oh grow up

I've just been making a great long comprehensive list of everything I need to do in the world in order to be allowed to take a holiday later this summer. It includes things like Coping with the Basement and Throwing Half the Contents of the House Away because there's no where to put it. I've already completed some of the tasks--End of the Year Reports for the Government, Getting the Babies off of Drinking Out of Bottles since they're not actually Babies Any More (a fact brought home to me this week while trying to talk to people after church only to find two large girls, my own I realized, lying on the floor screaming and shouting in a way that was not cute or funny but was loud and Too Big)--but I went ahead and wrote everything down so as to be able to cross some things off right away.

But honestly, the reason I'm planning a holiday is because I need one--more and more than ever as the stupid list lies there on the table,

 

taunting and laughing at me while I try to muscle my way through one task after another. It seems like this would be what it would be like to get ready to die. If I had warning that I was going to die, I would feel like the house needed to be super clean and everything put away. I wouldn't be the person who said, 'Oh Whatever, I'm going to die so who cares anyway'. I would say, 'Oh No, I'm going to die and the house is not clean'. 

Without descending into morbidity and sorrow, I look cheerfully at death on this bright sunny day, which, though evil (death, that is), resembles in many ways a holiday, a welcome rest. That may be because we have had two successful days of two little girls drinking out of cups, although with so much anger. They are angry, not me. I am so happy. It's possible my happiness is contributing to their anger. And yet, my cloud of happiness is shattered by the screaming and the tripping over these large little girls flinging themselves down in my path in an effort to get bottles of milk out of me. My shins are a mass of contusions. However, because it has already been crossed off the list, I will not give in. They will have to settle, once they stop screaming, for sucking sugar water out of those little plastic tubes, or gnawing on frozen smoothie, or drinking warm sugar milk (Tea) out of their little mugs. What a misery their lives are, stretching before them in one long bottle-less wasteland. Clearly, they would rather die than live this way. 

weekend haze

Yesterday was the Queen's birthday so Elphine made an Italian Apple Cake again. She had to double the recipe because of adding an awful lot of baking powder. Also Matt and I argued vehemently about how much sugar she should put in. This morning, as I lay wondering why anyone was up and what horror would arise should I open my eyes, Matt put my tea tray down next to me and said, 'Remember the Bert and Ernie about the salt? That's such an important lesson--the amount of sugar you prefer isn't the same as what everyone else does.'

On Friday, Marigold ripped out the only daffodils that had bloomed in my back garden. Was so annoyed with her. She sticks out her lower lip really far when she's done something terrible, like she's the one that's been hurt.

She puts on a huge big dress every day and says its her favorite. All of them, we guess, are her favorite.

On Sunday in the parish hall Marigold and Fatty Lumpkin gathered with their favorite baby friend to eat a lot of food and have a Little Girl's Party. This scene really only needs a large Paddington sitting in the cake to be perfect.

the poem of god

We watched The Prince of Egypt recently in our usual lackadaisical weekly watching of A Family Movie. It's either Big Trouble in Little China (whoops) or Gnomeo and Juliet (srsly) or well, other hits and misses. So I thought The Prince of Egypt was going to be about Joseph not Moses and I didn't know it was a musical....but I tried not to feed into the general whining about all the singing. Alouicious finally stopped complaining when he realized the little girls liked it.

In particular, Gladys seemed to be thinking about all kinds of things and after talking a whole lot when it was over and rubbing my cheek announced that she would write a poem. Then, the next day, she hassled me all morning until I dropped everything and sat down and wrote down what she wanted. All that follows is her 'poem', but really more of an imprecatory psalm, scribbled by me as she spoke without breath. If you're generally offended by the violent justice of God in the Old Testament then you won't enjoy this. But if you've worked through that you should be fine.

The Poem of God
By Gladys

Mary and Joseph were going to get a baby.
An angel said to them, "You are going to have a baby."

Pharoah came to get his prisoners back
but God put up a wall of water for his people
and flooded Pharaoh and his people.
God's people were safe.

The people of Israel had a party to celebrate.
God said the people should have a place to live and lots of food and water.

They came to a place a place where the were lots
of homes with food and water.
The people lived and were safe.

