Christmas Conversations

The holidays are sure to bring out the interesting comments from my little angels. Enjoy! And Merry Christmas!


ME: Ivy, today is Jesus's birthday. Make sure you kneel down and say, "Happy birthday, baby Jesus!" And then say a prayer.
IVY: But Mommy, Jesus isn't a baby anymore.
ME: Well, no...
**Ivy kneels down**
IVY: Happy birthday, big old Jesus....


ME: Story, if you eat one piece of turkey, I'll give you a dollar.
**She considers**
STORY: No.
ME: Two dollars?
STORY: No.
ME: What about five dollars? That'll buy you a good toy!
**She considers again**
STORY: No, Mommy, that's chicken feet! (I think she meant chicken feed?)


IVY and STORY in car: One palm tree...two palm trees...three palm trees..
PAPPY: Why don't you guys count those palm trees to yourself?
STORY: Shucks. I can't count.


**on the plane**
ME: Okay, Ivy, we're in the air, you can let go of my hand now, I think I'll be okay.
**Ivy studies my face for a second**
IVY: No, I don't think I should let you go yet. You don't look okay.


STORY: There's McDonald's!
GRANDMA: Yes, but McDonald's is closed today.
STORY: McDonald's closed???
GRANDMA: Yes, because it's Christmas!
**Story's eyes get really big and she looks at the dark McDonald's in awe**
STORY: Wow.


**At a grilling party on the beach that we pass, some men in Santa hats give Ivy and Story candy canes. In the car, they start to open them.
ME: Hey, guys? Those are going to taste like mint! Are you sure you want to eat them?
IVY: Yes, Mommy, we like mint!
STORY: I like mint.
ME: Okay....
**ten seconds later, I hear spitting sounds behind me**
IVY: Yuck! yuck! Mommy! That's peppermint!!!
STORY: Ew, Mommy!
ME: Girls, I tried to tell you.
IVY: You didn't say it was peppermint! That's so gross!
ME: Mint? Peppermint? Get it?
IVY: Ugh.
STORY: My tongue is cold. Yucky.

The Snowday

In my line of work, there's one thing that makes the winter months bearable: The Snowday.

Often, any kind of slightly inclement weather will make the county roads slick. You can't have buses full of kids out on those slick roads. And when buses full of kids don't come to school, I have no one to teach, so I get to stay home. And it's awesome.

But, Snowdays can become a sickness. An addiction worse than any kind of drug. Okay, maybe not any kind of drug....maybe they're about halfway down the list.

On the first Snowday, there is rejoicing. Sleeping in. Usually with me, there's a feeling that I can finally accomplish those 20,000 things I never get to on the weekends. Laundry. Cleaning. Baking. Organizing cabinets. Boxing up old clothes. Cleaning the attic. Rearranging furniture. The list is endless.

So I work, the kids play, and we spend the day away. As the end of it nears, though, I start getting anxious. I mean, yeah this Snowday was nice and all, but will I have to work tomorrow? Will we have to get up early? And then my mind races.....

I didn't finish my list! The attic cleaning is only half done!! My bedroom isn't clean!!! Oh, no! I didn't clean the bathrooms! I meant to!

And then, I haven't done anything to prepare for tomorrow! Lunches, clothes picked out, bookbags packed...I'll be late! "Oh, for the love of all that is holy, call off school already!" I scream in my head.

When they do, I instantly calm. Finally, just one more day. One more day to finish everything I didn't get done today, I sigh.

However, as the end of the second day nears, I panic again. Things are still not done. I never did organize the toys in the playroom. Oh, and there are those walls that need painted.... Regardless of how many consecutive days I've missed, at the end of everyone there is an urgency to have just one more...just one more.

It's an addiction. Just like an addict who's supply is cut off, when the snow melts and it looks like I might have to work again, I go through several feelings.

First, it's denial. I mean, the roads could still be bad! Don't they see that? I still have an icy patch here...it's down the street, and about the size of a letter, but seriously!! They'll call it off, I know they will.

When they don't call it off, I get angry. What do they know! Fine! I sure hope nobody wrecks in the morning.

I also start bargaining with God. I offer Him lots of stuff if He could ensure that school would just be cancelled!!

But eventually, I do have to go back to work. It's really hard at first, especially after an extended "vacation." I do it, though, and my Snowday addiction eases........until the next storm.

My name is Tracee, and I am a Snowday-a-holic.

Why chocolate creme oreos will always remind me of Edward Cullen

Most people that know me understand that I have something wrong with my head. Most people that have known me a long time understand my tendency to get obsessed with stuff.

The list is long and stretches from Rainbow Brite to Star Wars to hippie clothes to Mercedes Benzes to Twilight. Being my friend on any teensy part of this journey will make you believe that I just have unhealthy feelings toward a few things...being someone there for the long run, you'll see that the objects of my affection change, but the obsessive feelings remain constant.

A couple of days ago, my husband and I were watching one of the six Star Wars movies and I said, "Wow, like fifteen years ago, I could have told you the names and types of all those aliens...and what planets they were from."

He seemed a little concerned. "Really?"

I laughed, and told him about my adolescent years, when I lived, ate, and breathed Star Wars. I could almost recite original three movies line by line. I made my parents buy me anything Star Wars that I saw at the store. I read about ten thousand Star Wars fiction books that took place after Return of the Jedi. I dreamed I was a Jedi. I was pretty sick. "It was worse than Twilight," I told him.

Since I am in the middle of the Twilight addiction, he couldn't visualize it.

When I fell into my third Thanksgiving break sickness, a feverish sinus infection coupled with dehydration from the stomach virus and the still present kidney stone, and a huge muscle cramp in my back that I was sure was the beginning of a heart attack, my mom came to visit and make sure the girls didn't set the house on fire.

That day, just to comfort me and keep my mind off of the false heart attack, I had started reading Eclipse again. Lucky for me, the Spike channel was running a Star Wars marathon, so I got to spend the day with Luke, Leia, and Han, and Edward kept me company during commericals.

See, my obsessions are like "loveys," those blankets and toys that two year olds have at their sides to offer comfort and protection. If I'm knee deep in sickness or bad stuff, something that I've come to love will at least hold me over until I feel a little better.

Mom brought Oreos, the new chocolate ones, and although I hadn't eaten in days I wanted them. Bad.

She watched me eat, and then wanted to know what in the world was on TV. "Return of the Jedi!" I said, a little grumpy. When Rob came home from hunting, shocked to find out I thought I was dying and Mom was there, she confirmed what I said was true- my Star Wars obsession was a lot worse.

And this got me thinking, while eating the oreos and reading about Edward professing his love for Bella, about all of my past obsessions. When I was thirteen, I became obsessed with this cartoon called "Bots" or something like it that only came on at 5:30 in the morning. I religiously got up every morning and watched it with my cereal.

And then when I was obsessed with soap. Well, not really soap but the evils of it. I banned soap from my house and spent a ton of money on special bottles of castile soap in order to protect us all from the evils of sodium laureth sulfate. I researched it thoroughly on the internet.

And then I started thinking about what it would have meant to have the internet when I was mid-Star Wars obsession. Harrison Ford would have definitely had an internet stalker, that's for sure.

Why am I like this? I'll never know. I know I can calm it some when I've been taking my meds...I'm able to resist reading Breaking Dawn for the thirtieth time (well, at least straight out- I can allow myself a page a day or something). But it never really goes away, and in times of stress I revert straight into crazy-land.

When I reached for the chocolate creme oreos this evening, I suddenly felt the urge to continue reading about Jacob and Edward fighting over custody of Bella...and there I am. Oreos. Edward. It all connects somewhere in the rusty, oddly working gears of my brain.

Thanksgiving will be a dreaded holiday from this point on

The plan was to go to my Dad and Step-Mom's house for Thanksgiving, with a stop at my Mom's.

Unfortunately, fate had other ideas.

On Wednesday, the day we were going to leave, I had a list of things to do, and I had to pack. Two things happened simultaneously...my husband checked the weather for his Thursday morning hunting excursion and my stomach started hurting. With the weather being bad and me being sick, the decision was made to leave very early Thursday morning instead.

After confirming this with my family, we settled in for an evening of relaxation and TV watching...until Story puked all over me. I convinced myself that it was a fluke...or something bad she ate.

Just to be safe, I ran to the kitchen to grab a bowl after I'd changed her and cleaned up the couch. As I bent down to the cabinet where the bowl was located, I received a searing pain in my left kidney.

Oh. No.

