Flarp & Tooth Fairy Amnesia

This Christmas vacation has been quite entertaining this year. We didn't really decorate for Christmas because we are finally finishing the dungeon - I mean, our basement - so all our decorations are crammed behind everything in the storage room as the rest of the basement is painted, drywalled, etc.

That meant, no Christmas stockings for the girls but alas, I convinced them that wouldn't stop Santa. They could barely go to sleep the night before, especially since Eli - who had been messing with a very wiggly front tooth for a month - mustered up the courage to finally let me get that loose tooth out. I told her that if she lost her tooth on Christmas Eve, both Santa AND the Tooth Fairy would leave her money. She thought doubling her money was worth the pain.

She faithfully tucked her tooth in a Ziploc bag underneath her pillow. Very early the next morning, I hear two little Squirrels outside our bedroom door. Finally, Eli comes in and whispers, "Dad, the Tooth Fairy forgot to take my tooth. And she didn't leave me any money. And Santa didn't come!" Well, they had walked right past the gift bags full of toys but in my half awake stupor, I realized I had forgotten to get her tooth out from under her pillow and leave her money. I told them about the gift bags and they went racing downstairs. Luckily, they were distracted enough that I could fish a dollar out of my purse and slip it underneath another pillow on her bed.

Then, I went out to Eli and asked her if she had checked ALL of her bed...and that maybe the Tooth Fairy let her keep her tooth...beings that it was Christmas Eve and all. That Tooth Fairy is one benevolent chick, sometimes! Eli went racing for her room, found the dollar and shrieked with glee. Disaster avoided! Being Santa and the Tooth Fairy on the same night was evidently more than my Christmas vacation brain could handle!

Then on to Saturday when Kate gets a thank you card in the mail from the school secretary. The card says "Thank you for the Flarp you gave me for Christmas." OH NO! For those of you unfamiliar with the wonder that is Flarp, it is the "noisy putty" that comes in a plastic container. You push your fingers down into it and it makes farting noises. Kate picked that out to give to the girls in her Kindergarten class.

Now, I should have probably said no but it was on sale at Dollar General and she really wanted that. The boys got matchbox cars and I thought she'd want bracelets or stickers for the girls but no, farting putty it was. She must have had one left over and gave it to the school secretary! I was mortified! Until my cousin Cathy, who works in another school district, assured me that Flarp is perfectly fine gift...it provides for a humorous diversion and is much better than cookies of "unknown origin"!

Pelted by a Krispy Kreme

The other week I was shopping at a local discount food store and I was in line, struggling with some major sinus/allergy symptoms that were making my left eye water constantly. This led, of course, to a constant need for facial tissues and made me look half drugged.

I guess I must have looked extra pathetic because as I stepped up to the rolling belt to unload my cart, a Harley Davidson looking dude stepped up and said, "I paid $50 toward your groceries." After giving me a hug and wishing me a Merry Christmas, I stood dumbfounded and wanting to tell him there were others who actually needed the money...I am just so cheap I shop at Aldi's because I can! But alas, he was out the door loading his groceries into a beat up minivan.

Made me realize that goodness comes from unlikely places...not the wealthy, well-dressed people who actually HAVE money but the ones who know what it is like to be down and out.

I read a book once called "Under the Overpass" that was an experiment by two college age guys. They decided to live as the homeless do for 90 days in at least three different US cities and see how they were treated. As I read the book, I recognized myself in some of the people who barely give the homeless a glance. My criteria for giving to the homeless had been that they had to be missing an appendage (I know...I'm deeply spiritual).

As I am reading this book, and these two homeless guys are describing being asked to leave a church picnic they walked up to and about the non-believers who took them in and let them shower...I felt REALLY convicted and that, given the chance, I would be more compassionate. The book cautioned that there are a lot of homeless people who are addicted to drugs and alcohol and therefore, if you want to give them something, give granola bars or water or at the very least, a warm smile and a word of acknowledgement.

My opportunity came outside the local Walgreens as I saw a homeless man all dressed in black on a sweltering day. He was sitting on the ground, leaning back against the replacement propane tank case and watching everyone with hatred. I went inside and decided that a nice bottle of cold water would be best. I paid and went outside, confident that I was now being Jesus' "hands and feet". Only when I smiled, said hello, and gave him a bottle of water, he yelled at me, "THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANT!" and went off in a tangent that would make a sailor blush. I scurried to my car, disheartened that my first attempts at homeless benevolence were thrown back in my face.

Until I called Erin. Remember, she had read the same book and had the same convicting spirit. She told me she was in Nashville and tried to give a homeless man a donut...and he threw it at her. Perhaps from now on, we will be giving out marshmallows to the homeless!

Going Under the Knife

Our moment of excitement this past week was Elisabeth - who I will now refer to as Eli from here on out...mostly do to sheer laziness in not wanting to type her full name - and her surgery. She was born with an umbilical hernia which normally goes away as a child grows, only hers must have been fairly substantial at birth because at age 7, she still had a bulge around her belly button. We visited with her peds surgeon a couple of months back and she recommended we go ahead and have the surgery done.

So off we went to sign in for surgery. Eli was quite delighted to find out she would have an "innie" after she was done - she turned to me and said, "Just like you, Mom!". Yes, well, praise God for the little things, I guess. She was very intrigued about how she was going to be "put to sleep" and I explained to her it wasn't like animals being put to sleep (I'm sure the State would have something to say about that!) but rather, she would breath into a little mask and next thing she knew, she would be waking up and it would be over.