All Pharaoh's people were dead,
sinking in the sand and all the frogs
were jumping on them.
They would be dead forever.

God's people were safe with food and water.
Every morning they sat in front of the cozy fire with warm blankets.

All Pharaoh's people were dead at the bottom of the ocean.

all hallow's eve

Everyone, finally including me, has got some sort of early autumn cold.

Fortunately the sore throat and misty perception of reality did not cause anyone to be slowed or miss out on any candy gathering. Although Gladys finally had to be put into her tights and leggings and two shirts and sweater and tutu and wings and hat and red boots by the whole family who were all ready to go and were exasperated and exhausted by her stream of commentary as she spent fifteen minutes putting one foot into her tights only to take it out again in order to adjust the seam that lies along the stupid stupid toes.

Romulus was dressed and ready to go at 9 in the morning but did finally agree to take off the hat to eat breakfast (What? A late breakfast and a late lunch meant no need for dinner. I planned it that way.) and to put his shield in a safe place. He's so uncomplicated. He just wore his costume and gathered candy and smiled beatifically. I feel for families of all boys, never knowing the joy of tights, or having the right top still in the washer at the critical moment and having to weep even more because the pony tail won't curl exactly right, or the shoe got scuffed, or the hands are too cold, or no one will stop and wait.

Finally we were all out the door and ready for all the wide wide world had to offer. You can see that we have Captain America, A Knight, Cleopatra, a Generic Yellow Puffed Dress, and then the Baby Bee is out of the shot. I'm in the Wolf Hat. I must be trying to adjust someone.  I love the way Alouicious stood and surveyed the scene, summing up in his own mind the nature of the occasion.

And then as usual I ruined the moment by trying to have a picture. But everyone got over it and consoled themselves with Candy, Donuts, Hot Chocolate and Games at church for two hours before stuffing themselves into the car and hoping the engine didn't peter out in the mile to our old house.

And now here I am, listening to the gentle sound of children eating candy when they've been expressly told not to and wondering if, perhaps hoping that, they won't need breakfast. What breakfast food could possibly compete with straight chocolate, or chocolate with peanut, or chocolate coating a crispy biscuit, or chocolate and caramel.

children's books with an edge

Tired of the soupy sweet repetitiveness of Children's Books? Longing for something with a little bite? Here are two of my favorites.

Hurry, Hurry, Mary Dear!
by N.M. Bodecker
illus. Erik Blegvad
If you don't mind a little nasty feminism, this is a lovely book. Mary has so many things to do to get ready for winter--bringing in the harvest, winterizing the house, mending warm things, and finally (spoiler alert) placing a pot of tea over the head of her husband who hasn't lifted a finger to come to her assistance. While you're telling your sons not to marry a floozy, you can put a word in the ear of your girl child not to marry a man who might order her around. Worth the horrified snickers of children who know in their immortal souls that its very bad to pour tea on other people.

Cinder Edna
by Ellen Jackson
illus. Kevin O'Malley
Who among us hasn't wanted to trip Cinderella as she ascends the steps of the Palace to be swept into the arms of her Prince Charming?  Ellen Jackson provides a charming outlet for those of us who live on the darker side of Disney. While Cinder Ella sits in the Cinders and whines, her neighbor, Cinder Edna, after catering to her evil Step Mother and Step Sisters every chance whim, doesn't want the hassle of constantly washing ash out of her clothes. Edna rolls up her sleeves and cheerfully adds to her collection of jokes, perfects her repertoire of Tuna Casseroles, and earns money mowing lawns and cleaning bird cages. Her true love turns out to be a man who loves hard work and kittens. On the whole, this book offers a cheerful and friendly alternative to the nauseating idiocy of Disney Love.

lilies of the field

I'm in the middle of the Great Autumn Clothes Change Over of 2012. Its not that cold out but our school room has an arctic air permeating it every morning now and there's been whining about the lack of sweaters and long trousers. So, of course, when Elphine came in just now wearing what appears to be a mini-skirt, I was able to react on the grounds that her knees would be cold and not to the fact that she looked like...well, there's no good way to end that sentence.

