen another version before, but I had no recollection of the story.  I must have been blocking it out.  Because it’s sad.

Last night was DynaGirl and Goose’s back to school BBQ.  We had been looking forward to it because it’s a brand new school and this would be our first glimpse inside.  Plus the girls are always excited to meet their new teachers and see their classrooms.  Well, the school is beautiful.  Everything’s so shiny and new.  But the dumb thing was they didn’t have the class lists ready—some nonsense about having 100 new students register in the past few days and not having placed them all yet.  So they invited us to meet every teacher from the grade our children would be attending.  What is the point of this?  So when you finally find out who you’re getting you can breathe a sigh of relief that you didn’t get Ms. Wackadoodle or be disappointed that you did?  I met one teacher for DynaGirl’s age group that had been hired that morning.  She just graduated a year ago, and her only classroom experience has been substituting for this past year.  She’s teaching a 2nd/3rd grade split class with a 2 to 1 ration of 2nd to 3rd graders.  I asked her how she felt about split classes and she said that she thought they were fine except generally it’s the younger students that benefit.  Not that she would really know, she’s never taught before!  (And why are they putting a completely inexperienced teacher in a split class?)  But it does make sense—the younger students benefitting thing.  DynaGirl’s going into 3rd grade.  If they put her in that class I think I’ll have to raise a stink.  Only last night they said class lists would hopefully be posted by 3 pm today and I’m supposed to be leaving by 2:30 pm today and won’t be back until Sunday night and Monday is Labor Day and Tuesday school starts, so when am I supposed to be raising this stink?  Sigh. 

I’m going to see my sick uncle.  My mom’s baby brother.  I think this is the first trip I’ve ever made for the express reason of saying goodbye.  Kind of puts a damper on things.  But better to go than not.  Sigh.  It’s such bad timing, though, being the weekend before school starts, which I am not totally prepared for.  And I have these responsibilities at church that I’m trying to pawn off last minute on others because I’d volunteered for them completely forgetting that I was going on this trip and not even going to be there.  Probably because I was blocking it out.  Because it’s sad.  Better to go than not.

Sorry to be all gloom and doom.  Here are a few gems from Mr. T this week to end on a happy note.

Mr. T:  Double-O Seven!  Dive-rolls out of the family room.

Mr. T, walking towards his bedroom:  One time I OO7′d it into the bathroom, only I missed the door and hit the wall.

Me:  That was last night.  I was there.

Mr. T:  Oh yeah.

I’m not sure where this ”OO7′d it” phrase came from, but I’m kind of liking it.

Just random conversation.

Mr. T:  If they had an invention that would permanently take out wedgies, I would totally buy it.

Me:  What?

Mr. T:  I’m serious.  I’ve been getting a lot of wedgies lately.  I don’t know what’s going on.

I don’t know what to say.

It’s been a week now.  BigHugs’ spilling last Monday spilled into Goose on Wednesday and DynaGirl on Saturday.  Mr. T threatened to spill on a few occasions, but thankfully never made good on that threat.

I think I’m on my 23rd load of laundry.  Don’t let me forget to put the towels in the dryer.  I hate it when I have to rewash a load because I’ve forgotten to promptly put it in the dryer, thus causing my load to lose its freshness.

I managed to unpack my suitcase.  And BigHugs’.  And it’s only been a week!  It’s some kind of record, I think.  Of course, Mr. T’s and the girls’ are still floating around their rooms somewhere in some stage of unpackedness.  Can’t they just hurry up and wear those clothes already?  Isn’t that the fastest way to empty luggage—the necessity of covering your nakedness?

The whole Bythelbs family managed to get burned the first day of our trip, which was now two weeks ago.  I’m usually pretty vigilant with the sunscreen, but that first day managed to miss more than a few spots.  We’re still peeling.  Well, somehow BigHugs and Goose managed to escape, but the rest of us…  We’re molting everywhere.  It’s like living in a snow globe.  With skin.

You know the worst place to get burned?  Your scalp.  Because the peeling scalp just looks like you’ve got dandruff on steroids.  And you can tell people (like everyone you run into who you think gave your head a second kind of funny and lingering look), “Don’t you just hate it when your scalp gets sunburned and you have like these super huge dandruffy looking flakes that aren’t really dandruff at all but just peeling skin because I’ve totally had the dandruff thing under control for like forever, but I forgot to wear a hat at the beach because well, actually, I don’t even own a hat…”  And they’ll totally nod with you like they get it, but something’s off in their eyes, and you realize they don’t believe a word coming out of your mouth.  Their heads are nodding “yes” while their minds are shaking “flaked out freak”.  Sigh.  Not that that’s ever happened to me.