Eli was given a pair of little blue scrub shorts and top and some yellow slipper socks with VERY grippy bottoms. She was allowed to bring a blanket and stuffed animal and luckily I packed her Leapster because her surgery was delayed three hours.

Finally, the surgical nurse came to wheel Eli back...she looked rather forlornly at me as she went around the corner, out of sight. The surgery unit has a pager system now and you are assigned a code so you can tell what stage your child's surgery is in. 45 minutes later, I was called into the recovery room where a very groggy and weepy Eli was just coming to. She winced and told me, "Mom, I didn't know it was going to hurt THIS bad!".

For the next 90 minutes, she fought to wake up and the nurses worked on managing her pain. She was able to transfer to a second stage recovery and lay against me as we rocked and I sang songs from past Andy Griffith shows (I know...I am so deeply spiritual). I must admit...her sitting still long enough for me to rock her has well, never happened. I rather liked the post-anesthesia Eli...but the nurses denied my request to leave the IV in and send me home with some extra IV drips of sedatives. Spoil sports!

So Eli took a couple days to be able to stand upright and still needs help dressing and sitting up. She is back at school today but is unable to participate in any physical activity. She also walks hunched over like a little old lady. Someday, though, when she wants to sport a 2-piece swimming suit or even become pregnant, she'll be glad she went through all the pain now.

Unicorns Eat Peaches

No, I haven't been sniffing glue in my household...my weird title for this post comes from a statement uttered very matter-of-factly by Kate when we were on our way to church. Husband and I shot each other confused glances wondering if we should follow up or just let that statement lay...we couldn't resist. Kate went on to inform us that she had a dream last night about unicorns and they were eating peaches.

She remembers her dreams long after she wakes up...like the one about bears chasing her. She wouldn't sleep with her stuffed bear for weeks after that.

I can commiserate on the weird dream thing...but I usually have to consciously try to remember mine right after I wake up. Like earlier this week, I dreamt I was in a play and while on stage, I realized I had not bothered to memorize my lines. I was trying to discretely hide my playbook behind props but was failing miserably.

Then last night I dreamt I was in high school during homecoming week and the theme was 70s disco...so we were all grooving out to "Stayin' Alive" only I had a "cast" of sorts on my foot/leg that resembled my drink koozy (sp?) or whatever you call that squishy thing that keeps your drink cold. And someone I hadn't thought of in 12 years showed up in the dream. Just randomly.

My recurring dream is that I am nearing finals week in college only to re-check my class schedule and realize I had enrolled in a class that I had NEVER attended or done homework for...so I would have to cram all that homework plus a final in in order to graduate. I wake up in a cold sweat.

Husband thinks I am not quite right to be having all these weird dreams. He also has never experienced sleep paralysis where you are mostly asleep but you swear you can hear someone coming into your house or talking to you but when you try to answer or move, you find out that you are totally paralyzed. You try to scream but it comes out as a "meep" and you have to force all your concentration to move one tiny finger...until suddenly, the "spell" breaks and you can move again. It is SO frightening...and evidently genetic as my brother suffers from it, too.

So that's my weird confessions of the day...I'd be interested to know your strangest or recurring dream...I'll give a packet of Unisom to the winner!

Elisabeth the Elementary Evangelist

We were riding in the car yesterday on our way to piano lessons when Elisabeth pipes up.

"Mom, in Sunday school my teacher said if we know someone who doesn't know about God, we should tell them. So this kid (I just call him E) in my class doesn't go to church and he doesn't know ANYTHING about God so I told him that God is a good person. Well, he's not really a person. He's a Holy Ghost. Does He help bad people, Mom?"

I explain to her that God loves everyone and wants all people to follow Him, even the bad people.

"Yeah," she continues, "I told him that he helps good people and sometimes he helps bad people. And when we were in the library, I told him that I would give him a Bible and he said he would like to know more about God. I think I'll give him one of my Bibles but not the one the dogs, um, chewed the cover off of." (a few weeks back she left the minibus door open and the dogs had a chew fest...including the cover off her "Eager Reader" Bible).

Now, you may be thinking that I have done a great job as a parent in teaching them about God but that would be a big fat lie. If I am supposed to lead by example, it's not so much happening. I am crabby far too often. I went a whole week without even cracking open my Bible once...and didn't even realize it until it was Saturday night - you know the time when you get a double dose of conscience about the fact that you'll be standing before God in Sunday worship in less than 12 hours. Most my prayers consist of "Lord, I'm a mess. HELP!"

You may also think that I am somehow modeling how to boldly share the Gospel but in fact, I'm a big chicken about sharing something so dear to me. I know all the cliches about how holding the Truth and not sharing is like having the antidote to cancer and not sharing and have heard all the flowery Jesus speak but I remember how people who didn't even know me used to say things to me before I came to Christ and it honestly didn't stir me in the least...it was when people who didn't say a word to me but showed they loved me unconditionally would do things they didn't even realize they were doing...that's when God spoke the loudest.

I'm not the one to turn to my seatmate in an airplane and start expounding on the Word. I wish I was...I sometimes pray for bravery which may seem odd since I am such a Type A bulldog in the other areas of my life. Often times opportunities pass me by as I am sitting in consternation about what to say to someone I know needs to hear the truth.

And then I have a seven-year-old who just plows on ahead...no pretention...no hesitation...just honesty and forthrightness as only a spastic 2nd grade squirrel can produce. Now I know why God says to let the little children come to Him. They are WAY easier to mold then us fretting, stewing, spineless yet stubborn adults!

Following the Machete-Wielding Man

Husband and I just got back from some very random adventures in what I call "Hidden Mexico". Yeah, most of you lacking imagination go to beach areas like Puerto Vallerta or Cancun. Where do Husband and I end up?

Following a machete-wielding man into a tropical forest to find the source of a river. And we had to drive through a sugar cane field to even find machete man.

The vacation didn't start out so hair-raising. We took my sister Erin's advice and joined her on a trip to Zacatecas, the highest elevation in Mexico. It's about six hours in from the border and is a colonial city with amazing colors, fanastic old monastery ruins, a silver mine, and the never-ending mariachi tribute to Pepe Aguilar (evidently the Mexicans version of Elvis Presley in terms of adoring fans and fame).

From there, I told Erin I wanted to see the waterfalls that were in the pictures she had posted on Facebook earlier this year. The photos were phenomenal - like my version of Paradise on Earth. So off we trek on another three hour journey to a town called El Naranjo (The Orange Tree). From there we see El Meco (the biggest waterfall) and then my favorite Cascada Minas Viejas (Old Mines Waterfall).

The name is very unimaginative. It should be called PURELY FANTASTIC FALLS! The pictures don't do it justice. This fantastic place is hidden in the middle of a sugar cane field...literally we are driving on a dirt path between the high sugar cane to find the entrance - which is unmanned currently because the two men that work there are laying a stone path down to the falls.

Erin is intrigued about the source of these waterfalls and her friend Ericka asks the men about where it begins. They tell her that the river just "comes up out of the earth" and that the source is about 4 KM then another 20 minute hike through the woods to get there. That doesn't sound so far so we decide to go see it. The man (and his machete) climbs in our SUV and directs us through several more sugar cane fields, past a burro and several horses tied to banana trees, and into a spot on the edge of a large pasture.

This is probably not our best plan but off we go, dodging large piles of horse dung and enter the tropical forest behind Machete Man.

We soon learn that time and distance are fuzzy concepts in the Latin World. 90 minutes later we come to another cool waterfall - definitely worth seeing - but still nowhere near the source. In fact, Machete Man looks a bit sheepish and tells us its another 250 meters further (which is the same figure he has been telling us for the last 90 minutes).

We decide that was far enough. We head back to the vehicle (and are very thankful it was still there) and head off to the Hacienda Santa Engracia another three hours away. This fanastic property once owned by Juan Martinez has original furnishings from 300 years ago, it's own private chapel, and fantastic woodwork.

Thankfully, with Erin to interpret, we were able to see some amazing parts of Mexico that even most Mexicans don't know about. Here's to random side trails in life that change you forever. I plan to go back down to the falls when it's warm enough to swim and stay there until the Machete Man chases me out!

Training up the Squirrels

On November 8th - which just happened to be Orphan Sunday - we dedicated our squirrely girls to the Lord. I was not raised in a church that did a dedication service and always assumed it was some sort of infant christening or baptism but instead, it is a promise that parents make to raise their children according to God's precepts. In return, the church body promises to support parents in their endeavors to "train up a child in the way he (or in this case SHE) must go so when [they] are old, [they] will not depart from it".

We did our best to explain to the girls what this ceremony meant. We asked them what it meant to be dedicated and what it meant to be raised according to God's Word. They threw out several things like "It means...we don't lie, we don't kick each other, we don't be mean, we obey our mom and dad."

How do I tell them it means so much more than that? How do I explain God's grace? The presence of the Holy Spirit? The sense of overwhelming peace? The prophesies of God fulfilled over and over again? When I think about the vast ability I have to completely screw up my child, I wonder how anyone can parent without the Word of God. I already know my kids will need therapy after having me as a mother. If they A) make it to adulthood and B) turn out halfway decent, you will ALL KNOW beyond a shadow of a doubt that God listened on the day of their dedication and gave us above what we could ask or imagine.

(Photos courtesy of Heather S.)

Post-Traumatic Butt Disorder

I have been receiving several emails about the upcoming Des Moines Register's Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa (or RAGBRAI - as we former Iowegians know it) and the are causing some post-traumatic butt disorder for me...what is this medical phenomenon, you ask? Let me 'splain...

Three years ago, I get a call from the CEO of my company...he was all excited because the town in which our company is located was named as the starting point of RAGBRAI for that year and he felt we need to "represent" by having a company team. In a moment of weakness, my head opened up, my brains fell out, and I said, "Why not?"

RAGBRAI, for those who don't know, is the longest running pleasure bike ride in the U.S. It starts at a town along the Missouri River on the western end of Iowa, and through a series of day long rides (ranging from 65 to 100 miles per day), you wind up on the eastern half of Iowa at a town along the Mississippi River.

The term "pleasure ride" is seriously misleading, as I have first hand (or first butt) knowledge of just how unpleasurable it is to bike 500 miles in 7 days, particularly to the exercise haters of the world, of which I am a charter member. There are 10,000 registered riders and at least another 10,000 riders that don't register but add their bike to the gleaming metal miles long pack each day. The only benefit to registering, I guess, is that you get a bike shirt and a wrist band which allows you access to the "Saggin' Wagon" each day should the ride become impossible.

This 7 week ride is filled with major bike enthusiasts - some of which started months back all the way on the West Coast and coincide their arrival just in time to start RAGBRAI. New riders for the year are marked as "Virgin" with black oil paint on their left lower leg. There are all sorts of costumes, such as RAGBRAI brides (they wear a wedding headpiece to show they met their spouse on RAGBRAI), the team dressed as Holstein cows, Santa and his elves, and various and sundry other characters. Some groups are a part of massive teams, such as the US Air Force and LiveStrong. Since Lance Armstrong has been joining the rides, the throngs of people riding and watching has significantly increased.

