It's a Blue Ball

Oh, I thought I was so clever. My husband and I discussed only getting each other one gift for Christmas. He talks to friends on the way home from work every day so I got a him a Bluetooth headset. However, when I told him I had only gotten him one gift he gave me The Lip. You know, The Pouty Lip. I guess he didn't have the same "one gift" discussion I did. So I asked a girlfriend's husband what he thought I should get him. Without delay he replied "A high-definition DVD player." Easy enough.

I am not the kind of person to buy something without doing research. It was not as easy as I thought. High-defintion DVD players come in two types, HD and Blu-ray. HD DVDs won't play on Blu-ray players and vice-versa, although "old" DVDs will play on either. Evidently, the way it works is that movie studios only make one format or another (makes no sense to me, wouldn't they want to sell more movies?) It's like the old Beta vs VHS debate of the 80s. What most people don't know (and I didn't either) is that Betamax actually had better technology. But for some reason the movie studios went with VHS, and you know the rest of the story. The experts predict, however, that neither HD or Blu-ray will go by wayside, so what it boils down to is which movie studios you watch the most, as if we know or care. George Lucas has not decided. However, as the boy at the store told me, Disney has committed to Blu-ray. Sold.

Christmas morning came around and we were opening gifts. Mark was surprised and pleased, but not as surprised and pleased as I had hoped. However, he immediately hooked up the DVD player. We stood there and looked at it. It was lovely.

"Do we have any high-definiton discs?" Mark asked.

"I think the Transformers movie Santa got for Charlie is Blu-ray," I replied, picking up the box and reading. "Nope, HD." We stood there and looked at the DVD player. It was lovely.

"What shall we watch then?" Mark asked.

Charlie chimed in "A Christmas Story, we always watch that on Christmas."

"Right, I said, I'll go get it, at least we'll be able to watch something on the new DVD player."

I went downstairs and rummaged through the boxes of DVDs. We have most discs in the DVD folder upstairs, but not the Christmas ones. Wait, I take that back. We have The Year Without a Santa Clause up there (you know, the one with Miser Brothers) because the boys watched it endlessly this summer. Anyway, rummaging through the DVD boxes, I could not find it. But there, back in the corner, way way back in the corner, I saw two things. I pulled them out. There it was... in my hand I held A Christmas Story on VHS.

We have not had a VHS player upstairs in about 18 months when we got our LCD high-definition television. We still had the player, though, and I blew off the dust and scheppled the player and the movie upstairs. I plugged the player into the side of our TV (because it is so user friendly) and we enjoyed A Christmas Story in super-low-definition. Yes, that's right. The first movie we watched after Mark got his lovely high-definition DVD player was on VHS.

Saint Anne of West Elm

Have you ever known someone who makes you feel so completely incompetent, you start to doubt yourself? I think I am a pretty good mom. Not that I always feel good about it, it is, as they say, a thankless job. My kids think I suck. They yell at me, hit me and yell "I hate you Mommy." My husband admits openly that he could not do what I do, but he's tired when he gets home and would rather not hear a run-down of the inane errands that fill every moment of the day.

Of course I am not perfect. My car is a mess. My house is often a mess. I have created a new Olympic event called Laundry Procrastination and the breakfast dishes often are in the sink until 4pm. My boys only brush their teeth once a day and I don't change the sheets every week. My kids' clothes rarely match (which could go either way, since this is because they get themselves dressed), and worst of all, I yell at my kids. I have three boys so they fight. Wrestle, fist fight, bite, scratch, you name it. I feel terrible about it until I talk to another mom of all boys. This happens to the best of us, so I feel a little bit better about myself. Then I met the woman in my parish they refer to as Saint Anne of West Elm.

I first heard of Saint Anne from legend. I knew she had five boys, all evenly spaced and all look completely identical but for age. Whenever we see them in public her kids are so well-behaved that my husband one time surmised "I am sure there has to be some wood to ass in that house." She drives a full-size conversion van, and to top it all off, she watches two of someone else's kids during the day. I noticed she is associated with the Who's Who of our parish and school. She volunteers for everything, works out at the gym three times a week, and a friend of mine told us they live in a three-bedroom house on (you guessed it) West Elm Street.

My first one-on-one experience with Saint Anne was at a playground. She is very matter-of-fact in her attitude and manner of speech. Usually when I strike up a conversation at a playground almost always comes around to "Oh my gosh, three boys so close together, how do you stay sane?" My internal answer is "I don't." She had three of her boys and her newborn daughter with her, and the one thing I noticed is she never once referred to one of her children by the wrong name, not once. Each and every time I address one of my sons I go through the entire repertoire of names, including the dog, until I hit the right one.

We both have boys in kindergarten, and, as you would assume, she is the room mother, and I volunteered to help with the Christmas party. She really ran around doing everything, and had everything done before I even figured out what we were supposed to be doing. She also had brought her two youngest where I had gotten a sitter because I knew I would never be able to concentrate. The children had cookies and juice, she read them a story and they did a craft. I felt completely useless so when I got home I did the dishes and scrubbed the sink as if someone were going to lick it. Then I sat down and wrapped presents with my kids and we built railroad tunnels out of Mega Blocks.

