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.

Monkey Piles and Nekkid Barbies on the Loose

Last week saw the celebration of My Little Shorn Sheep (Kate) turning 5. It started when she got money in the mail from Grandma Ellie - which burned a hole in her pocket until she could turn around and use it to buy something from my "store" (toys and other things they can save up their allowance to buy). Until her birthday money came, Kate was dead broke because she had to pay Aunt Lisa for cutting up her guest sheets (hmmm...cutting Barbie hair, cutting her own hair, cutting sheets...are we seeing a pattern???)

Kate choose the Barbie pool - which held real water! It was only when I had several nekkid Barbies with ruined hair, several soaking wet human-sized towels, and water EVERYWHERE that I had to wonder what possessed me to pick that thing out on a garage sale.

On to the big party with friends! Kate invited seven friends over for a night of food and fun! What's not to love about mini-corn dogs, mac and cheese, chocolate cake, ice cream and grapes? Food of champions - or those looking to block a few vital vessels to the heart.

The kids played dress up, jumped on the trampoline for most of the evening, had big monkey piles of fun and mixed several colors of play-doh together, despite my pleas to the contrary. Rachel, Mary's daughter, got to stay overnight because she is a cousin so the fun lasted until 11 PM when three VERY sleepy girls were brought up to bed. I thought they would sleep in well the next morning, having gone to bed so late.

Fat chance. I guess the voice of the new My Little Pony remote-controlled scooter must have whispered to them in the early morning hours because I hear engine revving sounds and horn honking at O-Dark-Thirty. I banished the girls to the basement and crawled back in bed, desperately in need of more sleep. But none would come my way...at least not on a post-birthday party morning.

Eyes in the Backamyhead

My girls are amazed at my ability to detect when they are doing something they shouldn't be doing behind my back. I suppose some of it is a sixth sense you develop as a mother...like the sense to know when things are "too quiet" or to have laser precision hearing to pick up on the terse, whispered "Stop touching me or I'm telling Mom"s that are sniper-fired back and forth.

I tell the girls the reason I know is that I have Eyes in the Backamyhead! Someday, I'll tell them it's really because, due to the black microwave over my stove reflecting all that goes on behind me, I can see when they are picking, poking, kicking, making faces and muttering to each other.

The other day, Elisabeth was trying to style my hair (code word for painful brushing of my hair and ears, and several multicolored hair bands being put at the bottom of loosely twisted hair) when she pauses, puzzled, and turns around to face me.

"I don't see them, Mom!" she says with furrowed brow. "What don't you see?" I ask, thinking she is missing the last of the 3,298 hair bands she wants to use in my hair. "The eyes in the back of your head."

Whoops! And being the good, nurturing Christian Mother-of-the-Year (Still waiting on my crown and sash), I lie to her.

"Really?" I tell her, "Maybe you have to be a mom to see them. But never fear...they are there. And they develop x-ray vision when you turn 13."

Miserable Mom Mix-Up

Some things you hear as an adoptive mom just make you shake your head and laugh. My sister Renee and her husband adopted Grace from China several years ago. Grace is now 7 and quite a character. Renee sent me an email that said:

"Grace [said] to me one day when she wasn't happy with me (which happens often):

'I don't think you are the right mom for me. I think you adopted me just to make me miserable!'

(Grace's mom tries to repress snorting laughter)."

Hmmm...mounds of paperwork, mucho dinero, several red tape nightmares, heinously long flights with SARS masks on, all done so one little girl could leave behind an orphanage where she spent the majority of her waking hours in a walker - so much so that it took several years for her legs to unbow - and come into a extended family that loves her more than life itself and wouldn't trade her for all the tea in, well, China. I think she got EXACTLY the right mom. And it's our job as a mom to sometimes make our kids miserable;-) It's a right of parenthood, no?

Orange Spastic Hoopster

In one of my many attempts to keep from ending up in a pretty white sweater with funny sleeves this summer, I enrolled Squirrel #1 in an all day basketball camp for four days at the local college. It probably sounds like a lot for a 7-year-old to handle but my thought was "Hmmm...she's occupied all day, learning something useful, fed lunch, and will be tired by bedtime...all this for a mere $70...that's one cheap babysitter!"

No, I don't harbor hopes that she'll be the smash hit of the WNBA, and I hope others don't expect her to be the next Sheryl Swoops just because she is black. But she is a tomboy so she was non-plussed that she was in a group of all boys for her age bracket.

I went to pick her up the first day and I see she is scrimmaging. She's got a bright orange jersey on that is several sizes too large and she has to keep hiking it up to keep in on one shoulder. She sees me and waves, oblivious to the fact that she is supposed to be playing basketball. Her team runs down to the other end of the court and she is still dancing in the end zone (or whatever it's called in basketball...hey, I played six-on-six basketball in Iowa and it was only for one miserable 8th grade year so my sports knowledge is extremely limited).

I motion for her to run down to the other end. She finally turns around and realizes she needs to hustle. Her team of boys thinks that girls have cooties so she rarely, if ever, gets the ball passed to her but when she does, she doesn't attempt a basket, she just scoops the ball back outside the three point line again.

Four days later, she is excited that she knows how to pivot, bounce pass, and alternate swooping the ball between her legs. She has team pictures on the last day and at awards time, she is given a certificate for participation. She's thrilled, although a little saddened that she didn't make "Camper of the Day" any of the days. Beings that that honor required someone who paid attention and followed directions, she would have had a major uphill battle to win that one;-)

We get her team pictures back and Darren and I howled for a good 15 minutes with laughter at Elisabeth's face in the team picture. See for yourself: