Got Kids?

I have spent the biggest part of my day cleaning up and organizing Polly Pockets. Lots and lots of Polly Pockets. I detest Polly and her Pockets. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Polly, just make Barbie and Ken collide with Honey, I Shrunk the Kids and you've got Polly Pockets. Nothing. I repeat NOTHING in Polly's wardrobe is larger than 1 inch. Total. Period. Polly herself is only three inches tall. While I was organizing all of her shoes and mittens, I found one of Ken's shoes mixed in...it looked like it belonged to a giant. You get the picture.

I would be willing to bet that the inventor of Polly Pockets didn't have children. Who, in their right mind, would make miniature Barbie dolls, complete with all the accessories. Polly has her own private jet, limo, jeep, house, spa, etc., etc. She even has her very own swimming pool. With water and everything. I even came upon hangers with which to hang the 1-inch dress or ball gown of Polly's. Youngest Child won't even hang up her real clothes, no way is she going to hang up Polly's!

So I was temporarily insane this morning and decided I was tired of Youngest Child not using her closet for that in which it was intended. You could open the door to the closet, and that was about it. Clothes were mixed with stuffed animals were mixed with Polly Pockets were mixed with books were mixed with shoes. And that was just the beginning. No wonder YC couldn't find anything...it was probably in her closet! So I put the stuffed animals together. I put the Webkins together. I put the Bitty Baby and American Girl goodies together. And I was left with Polly and all of her accessories.

It was so bad, I even tried to play Deal or No Deal with Oldest Child. She is getting wise to my ways. When I asked her if she'd like to make some money, her response was, "It's not worth $10 to clean up that mess." When I upped it to $25, she was very interested. Yes, I know I'm crazy to pay someone $25 to clean up a bunch of dolls. Have I told you lately how much I loath Polly Pockets?? We have PP storage containers sitting completely empty because it would be too logical to put the "stuff" where it's supposed to go. But Oldest Child is all about making money. And when she's in the mood, she can clean up a storm. I was hoping today was one of those days. Unfortunately for me, she decided I could keep my money because she'd rather play on the computer or the Wii instead of back in YC's room.

But alas, I did prevail. All of Polly's rooms are sitting on the bookshelf. All of her cars are in the floor. Each drawer of the plastic storage container thingy has one specific Polly item in it. All the clothes (Youngest Child's clothes, not Polly's clothes) are hung and organized, shoes in the shoe hanger. And it will stay that way for, oh, 9.4 seconds at least.

No More Oatmeal Kisses

I was talking with my sweet neighbor over at H World Adventures the other night, and it dawned on me that I'm getting old. Thanks, Aim's...Merry Christmas to you, too! We were talking about motherhood and kids and messes and on and on and on. I made a comment from one of my favorite authors of all times - Erma Bombeck. Aim's had no idea who I was talking about. So I went to my trusty little friend, the Internet, who has all the answers. I didn't realize she has been dead for 11 years! Seems like only yesterday I was reading her columns in my Good Housekeeping magazine. She was a blogger before there was a blog; she started out as a SAHM turned newspaper columnist turned author. So for those of you who are too young to remember dear, sweet Erma, I am writing one of my favorite stories from her book, Forever, Erma. For those of you who don't know who she is or have never read any of her work before, stop now, run to your local library, and check out two or three of her books and spend the week between Christmas and New Years reading and laughing.

No More Oatmeal Kisses - January 29, 1969

A young mother writes: "I know you've written before about the empty-nest syndrome, that lonely period after the children are grown and gone. Right now I'm up to my eyeballs in laundry and muddy boots. The baby is teething; they boys are fighting. My husband just called and said to eat without him, and I fell off my diet. Lay it on my again, will you?"
OK. One of these days, you'll shout "Why don't you kids grow up and act your age!" And they will. Or, "You guys get outside and find yourselves something to do...and don't slam the door!" And they won't.
You'll straighten up the boys' bedroom neat and tidy: bumper stickers discarded, bedspread tucked and smooth, toys displayed on the shelves. Hangers in the closet. Animals caged. And you'll say out loud, "Now I want it to stay this way." And it will.
You'll prepare a perfect dinner with a salad that hasn't been picked to death and a cake with no finger traces in the icing, and you'll say: "Now, there's a meal for company." And you'll eat it alone.
You'll say: "I want complete privacy on the phone. No dancing around. No demolition crews. Silence! Do you hear?" And you'll have it.
No more plastic tablecloths stained with spaghetti. No more bedspreads to protect the sofa from damp bottoms. No more gates to stumble over at the top of the basement steps. No more clothespin under the sofa. No more playpens to arrange a room around.
No more anxious nights under a vaporizer tent. No more sand on the sheets or Popeye movies in the bathroom. No more iron-on patches, rubber bands for ponytails, tight boots or wet knotted shoestrings.
Imagine. A lipstick with a point on it. No baby-sitter for New Year's Eve. Washing only once a week. Seeing a steak that isn't ground. Having your teeth cleaned without a baby on your lap.
No PTA meetings. No car pools. No blaring radios. No one washing her hair at 11 o'clock at night. Having your own roll of Scotch tape.
Think about it. No more Christmas presents out of toothpicks and library paste. No more sloppy oatmeal kisses. No more tooth fairy. No giggles in the dark. No knees to heal, no responsibility.
Only a voice crying. "Why don't you grow up?" and the silence echoing, "I did."