My team was comprised of my co-workers and their families - none of which are avid cyclists. We had secured an RV for the trip and another tent for the overflow. We had also set up host families to stay with each night - most of which provided some food and access to a bathroom. I had borrowed a bike from major cycling enthusiast friend of mine who told me I needed a "road bike" versus the mountain bike I had planned to take. I had to figure out how to use bike clips without falling over and became intimately familiar with a product called "Chamois Butter" which is the adult version of a diaper cream. I never knew underwear and biking shorts were incompatible so I guess these teeming throngs of bikers were the largest contingent of Commandos on the road at any one time.

The towns we passed through spared no expense in welcoming the bikers...and where else would you be eating pie and rib eye sandwiches at 9:00 in the morning? I guess the underlying reason for me signing up for the trip was weight loss but to be honest, after 500 miles, I had only lost 3 lbs. I think that if that isn't cause for depression, I'm not sure what else is!

From all of this, I learned that A) Iowa has the friendliest people on earth B) biking through hog smells is enough to make me not move back to Iowa C) if you can push through the third day of biking, you bum goes numb from there on out and D) people can still bike when they are extremely intoxicated (I don't have first hand knowledge of this but certainly, on RAGBRAI, there are several who frequent the beer tents until closing time and still manage to bike 87 miles).

People along the trip asked me if I had caught the "biking fever" to which I emphatically replied "Nope!" and then they looked like I had just told them their baby was ugly. I think this is one item on my bucket list that I can cross off and say, "Been there, done that, have the biking shirt to prove it." Now, if I can only get the RAGBRAI commission to respond to my "unsubscribe" requests to their many email invitations to join this year's ride...

PG-Rated Bodice Rippers

These past few months, I have been volunteering at a local library that is run strictly by volunteers and donations. That being said, the library's book selection pretty much reflects the community so if you are looking for genres outside of children's books and Christian romance, the selection is severely limited.

I don't mind, though...I have always loved libraries ever since my mom would bring all of us kids to the one in RR for the summer reading program. There was a tiny little lady with black hair pulled back into a tight bun that had worked there forever and I would watch with big eyes as she, with long fingernails, would rifle through the patron cards to select the one with our family name on it, stamp the return dates on our cards, and quietly hand over my towering stack of books. I would go home to our house, get my parent's return address stamp, some slips of paper, and play library at home, making poor Erin be my patron. Only she didn't keep her books two weeks; more like two minutes before they were due so I could pull the cards out, stamp them, and return the books to the shelves and start the check out process all over again.

But I digress...

The whole genre of Christian romance has me shaking my head. So many women come up to the counter with sheepish grins as they push their stacks of PG-Rated Bodice Rippers over to me to check out, and sometimes they mumble, "I really read far too many of these." I tell them it's all good...like I really care about the guilty pleasures of others. And there's enough Christianity laced through all the romance so I would say it's a tame guilty pleasure, at worst. As for me, I stayed away from the genre for so long because I suspected it would fall into the category of cheesy.

Don't get me wrong...back in my BC days (before Christ), I used to devour all the Harlequin and Silhouette romance novels I could get my hands on. I first discovered them when one of my sisters brought them along on a family trip and I opened one up to the juicy part on accident and realized I was going to have to park in front of the air conditioner in the car to take the heat off my embarrassed yet engrossed face.

Not sure why so many books of this genre have to be written...they are all the same. The men have names like Whip Holt and Rochester Remington Sterling and come with chiseled jaws and dark locks of hair that always fall across the forehead. There is always some sort of love/hate, push/pull going on between the star-crossed lovers and usually the man has sworn off women because of a previous bad relationship or broken engagement. Lots of electricity seem to pass when hands are shaken or when they touch each other and the books always mention the woman's hair smelling like lilacs or lemons or something otherwise flowery or fruity. Their hair always seems to be falling in wisps or tendrils and the man cannot resist entwining his fingers in it and pulling on a curl.

Seriously.

I figured with this time honored formula, I could write my own romance novel based on the initial meeting of Husband and I. It would go something like this:

She boarded the charter bus at 4:00 AM heading to O'Hare when her eyes beheld a 6'5" man in a flowered shirt trying to fit underneath the overhead compartments. His flat-top haircut meant there were no wisps falling across his forehead and she would later realize that even when he grew his hair out, it went in the same orbital circumference of a Chia pet rather than letting gravity do its thing.

He saw her climb aboard the bus and wondered what light socket she had stuck her finger in because her hair definitely smacked of a home perm gone wrong. She was wearing a skirt and none to happy about it as he would later learn that she hated skirts and dresses but had to follow the dress code for the mission trip to Jamaica - the land of Love Connections.

They worked side by side throughout the week and the moment when she could no longer deny the attraction was when he arrived for morning breakfast wearing his Desert Storm pants and his Foghorn Leghorn shirt. She didn't even know about the Chuck Taylor's he owned or the knee-high moccasins. This was no two-pairs-of-shoes-black-and-brown kind of guy but a true shoe miva (that would be a "man diva").

He realized he could no longer resist her charms when he realized she had worn the same overalls all week long and they (the overalls) could pretty well stand up in a corner by themselves. He would bide his time for a year while under the guise of friendship, all the while planning his "Ultimate Move".

Ah...and the rest is history. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go fluff my wispy tendrils, put some lemon juice in my hair and get ready to swoon when a tall, chisel-jawed man walks through my door.

Queen of Defiance

Something has happened between pre-school and Kindergarten to turn my little baby bird Kate into a defiant little diva and it's about to send me over the edge.