She and her brother are locked in an ongoing angry competition of who can get their school work done first every day, goaded along by their insolent siblings who say things like, "Well, you have to make your bed first," in a seriously nasty tone. Elphine is guaranteed a win today because Alouicious goes to Man's Bible Study (that's what he calls it) on Fridays, kindle and money for soda in hand. He gets up, has his cup of coffee, pretends to read the passage, forgets to get dressed until its almost too late, and then flings everyone into a three minute panic while he tries to catch up and leave for church at the same time as his father. He comes home two hours later smug and stuffed with bacon and tater-tots to finish the whole experience off with whatever we're having for breakfast, usually bread and jam.

What was I talking about? Oh yes, Clothes Change Over of 2012 (cue war music). Even though I got rid of 7 bags of clothes in the Great Spring Clothes Change Over of 2012 it seems that I am wrestling with Leviathan down there. Marigold, for example, is emotionally attached to all the clothes she wore last year but which, tragically, do not fit her at all. "That's my shirt" shrieks the girl who six months ago wouldn't say anything as I dress Fatty Lumpkin. "I want my shirt!"

And Gladys knelt worshipfully next to her drawer nearly all afternoon, waiting to see what I would put in it. Unhappily for her, Elphine went to kindergarten when she was five and had to wear a 'uniform' of khakis and different colored polo shirts, plus one pair of jeans for play. She picked the jeans out of her drawer gingerly, with real tears in her eyes and said, "I don't think these fit me."
"Sure they do," I said blithely, missing the point, "they're exactly right."
"No," she wept, "they don't fit at all, and they're very very ugly" and sobbed louder, flinging them in the pile of stuff to never be seen again. She resumed her kneeling posture ever more vigilant. I had to wait nearly a whole hour for her to be called away to put the khakis in. Pretty sure I'll find them flung all over the floor when I go down there this morning.

Even Romulus and Alouicious got in tussles with me about letting go of things that are really really really small. Romulus has two kinds of shirts in his drawer as a result, things to wear at home because they're full of holes and come up to the middle of his arm, and things to wear out because they won't let all the cold air in. "I just really need the shirt with the frog on it" he let me know after checking things over.

And then, to top things off, Matt stuck his stupid oar in. "Just throw away all the baby boy stuff" he postulated callously. I threw a book at him and gave it all up for the day. Stupid children, growing up, stupid husband, suggesting we ever get rid of the tiny baby sweater with the little cowboy and the horse and the little button shirt that goes under it, and the little tiny tie shoes. I'm going to give up my stupid diet and eat a piece of actual bread with actual jam.

the season

Sitting here with a profound cold in the head trying to watch the Democratic Convention. And again I ask, Why does it all have to be So Late? Elphine has made brownies at this advanced hour to avert the coming apocalypse ("If I don't make brownies today, I'll DIE.")

Ooop, not the convention, football. And so begins a long season of depression as the Cowboys lose a bunch. But we're rooting for 'em anyway.

Much woe on the part of the boys, though, that they're not allowed to favor the Giants when the Cowboys are playing. "I hope they both win" says Elphine, ever the moderate. All she needs is a little bit of plastic surgery and a whole lot of lipstick and the gleam in her eye will take her all the way to the top.

She is developing a gratifying combination of deadpan commentary and timing. Yesterday, as I was struggling along not speaking Mandarin she turned up her nose and at every prompt, responded in English instead of Mandarin.
Pimsleur: Say, I speak a little English.
Elphine: I speak a little English.
Everyone giggles.
Pimsleur: Excuse me, can I ask, do you speak English?
Elphine: Excuse me, can I ask? Do you speak English?
Me: Say it in Mandarin!
Amazingly, though, she stopped when it was no longer funny. What a gift!

Anyway, what was I blogging about? The Convention? Can't remember. Going to bed. Tomorrow I'll discover that the Cowboys really did lose and the Democrats really really really really really really love women.

cook with your children, the experts say

Elphine is making brownies.
She's been making them since about 1pm this afternoon. I've been trying to patiently not loose my mind, but as we head into the fourth hour of brownie making (from a box, let the truth be known) I feel that the battle may be too much for me.