I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry, I'm Sorry

It never dawned on me that yesterday was December 17th. I remembered it was December 17th today when I sat down to catch up on my blog reading. The first blog I read had, hmmm, Tour of Home pictures...oopsie! So then, of course, I had to go around blog-er land and look at everybody else's pretty Christmas decorations. But you know there's a good reason I forgot why yesterday was the 17th.

I live with Oldest Child (13) and Youngest Child (10) and YC takes every advantage to get back at OC at any given moment. Well, yesterday YC stepped over the line by telling the neighbor kids a bunch of lies on OC because it made YC look good. Before I can figure out what happened, OC and YC are crying hysterically, Neighbor Kid 1 and Neighbor Kid 2 are in tears. OC is screaming at YC and slamming doors (surprise, surprise, surprise!). Mom across the street and I are trying to untangle the tangled web that was woven to figure out who said what and what is true and what was made up. All while I was supposed to be posting Tour of Homes pictures and getting ready for my Christmas Bunko party. Geez, Youngest Child, if you're going to tell a bunch of lies on your sister, could you please do it on a night I don't have any plans?!

But, alas, DH to the rescue! After the fiasco that was my evening, he insisted that I go to Bunko because I had been looking forward to it. He would handle the girls because they were now walking a straight and narrow path because they realized they had stepped over the line. Neighbor Mom had her kids settled down and yes, OC would be able to babysit again and yes, the kids would be able to play together again and no, they don't hate us...You know you are among friends when you can arrive at Bunko in your PJ's with a tear-stained face and be welcomed with hugs and a cold glass of sangria. I love bunko!

Dear Santa

I've held on to this article since the year my daughter was born. I've read it each year since, and thought about the changes of the past year. This year, it's not different...'cept for the fact that I am now sharing it with you lucky internets. I cut it out of the December '94 Family Circle (page 156 to be exact, thankyouverymuch). Enjoy (but be forewarned about reading it aloud with wee ones around...)

Dear Santa,

My 5-year-old boy scribbled out his Christmas list. It's there by the fireplace. The Coke and chocolates are from him, in case you're hungry. You know 5-year-olds these days. The Cheez-Its are from me.
Santa, if you don't mind, I thought I'd go ahead and leave my list, too. It's long, but do what you can. It's all I want for Christmas.

• Santa, let my little boy grow up still believing that he has the funniest dad in the neighborhood.
• Give him many close friends, both boys and girls. May they fill his days with adventure, security and dirty fingernails.
• Leave his mom and me some magic dust that will keep him just the size he is now. We'd just as soon he stayed 5 years old and 3 feet 4 inches.
• If he must grow up, Santa, make sure he still wants to sit on my lap at bedtime and read The Frog and The Toad Together.
• If you can help it, Santa, never let him be sent into war. His mother and I love our country, but we love our 5-year-old boy more.
• While you're at it, give our world leaders a copy of The Killer Angels, Michael Shaara's retelling of the Battle of Gettysburg. May it remind them that too many moms and dads have wept at Christmas for soldiers who died in battles that needn't have been fought.
• Let our house always be filled wth slamming doors and toilet seats, which are the official sounds of little boys.
• Break it to him gently, Santa, that his dad won't always be able to carry him to bed at night or brush his teeth for him. Teach him courage in the face of such change.
• Let him understand that no matter how nice you are to everyone, the world will sometimes break your heart. As you know, Santa, a child's feelings are as fragile as moth wings.
• Let him become a piano player, a soccer star or a clergyman. Or all three. Anything but a politician.
• Give him a hunger for books, music, and georgraphy. May he be the first kid in kindergarten to be able to find Madagascar on a map.
• The kid's a born artist, Santa, so send more crayons. May our kitchen window and refrigerator doors be ever plastered with his sketches of surreal rainbows and horses with big cars.
• Steer him oh so carefully to that little girl who is destined to be his bride. Let his mother and me still be around when he walks her down the aisle. If there is a just God, let her daddy be obscenely rich.
• Grant him a heart that will cherish what his parents did right, and forgive us for the mistakes we surely will have made over a lifetime of raising him.
• Let him not hold it against us that he was born with my chin and his mother's ears. Time will teach him that these are God's ways of girding him for life's adversities.
• Hold him steady on the day that he learns the truth about you and the Easter Bunny. May he take the news better than I did.
• While you're flying around the heavens, Santa, make sure God has heard or prayer for this child: Lead our little boy not into temptation; deliver him from evil.

Be careful out there, Santa. And close the flue on your way up.

David V. Chartrand

It's Beginning to Sound A Lot Like Christmas

I had a meeting tonight after school and was childless; Oldest Child had a dance that DH was chaperoning and Youngest Child chose to stay home for a quiet evening. So after the meeting, I ran to Wal Mart because both of my printers were out of ink...just my luck. Some important papers are being faxed to me and neither printer has ink...wonder where it went? Oldest Child, do you have an answer for that one??

But I digress.Now being in metro Atlanta, you can drive 15 minutes and be at almost any store you want. Only I didn't want to pass my house on the way to WM, so I decided to go to the WM in the neighboring town, thus making a big circle, thus utilizing my time more efficiently. I go, get the ink for BOTH printers, and stand waiting patiently in the checkout lane.

Suddenly, there is a tap on my shoulder. Turning around, this nice young lady said, "Do you know you have something white on the back of your pants?" No, I replied and thanked her for kindly telling me. Thankfully I was headed home, and only my fellow Wal Mart shoppers were going to see the white whatever smeared all over my black pants. Guess Nice Young Lady didn't think she'd made her point because then she uttered, "Yeah, the whole $ % & of your pants is covered in sometin white; looks like it might be sheetrock dust."

I love the sounds of the holidays!

Dogs vs. Cats

There are many, many posts rattling around in my feeble little brain. But with all the other "needs" on my list right now, I'm having to prioritize my blogging in order to get everything else done...like dinner and dishes, laundry and feeding various and sundry animals. So I decided that this post was the most important one at this point in time right now. It is entitled "The Cat Years" and was written by Adair Lara at the San Francisco Chronicle. It came to me via my friend of a friend Marney Bet. If you have babies or toddlers, hold on to this post, as it will be useful in your near future. If you have older children, you now have a name for what you experienced when they were teenagers. Come back soon to read the post entitled: Adolescence, A No-Brain er (Literally). Until then, enjoy.

I just realized that while children are dogs - loyal and affectionate - teenagers are cats. It's so easy to be a dog owner. You feed it, train it, boss it around. It puts its head on your knee and gazes at you as if you were a Rembrandt painting. It bounds indoors with enthusiasm when you call it.

Then, around age 13, your adoring little puppy turns into a big old cat. When you tell it to come inside, it looks amazed, as if wondering who died and made you emperor. Instead of dogging at footsteps,it disappears. You won't see it again until it gets hungry - then it pauses on its sprint through the kitchen long enough to turn its nose up at whatever you're serving. When you reach out to ruffle its head, in that old affectionate gesture, it twists away from you, then gives you a blank stare, as if trying to remember where it has seen you before.

You, not realizing that the dog is now a cat, think something must be desperately wrong with it. It seems so antisocial, so distant, sort of depressed. It won't go on family outings.

Since you're the one who raised it, taught it to fetch and stay and sit on command, you assume that you did something wrong. Flooded with guilt and fear, you redouble your efforts to make your pet behave.

Only now you're dealing with a cat, so everything that worked before now produces the opposite of the desired result. Call it; and it runs away. Tell it to sit, and it jumps on the counter. The more you go toward it, wringing your hands, the more it moves away.

Instead of continuing to act like a dog owner, you can learn to behave like a cat owner. Put a dish of food near the door, and let it come to you. But remember that a cat needs your help and your affection too. Sit still, and it will come, seeking that warm, comforting lap it has not entirely forgotten. Be there to open the door for it.

One day, your grown-up child will walk into the kitchen, give you a big kiss and say, "You've been on your feet all day. Let me get those dishes for you." Then you'll realize your cat is a dog again.

Sante Fe' Soup

I posted this recipe for BooMama's Soup-Tacular. Check out other recipes over there.

2 lb. ground chuck (or ground turkey)
1 large onion
2 - 1 oz package Hidden Valley dressing mix
1 - 1.25 oz package taco seasoning mix
2 - 11 oz cans shoepeg white corn - drained
2 cups water
1 16oz can black beans (don't drain)
1 16 oz an kidney beans (don't drain)
1 16 oz can pinto beans (don't drain)
3 4.5 oz can stewed tomatoes (don't drain)
3 10 oz cans Rotel tomatoes (don't drain)

Cook beefand onions together. Add rest of ingredients. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer 2 hours. Enjoy!

A New Blogger!

My friend across the street has a blog! Welcome to blog world, Amy! Can't wait for you to share her joys as she finishes nursing school, raises BB the local spelling bee champion and DQ who is muttering through fourth grade...just happens to be my specialty...hmmmmm. So jump on over to Hworldadventures and tell her hello. Stop back often and check in! Welcome aboard, Amy!

I've Been Tricked

6:00 a.m. My house. I should have known from the beginning it was only a trick. Oldest Child woke up on my first trip to her room. She actually woke up without grunting or yelling or telling me to leave; she didn't even kick the dog off of her bed. She got up and started getting dressed. That should have been my first clue I was being set up. I'm still working on my first cup of coffee when I meet her in the hall.

"Mom, if I get dressed really quick and I brush my teeth and do everything I need to do, can we please, please, please go to WalMart". I immediately start racking my brain trying to figure out what she's told me she needs for school that I've forgotten and she's going to fail a major project and it will be all my fault because she needed a major ingredient at the store and I forgot and now she can't complete her project (remember, the last sentence of the first paragraph talks about the first cup of coffee...)

"Pirates of the Carribean 3 comes out today and I really, really need to buy it before they sell out". I wanted to go back and crawl under the electric blanket.

Dear Santa:

I have finally figured out what I want for Christmas. No, not my two front teeth. No, not a shiny new car parked in the driveway with a big, red bow on top. No, nothing that costs a lot of money. The thing that will be on the top of my Christmas list this year? One day without drama. Just 24 hours, from midnight to midnight, with everyone coexisting in the same house, with no tears, yelling, screaming, slamming doors, and everyone talking the entire 24 hours in a normal tone of voice. Too much to ask, you say? You could probably just go ahead and go shopping, 'cause this one wish even you can't grant. Why such an odd request, you ask? Walk with me back through the past 72 hours of my life...

Thursday was the Christmas parade in our neighboring town. We've never been to that one, because we always go to the parade in our town. But Oldest Child's dance team was dancing in the parade, and being the supportive mother that I am, I had to go watch her. So off we go, only to discover that the only route I know has the roads already blocked. Uh, oh. Don't know a plan B. Oh, wait...somehow we've found the back of the building where she needs to be. Of course, that wasn't good enough. That wasn't where she wanted to be dropped off. I should have known that was my warning of what was to come. By the time the parade got to where we were standing, all of the girls looked angry. And noone was, hmmm, dancing. Should have been clue #2. So when the parade was over, we waited for OC to come find us. And waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, we decide to go walk and try to find her. At long last, we meet up. The scrowl on her face should have been clue #3. I knew better than to ask her how it went. Every ounce of my being told me not to ask her how the parade was. Unfortunately, I didn't listen. You got it...I asked. And she proceeded to tell me how horrible, awful, rotten their performance was. The drama that ensued on the trip home is not even blog-able. Use your imagination.

So today was the Christmas parade in our town. Again, the dance team was scheduled to perform. After the fiasco that was Thursday's parade, the dance team decided to ride on a trailer and throw candy. Personally, I've dubbed it "the dance team that doesn't". They didn't dance, but they were speaking at the end; does that mean we call this a win?

Then fast forward to our house after the parade. Youngest Child casually asks, "Why is the cat dish outside?" Then starts bawling. Nevermind the cat bowl has been in the same exact place on the deck for the past week. Nevermind that Youngest Child hasn't asked about the cat since at least Sunday (how do I know, you ask...because that's when Dear Hubby put the cat outside). But for some strange reason, she chose today to inquire about the cat. We have been debating this drastic relocation of the cat for some time. We have tried everything we know how to try; we have used every remedy our vet suggested. But the cat still insists on marking his territory in my house but outside of his litter box. I kept trying to side with the cat because he really is a sweet cat. And Dear Hubby and I have seen the cat everyday this week, so we know he's still here. But when we came home from Thanksgiving and every bedpost in the house had been marked, that was the last straw. I, being the supportive mother I am, made DH do the dirty deed. I merely set the bowl outside; he did the rest. But today, for some strange reason, YC decided to inquire about Reggie. She has been in tears since. She missed a Sunday school Christmas party because she couldn't bear to leave looking for the cat. She only looks forelornley out the back window...and cries.

So you see, Santa, a day with no drama is all that's on my wish list this year. And if you could find that in your bag as you land on my rooftop on Christmas Eve, I will be forever indebted to you.

Sincerely, your BFF,
Fabthemayor