We had the normal Kindergarten curiosity problems when I received a note sent home with her indicating Kate was caught peeking in on a teacher going to the bathroom. She was made to apologize to the teacher and when I asked her what possessed her to spy, she said (at first) her three favorite words, "I don't know!" and then confessed that she wanted to see if there were three people in the bathroom. We had to have a frank discussion about people's "private 'bidness'" and she nodded like she understood. I have learned that she is very good at faking like she understands and can put on the most contrite face and it doesn't mean diddly squat in behavior change.

Then we started receiving notes that she was refusing to participate in PE games and when another teacher came into her class, Kate was rolling on the floor instead of listening. And pulling her hands inside her shirt and doing only the Lord knows what under there. Mind you, this is the same kid whom, when my previous pastor went to introduce himself, she has her hands down the back of her pants. I could have crawled under the carpet, I was so mortified.

I told Kate that if I heard any more reports of her being defiant and disobedient, she and I were going to have some "intense discussions" that just might involve my hand swatting her rear end. She bawled and promised not to do it again. We had a game of practicing to obey where I would tell her to do something and she had to tear off like a flash and comply. Normally, she has one gear...and it's called "neutral"...I've had to set a timer for her to finish breakfast in the morning and get ready for school. Many is the night when Darren is pushing her to finish her supper because she is slower than molasses in the month of January.

I thought our stern talks and "reinforcement" were making headway until yesterday when I had yet another note that her music teacher asked her to participate in the sing-a-long and she refused whining that she didn't want to do it. It became so annoying that he sent her out of class to sit on the steps outside.

Now, some of you that know the Little Baby Bird are shaking your head in disbelief that sweet little Kate could be such a diva...but she is one passive-aggressive defiant little thang when she puts her mind to it. And it seems her mind is to it a lot lately. I am at my wits end trying to decide what to do. We have taken away toys, made her write several apologies over and over again, spanked, given time outs, given time in the corner. I am all out of strategies. Sometimes I do think she doesn't mean to disobey, she just becomes distracted...like she hears the directive but then sees a shiny ball and all she can think about is the shiny ball.

So I pose this dilemma to my parent network out there reading this little known blog. If you have a solution, I am all ears...

The Soccer Amoeba

I don't think there is anything more chaotic in this world than little squirrelly kids trying to play soccer. I'm not sure who decided that we needed this grand adventure for our children but the ONLY reason I agreed to the madness was that Husband assured me it would wear Elisabeth out. That seems to be my main goal these days. The girl pops up wide awake at 5:15 AM and runs flat out, jabbering non-stop, until 9 PM at night (and would stay up later if I would let her).

This is her second season in soccer...the first season, I only managed to attend one game and it was during this freezing cold, drizzly rainy afternoon in which I spent most of it in the big blue bus trying to keep Kate from catching pneumonia. Elisabeth was covered in head-to-toe mud by the time she finished and her hands felt like ice.

This season, Husband takes most of the game runs. I went to one of her Saturday games and realized I should probably make sure she has ADHD medication before a game. She was supposed to be playing goalie when I saw her messing with her oversized yellow mesh jersey while humming to herself and hugging one side of the goal post. The opposing team easily scored against her and she looks over at me grinning and shrugging like "Oh well". I ask her why she didn't try to block the kick and she says, "I hate playing goalie. I'm no good at it." I tell her she let her teammates down when she didn't give it her best effort then I wonder to myself "Why do I really care? It's kids soccer, for crying in the night!"

I tell my sister Lisa about it - a veteran soccer mom - and she gives me no sympathy. "Try having the kid who is swinging from the top of the goal box like a trapeze artist." she tells me. "Well," I shoot back, "I had the kid that was crouched down on her haunches playing with blades of grass."

But really, anyone who has observed a game realizes it's just mass confusion. Our teams do not have any real coaching before the first game and half the time the coach is running out on the field with them. The kids haven't quite figured out their positions and poor Elisabeth thought she could not cross the outer white line near the goal...so she'd be charging pell mell and stop on a dime when she reached that as I am telling her to keep going. The rest of the kids follow the ball like one giant soccer amoeba (thanks, Husband, for that imagery) all kicking at each other (thank goodness for shin guards!).

I haven't decided if Elisabeth will continue in soccer. I think the main reason she wants to go out is for the snacks and drinks afterwards. Maybe we'll just skip the mad running two nights a week next time and feast on Nutty Bars and Capri Suns at home.

Ambulips and Reversing the Ax

Kate came home with a book from school this week that has the letter "A" underneath pictures of things that being with that letter. Normally the pictures are of easy to pronounce but this week we had "astronaut" and "acrobat" among others. We were slogging through learning pronounciation when I turned the page and groaned.

It was a picture of an ax.

Why the groan, you ask? Well, when Kate first came, she constantly used the word "AX" instead of "ask" - a common misuse in her culture. We have worked over and over to have her use the correct word to ASK me a question. I knew as soon as I saw the picture we were in for a battle. Sure enough...she kept naming the picture an "ask". I'd correct her with "Ax" and she'd look at me like I had said a bad word. Finally, we reached the point where she would say "Axsk".

Good enough.

My favorite mispronounciation in the book came with the word "Ambulance" in which I broke down into "AM" BYU" "LUNTZ". She kept repeating "Ambulips?"

Finally, I decided to go more how it was written and told her to think of her cousin Lance so now she halts through AM BYU LANCE! Now I just hope if there is an emergency she can AX and AMBULIPS to rush over here.