First she got the boxes of brownie mix out of the cupboard.
Then she read the directions. We got all the measuring cups out and talked about fractions....again. Her eyes glazed over and she stuck her chin out until that part was over. Then she got a half a cup of water from the sink, and a cup of oil  from the cupboard and six eggs out of the fridge.
"You're only making two boxes" I said, "you only need four eggs." So she put two eggs back.
(God help us all.)
Then she poured all the liquid into the dry mix and stirred it for a while.
And then she added the eggs.
One
crushed
wreched
shell
at
a
time.
Then she stirred it some more.
"Good job." I said smiling through clenched teeth, "Let me stir it a little bit more so that there are no lumps."
Then she spooned the batter into muffin tins.
At this point I went and did something else because of the possibility of either infanticide or suicide. When I came back, she was covered in chocolate.
I know, as a parent, that its easy to toss that off--covered in chocolate--like, you know, the child has a lot of chocolate on the face and some on the elbow. I just want you to stop and rethink that image of "covered in chocolate" and instead of a child with a little bit of chocolate on the face and elbow, think of first a berry covered in chocolate, and then think of my whimsical meadow loving child (can you feel the positivity oozing from my pores?) covered in chocolate.
She was covered in chocolate.
Then she put the pans in the oven. After a bit she undertook to take them out. One pan was done, and then a few minutes later another pan was done and she took it out. But in all the comotion, she also took the third pan out--the bigger muffin sized tin. Through the course of the afternoon I have put it back into the oven no less than four times, and each time she has taken it out again almost immediately.
And so the final product (I hope its final, she is now in the shower trying to get the chocolate off) consists of a lot of underdone brownies jammed into a small casserol dish and then lathered with chocolate frosting. I expect they will be declicious, but they look a little worse for wear.
So there we are. Elphine made brownies. Maybe later she can make something else. May God have mercy on my soul.

easter haze

We're attempting to take a few days off,
which means I'm not going to leap out of bed to pour Elphine's wretched cat a saucer of milk. She, Frances, can just sit there and stare bullets at me. Both cats are looking at me as if they'd like to maul me to death. I do, generally, like cats, but Frances doesn't like me, and the other one is too needy this morning for me to be really fond of him. Thank heaven I'm not God because every person asking for something would have been smitten by now.

So yesterday I watched Cheaper by the Dozen with Elphine and Gladys (who promptly fell asleep). I must have read this at some point but I don't remember it at all. I was a little unimpressed with the simpering of the two oldest girls in the first scene (Elphine loves to tilt her head, put her hands under her chin and talk in a sickly fake and disgusting English Accent--DRIVES me crazy and I don't want to do a single thing to encourage it) but the plot moved along and there wasn't over much of that. Anyway, deeply enjoyed the slam against Planned Parenthood and the father going along to the school dance. But then, !!!!! there needs to be some kind of death warning on the label. Or I guess I could have just known better. But the father dying in the last three minutes of the film! Honestly. Elphine started out the day with a long speech about how she couldn't watch anything sad because we'd made her watch 1. the White Lion (full of death) and 2. Desperaux (full of suspense) and 3. half of Iron Man before she burst into tears. She kept saying she just "needed a break".

So much for "family" movie nights. I dislike watching movies anyway. Scanning endlessly the ever decreasing live stream options on Netflix, I increasingly feel a vague sense of despair, like we're all wasting our lives and we should be doing something more interesting. This "fun", "special", "family" activity is a real pain. Thankfully, we don't do it very often.

And now I am going to get up and throw something at Frances because she just hit the other cat for no reason. Its the circle of life, here on our week off. Life and death all circling together. (That's a reference to Lion King for those of you who missed it--another move I really hate.)

Have a lovely Thursday!

one thing and another

 I kept tripping over this all day. When I'd sit down it would try to perch on my collar bones and breath in my ear. Or I'd turn my head vaguely towards this computer and it would get off me and sit on the keyboard. Honestly.

If I'd wanted a dog (which, incidentally, I do) I'd have ....never mind. There's no logical way to end that thought.

Anyway, in answer to the catechism question, "What did God promise in the covenant of works?" My eldest child smiled winningly, sucked in a lot of air and breathed out heavily, "A Turkey."
I think that means its time to deep clean the kitchen because its getting colder and Thanksgiving will be momentarily down our throats!

faith the size of a small plastic bead?