I couldn't do what she does. But someone with one girl thinks she couldn't do what I do. Even though I truly enjoy my children, sometimes I complain and talk about how much I'd like to go back to work, when my friend Lisa would like nothing more than to stay home with her kids. And maybe, just maybe, Saint Anne of West Elm has better brain chemistry that I do. Wouldn't take much.

I used to say "God gives you what you can handle, and that doesn't say much about me." But it does say a lot. Maybe Anne can appear to handle more than I do, but, as they say, we all have our own cross to bear. We can't see the crosses of others. And if we could, we would see them through the window of our own.

A Factoid

Max is almost three years old, and he has only vomited once.

I'll Bet You Didn't Know...

... Raisins, when placed on the center plate of a gas burner, and that burner is lit, emit a not-unpleasant odor and then plump up to a tiny, crispier version of their former incarnation as grapes.

Legos and All

Well, I think we may have found a house. And no, we have not sold our house yet. Every time someone says "I can' t believe your house hasn't sold, it's so beautiful" I politely kid "Then buy it." What I really want to say is that we bought in a hot housing market (and, I might add, we were in an even hotter bubble) and we are trying to sell in the coldest market in modern housing history. And... we bought on the most expensive street in the neighborhood. And... we have no central air. Well, anyway, I can't continue to lament the fact that we thought we'd be here forever.

So the house we found is bigger, on a quiet street, next to a family with two young boys and in the school district we want. I thought to myself that it was nice, but I am way beyond getting emotionally tied to these transactions. It was really on a lark we even saw the house to begin with. On Sunday Mark was on his spreadsheet for about an hour and called me into the office to show me it was financially feasible. He blah blahed on about this fund and that interest rate and I was just staring out the window thinking "This house is my home, we've renovated every inch of it with our own hands. We had a plan. Then these little people came along, and the whole game changed. And I have to pack all this crap." I started crying. Mark knows me, and wisely said we'd give it a few days before we decide.

When we put the house on the market in March, the kids freaked out. It took them a while to understand that when we leave we will be taking all of our stuff with us.

"What about our toys?" Atticus asked. "They are coming with us."

"What about the playset?" Charlie queried. "It will come with us."

"Ball," said Max. "It...will come with us."

Even when we were looking actively last summer we wanted to get feedback from the boys. We'd ask, "Which house did you like better?"

"The white one."

"Why?"

"Because they had cookies."

It just goes to show how pragmatic kids can be. I personally should take a lesson from that. All I have to remember is that we are taking ALL our stuff with us, and where we are going there will be cookies.

Max

I was reading through some of my posts and I realized I don't have anything exclusively related to Maxie. I mean, this is his lot in life, being the youngest of three, but I would like to give him some love. The problem is, what is most wonderful and cutest about him cannot be expressed via the written word. I will try to get some footage soon to post a video entry so that Dear Reader can experience him singing "I'm Mister Heat Miser" or pretending to be Spiderman.

No Bones

Part of the reason we are leaving the city to move to a suburb is because of the completely unpredictable and potentially dangerous situations that can occur. And then there are those situations that just piss me off.

Last year the kids saw this life-sized skeleton in a catalog. It wasn't a cheesy plastic one, it looked very realistic, weighed about five pounds and I think I paid $150 for it. But it was really cool. Last year we had him lounging on the wicker chair with a real feather crow on his shoulder and his feet up on the coffee table.

This year Charlie decided he wanted the skeleton to be standing up. Mark got some twine and hung him from the porch, and used wire to suspend his hands like he was waving. We were all totally thrilled with the outcome. Well, about a week later someone stole our skeleton.

I was dreading breaking the news to Charlie. I imagined him crying in disappointment. When he finally came downstairs for breakfast I said, "Char, I have some bad news."

"What is it?"

"Someone stole our skeleton."

Very pragmatically, "Why?"

"Well, my guess is they liked it and didn't have enough money to buy one and so they stole ours."

Then we had the required reminder that they were not bad guys, just people who made a bad choice to steal because stealing is wrong and against the law.

"And rude." He reminded me.

"Yes, rude."

There was a long pause, as Charlie stared off into space, as he often does when he is thinking. Then came to and said "I knew we should have put him sitting down. He probably got tired and went to someone else's house."

True Story

When I was pregnant one of the times I actually started to brush my teeth with hair gel.

Peaches and Curry

"Politically correct." One of my favorite terms. Is it "black" or "African American?" My brother-in-law has black skin but he is not of African descent. His mother was born in Dominica, he grew up in England, then served in the US Navy.

Since very early on Charlie has referred to African Americans or blacks or "people with skin like Uncle Colin" as "brown." He recently made a new friend at school, a brown boy named Benjamin. "Mom, if you see a boy with a blue shirt and brown skin, that's Benjamin." What was so funny about it is that they wear a uniform, and all the boys wear blue shirts. Recently Charlie got the esteemed 96 pack of crayons and discovered the various skin-toned crayons from burnt sienna, raw sienna, peach, apricot, tan, bittersweet and burnt orange. He pointed out last night that I am peach.