Four-Eyed Bull in a China Shop

Kate flunked her school eye exam last year and so we embarked on the fun adventure of having a miniature four-eyed bull in a china shop AKA a kid with glasses. We went to the local eye doctor to have her eyes checked and I'm not even sure she had a clue what she was supposed to be looking at because most of her answers about what she saw in the picture were said with her head tilted and her voice ending in a quizzical lilt (like when she answers every question in Sunday school with the word "Jesus?" because she figures that must be right).

Nonetheless, she was determined to be slightly farsighted with astigmatism in one eye. Beings she is covered by Medicaid for her vision care, I had a limited selection of glasses to pick from. I made the classic rookie mistake of picking something that looked halfway cute.

I should have instead looked for the pair that was titanium, double reinforced, kryptonite coated, flexible side stems, polycarbonate shrouded, and metal framed. I had no idea kids could be so destructive in such a short amount of time. We were less than 24 hours into our glasses wearing season when I got a call from the daycare provider that Kate had busted the stem trying to "clean" her glasses. I took a look at them, whipped out my Krazy Kat glue and glued them back together.

The glasses broke again the next day at preschool. This time, I called the eye doctor and they said there was a 90-day guarantee if the glasses were defective. I told them the glasses were not defective but my four-year-old certainly was! They told me Medicaid would replace the glasses but they required the original pair to be sent in and it would take about two months for a replacement. Yikes! I opted for packing tape instead.

So now Kate's class pictures coming home from preschool showed several smiling, normal looking kids and one wild-braided/beaded Baby Bird with a chunk of packing tape on the left stem. We went that way for several months until she finally busted out the lens and we couldn't locate it so I was forced to trudge back again to the eye doctor.

We were given a replacement pair and as it was towards the end of the school year, I decided she could go all summer long without glasses. School started up again in the fall and we dutifully started the glasses routine where she would put them on right before getting on the bus with instructions to take them off and set them on her desk before she went to P.E. or recess.

All was well until I got an email from her teacher that Kate was repeatedly cleaning her glasses with the class-shared wet wipes. Her teacher asked if that was okay. "NO!" I told her, "Tell Kate she is NOT to clean her glasses at school; I will clean them when she gets home.". "Okay," her teacher replied, "I wondered why my wet wipes were disappearing so fast and I think I may have found the culprit."

Well, if the smeared glasses fit...

Then, two weeks ago, I look in the bottom of Kate's book bag, among the spilled out popcorn and old Cheezits and find her glasses in two pieces. I asked her what happened. She says, "I broke them.". Yet again. So back to the eye doctor we will go only this time I am going to take my sister Mary's advice and see if they have any in a swim goggle variety! Forget cute...we are going for STAYING POWER!

Getcha? Gotcha! Gotcha? Good!

A few weeks ago, we had the first anniversary of "GOTCHA Day" or the day in which the Squirrels descended upon their permanent home in the little log cabin by the big woods. I can remember so well our first meeting of the girls at McDonald's playland and the out of body experience thinking "These little peanuts I barely know could be our children in a few months!". We had been told Kate had speech problems but she clearly stated to me that she liked mustard as Elisabeth - even the bossy older sister then - cut her off and said, "You do NOT!". And their sibling squabble ensued.

Three weeks later, Husband and I, freshly back from a quick trip to NC, were welcoming two girls with clothes in beat up suitcases and black garbage bags into our home. The toys that came with them consisted of a My Little Pony head, the board to a "Candyland" toy game, a red and white pom pom, and a Little Bratz merry go round. They had very little clothes and most in the wrong sizes so the caseworker had picked up pajamas, sweats, underwear, and one school outfit each.

That night, we got the girls ready for bed and Husband read them a story as they snuggled in with him in the big leather chair. We tucked them both in bed under fluffy down comforters and gave them the first of many nicknames...Little Burrito and Big Burrito.

Elisabeth was up at O-Dark-Thirty the next morning, wondering around. There were about three days of wide-eyed wonder and then the gloves were off. And I remember hitting the wall of fatigue and irritability. I later read a book called "Thriving as an Adoptive Family" where a mother complained of those same things - along with a feeling of hopelessness (which I did not feel) - and indicating that she was diagnosed with Post-Adoptive Depression which the doctor told her was a result of her being emotional unprepared for adoption.

Well, I don't know how you emotional prepare for instant parenthood to children that do not share your genetic predisposition and for whom you are only given very sketchy details of their background. And ADHD adds a whole new dimension that only those of us who have children in this category can understand. All the babysitting in the world does not prepare you for the fact that these children are not returning to anyone else and that your children will most often act worse for you than for anyone else. I told someone I felt like I had climbed on a treadmill that was going full-blast and I was just trying to hang on for dear life so I wouldn't fly off the back. I wonder sometimes if it would have been easier if we had adopted infants versus smack-talking four and six year olds but I know that no matter the age, it is not a predictor of what your child will be like as a teenager.

We have now come through months of behavior adjustment, training in table manners, personal hygiene, pride of ownership (i.e. taking care of their things), chores, discipline, being thankful, respecting each other and adults, and being honest even when it means consequences. I am in awe of the resiliency of my Squirrels. They have come so far and hopefully now as we enter into the "Second Time Around" for each holiday and school event, they feel like they have definitely come home. Because Husband and I know they have.

Cloudy with a Chance of Steam

This past Friday, I decided to have a special evening out with the girls since I was having Working Mom Guilt about having to leave them for a week to train our new sales representative in Minneapolis. So after they got home from school, did their chores, and changed, we loaded up in the big blue bus to head to P town for a showing of the 3-D movie "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs".

I swung through their food mecca - the home of the Golden Arches - for some fried cholesterol and oil with a side of caffeine - and off we raced to the theater. You would think two girls would have been thrilled with such an outing...but alas, the Diva Monster took over.