So some of you might have seen on Facebook that Gladys did indeed put a plastic bead in her nose on Friday. This, in case any of you are wondering, is one of the two reasons why I generally don't welcome and delight in the acquisition of beads--that ubiquitous pink vat of beads available in a thousand craft stores across this great land. The other reason is that babies crawling around like to try to swallow them.

So Gladys came into the kitchen on Friday and said, "A wittle bead wolled up off the table and wolled into my dose."
"Oh really," we all said. "It just rolled up? Might it also be that you picked it up and put it in your nose?"
"No!" she posited, "it weally weally weally wolled up."
"Well, maybe we can try to get it out."
"No," she said, "that's ok. God will get it out in a while."

So, we tried some things.
We tried suctioning it out with the blue bulb thing you get every time you go to the hospital to have a baby. We tried rubbing pepper on her nose to make her sneeze. I tried shouting at the bead. But overall we didn't panic because we have two nurses staying with us, and my Great Aunt who is a doctor. None of them seemed to be freaking out, so I opted not to freak out. And every time we had a go at getting the bead out, Gladys said, "That's ok, God will get it out in a while."

And I said, "That's true, sweetie pie, and one way that God does things is by using his people and it might be that he wants to get that bead out by using me or daddy to help."
"Well," she said, "God doesn't need help. He will get it out."

As I fed the baby her second large bowl of cereal in the parish hall during the eight o'clock service, sorting Catechesis Album pages and refereeing a volatile checkers game between Elphine and Alouicious, I asked Gladys about her bead, which was causing her nose to run a lot all over. It was still there. She said it was fine. From which point on I didn't give it another thought, careening through the morning trying connect with people, getting replacement acolytes, doing whatever it is I normally do--I already can't remember.

At the very end of the morning, after Sunday school and church and everything, as I stood around trying to resist coffee hour cake, I was brought the bead by the person sitting with Gladys in church (my kids sit with whoever will pay the most attention to them, usually not me). And then Gladys twirled up and confirmed that indeed it was her bead. Later, at home, she explained, "God made me sneeze during church and my bead came out."

Its going to be Perfect

Laundry, so so so much laundry
and actually finishing the office and printing out my paperwork for le governement (it always sounds French in my head, this word)
and cutting down the number of clothes I thought I would take for each child by half
and
um
oh yeah! Putting the beautifully amazing new nursery together at church. Its been painted and carpeted, and lovely shelves and hooks put in and new lighting--its Gorgeous! I'll have to take some pictures though it will probably take me weeks to post them. I can't imagine that every baby in Binghamton will not be toddling up to spend a Sunday Morning Hour in this beautiful room. Tell your parents, babies!
And, then, of course,
there is the impending struggle with Elphine about which bag she will take, never mind which bag I will take, and what will go in it. And it looks very much like Gladys is prepared to throw fits about her tiny kitty purse which doesn't fit anything but will have to fit something because you can't just take an empty purse! Which means Marigold will want to take a purse but she can't be expected not to drop it, so there will be some crying about that.
And then we have to carefully choose our shoes, not only which ones to pack, but which ones to carry us through security. Just the mentioned of the word 'shoe' and lips quivered and eyes teared up yesterday.
Anyway, Matt's mom and I have come up with a motto for this grand holiday adventure.
"EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE PERFECT" and if you want to silently add 'blast it', that's ok too.

Actually, now that I'm through my two birthday parties and I have Sunday School 90% sorted for the fall, and I'm 80% done getting ready for school and I've just decided not to cook any more for the rest of the week, I'm really excited. But also, very worried about my garden while I'm gone. Should I just let my herbs go to seed and gather the seeds in and pot them inside when I get back? or pick them all and just eat fresh herbs all weekend until I feel sick? or give them away? And what about the Sunflowers that are finally blooming? Can I just leave them there for a month? And I need someone to come every day and pick the evil beetles off my roses. Ok never mind, I'm completely stressed out.
Have a great day!

Happy Birthday Tomorrow

My oldest child turns nine tomorrow. It's sort of crept up on me. The last nine years that is. How did this happen? How can she already be this old? Mercifully, she is ridiculously short and will probably remain so for some time, so I can preserve some something. If and when she is ever taller than me I don't know what I'll do.