I have a long running relationship with kidney stones. I get one stuck about once a year or less that involves heavy drugs and a trip to the hospital. There's nothing I can do about then, I just won the genetic kidney lottery.

But this pain meant the worst was coming...a trip to the hospital, along with a puking baby. And an impending trip.

A frantic search of the purses in my closet revealed that I had one pain pill left. I took it, and waited for the results to take effect...and as it started to kick in, Story puked again.

This was not just a random puking event. I was pretty sure she had the flu.

So, I stayed up until two a.m. with her puking every hour while Rob and Ivy slept. At two, my drugs wore off, and I had to go to the hospital. A sleepy husband came in the living room to sit with the puking kid while I turned on my hazard lights and made a speedy trip to the hospital.

It turns out the night before Thanksgiving is an excellent time to visit the ER. I was in and out in no time...and then I drove home under the influence of some nice little shot they gave me.

Story hadn't puked any while I was gone, but as soon as I sat on the couch next to her, she puked again.

The next morning, we had a come-to-Jesus meeting about our trip. It wasn't happening. So, we bought a turkey and some other stuff and spent the day cooking turkey dinner by ourselves for the first time ever.

Which our kids refused to eat.

Friday we took the girls to the movies and bought some Christmas decorations. On the way home, I started feeling strange...and have spent the past 24 hours with the stomach flu. Luckily, this wasn't the worst flu I've had, and since neither kid was a baby and breastfeeding, my husband was able to take care of them all day.

Still, I'm waiting for everyone else in the house to get it...and I'm pretty sure I'll have to take Monday off to recover from my vacation.

A Letter to my Shark

Dear Shark Steam Mop,

You have been a faithful friend. I am sorry I have been neglecting you.

When my neighbor recommended you to me, I have to admit, I was skeptical. She said you would make my floors shiny with little to no effort, and that you were very clean, easy, and safe for my children.

I went to buy you at the store, and the first time I used you, I fell in love with you. You were so much easier than spraying a 4x4 square of wood with Bruce Hardwood floor cleaner and scrubbing it repeatedly with a mop. I just filled your little water tank with the funnel, and viola! You were ready to go.

You and I used to spend quality time together once a week while we worked as a team to erase paw prints, kool-aid spills, ketchup, pictures done in marker, and cat puke from the floors.

Sadly, the past month, we've not been able to see each other. You hang there in the laundry room, lonely except for the dustmop while I flit around, go on field trips, teach lessons, and take care of the kids. I thought we might be able to chill again together this evening, but alas, I was only able to hang with the dustmop.

In the meantime, my floors are also feeling neglected. I know there are watercolor paintings in my breakfast nook, some suspicious looking spots left by cats in the dining room, and muddy tracks leading from the front door to the dog bowl.

(Speaking of the dog bowl, the stains around it are amazing. I'm not even sure you can handle it without major assistance. I'm thinking of removing and relaying the tiles.)

I promise, though, Shark, that sometime before Thanksgiving, you and I will reunite. We'll spend double the time together when we do (because it will take double the time to chisel the crud we've accumulated on the floor).

Please don't forget me because I have not forgotten you! (And anything you can do to assist our relationship, such as accumulate some super powers in cleaning or learn how to dust as well as mop would be appreciated.)

Yours truly,

Tracee

Ivy's report card

Today Ivy got her first report card. It was a chart of things her class works on, and a letter that symbolized her progress on that item.

Ivy's teacher gave it to me when I picked her up from her room today. He said if we (parents) wanted to talk about it to wait until he took the class to the cafeteria, then he'd be back to discuss it.

So, I sat down in a chair next to one of Ivy's friends, and she sat on my lap. I looked at the chart and say several P's and D's....I immediately think "proficient" and "distinguished," and was so proud of my little girl.

Then I look at the key...P means "proficient" but D means "developing."

On the attitude portion (you know the part that has "listens to directions" and "interacts with peers") she has ALL D'S!!!!

(On a side note, you should know that I'm pretty competitive- and not the good kind either. I tend to imagine that I'm not competitive at all until I notice something is not up to snuff...then I become a pageant mom.)

After playing the high five game with Ivy and her friend (you know, gimme five, up high, down low, too slow), I start to quiz Ivy. I say, "Ivy, do you get along with your peers? I mean, friends?

She says, "Yes, Mommy."

I say, "Well, your report card says that you are only "developing" your ability to do that. What about listening to directions? Do you listen to directions?"

Ivy says, "Yes, Mommy, I always do."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Well, that's not what your report card says."

Ivy then bursts into tears and starts wailing at the top of her lungs. In a classroom where 6 adults are sitting in kiddie chairs and 6 little kids are asking, "Ivy! What's wrong? What's wrong?"

I start whispering in her ear to calm down, we'll talk about it later, which only causes her to cry louder. By this time, every parent in the room is eyeing me with suspicion. Who is this strange lady who is making her little girl cry over a report card? It's your kids' music teacher, folks!

I finally get her to calm down, and then I just take her out of the room. What kind of a monster am I? I wonder. One who wants her kid to be the best!! the competitive part of me answers.

After I'd stashed Ivy at the afterschool program, I went back, where Ivy's teacher told me she was doing just fine, and her P's and D's were top of the line.

And then I had to tell Ivy that yes, her Mommy was wrong. She actually was good in school. (She'd better be! that voice whispers again.)

Ivy's New Awareness of Stuff

Ivy is reaching a point in her life when she is becoming more aware of her surroundings and how things work.

She's also becoming aware of the stuff I listen to on the radio. Which is not always a good thing.

When you're driving your Kindergartner to school, you don't necessarily want to hear them singing from the backseat, "Put your hands on me in my skin-tight jeans, I'm your teenage dream tonight." Someone might take that the wrong way.

Last night, I was cleaning up some more hairball cat puke (thanks, sister!!), and I was spraying this carpet cleaner. Ivy picked up the bottle and said, "Oh, good, Mommy, you're using Oxy Clean." I grabbed the bottle and it did indeed say "Oxy Clean" on it.

I said, "Why is this good, Ivy?"

She rolled her eyes and said, "Come on, Mommy, you know it cleans with the power of ox-ee-gen, and it's not clean unless it's Oxy-clean!" So, now she's memorizing commercials.

And to distract her in the car last week, I showed her kudzu. You know, that vine-y plant that covers trees and buildings that's all over the south? I told her the story of how it came from China, and now it takes over because it grows really fast. I showed her examples of trees and buildings covered with it. It did the trick and she stopped crying and fighting with her sister.

But I never dreamed that she'd scream, "KUDZU!!!!!!!!! Look, Mommy, it's KUDZU!!!!!!" as loud as she could every time we passed some. Which is a lot. I'm lucky I haven't wrecked yet.

Poor Mommy

It really stinks when I get sick.

Now, when any other member of the household gets sick, I add nurse onto the list of stuff I have to do for the day. I administer medicine, put cold cloths on their heads, cover them up or take off blankets per request, change clothes, fluff pillows, and clean up puke in addition to my daily chores.

And I think most moms go through this: when they get sick, nothing gets done, the house goes to ruin, and nobody takes care of them.

I go through that, too, with one addition: everyone in the house rises one or two levels up on the "High Maintenance" scale.

For instance, if I was feeling great, Story would ask to get on my computer to play two games of Max and Ruby Dress-Up. I would set her up, and she'd play her two games, then close the computer.

Since I'm sick, she asks to play on my computer, I get it loaded, and then she starts screaming when: A. The game doesn't do what she wants, B. She wants another game, C. She doesn't understand why she can't dress up every Nick Jr. character, and D. whenever Mommy lies back down.

Ivy, who has had nothing extra to do for weeks, suddenly has 20 places to be and things to do, all of which I will have to cart her to. And she cries constantly, whether I've told her "No" or if Story looked at her cross eyed.

And my husband suddenly has places to go, people to see, things to do. And then he's gone. Or he's got 20,000 things he needs to do......with my help.

One time when Story was a baby, I had the flu....fevers, inability to get off the couch, etc. Rob had to go on a band trip...Story wanted to up her nursing time by 50%, and Ivy had to pull out every single toy in her room, which would have been fine except that I had two house showings that weekend, too. I had the flu for a week!

So, I don;t get to rest. At all. I'm in an extremely messy house, trying to lay down with two or three very demanding people wanting my assistance.

What is it? Are they all wired so they can sense that I'm going to do something for myself (like lay down?) and must immediately work hard to focus my attention back on them? Are they jealous of....me? Of me wanting to take care of.....me?

I might never know, but as a result it takes me twice as long to get better as anyone in the house.

Guess What

Some days, Ivy gets a weird verbal tic where she has to say "Guess what?" thirty times before she's allowed to say anything else.....

Ivy in the car today after the doctor's office:

IVY: Mommy?
ME: What?
IVY: Guess what?
*I pause as I wait for her to tell me "what."
IVY: Mommy!!
ME: What?
IVY: I said guess what!
*Another dramatic pause as I waited.
IVY: MOMMY!!!!
ME: What?
IVY: Guessssss WHAT!
*Still waiting.
IVY: Mommy Tracee!!!!!
ME: What?????
IVY: I said "guess what" and you didn't say anything!!
ME: I was waiting on you to tell me 'what.'
IVY: But, Mommy, when I say "Guess what" you're supposed to guess what I'm going to say.
ME: How can I guess? I don't know what you're going to say.
IVY: (in a stage whisper) When I say "Guess what," you just say, "What?" Okay?
ME: Sure.
IVY: Mommy?
ME: Yes, Ivy.
IVY: Guess what!
ME: WHAT?
*Silence.
ME: Ivy, what????
IVY: Welllllll........Oh, I forgot.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Story Brown!

I have never carved a pumpkin.

Okay, that's a lie, apparently I carved one at a party when I was sixteen, but like many many other things that happened pre-college, I don;t really remember it.

But, I thought that it would be a really cool thing to do with my kids. And I thought for sure I could do it as long as I read about it on eHow first. Which I did.

And confident with that, I took the girls to buy pumpkins yesterday at Wal-mart. I decided to use the self-checkout since most of the lines were at least three people deep. I scanned each pumpkin, then waited patiently as the machine freaked out when I placed them in a bag. I inserted my cash, and waited for my change ($2.24!) to magically appear. The coins rolled down the chute, but the cash dispenser remained empty. I got down on it's level and saw my two dollar bills smushed deep inside the slot.

The lady running the self-checkouts called for "back-up." Which was a very young girl who stood with me and spoke into an earpiece begging someone to bring keys to the machine. We waited. Story and Ivy did impromptu modern dance in the aisle. We waited some more. A guy ran across the store shouting that he was getting the keys. Ivy and Story tried to pick each other up a dozen times, crashing into some woman's cart. (Yes, I am waiting for $2. I'm cheap, remember?)

The guy arrived with the keys. At that moment, the young girl decided to take $2 out of someone's till to give to me instead. After we'd waited. And my kids had accosted customers and merchandise.

So, we made it home with the pumpkins, and I decided to use them as incentive for the girls to clean up the playroom. After 6 hours of them begging to carve and me saying, "go clean up first!" I gave in, cleaned up the playroom myself, and then started the process.

We laid out both pumpkins on trash bags. I took a really big knife ans sawed the top of the first one. I was expecting a much bigger mess of stuff than what was in there. Both girls were waiting with anticipation. I tilted the pumpkin towards them, shoved a spoon in, and then pulled a spoonful of stringy stuff and seeds out. "Look guys, we get to scoop out all this stuff!"

"Cool!" Ivy said.

Story put her hands over her eyes and let out a blood curdling scream. "Noooooo, Mommy!!!!"

"Story? What's wrong?" I asked, peeling her hands off of her eyes.

"Mommy! I no wanna do da punkin. I skeered uh dat!" Which, loosely translated, means "I do not want to carve pumpkins, Mother. I am frightened of them."

Story was scared of pumpkins? The girl is a powerhouse when it comes to fear. She's either wildly brave or is intensely scared. Usually her phobias are loud things: fireworks....and fire. (She's got this new fear of the grill we have to get her out of, because we cannot stop grilling!!!) But pumpkins? It's almost like my insane condiment fears. 

Ivy was happily scooping out her pumpkin. She pulled the long membranes out and laughed at the squishes they made. I cut the top of Story's pumpkin off and then tried to engage her into using her brand new scooping spoon. "NOOOOO!!!" she screamed, fleeing the kitchen and slamming her bedroom door shut.

So, Ivy and I scooped and laughed. When we finally got all the gunk out, we drew faces and got out our little carving saws (please forget that I said saws...yes, the package said ages 12 and up, but my girls are smart!) I yelled for Story to come and carve the face out.

She tiptoed in, crept quietly over to where we were sitting. Ivy was attacking her pumpkin face with gusto. Story nervously took the saw, and I guided her hand to where I had drawn an eye. She sawed once, twice, and back again, then let go of the saw and ran crying from the room.

Ivy and I exchanged looks. "Boy, what a chicken," Ivy said. "Hey, that's okay," I said, "leaves more for us to do!"

We finished the pumpkins, and sat them up on the counter. Story came in just as we were done. She walked over to the two orange things and looked at them skeptically. She covered her face with her hands, and then opened them and screamed. "Mommy they scare me!" she said, laughing. Then she turned and saw me dumping the pumpkin innards into a bag. "AHHHHHHH!!!!" she screamed, fleeing the room once more.

Although I got her to pose for pictures with the finished product, Story has assured me that she is very scared of the inside of pumpkins. She is also never going to carve one, and was practically in hysterics until I promised her that Ivy and I would do all the carving from here on out.

And although I would like to pretend this is a silly little fear, as a condiment-phobic, I'm just thinking the apple has not fallen far from the tree. The girl is in for it.

Conversations with Story

Story blows a raspberry in my face. I pretend to cry.
STORY: Mommy why you crwying?
ME: You hurt my feelings.
STORY: Mommy, it only a widdle spit.
ME: I know. Spitting can hurt my feelings.
STORY: No, spit doan hurt feewings.
ME: Yes it does.
STORY: No it doan. Spit to me.
ME: No, I don't want to hurt you're feelings.
STORY: Mommy! You can't not hurt my feewings! Spit to me! See, I spit to me.
**brief struggle as she tries to "spit to" herself.
STORY: See? My feewings no hurt.

ME: Story! Get down here for your bath!!! One....Two...
STORY: Mommy I coming I coming!
**I wait in bathroom, no Story
ME: Story! Come on, you have to take a bath!!! One....Two...

STORY: Mommy I coming I coming!
**she doesn't show up. I look, she's sitting on the top step in the playroom watching TV.
ME: Story! Get down here!!! One...Two.....
STORY: Mommy! Shew! I tole you I was coming!
**she walks down the stairs.
STORY: Mommy, why you so angwy to me?
ME: Because I had to tell you three times to get down here for your bath!
**She rolls her eyes (that's right, I have a three year old eye-roller!)
STORY: I not dirty.
ME: Yes, yes, you are!
STORY: No I not! See?
**she drops her pants, turns around, and bends over to show me her butt.
STORY: See? I no have poop on my butt.

**Story is sobbing uncontrollably. I pick her up.
ME: Baby, why are you so sad?
STORY: Ivy woan pway with me!!!!
ME: What do you want her to play?
STORY: I just wan her to be a mouse.
ME: A mouse? Why?
STORY: So I can sit on her.
ME: You're going to sit on her?
STORY: Yes. I'm an ewephant. See?
**She takes her arm and flaps it up and down saying, "wha-hoo! wha-hoo!"
ME: Well, maybe Ivy doesn't want to be a squished mouse?
STORY: But why? Why, Mommy?
ME: Maybe she wants to be an elephant too.
**She seems to ponder this for a moment.
STORY: Mommy, will you be my mouse?

**in the car....
STORY: Mommy, I want the whoa whoa song.
ME: The whoa whoa song? What's that?
STORY: I want the whoa whoa song!!!!!!!!!!!
ME: What whoa whoa song???
IVY: (translating) You know, Mommy, the song that goes, "Whoa, whoa, I wanna know!"
ME: OH! Well, it's not on the radio.
STORY: I want the song!!!!!!!!!!! WAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ME: I can't just make a song play on the radio, Story.
STORY: Why? I want whoa whoa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ME: Because I can only play what the radio has.
STORY: Why? Mommy why? MOMMY WHY???????
ME: Because I'm not the boss.
STORY: Mommy, you are.
ME: No, I'm not.
STORY: You are. You say, "Sit down. Be qwiet. I'm the bossa you!"

Tracee the spider slayer

If you've not gotten the clue that I'm a little wacky yet, this one is sure to convince you.

I have this thing with spiders.

See, I hate them. Most of them are evil, I am sure of it. When I was young, I was petrified of them, even the little bitty ones.

As I've gotten older (oh, and moved "out in the country") I've become more tolerable of the small ones. Okay, not tolerable, just not as scared. And this is because.....

Where I live is like the big hairy spider capital of the planet. No, really.

And suddenly I've developed this superpower where I have visions that I am going to see a big spider right before I encounter one. It's not everytime I encounter one, but it's hard to negate the following examples:

• A few weeks after we moved to this area, I approached the kitchen sink with caution. I just thought, "Oh, wouldn't it be horrible if there was a big spider in there?" Lo and behold, I raised up a pan in the bottom of the sink and a big, nasty wolf spider jumped right out at me. This happened numerous times at this house in the bathroom, kitchen, living room, and garage. I'd know there was a spider there, and then it would jump out at me.
• We were staying at a friend's house for the summer to take grad classes. I woke up from a particularly nasty dream that I was taking a shower in the bathroom of this house, but I saw a really big spider standing on the drain. When I opened the shower door for real, there it was. On the drain. Waiting to eat me.
• I grabbed the dog's bowl and then had a feeling that there was a spider under it...and there was. It was the biggest spider I have ever seen in my life. I couldn't even kill it with a shoe....I had to dump bleach on it. And then I threw the dog bowl away.

Somehow this gift has also enabled me to attract spiders. I do not like this. But they seem to flock to me...let ten spiders go in my kitchen and they all run straight toward me. Which is odd because all I'm going to do is kill them. It's like how the vampires kept coming after Buffy. One time there was a black widow in my screened in porch in December. How it got in my porch has yet to be seen.....it must have just felt this great attraction to me.

I recently had my worst spider encounter yet, and I didn't even know it. I was driving my new (to me) truck and was in the drive-up window of the bank. Suddenly I felt this searing pain on my ankle. I looked down and it looked as though there was a piece of mulch on my sock. I flicked it off, and the movement it made reminded me of a bee. A yellow jacket. I was stung by a yellow jacket. And trapped in between teller machines. I stomped and stomped on the floor mat to kill it before it stung Ivy.

I pulled out, parked in the lot and looked for the offensive butthead. All I found was a wet spot on the bottom of my shoe. Hoping that the spot was the yellow jacket, I hopeed back in and began to drive.

The pain was unbearable.

It radiated out of my bones...my whole leg was on fire. And sore. How did people get stung multiple times? I wondered. I almost didn't make it home- I called everyone I knew from the road and compared stories about stings. I cried. I moaned. The girls thought I was funny.

I put ice on it at home and spent the evening in the recliner.

The next day, my ankle was swollen. I figured it would- stings make me swell, even mosquitos. I went to work (in pain) and put it up again when I came home. Well, I elevated it after cleaning up the mess left by my kids after an evening of Mommy not running around behind them cleaning.

I woke up the next morning, and it was HUGE. And itchy. And even more painful. And I was sick, like achy and nauseous. What kind of mutant bee was this? I barely got through the school day. The ankle just kept swelling. Luckily, I had great classes who let me sit at my desk with it propped up on a stool all day.

That night was the worst. I couldn't even move the ankle..all I could do was lay there and hurt. And itch.

The next morning, I woke up on the recliner and the swelling was down. Refreshed at the thought that it was finally healing, I put on some socks and limped around the house cleaning bathrooms and sweeping floors. About 2 p.m. that day, I took my sock off and almost threw up- my ankle had this weird red stuff on it, climbing up my leg and down my foot.

I took pictures of it and texted them to various members of my family. I spent 20 minutes on hold waiting to talk to a nurse, who frantically told me to come in. They saw me right away, and took two seconds to say, "spider bite."

Everyone kept asking me if I was sure it was a yellow jacket. I had been.....but it was dark on the floorboard. Could it have really been a spider? When the doctor came in, she told me exactly how serious it was. She also said that if I'd waited till after the weekend to come in, I might have lost my foot. My foot?? From a spider???

Even though I had to take like 20 pills a day after the visit, I was really glad I'd come in. I mean, I need my foot. Sometimes I like to drive. Or clean the house. Or walk. Or tap my toe to music.

And in retrospect, I am starting to wonder if I've lost the only superpower I've ever had. I mean, shouldn't I have known right before the most important spider encounter I've ever had? It wasn't even a good superpower....but it was the only one I had. I felt a little bit like Harry Potter. Sigh.

Back to the world of mortals.

The Quest to save 15 cents

I usually do all of my grocery shopping at Wal-mart. You know, low prices, lots of variety. There are a couple of things I do not trust to the superstore giant, though, and one of them is meat.

I always drive to Food City to buy meat. I only spend about $20 every two weeks there.

At the beginning of the summer, the local Food City started running a promotion- get 150 points on your value card and you can receive 15 cents per gallon off your gas at their gas station. I'm a girl looking for a deal always, but $40 a month was not getting me anywhere close to the needed point values.

Then, my sister-in-law came to visit. I had this elaborate salmon dinner planned, and of course, I bought the fish at Food City. When I totaled up my purchases in my head, I was pretty sure that this trip would be the one where I would fulfill the number of points needed for the gas discount. Which was awesome because my car was sitting in the lot on empty.

The cashier rang up my groceries and gave me my total: $48. I was excited to check my receipt for the confirmation of my new gas discount! Alas, when I looked at it, I realized that I only had 147 points...three short.

How could I get three points? (At the time I wasn't thinking that by spending three more dollars, I'd only end up saving $1.50 in gas. No, the thrill of saving money at all was enough to put me over the edge.

I grabbed one of the cashiers at the self pay checkout and hounded her into telling me what I could spend money on to ensure that I would receive my three points and my gas discount. She said I could spend three dollars on anything but alcohol and cigarettes and gain the needed points. Suddenly, the entire store opened up to me. What could I buy?

Mu buggy left with the cashier, I went and picked up a 12 pack of Dr. Pepper. Then, I went and cruised the dollar section. I remembered that I needed chalk. While looking for the chalk, I talked myself into buying a nice pen or two to use at work (I'm always using those pens I take from hotels; they're not very nice). I selected a box of chalk (99 cents) and a pack of two pens ($1.99). I put the pop back, glorious with my three dollar purchase.

It never occurred to me that A. there would be no tax and B. tax wouldn't count. I checked out at the self checkout lane. My total? $2.98. Only two points, not three. The cashier laughed at me as I sprinted over to the candy and selected a box of tic tacs. (I don't think I have ever bought tic tacs.) My new total was $3.60. I put my ten dollar bill in the slot and skipped over to my buggy with my new pens and chalk, and my receipt showing that I was the proud owner of 150 points, eligible for 15 cents off of gas.

Halfway to the car, I realized that I never got my change from the checkout. I did a big U-turn in front of a Cadillac whose owners looked at me like I was insane, and ran back in the store. I parked my buggy by the same woman who clearly at this point thought I was nuts. I raced to the receptacle and collected my $5 in change. I ran back to the buggy.

I felt good when it only cost $27 to fill up my car. That is, of course, until I realized that I'd really only saved $1.50.

My descent from green cleaning into the depths of chemical use

A couple of years ago when Story was just a baby (and cried all night) I spent way too much time on the Internet. I ended up web surfing to a page that talked about the evils of soap. Yes, soap. The stuff that is supposed to make you clean? Well, I read it was full of this sodium laureth sulfate that was supposedly descended from the ninth level of Hades or something. So, I researched my choices and decided that my family was no longer going to use this poisonous stuff called soap.

Before this turns in to a blog about soap, in my anti-soap research I ran across a website that told me how to make my own cheap and healthy laundry detergent. I started doing it, and was amazed at the affordability and "safeness" of the stuff. The detergent making was only a step away from what would become my new obsession: green cleaning.

As I read more and more about how all these products that we buy every day could turn us into mutants or give us diseases, I started freaking out. I packed up all the Comet, Resolve, Windex, etc. into a box. I researched what I could clean with and found three items: vinegar, club soda, and baking soda. Not only were they better for all of us, they were cheap! There were thousands of uses for them. Yes, the vinegar was really stinky. It didn't smell clean at all. The club soda didn't shine like Windex. Baking soda left no smell, but I got some really strong arm muscles trying to scrub anything with it.

But I convinced myself with a little more muscle, everything was cleaning as good as the stuff I packed up. Sometimes I told myself that it cleaned even better. Sadly, I think I was deceiving myself. Everything in the house lost its sparkle. And cleaning started to take twice as long as I applied a lot of elbow grease.

So, when we moved into our new house two years ago, I was relieved to be starting with really clean stuff from scratch. Unfortunately, with the size of the new house, it became increasingly difficult to clean anything! Plus, the stuff wasn't staying shiny.

Last year, I bought my first bottle of pledge. I'd been scrubbing the furniture with vinegar and olive oil....which was really icky and not at all cost efficient. It was like the heavens shone through the windows on my coffee table. Everywhere I looked with a cleanable surface I heard the sound of singing. My husband said, "Thank God you bought the Pledge!" Apparently the smell of vinegar was affecting him, too.

Recently, I received some coupons for a variety of Lysol products. Exhausted from all these years of green cleaning and (ha ha) elbow grease, at Walmart I reached for toilet cleaner and bathroom spray.

I came home, and began to clean the girl's bathroom. I was floored. I had never seen the toilet so white! The rust stains were coming off (I know, right? Rust stains on a two year old toilet? A combination of bad water and baking soda cleaning no doubt). All of the bathroom gunk came off with no effort! And the smell was amazing!!

I cleaned all three bathrooms in less time than it took me to clean one with vinegar and baking soda. I actually only had to clean my shower once! With the other stuff, I was scrubbing it three times at least.

Moved by the cleanliness of my bathrooms and the possibility of more free hours on a Saturday suddenly moved me to denounce my green cleaning ways. No more would I be the slave to club soda on the mirrors. No more would I wallow in self pity while trying to scrub a toilet with something that belongs in homemade cookies. I was going to have clean, and have it quickly.

So, I moved the green cleaning materials to.....the baking cabinet. I gave the bottles of Lysol the new place of honor under the sink.

I still make laundry detergent, because it's cheap and easy. I take my reusable bags to the store. But, I'll never be given a super-eco award now. Green cleaning is not for me....because I like things that are actually clean.

My life is (on) a highway....

I was traveling home from my mom's house yesterday on a four lane highway.  We'd been making pretty decent time when I noticed in the rear view mirror (which is placed on my kids, not the road, ha-ha!) that Story started squirming and crying in her seat.

"Story! STORY!" (I had to scream loud over the Polly Pocket DVD) "What's wrong??"

"Mo-mom-mo-momma-mom-mommy!" (because she's in that stage where it takes her forever to get a word out) "My butt huwts!"

"Why?" I asked. I was met with only more wiggling and whining. So, I started looking around. I noticed a BP up ahead on the left, so I pulled into the lane, signaled, and drove in. Just because they spilled a bunch of oil in the gulf doesn't mean I can't use their bathrooms.

I got both kids and my wallet out. We walked into the almost empty gas station (which is good because lately Story has developed this thing where she likes to almost jump in front of cars and scare me to death). We walked past the guy at the counter and into the bathrooms. I put Story on first after I coated the seat with paper. She peed. I said, "Your turn, Ivy."

"I don't hafta pee." Which she would say even if she had pee running down her leg.

"I don't care." I grabbed her, yanked the pants down, and placed her on the toilet. She peed.

I sat down about the same time Story got really interested in the trash can. She started to touch the lid and I yelled, "Don't!" She diverted and touched a piece of chewed up gum stuck to the trash bag. I yelled, "Nooooo!!!!!!"

Now, some days you can yell until you're blue in the face at Story and she laughs at you. Other days you can look at her kind of sternly, whisper "no" and she collapses into tears and screams. You can guess what kind of day this was.

She looked at me with big eyes. The tears welled and spilled out over her eyelashes. She put her hands up to cover her face in shame and wailed. And I mean WAILED. I tried to comfort her as I washed her hands. She screamed louder. I thought about the guy at the counter calling social services. He probably thought I brought the kids in here to beat them.

Then I did the only thing I could think of to bring a halt to the tears. "Wanna treat?"

"Yes!!!" they both shouted with glee. I took them out into the store and looked around. I decided to get a cup of coffee. They decided to get blue slushies. We went to the counter and paid for them.

We walked outside and Story immediately jumped off the curb and out into where there would be cars if there were any cars there. I yelled, but fortunately she was so excited about the slushie that she ignored my mean voice and jumped back up on the curb.

I laid my wallet on the hood of the car as I buckled the kids in their seats. As I did it, I thought, "Shew, I'd better not forget this. It would be horrible for my wallet to be spilled all over the highway." When I have thoughts like that, I should really learn to listen to myself.

I hopped in my seat after trying to set Polly Pocket back to where she was when we turned the car off. We backed out of the spot, and I went forward. I had to wait about three minutes before I could pull out, during which I should have paid more attention to the hood of my car.

When I pulled out and got up to speed, something flew at my windshield. It hit with a thunk! and I ducked and looked into the rear view mirror (which is how I have to use it to actually see the road) just in time to see my wallet crash to the ground in an explosion of little white, plastic cards.

"*&@^$#!!" I said as I pulled into the median.

"*&@^$#? What's *&@^$#?" Ivy asked.

"Nothing you should EVER EVER EVER say again!!!" I screamed as I slammed the car door and ran back to where my wallet was sitting forlornly in the middle of two lanes.

I got the wallet before it was run over by a motorcycle. I waited out two cars and picked up my license. I started collecting bits and pieces of things that had flown out of my wallet as it crashed to the asphalt, leaving the receipts and *sob!* my ticket stubs from Eclipse.

I ran back to the car with what I could find amongst the trash that people throw out of their cars and did inventory. I had my license, my medical card, a couple doctor's appointment cards, and my cash (which had stayed in the zippered pocket- thank God I didn't put it where my cash actually should go!)

"Mommy, what is*&@^$#?" Ivy insisted.

"*&@^$#!! *&@^$#!!" Story yelled. Great.

I tried to explain what cussing was to Ivy, how it was even worse than saying "stupid." She kind of didn't get it, so I fully expect a call from her teacher or another parent tomorrow asking me just what I've been teaching my child. In the meantime, I'm sure Story will be teaching all the three year olds in her room that word tomorrow.

Wednesdays with Blake-ie (like Tuesdays with Morrie!)

Blake is my oboe student. He takes lessons with me one day a week.

Of course, when you have two oboe players in the same room in charge of completing a task, nothing will get done. We have the inability to focus on anything seriously for any amount of time. We laugh, we giggle, we talk about how awesome the oboe is.

So, in a thirty minute lesson, it's safe to say only about 12.7 minutes is actually productively spent.

On this particular Wednesday when Blake came for his lesson, we had a mission. I was convinced that I was in possession of the book Blake needed to find his All-State audition pieces.

*** Side note: I know for a fact that I did at one time have the book. I had to have it for my private lessons. I promise.

Anyways, since I've moved four times since college, all of my materials have been kind of hard to locate. I'd checked out every closet before he arrived, looked in bags, under beds, and came up with the only logical explanation- this book was in the attic. Definitely.

So, when Blake came in, I told him not to worry about putting his oboe together yet, we were going on a music hunting expedition to the bowels of my attic. We trudged up the stairs, and the kids followed us. At the door to the attic, I explained to them that they were not allowed to come with us. So, what did they do? (if you can't guess, refer to any of my earlier posts). They stayed at the door, trying to edge their way in as we moved along the corridor of broken toys and Christmas decorations.

"We're looking for a box that says 'Master Bedroom'," I said.

"Are you sure, Mrs. Scheeler?" Blake asked.

I laughed. "No."

We finally found a box that said "Master Bedroom Closet." I was certain that we'd hit the jackpot. I distinctly remembered keeping my music in the closet one house ago. I cracked open the box and voila! There was my music. I handed part after part, folder after folder to Blake, who looked through them and found....nothing. There was one yellow book that resembled the one I was looking for, but everything else was not even close.

I scoured the box again while Blake paged through what I'd given him. "Hey! You told me you didn't have this!" he yelled, holding up a solo I'd encouraged him to buy because didn't own it. Apparently I did.

I backed up from the box and looked around at the others that were sitting there unmarked. "Maybe it's with the books?" I said. I opened a couple of boxes of books that were covered in little mouse poos. "Maybe not," I decided.

I backed away from the boxes that were sure to contain various surprises and straight on to a sticky trap. "Crap!" I said, trying to shake the trap off of my foot. I sat my foot down to pry the trap off if it, and noticed that there was a dead mouse stuck to it. Blake laughed. I tried not to vomit.

With my free foot, I tried to check out some other boxes where this book could be resting, waiting for us to snatch it up. I found a box of Ivy's old shoes, and they were exactly the right size to fit Story!!! Blake was balancing all of the music in one had when I started thrusting pink and white tennis shoes and boots at him.

I finally gave up and followed him outof the attic. I let him drop the shoes and some of the music in the office and we went back downstairs, presumably to play.

He played for about three minutes, but then we got in a "discussion" about something he'd said to me on facebook chat once (which he DID), but as oboe players, neither one of us will ever admit error.

I looked at the clock and 48 minutes had gone by since we started the lesson. So, I said, "Time to go!

And then we agreed that next time we would actually get stuff done.

Watch this, Mommy!!

You know it's going to be a great Saturday when it starts out with one of the kids yelling, "Mommy, watch this!!"

I don't know why they keep telling me to watch things. I mean, I watch twelve or twenty things, and then I stop. I mumble, "Oh, good job," or something like it a beat or two after they tell me to watch them. Not sure why they haven't caught on yet.

And most of the time, it's weird stuff they ask me to watch. Like dangerous stuff. Jumping off the couch. Jumping off the couch onto the coffee table. Jumping over their sister from the couch to the coffee table. You know, things they should do when I'm not looking. (And for those of you thinking, why doesn't she make them stop when they do that? then you obviously need to go back and reread my blog posts. I can't control these crazy forces of nature I live with. I can only keep them from killing themselves or each other. Barely.)

Sometimes it's totally odd what they want me to watch. Story holds her hands out and turns around. Ivy makes a silly face using fingers up her nose. Story blinks her eyes twice. Ivy puts five chips in her mouth at once. Story takes a drink of juice. Ivy hangs upside down from the back of the couch. I mean, why these things?

Why don't they say, "Watch this!" and then put their toys away? I'd really enjoy watching that. Or, "Hey, Mommy, watch this!" which is followed by them cleaning the toilet. "Mommy, watch us!" and they perform a scene from Twilight. Those are things I'd love to watch.

I could probably explain to them what I actually want to see them do, but I think, like everything else, they might listen and then do what they want. Oh, well. There's no use complaining, I have a lot to do....like watch them pretend to fly off the kitchen counters.

The Story of Tracee and the Really Bad Week

It's been a bad week (you probably didn't get that from the title, did ya?).

On Sunday morning, there were lice crawling in my kids' hair. (You can read my previous post about that drama). I also woke up with a slightly sore throat.

On Monday, I had to take the day off of work for scalding clothes (if only the big bathtub had a "boil" setting!!!) and combing hair.

On Tuesday, I woke up with a downright nasty cold/allergy thingy. I took a Tinkerbell blanket to work with me and taught kids from ages 6-14 wrapped up in a pink and purple cocoon. I ate a lot of cough drops. I swallowed a lot of chloraseptic. I felt like crud. My neighbor and bestie got really sick. I worried about her non-stop.

On Wednesday, I woke up feeling a little bit better, but the house around me was a mess. It had never been cleaned up from the Lice emergency, and a night of laying on the couch didn't improve it one bit. I spent the whole evening doing more laundry and cleaning. Story cried pitifully when I dropped her off for daycare. And for some reason, I couldn't sleep.

Yesterday, I was incredibly cranky when I woke up. Story cried again when I dropped her off. I kept falling asleep all day. I took a short nap when I got home and.....then I couldn't. I was up until 12:30.

EARLY this morning, Ivy came in our room. Story started crying at 3:30 AM.....and then she stayed up, bugging me about every ten minutes until 5 AM when I gave up and got up. Then, I found out that my husband wasn't getting his last paycheck from his old job. I know he should have another one.....and that's a large chunk to depend on and not have.

So, I'm hoping not to have another week like this one until at least the third week in December 2012. You know, the week in which the Mayan calendar suggests the world will end or at least flip on its axis.

Throwing out a hairbrush

If you're my friend on Facebook, you've probably read my umpteen million freak-out posts about how my children have recently acquired head lice after one week of public school.

On Sunday morning, as I was nursing a slightly sore throat and waiting for a friend to show up to attend Mass with us, I brushed Ivy's hair, looking closely at her scalp (something I just do out of habit anymore). And I saw what I had always been dreading- white eggy things attached to her hair.

I ran to the phone and immediately dialed my mom, who is part counselor and part dramatic inciter in these occasions. She confirmed what I was seeing must be true- my darling had lice.

Normally, I would get on top of things, make lists, take action. For some reason, I was so unnerved, I just sat on the porch and drank three cups of coffee. Three. As if the infestation wasn't leaping off of Ivy's head onto every piece of fabric in the house as I sipped. After about thirty minutes, I decided maybe I was wrong. I called Ivy over to the kitchen and took the flashlight. The eggs were still there and then something crawled and I threw the flashlight and screamed. Okay, no denying it now, I told myself. Time to move.

I packed my squirrely kids in the car with a vague thought about how the car was probably infested, too. We struggled through the door at Rite Aid, and I unceremoniously dumped both girls into a shopping cart and avoided anything close to their heads. I also threatened their very existence if they so much as touched anything with their pinkie finger. I pushed the buggy mercilessly forward in order to stop any silly questions about which fingers they could use to touch things.

When I got home, I dumped the goods on the kitchen table, known as Lice Ground Zero from that point on. I went crazy, ripping all the sheets off the beds. Anything fabric and washable was immediately thrown in a big heap in the dining room. I rubbed the kids furiously with the shampoo, rinsed, and spent 2 hours combing them out. I sprayed down the entire guest room to make a Lice-Free Zone (that I promptly locked the offspring out of) for the clean laundry. My washer and dryer went non-stop on the hottest settings for 24 hours.

Exhausted, I reached in my bathroom drawer for my hairbrush. I brought it closer to my hair, looking in the mirror, and stopped. Time was frozen. I was sure thousands of lice were bungee jumping from my brush to my hair. Finally, I threw the panic aside and launched the brush at the floor.

In my family, we have four combs and three brushes (Daddy gets by with just a comb). However, these brushes are not assigned to any one person. They're passed freely from family member to family member.....kind of like the hippie ideals of free love, just with hair care. In a panic, positive that lice were breeding and spilling out of both bathrooms, I snatched up all of the skanky, dirty brushes and threw them in the kitchen sink. I ran hot water over them, filled up a pan of water, boiled it, added bleach, and dunked them in. I kept them in there for several hours.

I emptied the pot and set them out to dry. Then, I needed a hairbrush. I picked one up, turned it over, and promptly put it back down. What if the bleach hadn't killed them? Would I infect my clean head?

I bagged all the brushes in a Ziploc. I finger combed my hair. I grabbed the keys and the kids and took off for the dollar store. I bought three brushes and three combs. (I can't help it, I like sharing a comb with my husband...Rob loads the comb down with hairspray, and when I use it on my wet hair, it somehow evenly distributes the leftover product into my hair.)

When we got back to the house, I opened all the new brushes and combs. I made sure they were all different so we'd never share again. Then, I looked at the sad and lonely plastic bag of our old brushes. I gently laid it on the table now known as Lice Ground Zero, not able to part with them just yet.

You never know just how attached to your hairbrush you will become. It sticks around longer than a toothbrush. Sometimes longer than a friend. A good hairbrush will grant you endless good hair days, and the karma that flows between you is like magic....okay, that's a little strong, but seriously? It broke my heart to throw them away. The girls had two brushes, one perfect for ponytails, the other great for pigtails. One of them had a mirror on the back that the girls liked to look in when I was done fixing their hair. I had a comb that I've had for a very long time- at least college. I stole it from my mom's bathroom when I was home for the weekend.

And normally, I am the opposite of pack rat. I throw everything out! I don't even print out my pictures anymore because they add to the junk in the house.....but my hairbrush? It's too personal, too much a friend at this point.

But today I took down "Lice Ground Zero," since I think the immediate threat is gone and I no longer need immediate access to lice shampoo and nit combs. I took the 30 gallon trash bags to the garage (guess I didn't need 40 of them after all). I put the Ziploc in the drawer (funny how I only used five out of the economy pack). The last thing to leave he table was my Ziploc of hairbrushes. I cried a little inside as I dropped it in the trash can.   

Lice is the cause of many casualties in this house. Rest in Peace, hairbrush.                        

One Shoe

I hate finding one shoe.

In my house, many things can happen when you find just one shoe. If you find it in the living room floor, it's possible that the mate is on the other side of the coffee table. Maybe under the couch, or behind the wicker basket in the corner. Or, up in the playroom. Behind Ivy's bed. The possibilities are endless.

Of course, it's also possible that the mate might never be seen again.

The girls love to empty their closets one pair at a time, wearing them around the house for about 4.3 seconds before discarding them and going for another pair. They, of course, rarely take off both shoes in the same place. You can imagine that after 10 hours of being in the house, 32 pairs of Mommy, Ivy, and Story shoes are scattered intermittently throughout the house. (They never attempt to steal Daddy's shoes......wonder why? HAHA!)

At the end of the day, I gather up the ones I can find, sort through whose is who's, pair them up, and place them lovingly back in the closets. Okay, "lovingly" might be a stretch.

But often, I'm left with that rogue shoe who's partner cannot be found. If I'm lucky, in a couple of days it'll pop up as the girls range around and find new places to drag crap out of.

Several times, I do not find the missing shoe for about 6 months. Of course, as I pick out clothes in the coming days and weeks after its disappearance, it's apparent to me that the pair of shoes is the only pair that matches anything that kid has to wear. And if it belongs to one of them, it usually doesn't fit by the time I have it in hand.

Sometimes, I don't find the shoe at all.....this one time, Ivy had the cutest pair of tan leather sandals. Ivy wore them once, and then suddenly one of them was missing. I held onto that sandal for two years....even until Story was too big to wear it. I just never gave up hope that it's mate would turn up one day.

They say once you lose hope, you've lost everything.

Practical Advice for My Daughter

So, Ivy is starting Kindergarten.....and as her mother, I'll be called upon often to give her advice on socializing. And I've decided to be truthful with it, rather than that PC garbage everyone tells you. I remember the social hierarchy of grade school, and I see it every day. I plan on giving her real and practical advice. And if there is one thing I am, it's realistic.

"Be Yourself!"

• Everyone tells you to be yourself. "People will like you if you just be yourself!" I say this is stupid, Ivy. People might not like you if you are yourself. I've encountered that several times, just as I've encountered people I've never liked because they are themselves. So, my advice to you is this: You can try to be yourself, but if you find that after a couple of weeks no one likes the real you, then alter it a little. You can always change back into yourself after you have your friends hooked.

"Be nice to everybody!"

• This one's all right up to a point. You can be nice to everybody, Ivy, but you can never trust everybody. Every best friend I ever had in grade school told a secret, blabbed to the boy I liked, sold me out to the popular-girl-torturers, etc. I say, yes, pretend to be nice to everyone, but don't trust everyone with your stuff. Especially the girls.

"Dress in your own style!"

• This is absolutely wrong, Ivy. You can do your own style in high school. I am definitely going to be honest on this- Ivy, you can't wear tutus. Or princess dresses. Or those T-shirts you love that are stained and holey. Trust Mommy.

"Just because everyone else is jumping off a bridge doesn't mean you should."

• Okay, Ivy, don't jump off a bridge. But sometimes I know you have to play the game. Everyone does. Don't go along when they're being mean to someone....but I understand the playing of the game. It's a lifetime skill.

"Be proud if you can answer all the questions."

• Sure, you can be that kid with their hand always up in the air, stretching as high as they can, waving at the teacher wildly. But, if you are always that kid, the other kids will smell it. It's okay to be smart, but not to be annoying with it. Don't lord it over the whole classroom.

"Just learn at your own pace."

• But don't be the opposite, either, Ivy. Try. As long as you're in the middle of the pack I'm good. :)

"It's great to be a leader!"

• But nobody, and I repeat nobody wants to play with the bossy kid. Life is all about compromise and give-and-take. Don't make everyone do what you say, do not refuse to play with others just because you didn't get your way...on the flip side, don't let everybody else tell you what to do all the time (except your teacher!). I know, it's a tightrope. But learning to walk it early will mean great things.

"Think outside the box!"

• No. Don't. Stay in line. Do not cut line, or skip line. Don't take "fronts" or "backs" unless it's okay with all parties. (Fronts are much better than backs, true friends will give you fronts!)

And, of course like every daughter in the history of mothers and daughters, she won't listen to me until she's thirty. but, at least no one can say I didn't try.

To work out or sit out, that is the question...

Every morning, I face a difficult decision....do I work out?

After I pour my cup of coffee and sip it quietly while reading my book for approximately five minutes....and then the most pivotal point of my morning arrives.

On one hand, if I work out, then I will have a much better day. I'll have more energy, a better attitude, and I'll be less likely to eat my young in a fit of rage.

On the other hand, my workout clothes are all the way in my closet....and working out takes almost an hour. This hour could be much better spent sitting on the couch with my coffee and reading. Or doing dishes. Or watching whatever's on USA.

When I decide not to exercise, I end up being a total slacker. (Anyone who knows me also knows how I abhor not doing anything). I sit on the couch, I watch TV, I am a total bump on a log. The children stay in their pajamas until we have to go somewhere, or it's time to put on new pajamas. We almost don't eat breakfast or lunch because I can't hardly get up the energy to make either one.

However, if I exercise, I zip through the house cleaning up things as I go. I make breakfast before the kids are awake, lunch is already planned, and every bed gets made, every kid is clothed, every tooth is brushed. If we have to go anywhere, we end up being early.

So, why wouldn't I suck it up and exercise everyday? I do most days....but sometimes I need a break. And didn't you hear me? My workout clothes are all the way in my closet!!!

The difference between #1 and #2

Ivy was my first, and Story was my second. Even though they are only 2 years apart, their early days were totally different.

IVY- in the hospital, I was not going to let Ivy have one single drop of formula, no matter how much those nurses pushed it.
STORY- in the hospital, on the first night when Story cried and the nursing wasn't cutting it, I called for formula.

IVY- she wore Pampers and Huggies in cute designs.
STORY- Since Ivy was still in diapers, Story wore generic...didn't really matter where they were from, but they were the cheapest diaper in the store.

IVY- I knew the exact second when she was going to grow up a size in clothes, and the next size was already washed and hanging in the closet.
STORY- I would be buttoning something, and it wouldn't close! I'd look at the tag and realize I was trying to stuff my 9 month old baby into a 0-3 month onesie. And then I'd still wait a week to get the old baby clothes in the next size out of the attic. I think we skipped 12 month-sized clothes entirely because I kept forgetting to bring them down.

IVY- I could recite how many months, weeks, and days (and sometimes hours!) she had been alive.
STORY- I continued to tell everyone she was six months old until she was 10 months old. I just couldn't remember. One day a woman said, "But I thought you said she was born in March?" I responded, "She was." "But it's January," she said. Oops.

IVY- By the time she could put her feet down and stand on her legs with help, we were holding her hands and letting her pretend to walk. She never crawled, just started walking at 9 months.
STORY- As a result of our previous success with Ivy, I threatened the lives of anyone who tried to help Story walk. She didn't walk until she was 15 months old.

IVY- Every second of Ivy's day was planned. We had playtime, nap time, I did visually stimulating things with toys.....TV watching happened not very often, if at all.
STORY- She was watching TV at 2 weeks, and her "visual stimulation" was watching Ivy play with blocks and me cook.

IVY- rarely sat in a bouncy seat.
STORY- lived in a bouncy seat.

IVY- The doctor was called if her temperature went up to 99.1. Or if she sneezed. Or if I thought she has a tummy ache or an ear infection.
STORY- got Tylenol. I already knew the dosages. :)

IVY- I sang ABC's, kid songs, and lullabies.
STORY- I sang songs by Maroon 5, the Beatles, and Dave Matthews Band.

IVY- when she'd fall, we'd cry with her and wrap her up in band-aids.
STORY- when she fell, we'd say, "Come on, girl, shake it off!"

It's not that we were excellent parents to Ivy and bad parents to Story....it's just the second time around, you know what to expect. Of course, I can see the differences in their personalities- Ivy cries if she stubs her toe and Story would jump off the kitchen counters if allowed......but it's possible that has nothing to do with me, right? :)

Miscommunication

I was in a hurry. It was a lot later than I care to say, and the children were smack dab in the middle of the bathing hour.

Story was sitting on the toilet, wrapped in her towel. Ivy was in the shower rinsing her hair. I was trying to dry Story off. When I reached into the shower to wash Ivy's hair, Story looked at the upper left corner of the bathroom and said, "Look! It's froggy." (Which actually came out" Wook, is fwoggy!) I braced myself and looked in the corner, scared that there might actually be a frog there. There wasn't. So I ignored her.

But, Story has this really bad habit of not letting you ignore her. She repeats herself over and over again until you repeat what she just said correctly. So, 3 seconds later, "Mommy! It's FROGGY."

I said, "Where's the froggy?"

Ivy said, "Mommy, does Story have a frog?" She tried to peek her head out of the shower curtain to see.

I pushed her head back in. "No, there's no frog."

"MOMMY IS FROGGY!" Story said again in her satanic voice.

"Are you saying Mommy IS a froggy, Story?" I asked.

"Ha! Ha! Mommy is a froggy!" Ivy sang.

"Noooooooo!!!" Story yelled. "Mommy, is froggy!!!!!" She gestured up to the same corner.

"What's she saying, Mommy?" Ivy asked.

Good question, Ivy, I thought. "Maybe she has an imaginary friend that's a frog?"

"Story do you have an imamaiginary friend that's a frog?" Ivy tried to ask. Story just looked at us.

"FROGGY."

Ivy and I were sold on the imaginary friend idea. I stopped the shower and wrapped her up in the towel. "Hi, froggy!" I called, waving to the corner.

"Hi, froggy!" I said. "That's so cute, Mommy."

Ivy and I asked Story all sorts of questions about her froggy. She looked at us like we were stupid, and just kept repeating, "No, it's froggy!"

I sat Ivy up to brush her teeth, and then picked Story up to look in the mirror as I brushed her teeth. She gestured emphatically to the mirror. "See? it's FROGGY."

I looked at the mirror...and it was steamy. It was foggy. "Story, the mirror is froggy?"

"Yes, is FROGGY."

"No, that's foggy. The mirror is foggy."

Story pondered this for a moment. "No, I say froggy."

The Tooth Fairy Tale, as told by Story

This is Story's version of the Tooth Fairy, as she told it to me last night.

I has toofs. (Opens mouth, shows me)
Dey wiggul wiggul wiggul. (shakes her hips back and forth)
Faw out!
Puddem unner da piwow. (raises imaginary pillow)
Go sweep. (closes eyes, lays head on hands)
Toof Faiwy fwies. (she flaps her arms like wings)
She take dem, weave monies!

I turned to Ivy and said, "Where did she learn this?"

Ivy said she and Story learned all about the tooth fairy from Yo Gabba Gabba. Ivy also says she'd like to just keep the teeth she has, thank you.

Legends of the Falls

Tonight, Ivy and Story both fell. Twice.

I was watching my neighbor's little boy while she ran a quick errand. I took him up to the house, got a stroller, and planned on following Ivy and Story on their bikes as they trolled the neighborhood. As I pushed the stroller down the hill, I heard screams.

Ivy was laying face down in the grass of my neighbor's house. I started to walk faster toward her when my neighbor moved slightly and I saw Story spreadeagled on the pavement. I had no idea what was happening.

Apparently, they simultaneously fell. Ten feet away from each other. I gathered up the crying ones, grabbed the stroller, and made my way back to the house. The girls sat in the driveway and my little buddy and I went in and got band-aids, peroxide, and neosporin. I came back out and administered all three on knees and hands. The girls were instantly better, and went back down the street to play. I put the boy back in the stroller and away we went.

Before we caught up to the girls, wild screaming commenced. Why? Because Story was spreadeagled on the street again in the same place. Squealing and sobbing. Luckily, my neighbor was back to collect her son, so I scooped Story up and tried to get her to stop screaming. She didn't agree with me, and continued.

It was definitely time to go in. I walked down the street with my neighbor, Kellie, to yell for Ivy to come in. We stopped at the corner to chat for a moment while the kids ran around and Story flitted between laughing and squalling. In that short amount of time....Ivy met the pavement.

She scraped up both of her hands, and in the twilight I thought that was the worst of it. She cried and yelled the entire way back to the house on her bike, but I followed and soothes as best I could. She went in the house while Story and I put away the bikes and stroller. Suddenly, a blood curdling scream came from inside the house. Story and I dropped everything and ran (okay, she kind of toddled). All I could think was, "Someone's in the house!!"

Ivy came out of the bathroom with tears all over her cheeks. "Mommy, look at my eye!!!!!!!" she wailed. It was scraped up, puffy, and red. And it hurt a lot worse now that she had seen it. Relieved that no one was getting kidnapped by a stranger in the house, I ushered both girls to the couch, and laid out the materials needed to doctor them up. I endured a lot of screaming and pleas to stop as I cleansed the wounds.

When my husband came in from golfing, I gave him the task of trying to give them both ibuprofen (just so you know- convincing them that broccoli is candy would be easier). I told Ivy how good she'd been, and how brave. Of course, she looked at me like I was totally wrong (a disturbing new trait she's picked up lately). I said, "Really, Ivy! You rode your bike all the way up here hurt and everything!"

She responded with the funniest thing I have ever heard leave those cute little lips: Mommy, I am not brave. Did I cry? YES!!

I burst out laughing, which you know helped the situation tremendously. No, actually it just exaggerated the dirty looks.

Then Ivy laid her head back on the couch and screamed, "This is the worstest boo-boo I've ever had!"

Rubber Bands

This morning I woke up at 6:10 AM naturally. I felt good. I did yoga. Then, I decided to put Law and Order SVU on the TV upstairs and tackle the playroom. I got that done and everyone was still sleeping, so I tackled the office (otherwise known as the bane of my existence).

At 10 AM I was shredding papers and the only thing that was left were two rubber bands and a trash bag on the floor. I absentmindedly decided to put the rubber bands up, but then Ivy came in the room. She wanted to understand the ins and outs of shredding papers, why I did it, how the thing worked, etc. I forgot about the rubber bands.

She came downstairs with them minutes later, and I promptly took them out of her hand.

"Ivy, you can't play with these."

"Why, Mommy, why?" she asked.

"Rubber bands are dangerous," I said.

"How?"

I put some heavy thought into my answer. "Because you can poke your eye out." Poking your eye out, getting a shot, going to the hospital all strike fear in the heart of Ivy.

She regarded me with big-eyed awe. "How? How can you poke your eyes out??"

I was sure it could be done, but I wasn't sure I wanted Ivy to try it. So, I got down on her level and looked her square in the eye. "Ivy," I whispered theatrically, "I can't tell you that."

"Why?" she whispered with the same dramatic flair.

"Because, then you might try it. On your sister." She thought for a moment, and then nodded.

"Okay."

New score? Mommy: 1, Ivy: 29874026.

Daddy's morning

This morning, I did my "really early grocery trip" where I try to get to Wal-mart before seven so I can shop in peace and actually think without having to respond to phrases such as "I want DOWN" and "Mommy, she pinched me!!!"

I woke Rob up about seven and told him I was leaving. The kids are never up before nine, so he usually doesn't even realize he's watching them. This morning was different.

Story woke up at 7:20. "Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy," she chanted. Rob heard her over the baby monitor. He got up, pulled her out of the crib. He went to the bathroom. When he came back, she was laying on the couch. "Want to go lay on Daddy's bed?" he asked.

"No."

"Want to go to Mommy's bed?"

"Yesh."

So, when she went to "Mommy's bed" she found out that Mommy wasn't there and started crying. After a minute, she was content to lie on my side. Rob went back to sleep. Five minutes later, she said, "Daddy I firsty."

He went and got her cup out of her bed, gave it to her, and laid down. "Daddy, I no want water, I want juice." He got up, filled the cup with juice and laid back down.

Somewhere in the middle of the next dream, Story said, "Daddy, I need a band-aid." He went back to sleep, and a couple of minutes later she was back in bed with a box of band-aids. "Daddy, o-pen!!" Rob groggily opened a band-aid and rolled over. Ten minutes went by before she said, "Okay, I done wif band-aid." Rob pulled it off of her. "Ow!" she squealed.

Then, Ivy came in. Rob got up again and searched for the TV remote. After finding it, he put on cartoons and went back to sleep.

I got home and the house was quiet. I thought everyone was asleep. I brought the groceries in and laid them down quietly on the floor. "Mommy!!!! Mommy!!!!" Ivy and Story screamed, and rushed me in the kitchen. They ooohed and ahhhed over the things I'd bought. Then, they started taking the groceries in to show Daddy, who was still trying to sleep.

I made them breakfast, and then Story started crying for bologna. Except I had no idea what she was asking for. She opened the fridge door and started to clin=mb the shelves when I got up and stopped her.

Then she screamed. A lot. Rob yelled from the bedroom, "Story! Stop yelling!!" I felt bad for him, so I went in the bedroom, turned Dora off the TV, and shut the door. Ivy was in bed, but I hadn't seen her. "Daddy....Daddy!" she yelled. "Why did Mommy turn off the TV??" At this point, Rob knew he'd lost the battle, and finally got up.

When he told me this story, I couldn't stop laughing. I've lived this morning many many times.