Well, I’m off like a dirty shirt to do more laundry and bathe and loofah with a vengeance.  Can you loofah a scalp?  That still has a luxuriously full head of hair?  I’m wondering if that’s wise.  Hmmm…

So in the aftermath of BigHugs’ little “spilling” incident on Monday, I forgot to toss her clothes into the wash.  I had rinsed them out so as to dispose of the bulk of the spill, but then put them on the washer while I was running the ginormous load that included a comforter and several towels I had used to clean up the mess.  The washer was full, so I thought her outfit (one of my favorites) had a better chance of making a full recovery if it wasn’t crammed in with all the other stuff.  That was Monday.

On Wednesday, I walked into the laundry room and realized I had never finished Monday’s wash.  I quickly inspected the contents of my washing machine to make sure no unpleasantness had occurred while it sat neglected for two days.  After a few thorough sniffs, I determined it was safe to put them in the dryer.  What are those ocean breeze dryer sheets for anyway, if not to freshen my load?

I gathered up some other items to throw in with the outfit, but when I finally got around to BigHugs’ thoroughly rinsed (read wet and dirty) outfit, I noticed the ultimate in laundry horrors.  Little pink speckles, my friends.  Mildew!  And did I mention it was my favorite outfit?

My first line of attack was my usual stain-remover spray and an old toothbrush I keep in my laundry room.  Nothing.  Nuh-theen-guh.  Sigh.  I thought to myself, “It’s mildew, you idiot.  It’s too late.  This outfit has given up the ghost.  Move on.”  And then, I saw it.  My bucket of OxiClean I had originally purchased to brighten up my kitchen rug.  It had not been the miracle cure I’d seen in the infomercials, but it had worked decently well.  After a few hours of soaking, my rug had looked considerably less dingy.  So I tossed the clothes in a large bowl with a half gallon or so of warm water and a scoop of OxiClean and walked away.

I’m pretty sure by now that those of you who know me know how I am about lost items.  Of course, I knew where this outfit physically was, but once rendered unwearable it was as good as lost to me, so the grieving process had begun.  I tried to comfort myself with the idea that BigHugs is a growing child and would not have been able to wear the outfit much longer anyway and it was really more of a summer outfit and summer was almost over and surely there were equally cute if not cuter ensembles in her future.  I almost had myself fooled into thinking that I it would be OK.

Two hours later, I was able to bring myself to check on the progress of the OxiClean.  I prepared myself for the worst.  But when I pulled up the clothes and brushed away the combined power of water and oxygen suds, there was narry a pink spot in sight!  Halle-frickin-lujah!  It had worked!  It had actually worked!  The damn spots were out!  It was nothing short of a laundry miracle.

I floated over to my washing machine and threw the outfit in with full confidence it had been restored to its former glory.  True story.  Thank you OxiClean!

But that’s not all!  Not 15 minutes after discovering the magical powers of this blessed versatile household stain remover, I spattered microwave popcorn “butter” all over my favorite t-shirt whilst tearing open the steaming bag of naturally and artificially flavored buttered goodness.  I was sure it was too much to ask or hope for a second laundry miracle.  What had I done to expect or deserve such a fount of laundry blessings?  But sweet heavenly hosts, with the help of OxiClean, the greasy butter spots came out, too!

Undoubtedly, some other catastrophe lurks around the corner in the bythelbs household.  The universe has a way of evening things up, after all.  But for now, my laundry is safe and all is right with the world.

Thanks, Julie, for your correct spelling of OxiClean!  With all it’s done to contribute to my wellbeingness, the least I can do is spell it right!

So apparently, when BigHugs comes to me and says, “I spilled chocolate milk on the floor, Mom” what she really means is “I threw up chocolate milk all over the floor, Mom.”  Only I didn’t figure that out until I was in the middle of cleaning up the other throw up that occurred just moments after the whole “spilling” confession.  Nothing like heading down to the laundry room with an armful of wash only to discover a second crime scene.  It just. keeps. getting. better.

BigHugs had a runny nose and cough most of our vacation, and it seems as though yesterday her tummy had finally had enough of all that gunk she was coughing up, but not out.  At least it didn’t happen on vacation.  See, I can count my blessings, look on the bright side, see the half-full cup and all that schlock.

I had such big plans for yesterday.  I was going to think about unpacking and perhaps go to the grocery store and maybe even take the girls school shopping.  But instead, I used the whole sick toddler thing as an excuse for total slacktitude.  Of course.  Of course, I did.  Did you expect anything less?  Or is it more?

But today I’m making up for it.  I’ve already showered and fed two of the four kids lunch and taken Mr. T to the orthodontist and it’s only 12:35 pm.  Is there no end to my productivity?  I was going to start unpacking, but I’m thinking I should pace myself.  This thing called motherhood is a long distance race, after all, and I don’t want to be using up all my juice in the first couple legs.  Right?

Yesterday afternoon, while laying leisurely on the couch in front of Thomas & Jerry (BigHugs always calls Tom Thomas), BigHugs coughed and said in her most pitiful voice, “I’m sick, Mom.  I have the fruit.”  Yeah, I’ve been there, kid.  I’ve so been there.

And not to worry, it looks like it was just a 24 fruit.  She’s back to her happy-go-lucky, non-spewing (or as she puts it, spilling) self.