On the whole I feel bad for her, being the first child. We seem to figure out each stage just after she has gone through it. All the little pack of people behind her are probably, from my current angle, having an easier time of it because we finally catch on after she had laid the ground. Oh well, I'm sure it will occur to her to blame us later so I won't worry about that right now.

So, today I'm making a birthday cake and some other stuff and maybe I'll clean the house, and I'm also going to go buy her a pocket knife, because that's what she wants. A child of frugal and attainable tastes and basically, for the most part, focused on other people, and on Jesus, and basically pretty obedient, most of the time, and also totally and unbearably silly.

Fast forward to 9:21 to see the little bit the really well encapsulates Elphine. Heh heh.

Three is too much

I just went to Wegmans with the three little girls. Matt had to take Elpine out to lunch (she wore a super fancy new dress and shoes, a tiara in her hair, a tiny cross necklace and took a shiny black purse. She was ready to go two hours early. Apparently, said Matt, she's very interested in boys. I don't know what exactly about them, but there you go. Shoot.) and the boys were with one of their favorite people being spoiled (as I just found out) and so not to be outdone, I went to the store.

Three kids, as most of you know, is no big deal. Its like not having kids. I raced around the store rushing to be done before Matt and Elphine so I could pick them up on my way home.

TWO SEPARATE people said, "three kids, wow! Are they all yours?"
Both times I stood stunned, unable to speak from surprise.
Are you kidding me? There were like six other women in the store with three kids. What do you mean, "Are they all mine?" So here's some of the things I should have said but didn't.

No, but they were just so cute I took them out of someone else's cart and I'm planning on taking them home.

No, I like to gather other people's toddlers and babies and take them to the grocery store so I can pick up men. Oh wait, that doesn't work for women does it.

Yes, they're all mine and I have three more at home and I'm looking to give some away. You can have the toddler because she bites.

Of course, for the ultimate guide on what to say you should go visit Simcha.

In the Eye of the Beholder

"Look Mommy!!!" shouted Gladys leaning over and smearing her grubby mits all over this picture, "There's you and me!!!! That's me and you. That's me (pointing) and that's you (pointing)!"

This announcement comes as a great great surprise to me. I don't see myself this way At All. I'm actually wearing a foul pair of gray trousers and and a dowdy gray sweater and my hair is not up in a pretty bun but sort of flat and, well, flat. And, in fact, none of us are sitting in a beautiful field picking pretty flowers together.

Nevertheless, I'm delighted she thinks our life is like this. I mean, it is a touch too nostalgic for me, this picture. But a little early childhood nostalgia shouldn't hurt her too much, should it? I mean, should I worry? Oh dear.

Props to Apple Cider Mill for the pretty picture.

What a glorious thing it is to worship the Lord...

We have recently reached a  milestone with our eldest child. She has gained the age, possibly not of discernment, but of being invited to be trained and to serve as an acolyte in church. For those of you who are not remotely Anglican or liturgical in your ecclesiastical leanings, an acolyte assists in worship by carrying candles or a cross down the aisle, ringing the bell during the Eucharistic prayer (when its supposed to be rung and not all the time or when they feel like it), assisting the priest to set the table for communion, ushering people up to communion and other tasks of that nature. 

We have struggled over the years at Good Shepherd to convince children to want to serve in this way, have struggled to train them, and struggled to get their parents to bring them to church. However, in the last year, there has been a veritable explosion of children desirous of participating in this ministry and eager to serve, our own child amongst them.

Of course, our own child is excessively short, and, as an eight your old, she succumbs, though rarely, to silliness.

This last Sunday was one of those times. She, and the other candle bearer, also of small stature, walked carefully  and reverently down the aisle with the crucifer (the one who carries the cross) at the beginning of the service. I could tell from the gleam in her eye that she was thinking about silly bands and not about Jesus. The ministry of the Word went forward without incident. The acolytes stood, knelt, sang, sat, and prayed without drawing attention to themselves. Only an occasional leaning back while she knelt, to grin at me in the pew, interrupted the quiet flow of worship. At the peace Elphine made a bee line for me to inform me that her fellow candle bearer had been allowed to wear his silly bands high up under his robe and so could she have her back. 