First they whined about not getting popcorn despite JUST having eaten at McDonald's. Then they whined that their 3-D glasses were too big (so I put Kate's headband over the sides of her glasses to keep them from falling off). Then they whined about whether or not the movie was EVER going to start (we only had a 15 minute wait), then Elisabeth whined because I had to move Kate in between us because she doesn't weigh enough to keep her movie seat from folding up on her and turning her into a velour enveloped pita pocket.

At this point, I was STEAMING! How dare these two girls act like entitled little divas!? I was torn between laughing myself silly at the slapstick humor of the movie and wanting to haul the girls out and make them stick their nose to a wall until all the "Whinese" language stopped flowing from their mouth. I decided to stick the movie out but the last straw came when we were leaving the theater - which was considerably more busy after the movie than before - and they started throwing a fit saying that other kids got to stay for more movies. Despite my explanation that there were multiple showing and kids only got to go to one showing, they were convinced they were the saddest, most deprived, most raw-end-of-the-deal kids on Planet Earth.

I had HAD it! I'm not even sure what IT is but I know I had HAD IT! I drove home with gritted teeth and sat two girls on the couch - who, thanks to their ADHD, had forgotten about why they had whined and were merrily playing with their Barbie-themed happy meals toys.

Let me tell you...we had what my old boss used to call (I supposed somewhat sacrilegiously) a "Come to Jesus" meeting where I laid into them good and proper as they sat with big bug eyes and somber expressions. I told them if they had VASTLY disappointed me, that they were very ungrateful, and they would learn to live without two of their favorite things for a week - television and bedtime snacks.

Well, they thought they could endure the punishment until their cousins came over on Saturday night and later in the evening, they all wanted to watch a movie. Only Elisabeth and Kate couldn't. Oh, how the tears flowed...but hopefully lessons were being learned.

I know what I see from having kids is a picture of me in my relationship with God. Not to wax philosophical here but I know He has given me so much and yet I often only see what I DON'T have...much like my two little entitled divas. So we'll see if we can all break free of the ME monster soon! (Enjoy the video link below)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QvSoRQrVJg

Cat Killers on the Prowl

After the massive fiasco of trying to train two dogs, I really thought I was done with this whole new baby pet thing...until the Squirrels laid eyes on the last of their Aunt Mary's kittens. They were determined that Puffy would soon be theirs, while Husband was shaking his head and trying to emphatically to mouth "NOOOOOO!" over their heads, I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, "Why not? Our house is insane enough already!"

And so Puffy, who is sometimes called Fuzzy, Furry, or Hannah Montana, but mostly called "the kitty" (I know, how original) by me has come to stay. The girls remember having a cat at a previous foster placement and this poor kitty has become their surrogate. The cat does not get a moment's peace but is hauled around, wrapped in armchair covers, and otherwise nearly strangled by two overanxious caretakers.

The only ones who were not real thrilled by Kitty's arrival are the hounds who for several days plotted their revenge on the furry intruder. Blame it on me for encouraging their hunting tendencies by praising them for killing groundhogs, mice, birds, and moles...but they had their sights set on eating this cat. Sasha would crouch down in anticipation while licking her chops. Atticus would start to drool while wagging his tail at warp speed. If let go, they would charge on the cat sniffing, barking, and trying to bite.

Husband kept shaking his head. "This is not going to end well," he warned. "We'll have a dead, half-eaten cat, two wailing girls, and a set of very hated dogs." Nonetheless, Husband diligently worked with the dogs to ignore the cat, to stay in a "down" position while letting the cat wonder near them. He nearly had his hands scratched off when holding the kitty and the dogs came charging in, sniffing as if on a cocaine bender.

We felt the dogs were ready to perhaps be left alone with the cat so we set Kitty outside with the dogs and shut the door. A loud howl later, I open the door to find the cat covered in dog slobber and two dogs slinking under the porch knowing they were in trouble. The cat looked up at me like I was half crazy and marched, tail straight up, into the house.

Now a full four weeks after Kitty has arrived, I am pleased to report that all the pets around the ranch are living in harmony. Kitty boxes with Sasha while Atticus plots ways to get into Kitty's crate and eat her food. And I have to admit cats are WAY easier than dogs. They immediately potty train, cover up their own poop, eat less, poop less, slobber less, bite less, and never jump up on anyone. Now if only the Squirrels were so well trained!

The Proper Care and Feeding of Superman

I recently finished a book that I REALLY did not feel like reading by Dr. Laura Schlessinger called "The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands". It's a book that I knew I SHOULD read but not sure if it was going to tell me my place was barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen with no brain necessary to operate. I read a review on Amazon by a lady that sounded like a barely contained feminist (I can relate) so I figured if she could give it five stars, I would jump in with both feet.

Dr. Laura's whole premise is that men are simple creatures who only need a few basic things from women and then they will go to the ends of the earth to please their wife. I would have thought the list of things a man needs would consist only of A) food and B) sex but Dr. Laura elaborated that there were a few more items than just those two.

As I am reading, I am really thinking I am not doing to shabbily as a wife. I am not a nag only because I hate the sound of my voice if I nag. Not that I don't think of lots of naggy thoughts in my head. Husband is very anti TO-DO lists as he said that he used to have long lists of things to complete while his parents went away. I'm sure they did it to keep him out of trouble but to this day, he would probably tear up any written TO DO list I left for him.

I also try to give him the down time he needs after work to decompress. My friend Joel once told me that men need 30 minutes after they get home from work to just be left alone or go into their "Man Cave" as he called it and then a man would be ready to slay any dragons I had for him. There are times when Husband gets home in the midst of two wailing sirens (the Squirrels), a broken (fill in the blank), and me with steam rising of my head...he doesn't get much decompression then...but usually I wait for my list of updates until he looks ready.