So, back to political correctness. It's no longer sitting "Indian style" it's "sit like a pretzel" or "criss-cross applesauce." You can't call anyone an "Indian giver," and don't get me started on "Smear the Queer."

On the way home from dinner out Mark mentioned that a man he works with asked if we were going to the India Festival, but he misspoke and called it the "Indian Festival."

Charlie, from the far back seat "Indian Festival, I want to go."

"It's not what you think, honey," I replied. "What you're thinking of are Native Americans, Indians are people from India."

"Yes, not like cowboys and Indians, like you're thinking," my husband added. "Native Americans are the people who lived here when the Europeans came. The Indians we're talking about come from a country called India."

"So they don't go woo woo woo woo woo?" Making a circle with his lips and patting it with his hand (you all know what I am taking about).

"No," Mark replied. "They're really quiet and sit at desks in front of computers."

Hey Diddle Diddle

For those of you keeping up, this Sunday Charlie's second fiddle lesson was scheduled. He gave me a bunch of crap about not wanting to go, that he wanted to quit. I thought about it and said, "Ok, we'll quit." He followed me into the living room, and said "Mommy, you look mad." I told him I wasn't mad, I was sad and that I didn't want him to keeping doing it just because I wanted him to. He ran out the back door yelling gleefully "Daddy, I'm going to quit!"

The teacher has still not called me back to send me a refund.

A Benefit of Thumb-Sucking

Yesterday, we were leaving the gym, I was of course doing five things at once, and Max ran like a bullet to the "grownup area" where the people were on the treadmills and elliptical machines. He ran so fast I had to run to catch up with him and grabbed his arm. How many times a day does a mom of a two-year-old have to do this? Well, while we were walking out to the car, I was holding his hand and he kept saying "ow."

When we got to the car, he was holding his arm limp. When I told him to squeeze my finger he squeezed it with the other hand. I was a little suspicious, so I gave him a train to play with and he played with it with one arm. I bribed him: "If you squeeze Mommy's hand you can have a pop-pop (our family's version of "lollipop.") He said "Ok," then squeezed with the other hand. I started thinking maybe I had broken his arm. I remained calm. I called the family doctor and told the nurse "I have a 2 1/2-year-old and he says his arm hurts, but I don't know if it does, or if he's just being 2 1/2." I was hoping the doctor would say "Bring him in and we'll check it out," but no. The answer was "Kids this age don't fake these things, take him to the ER."

Knowing it could be a long wait I picked up Wendy's and headed to the nearest hospital (only five minutes away.) On the way I called my husband and said "I may have broken Max's arm," and he said "I'm coming." I felt like telling him not to come, because I was not freaking out, but I have told him not to come many times and it has not been good.

We got to the ER, and he was the talk of the town. It's not a children's hospital, so nurses from all over the floor came to see him. The triage doctor came in and of course called for and x-ray. When everything sort of calmed down and we were sitting there waiting for the x-ray, and two minutes before my husband walked in, Max decided to sucked his thumb. Yes, the same thumb of the injured arm. I looked at the nurse as if to say "Do you see this?" She just smiled. Then he hopped off my lap, and jumped into daddy's arms, then started to dance. When I asked him about his arm, he said "Hurt all gone."

I am not a hypochondriac. My kid's arm was jacked up. Other people witnessed this. They took him in for x-ray anyway, and of course the arm was not broken. he most likely had something called "Nursemaid's Elbow" where the elbow gets a little bit dislocated and all they do to fix it is turn the hand palm-up and bring it up toward their face. Well, evidently he relocated it himself when he sucked his thumb.

The more people I talk to about this, I realize how common it is. If I had known this, I would have said to him, "I'll give you a pop-pop if you suck your thumb."

Suzuki Mom No More

I had been considering changing Charlie to a different Suzuki School for violin. Our present school was not convenient and I really did not like the director (see my previous post Cranky Suzuki Mom).

So I called another Suzuki School I had heard good things about. I emailed the director, she seemed really nice. They expected me to buy an electronic tuner, but that was fine. They were a little more expensive, but that was ok, too. I emailed the individual instructor the director suggested and found out she had a "keyboard requirement." This means the kids have to learn keyboard as they learn violin. Ok, to me, that's a bit much. It's hard enough to get Charlie to practice violin twice a week let alone throwing in keyboard. Not to mention I'd have to buy a keyboard. I emailed the director back and asked for a recommendation for another individual instructor who did not have a keyboard requirement (which she had offered up front to do anyway). At that point I got an email scolding about how the teacher she had recommended was the founder of the school, and students are lucky to be able to train with her.

Not long after this transpired a woman from our present school called asking for my email address. I told her "Well, we are changing Suzuki schools."

"Really, why?"

"Um, er, well, um, to be perfectly honest..."

"Yes?"

"I don't like the was Ginny interacts with my kid."

"Well, my son is in Book 4, and I have found Ginny to be very patient with him."

"Huh."

"I commiserate with other Suzuki Moms all the time. It's hard. It's not just music training, it's a parenting style."

Something clicked in my head. Something that had been bubbling just under the surface for a while. I don't know why it takes me so long to come to terms with things. I had been forcing myself, and more importantly, Charlie into a situation that was no fun. I mean, if it stressed me out, it had to be why he hated it.

"Well," I said. "I believe it may conflict with my parenting style."

I emailed the director of our school that day to tell her we were quitting. I emailed the woman from the other school and told her we were no longer interested. Nobody emailed me back. Nobody asked why.

The last chapter of this tale is I found Charlie a fiddle instructor. She didn't really mind how he held the bow. She let him sit down when he played. He's already learned the first two lines of "Bile Them Cabbage Down." The second line, I might add by ear.

I don't know if he's going to stick with it. He still complains about it, but we actually got through one thirty minute practice session Tuesday. He says he wants to quit, yet in the same breath says "When I get good, I will be able to play real fast."

For more information, read the Wiki on Suzuki Method.

Cookies or Cereal?

Charlie was walking out the door to play.

"Oreo, Mom."

"Oreo?"

"Yeah, that's goodbye."

"Don't you mean Adios?"

"No, oreo, it's goodbye in England."

The King

Yesterday Charlie asked me why it's good to be the king. What six-year-old asks such questions? Mine, I guess. I told him it's because traditionally the king has lots of money and jewels and gets to boss people around.

He thought about that for a minute, I could see the wheels turning in his head. "What about the queen, if she asks people for stuff do they bring it?"

"Yes," I said.

"So it's good to be the queen too?"

"I suppose so, but she doesn't get to boss people around as much."

"What if there is no king?"

"Then the queen is in charge, but usually the queen refers to the king's wife."

"What if the queen has a husband, is he the king?"

I'm getting a little tired, but Charlie isn't. He has much greater stamina for these things. "If the queen has a husband, he's a prince."

"Why do you call us princes, then?"

This too complicated, even for me. "Because you are special," I responded.

Not The Soft Shoe

Not too long ago we purchased a beautiful 37 inch LCD television. we did our research and for our viewing conditions (a lot of backlight and viewing from the side) LCD was better than plasma, and of course, also more expensive. Personally, I think it's a little silly. First of all, we are sitting ten feet from the thing at the farthest, so the size just seems ridiculous to me. Secondly, since there are only a handful of channels that broadcast in high-definition, what's the point? Having said that, ESPN is just such a channel, and it is pretty weird to be able to see the blades of grass when watching a golf tournament.

Well, we instituted a No Throwing Anything Ever rule. In the past soft balls and stuffed animals were ok, but now the game has changed. It is, after all, an LCD screen, just like on your laptop computer. You wouldn't throw a Transformer at your computer.

Several months passed and for the most part the kids were re-trained to the No Throwing Anything Ever rule. Then one day, while I was sitting on the toilet, Atticus (then 3 1/2) came sheepishly in (evidently we have an open-door policy) and said "I am sorry I jacked up the TV, Mommy."

"What do you mean, jacked up the TV!?!?" I finished and ran downstairs. I stared. I couldn't believe it. The liquid crystal behind the clear film had shattered like glass. "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!?!?" I repeated over and over until I almost hyperventilated.
Atticus very quietly replied "I didn't like Dora any more, so I threw my shoe."
"YOU THREW A SHOE!?!?!" I screamed. Go to your room. They never go to their room when I tell them to, but this time he did, and did so quickly.

I called my husband. How was he going to take the news that his baby was destroyed?
"The TV is dead, I cried into the phone, Atticus threw a shoe."
"He threw a shoe?!?! What was he thinking?"
"He didn't like Dora any more."
"What were you doing?"
"Pooping."

Later that night, Mark and I had a talk. He told me it was no big deal. He told me when I first called he thought someone was hurt. Then he told me his father had such a thing for his electronics: TVs, guitars, stereos, that Mark said sometimes he felt like his dad loved his stuff more than his kids. He said he didn't want to be like that.

In the next few days I made some calls. First I called the insurance company to see if it was covered. "No," my agent said. "With the policy you have it's not covered. Now, if he had thrown a shoe at your neighbors TV..."

Then I called the place where we bought the TV, and bought an extended warranty to see if it was covered. "No," the man said, "not for accidental damage. Now if a tree had fallen on your TV..."

Then I called the credit card company to see if they covered it. "No," the person said. I expected no less at that point.

Then I called Sony to see if we could get the screen replaced. To replace the screen would cost more than to replace the TV.

We watched it broken for a few weeks. The cracks creeped further and further until we could watch it no more. Sadly, we had no choice but to take it to the curb. Within five minutes there was a knock on the door. "Are you really throwing that TV away?" a woman asked. "Yes," I replied, "but trust me, it's not watchable and the screen is not replaceable." They took it anyway.

Several months later, just before football season, having been watching our old 24 inch TV had we had dragged from the basement, we decided to purchase a new TV. We went to Circuit City on a Saturday night (big mistake) and I was trying to keep three boys rounded up and stop then from destroying electronic devices while Mark talked to the sales girl. He had just about decided again on LCD. I walked up and said "What if a child were to throw, say, a shoe at a plasma TV?" "Nothing," she replied, "the screen is three layer of glass." Mark and I looked at each other and and simultaneously said "We'll take plasma, then." Then Max came up behind me and accidentally dropped his toy onto an LCD TV on the lower shelf.

"Yes," Mark repeated, "plasma."

Take Your Kid to Work Day

I know Take Your Kid to Work Day was in July, but every time I see this picture I giggle, so I thought I'd share.

First Day

For weeks I have been weeping because my first baby is going to kindergarten. One day a few weeks ago we were passing the school and he said "I am nervous about going full day because I will miss you... but I will have God."

Today was the first day. He got into his schoolboy uniform all by himself. We all walked down the street to school (including Daddy) and waited outside the door. Apparently when they say 8:00, they mean 8:00. He was the first kid to march in the door, put his backpack and lunchbox in a cubby and head into the classroom. He immediately started playing, and was excited to see a few boys he knew. Then we said goodbye, and he gave us all a hug. The goodbye between Charlie and Atticus was rather poignant, with a hug and a "lip kiss."

I let Atticus have quiet time with me. "It's no fun without Char-Char."

When he got home he gave me the play-by-play including the Pledge of Allegiance, snacks, recess and also said there was a lot of talking. Later, after snack the boys went outside to play. At one point Charlie got mad at Atticus, and got sent to his room. I held him for a minute and said "I know you're tired, you've had a long day."

"I'm NOT tired, it is the worst day ever."

"No," I said. "It's a very important day, your first day of kindergarten."

"Nuh-uh, the most important day is the first day of college."

Brothers

I'll tell you story about how sweet my two oldest boys can be. Don't get me wrong, there is a significant amount of fighting, hitting, wrestling and other things, and there was even some right before said story.

Atticus was told last Sunday if he buckled his own seat belt all week he could have his favorite movie on DVD, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TMNT 2007). He did, and I got the DVD for him today. He immediately ran outside to show his brother, and within seconds they were both in the house begging to see it. Atticus hopped into the best seat in the house, Daddy's Chair. I cringed as Charlie also approached the chair because this very scenario has ended in fisticuffs on several occasions. Instead, Charlie said "Can I sit with you?" to which Atticus replied "Sure" (pronounced like "shut" without the tee). As they snuggled on the chair, and I was inserting the DVD I said "Charlie, you should thank Atticus. Because of his hard work you get to see this movie."

Charlie: Thank you, Atticus.
Atticus: You're welcome, Char (with a hug and a kiss on the cheek). I love you because you're my big brother.
Charlie: That's right. If you ever can't find Mommy, stick with me.

From the Mouths of Babes Part III

Atticus (age 4) had a fever today, poor baby. When we got home from lunch, he was ready for some Motrin and a nap. As he slowly walked up the stairs he said "Mommy, I feel like an old man instead of a little boy."

The Hope Diamond

We just returned from visiting Washington DC with the boys. We had a really great time, the best being Charlie's enthusiasm for the things we saw. "Oh my gosh" was said on several occasions. The one thing Charlie really wanted to do was see the dinosaur bones in the Museum of Natural History, so we made that our top priority. After we saw all the dinosaur bones (and there are A LOT) we were "'sploring" and I saw a sign for the Hope Diamond, and I expressed my desire to see the "biggest diamond in the world." For some reason Charlie was instantly excited. We walked through the maze of displays of quartz crystals and semi-precious stones, all the way Charlie pulling me saying he wanted to see the "big diamond." We finally got to the display case, which was surrounded with oooing and aaahing adults. Charlie danced in excitement, trying to see around all the people. Finally it was our turn.

"Isn't is beautiful?" I asked.

"Is that it?" Charlie asked, gazing into the case at the necklace perched atop the rotating display stand.

"Well, yes," I replied.

"I thought it would be bigger than that."

I laughed. "How big did you think it would be?"

"As big as THAT," he replied, pointing to a four-foot quartz crystal in the corner.

My subsequent lecture regarding the concept of the rarity of a flawless diamond this size was delivered to the retreating six-year-old, who had run off to check out the elephant in the lobby.

Cranky Suzuki Mom

Ok, so I went off on the violin teacher today. Well, not really, but I wasn't polite. She's exactly what you would imagine a violin teacher to be like. Quirky, cranky. When we first decided Charlie was going to take Suzuki Violin Silly Me assumed our instructor would be Japanese. Nope, she's this upper middle class white American woman who is about 60 years old, and have I mentioned she's cranky? The mom of Charlie's friend said to me "I think Elyse is a little scared of Miss Ginny" to which I replied "Well, Miss Ginny is scary."

First let me describe the room. It's about 10 feet by 20 feet and it's filled with little tables and chairs. It's really a classroom in a church, that only seconds as The Central Ohio School for Suzuki Instruction. So we all cram in this room, ten or so kids with violins, their moms, quite a few siblings and Miss Ginny. I take Max and Atticus along because I refuse to double the cost of Suzuki Violin by hiring a sitter every week. Usually they do well. They play with the other siblings, the kids all share Goldfish Crackers, read books, color, whatever. Usually it's pretty mild. The last few weeks, though, all the kids have been kind of whack. It's probably a summer thing. Last week the room was particularly crowded because of the table/chair configuration and the siblings also were kind of raucus. We moms were doing our best to keep the siblings quiet and be the proper Suzuki Mom. To be honest, the kids weren't being particularly loud or anything but twice Miss Ginny yelled "Kids, be quiet." Yeah, right. You might as well tell a bunch of two and three-year-olds to be loud, it doesn't make a difference.

I gave it a lot of thought throughout the following week. I figured I would bring some toys and let the boys play in the hallway just outside the door. That way I could keep and eye on them and their noise wouldn't be disruptive. So wrong was I. When Miss Ginny busted into the room like the Witch Hazel on Sylvester and Tweetie (you know, the one whose hairpins are always a step behind her) the first thing she croaks is "Whose trucks are in the hallway?"

"Mine," I replied. "I was hoping to lure my kids out there since you yelled at them last week."

Without even looking at me she said "Well, we can't have kids in the hallway."

Next week I'm just going to have to just take a Xanax.

Special Sauce

A friend of ours told us that this was the summer her husband was going to have The Talk with their 9-year-old son. At the rate Charlie is going, there will be no need for a Talk. Maybe he'll give us a Talk when he's 9.

Last week we were all driving in the car and Charlie was babbling away, asking a million questions. Somehow we got on the topic of how babies are made. He told us he knew how babies were made. He informed us that the baby grows in the mommy's tummy but that the baby is part of the daddy too. He went on to tell us that the daddy part comes from the "sauce" that comes from his testicles.

"Where did you hear about this sauce?" I asked.

"Nowhere, " he replied, "I thought of it myself."

Mark and I looked at each other out of the corner of our eyes. Mark started to speak, but I waved him off and said, "Oh, really, Charlie? What color is the sauce?"

"Red, like blood," he replied, matter-of-factly.

Whew!

Photo Drama Continued

For those of you following my photo drama (having lost almost all photos since 2002 when our hard drive crashed) I FINALLY have some good news. There are about 100 of our absolute favorite pictures of the boys I had forgotten I had uploaded to Snapfish. I am so excited! See... a picture.

en·ti·tle·ment

I still can't believe what just happened to me. I took all four boys (my three and cousin Xander, aged 7) to the pet shop to buy dog food. As soon as we walked in the door, the boys headed for the cats, where there were two women standing nearby and a little girl, aged 7 or 8, with some sort of disability, perhaps Down Syndrome. As soon as Max, my adoreable two-year-old arrived on the scene, the little girl started pawing at him with increasing intensity. I watched, waiting, actually, for one of the two women standing there, one of which I assumed to be her guardian, to intervene. One of the girl's advances launched Max against the cat cage and he started to cry. I flew in, scooped him up, and played off the incident by saying "You have two older brothers, you'll be okay."

Max and I moved on to the fish, which are his favorite. As we stood there, the little girl approached again, this time with much more vigor, actually picking Maxie up, which always sends him into a whining tirade. I stepped in right away this time, picked up Max and said "Hon, you're invading his personal space." Out of nowhere comes her mother, and the following is word for word what transpired (pretty much):

Her: She wasn't going to hurt him.

Me: I didn't say she was going to hurt him, I said she was invading his personal space.

Her: Don't you see that she has a disability?

Me: Yes, I see she has a disability but that does not preclude you from making sure she follows the norms of polite society, such as not touching people without their permission.

Her: You're a bitch.

Me: You're oblivious.

Her: Kiss my ass.

At that point I told the boys we had to go, and all but Atticus complied willingly. Charlie (almost 6), who doesn't miss a thing, said, "Mommy why was that girl's mommy letting her pick up Maxie?"

"Well," I replied, "there are some people who think for one reason or another they don't have to follow the rules the rest of us follow."

To which Charlie replied, pointing out the window "Look, Xander, a concrete truck!"

Back It Up

Atticus: Mommy, why are you crying?

Me: Well, Mommy is just not very smart right now.

Atticus: That's okay, Mommy, you're still pretty.


Why was I crying? Why am I not smart? Why is there no cute photo of my son on this post? Let me tell you.

We have three pcs. Two desktops (the Dell and the HP) and an old laptop. The Dell was our old main pc which we stripped and gave to the boys for The Dora Game, The Tractor Game and all kinds of important stuff. It crashed a few months ago, and we didn't try to hard to fix it. The HP, which is only nine months old, became our main pc. We migrated all the data from the Dell to the HP: pictures, movies, finances etc. Well, two days ago, the HP crashed. The boy at Firedog said "Bad hard drive, but don't worry, you're under warranty." I smiled and thanked him, and calmly and politely asked if they could recover our data. "Maybe," he said, "we'll let you know at the end of the day." I smiled politely again. Inside I was screaming "Are you fucking kidding me? The end of the day?!?! Do you people realize I have every picture of my children since they were born on that pc?" No, I never got around to backing it up.

Now, I blame perfectionism and attention deficit disorder. I have sat down many times to back up My Documents. Every time I'd get engrossed in the photos, thinking how cool it would be to burn a slide show to VCD. I even went as far as two weeks ago purchasing a program so I could burn to DVD. We could all happily sit around the TV, reminiscing and watching slideshows of the childhoods of our boys.

Well, that evening the nice boy at Firedog called and apologized they could not even get a pc to recognize the hard drive, and the data was "too deep." He asked if I wanted to go ahead and exchange the bad drive out for a new one. "No," I said, "I'll come pick it up." I was working under the same premise as those who froze Walt Disney. Someday we'll have the technology.

Immediately I called my brother, who is a Computer Genius. He recovered the data from my laptop when that hard drive went bad. Okay, now you're thinking "She really is stupid, this happened to her before and she still didn't back up her drive." Well, please refer to my previous statement in blaming perfectionism and ADD. Anyway, I called my brother, the Computer Genius. His poor girlfriend probably thought someone died when I called, sobbing. Referring to the guys at Firedog my brother said "Those guys are idiots, bring it to me, we'll see what we can do." In defense of the idiots at Firedog, the nice boy was clear to me that all was not lost, but that that they only did a primary software data recovery. There were people who would take the thing apart and extract the data to the tune of $1600.

Well, that was last night. No luck yet, according to my brother, but he'll work on it more tonight. In the meantime I need to decide whether $1600 is worth it to get those pictures back. What would you do?

And oh, by the way, this is a cautionary tale. Go back up your hard drive. Do it now. I'm going to back up this crappy old laptop... as soon as I cook dinner.

Fiesta!

According to Wikipedia: "Political correctness (often abbreviated to PC) is a term used to describe language or behavior which is intended, or said to be intended, to provide a minimum of offense, particularly to racial, cultural, or other identity groups."

In Charlie's Pre-K class, this week was "Multicultural Week," which you would think would uphold anyone's standards for political correctness. The highlight of the week, at least according to the kids, was today's "Fiesta." They made a piñata, made and wore red sombreros and had nachos and chips for snack.

A group of moms was congregated outside the door as they released the kids at the end of the day. One by one the children emerged, the boys with "pencil-thin mustaches" and the girls with "beauty marks" painted on their faces in black chalk. I gave it a moment, glanced around at the other moms, then locked eyes with my friend, Betsy, who I could tell was on the same page as me.

"Is something wrong here?" I whispered.

"It's not exactly politically correct, is it?" Betsy responded, laughing.

Nope.

Yes, Officer, Striped Pajamas

This has happened to every parent. It even happened to me once before. Charlie (5.5) and Atticus (4) wanted to go outside and draw on the driveway with chalk, so I sent them on their way. Then I heard Max (2) yelling that he was finished with his nap. I went upstairs, got Max out of his crib, changed his diaper, and carried him downstairs, as he was saying, in the cute way only a 2-year-old can "outside, outside" meaning he wanted to go outside and play with his brothers. When I stepped out the back door I didn't see the brothers.

"Charlie," I called. Nothing.

They must have gone into the garage, so I walked out there.

"Charlie," I called again. Nothing.

Maybe they were on the second floor of the garage.

"Charlie," a little bit louder this time. Nothing.

Back into the house. "Charlie!" Nothing.

By now I am screaming. All over the house and the grounds. Around front, I look up and down the busy street. Nothing. Then I start to think "What were they wearing?" in case I have to tell the police. Charlie was wearing a blue spiderman t-shirt, blue sweats and red Crocs. Atticus had refused to get dressed for the babysitter this morning, and by the time I got home at noon, I felt like it was a lost cause. So I had images, not only of having an Amber Alert out for my kids, but the media relaying that, indeed, one of the children was wearing striped pajamas and silver Crocs at 2 o'clock in the afternoon.

I snatched up Max from the back porch and ran into the house, screaming desperately "CHARLIE!!!" This time I hear a feeble "Yes, Mommy" from the basement.

I am sure the swat on the butt hurt more through the pajama bottoms than it would have had Atticus just gotten dressed.

We're Moving

We're moving. More accurately, we're trying to sell our house. It breaks our hearts since we have lovingly restored this old mansion from top to bottom, and planned to live here for many years. What changed our minds? Read on.

We live in the midtown area of Columbus, Ohio. Our neighborhood has a very urban feel to it, and we live on a main street, so you really get the city feel here with the bums peeing in the bushes, buses tearing by, and fire truck sirens at all hours to the day. The other city "perk" we get here is Columbus City Schools. When we moved here in 1999, we knew we would eventually have kids. We thought the diversity in this neighborhood would be good for kids, and as for the busy street, no problem. Kids in NYC simply learn to stay away from the street, right? Anyway, one of the best Catholic schools in the city is right across the street, and since my husband came up through Catholic schools, it was assumed that any kid we had would as well. Well, that was before Charlie.

If you read this blog, you already know that over the past year we have had some behavioral problems with Charlie both at school and at home. He is currently in Pre-K at a local pre-school. After taking him to see a child psychologist, we decided the best thing for Charlie would NOT be cookie-cutter, rote-style Catholic school. Coming to that conclusion meant one of two things: we either send him to city schools or we move to the suburbs.