"Absolutely not!" I said, "and the Peace of the Lord be always with you."

As she regained the altar, she and the other acolyte consulted with each about what to do, always a bad sign, I feel, but finally decided to pursue the correct course and return to their seats. The bell was mercifully rung by the crucifer and then came the agonizing moment when they had to walk back to the first pew and let the congregation out, pew by pew, to come forward for communion. Again the two whispered together but finally decided to do what they'd been instructed to do. As I left my pew Elphine whispered loudly, "NOW can I have my silly bands?"

"NO" I whispered back, imploring God to save my child from her sins.

The final prayer was said, Matt blessed the congregation, I opened my hymnal to sing the final hymn, and then Elphine, possibly in confusion, or impatience or gratitude that the service was finally over, took her candle, glanced at the other acolytes, the Eucharistic Ministers, me, and her father the priest, and spun around to walked quickly down the aisle all by herself, candle flailing. The other candle bearer, naturally, took off after her. The entire congregation, excepting visitors who didn't noticed, dissolved into fits of laughter, some of them crying with joy.

I left my pew and went back to encourage my child in the way she should go. "You did a pretty good job," I said, "but, um, did you notice anything just now?" 

"No!" she whispered, "can I have my silly bands?"

When a baby cries

I've been noticing lately an interesting difference between my little boys and my little girls. Its a difference that any sensible person might observe and there have even been studies done on it.

My little girls cannot bear to hear the baby cry. Whey she cries, Elphine goes immediately to pick her up. Gladys goes automatically to jam a plug (pacifier, we call them plugs because that's what they are, really, let's not beat euphemistically about the bush) in her squalling mouth. They both firmly say things like 'stop crying'.

The boys on the other hand take quite a long time to notice that she is crying, and when they finally do, they will come and say aggrievedly, 'the baby is crying. Can't you make her stop?'

I only remarked this difference a few weeks ago and thought I was jumping to preconceived conclusions. I mean, really, how could you not notice something as relentless and angry as a tiny hungry baby? So I began to purposefully watch. The difference is so remarkable as to be funny.

And you thought the season of giving was over

I intended to write a scintillating and something or other post about how we've recently changed our routine and how much better our life is. But I have run into two problems with this plan. One, the word 'scintillating' doesn't go with 'change in routine'. And two, last night was the Night of the Screaming Child and is probably much more interesting.

So about 9pm, after being suckered into watching another dubious Jesus movie on youtube, as they were all going up to bed, Elphine announced loudly, "I'm going to be St. Nicholas tonight. So put your shoes out and see if I put something in them in the morning."

She said it louder and louder probably six or seven times but no one put their shoes out and finally I told her to cheese it and go to bed.

So then (I'm sorry, I realize my transitions are atrocious but I'm too tired to change them) Matt and I stayed up, stupidly, till midnight watching other junk on youtube. This is a regular Sunday night occurrence. We're usually physically tired after Sunday but keyed up and unable to go to sleep. Plus, I've been waiting up to feed the baby one last time in the hopes she'll sleep until 4.

A fleeting two hours later, that puts us at 2am, Matt heard a noise in the kitchen and got up to investigate. Turns out his daughter was up on a stool collecting handfuls of Christmas candy out of the basket on top of the fridge to stuff in shoes. Appalled and transfixed he let her continue uninterrupted.

However, Elphine's getting up catapulted Gladys to her second full night of angst ridden potty training.

I expect you're saying, at this point, that the middle of the night is not a good time to potty train. You're right. Matt mentioned this several times to Gladys. "You have a pullup on," he whispered soothingly, "go back up to bed and go to sleep."
"BUT I HAVE TO GO POOOOOOTTTTTTTTTTTTTTYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY" wailed Gladys.
"But you just went potty. Please go back to bed. Please."
"But I have to go Potty" she wailed and wailed and wailed.

Where was I? you ask. Had I abandoned my poor husband? No, I was feeding the baby.
"Matt, let her go potty" was my sound advice.
So we did. After an hour or so of her sitting and singing she was joined by her brother who had awoken for the same reason. The enjoined in fighting and arguing.
"I have to go potty Gladys."
"No, I have to go. You go away."
"No.....
and so they argued until they both came in here, pulled the blanket off me and curled up together on the floor until the need should strike them again.