One of the next items was to look good for your husband when he comes home from work. I'm lucky if I get a shower in. Or I could go all out and then have chaos happen and he gets home to find my legs sticking out from under the porch as I am trying to retrieve a homemade superball that the girls bounced under there and the dogs are salivating to get at. Husband tells me he could care less how I look. He gets MAJOR points for that concession!

So halfway through the book, I'm thinking maybe I am a good wife...until I get to the section where Dr. Laura says that men want to feel like they are the White Knight to their wife. Call it the Superhero syndrome, but men, I guess, need to feel like they can swoop in and rescue a damsel in distress.

Well, honey, I ain't no damsel in distress. I'm more of a charging rhinoceros who takes no prisoners. If something doesn't get done that he's promised to do for several months, I go after it myself or hire a contractor. Have a 4,039 piece item to put together with instructions written in Chinese? I'll look at the pictures and figure it out. I can roof a house, put in wood flooring, tile a backsplash, and lift my own heavy items. And I've got a rubber thingy that opens my jars.

This was a real dilemma for me. If I really wasn't a damsel in distress, then I had to fake it well enough to convince Husband that he could be my Superman. And he's VERY good at knowing when I am being patronizing.

My opportunity came one evening when I decided to forgo the usual rubber grippy thing to open a jar. Well, actually, it was a jar of caramel topping and I was like an ice cream junkie desperate for a bender. And the jar lid wasn't budging, despite all my efforts. I took the jar out to him and he opened it easily. Instead of gushing (which I should have done) about what a strong man he was, I mumbled something like "I must have loosened it for you. ".

Aaaaauuuggghhh....drat my mouth! Better luck next time. And if I get brave enough, I will post my thoughts on Dr. Laura's chapters referring to married sex. Or maybe if I get enough prompting from all you closet readers who aren't brave enough to say publicly that you follow this little known blog writer (and are probably congratulating yourself on how much more normal and sane you are;-)

Divine Secrets of the Nah-Blah Sisterhood

Just spent a fabulous weekend with my sisters, nieces, and mom down in St. Louis. We are such an abnormal bunch. I had each of my sisters pose in a cheesy senior picture photo and was laughing so hard at these I could barely keep my camera level. And so, for those of you who only know some of the insanity, here are my sisters (heavily medicated for your safety):

Beth - the oldest child and fits the bill in every way. Beth is a mixture of Oprah Winfrey (if she hadn't fallen into the hands of Eckert Tolle) and Elaine Benes from Seinfield. Her stories are dramatic and everything happens to her. A CPA partner by trade, it would be more fitting if she were on the stage. She also could take retail therapy to an Olympic sport level. She has matching shoes and accessories to every outfit and always looks like a million bucks. I'm pretty sure because of that, she must be adopted.

Lisa - the second oldest and brainy as they come as evidenced by the fact that she took multiple chemistry classes to become a pharmacist. She can remember the words to songs we had on records that haven't been played in 20 years. Need to know the name of the restaurant we ate in on family vacations from 1982? Ask Lisa. She also, however, inherited the worry gene from Mom. While Beth's kids were swinging from the high line wires, Lisa was the one fretting if her kids could somehow get under the pool cover and drown. We also tease her about her ability to graze all day long and still be so thin. I'm pretty sure because of that, she must be adopted.

Renee - the third oldest and artsy one of the family. She's still a killer volleyball player and now on the local school board as well as working part time as a nurse. Renee gets ideas to overhaul something and then you see nails and boards flying around while her husband turns a pale shade of green. She loves to throw things away and purge the clutter from her life. She's also the only one who didn't inherit the traditional deflated rear end like the rest of us. I'm pretty sure because of that, she must be adopted.

My brother would be number four in the family but because of that Y chromosome, he didn't get to come to St. Louis. Actually, we'd be fine if he did. He sent his wife Bethany instead and she braved the weekend as the only outlaw sister we have. You can't be faint of heart and roll with that many Type A personalities but Bethany takes it all in a stride. She's cheerful and artsy and up for any adventure...and very athletic. A former Division I college swimmer, she now works in marketing for a medical group.

Susan rings in as number five. My mom says Susan was the spastic kid who could throw a big temper tantrum. That phase seems to be over and now she runs a horse ranch with her husband. Quite a long way from her days when she worked in downtown Chicago and could rival Beth for retail therapy. Susan is the only one who inherited perfect body proportions. I'm pretty sure because of that, she must be adopted.

Mary comes in as number six. She's our nurturing mothering sister and may be a bit obsessed about vacuuming. She is adamant about her to do lists and sometimes misses her days as a cardiac nurse but right now is in the process of adopting child #5 from Ethiopia. Mary has this fantastic head of gorgeous curly hair - the best hair in the family as most of the rest of us struggle with mousy thin hair and male pattern baldness. I'm pretty sure because of that, she must be adopted.

Skip over me now to the baby Erin. Still merrily single and thriving in her missionary work in Mexico, Erin interacts with the most random people in the most random ways. She, like Beth, has the funniest things happen to her and her stories of language translation mistakes are hysterical. She was a star basketball player and people still talk about her role as Miss Hannigan in a high school production of "Annie". We tease her about her ability to live on about 25 cents a day. I'm pretty sure because of that, she must be adopted.

So there you have it! Seven Brides for Seven Brothers and an extra special one to spare. We're not quite right in the head but at least we have each other. Pass the Prozac.