Well, as a long-term plan city schools are out of the question. As a result of the No Child Left Behind Act, the district as well as over half the schools in the district are in "academic emergency." That means if your neighborhood school is in academic emergency, you get first priority to lottery in to any other city school. Our neighborhood school is one of two schools people try to lottery in to. That's really here nor there, but our issue is this... if the district itself is in academic emergency, then how good could the very best school in the district really be? So... we decided to move.

Now, the housing market in any upper middle class suburb of the city is quite a bit more expensive than our current situation. Since we are moving solely for schools, we decided to base our choice solely on schools. Through my research I narrowed it down to a suburb southwest of the city (UA), and one north of the city, where, ironically, I began my career of raging against the cliche (where I went to high school), which I will call W.

We started looking for houses in W. There are plenty of nice houses there, but one problem. I had a miserable childhood, so we couldn't move into the neighborhood I grew up in. But as we drove through other neighborhoods, we discovered "there is where my friend Callie crashed her car, there is where my x-boyfriend Carl lived" etc. Uh, not going to work.

So presently we are looking for a house in the much more expensive UA. I am starting to get nervous about selling our house (who wants a big ole house on a busy street?). We already made an offer on one house, but they wouldn't accept a contingency to sell this one, so here we sit, waiting. We have to have proof of residency to sign Charlie up for school in UA, so if we don't have that in time, our back-up plan is the city school. Heck, one year of school amongst the sons and daughters of crack dealers may be an educational experience.

The G-Word?

Okay, I admit it, we're taking our 5 1/2 year-old to therapy. This isn't therapy like a box of tissues and "family of origin" issues (at least I would hope not yet). So far the therapist has met with hubby and I once, Charlie once, and me twice. Okay, I see where this is going.

First of all, since he was about 2 1/2 Charlie has had "behavioral issues." He's defiant, sometimes angry, contrary and grumpy. Sound familiar? Sounds like his mom! Anyway, the whole frustration came to a head in October when I went to his parent/teacher conference (my husband was out of town). Every conference we've ever had we have braced ourselves for the worst, expecting Charlie to be as much of a brat at school as he is at home. So we'd go into the conference and they'd tell us how great Charlie is, what a good listener, well-behaved. We'd look at each other like "Are we all talking about the same kid here?" The experts say as much trouble as your kid is at home, if he behaves at school, you're doing something right because he has developed a sense of comfort at home but has also learned the boundaries.

So in October I go into his first Pre-K parent/teacher conference. Our frustration with Charlie had been mounting since school had ended the year before, but I had the memory of the other conferences to soothe me. "He's fine, just a rebel like his mom." I mentioned to the teacher that we had been having trouble at home with Charlie and she confirmed that they had some of the same issues at school. I got a little worried. "Well," I said, fishing for some sort of reassurance, "we have been thinking of getting some professional help." The reassurance did not come. "I think that would be a good idea," was her response.

So, we are getting the professional help, sort of. To the tune of $160/hour, the therapist gave me the run-down of the standard parenting tricks. Time-out, taking away privileges, sticker charts, the whole nine. Finally, yesterday, after her fourth little suggestion I had to stop her. "I'm not trying to poo-poo everything you are saying," I said. "It's just that my husband and I are very educated people. We've read the parenting books. The standard fare does not work with this kid. If it did, we wouldn't be here." We agreed that my husband and I would return together the following week. By then the questionnaires would be returned from the teachers. We could go from there.

As I was leaving, I told the therapist I was confused (not really, as I mentioned, I see where this is going). She met with Charlie once. For 45 minutes they played chess with army guys. She was able to ask a few questions, and actually get a few answers before he said "Can we stop talking about this, please?" How could she possibly see what's wrong with Charlie?

Let me tell you where I think this is going...

1. It's all my fault. Hey, I watch Nanny 911. There are no bad kids, only bad parents. Mom needs to be more consistent, Mom needs to pay more attention to him, Mom needs to intervene when Charlie gets bored, Mom needs to get more involved at school.

2. Like me, my brothers, my sister and my husband, I think my child is brilliant. I think his brain is far more advanced than his emotions and he struggles for a balance. I think he's bored at school. I think he thinks we're all idiots. I think he does need more of my attention (please let me remind you, Dear Reader, that Charlie has two younger brothers), more consistency and most importantly, he needs challenged.

What's the g-word, you ask? Gifted. He fits the profile like a poster child. "Gifted." That term makes me laugh. I have learned that there have been tremendous strides in the understanding of the complicated needs of gifted kids since I flunked out of the "gifted" program when I was ten. You may think that this realization would bring us pride and hope. Nope. We are standing at the bottom of a tall mountain looking up. There will be summer homeschooling, enrichment classes, learning to help him deal with his anxiety, hand-picking of teachers. I am up to the challenge. But there is one thing that is going to turn our lives upside-down, but that will have to wait for the next installment when I breach the touchy subject (at least in my family) of Catholic School.