So this morning, floor littered with children, I open my eye to find my shoes arranged carefully by my bed and a large snickers bar placed lovingly across them. "Thank you Santa Elphine" I groaned, "that was very lovely of you."

The Plunge

I have distracted myself with many things over the last few days-the Palin Pick (Thank You Sweet Sweet Baby Jesus), the laundry, my camera, baking four batches of bread in one evening-all in the effort to avert my eyes from the ever encroaching first hour of School. I feel like I'm standing on the high dive looking down at a placid sea and everything's fine, except that I'm afraid of heights (in this case my children and their education) and so jumping off the board is going to be unpleasant. I know I have to do it. I know its probably going to be better than I expect in many ways and possibly worse and that we'll be fine. But none of that knowledge has any bearing on the state of my nerves. I remember a long lost high school boyfriend insisting to me that if I just Understood what he was trying to say, I would Feel better about it. I told him 'Malarchy' at the time, and I stick by it.

I think perhaps, the root of my discontentious anxiety is the fact that my oldest child is beginning to be rational. This has never happened to me before. The cozy cacoon of me and my husband and a lot of little children who are lovingly put to bed before quiet dinner time is shattered by one (and now two really) insisting on staying up to eat it with us, and Talk and Relate. This Talking and Relating has interfered itself in my preparations for school, offering unasked-for advice about how the school room should be arranged, whether we should have desks or a table, whether we should have a chalk board or a white board (the fact that we are having a board at all, in fact; we Are having one, even though I had not at all planned on it), at what hour we will color and do paste and when lunch will be served.

And, to my chagrin, this little person has inserted herself into my kitchen. Her job, every morning, is to unload and reload the dishwasher while her brother clears the table, wipes it down, and then cleans up the bathroom.
'I'll do it like this, Mom' (note the tone of the word 'Mom'). 'I'll put all these dishes here and then I'll call you and you'll come and tell me its fine and then I'll mop the floor and feed the birds.'
'Are you trying to be Cinderella?' I asked, 'Because you're not.'
'I know,' she said, 'but I'm still going to do all the work in the whole house.'
At which point I realized that I am now sharing My Kitchen with another female, and that I'm going to have to go on sharing this kitchen until she meets some poor unsuspecting guy and goes off to organize her own kitchen.
'If you don't do it exactly the way I tell you,' I said, 'and disobey me on Purpose, then you will have to do your own work and your brother's work tomorrow.'
'Oh' she said with her nose turned up, 'Alright.'
'Its my kitchen,' I said.
'I know.'

So, we will take the plunge, maybe tomorrow just to get our feet wet (skipping the high dive, as it were), but for sure on Wednesday-all the way, no holding back. Ack.

Week In Review

As so many of you have pointed out, I've been seriously not blogging. BUT I have been working very hard on my house. I have emptied out most all the cupboards, continuing to throw and throw and throw and reorganize. I have two rooms left to do. I've been working over my calendar and to do list trying to hammer life down, as best I can. I've been on the phone nearly all the time (not something I'm very good at). I've moved Matt out of his office and helped make him a new one. I've painted his old office and made it into a school room. And, I've colored with E and discussed the nature, purpose and being of the Tooth Fairy.

Its true, she has lost her first tooth. I wasn't prepared. None of my life up to this point has prepared me for this moment. Not only do I not know the Size of the Tooth Fairy (is she very tiny? how does she carry all those teeth? why does she collect teeth? what does she do with them?), I did not know the going rate on teeth, nor how to extract a tooth from the tight fist of a sleeping baby girl who refuses any longer to call me 'mommy', instead tipping her chin up and saying 'Mom' with an unnecessary tone of authority. And I don't know how to cope with the fact that she is 6 years old and she's only going to get bigger and more beautiful, and I am only going to get smaller and more shrivelly. (By smaller, I mean shorter, I will probably continue to get wider.) I couldn't go to sleep several nights this week worrying about where she would decide to go to college.

And, tomorrow is my birthday. As a present to myself, I'm going to lay around in the morning with my kids and then probably make them pancakes. May God preserve me through this next year.