The Rug

By request, here is the rug mentioned in my post Save the World With Oxyclean.

The whole thing:
One of the four seasons:

Not sure what this is:

I find it interesting that my house looks nicer than it is in pictures, but I look worse.

Non-Political Controversy

I am going to digress from my usual theme of familial comedy to talk about politics for a moment. Well, I want to talk about NON-politics for a moment. I don't follow politics anymore. Too stressful. I am registered Democrat. I don't believe 100% with the Democratic platform, but if someone who is corrupt and lacks integrity is going to become the leader of the free world, it may as well be a Democrat. However, a female fellow-blogger posted about Ron Paul. Ok, well, his politics sound pretty good. John Edwards, he is a Democrat and he looks like a president anyway. Barack Obama, a little wimpy for me. That leaves us with (for all intents and purposes) Hillary Clinton.

I will vote for Hillary Clinton. Not because I agree with all of her politics, but I don't agree with the politics of any one candidate. I will vote for Hillary Clinton because she is a woman. And in my humble opinion women have an obligation to vote for Hillary Clinton. By 2008 women will only have had the right to vote for 38% of this nation's history. Now we have the opportunity to put a woman in office when we have only been allowed to vote for 90 years. Effie Hobby recently remembered the days of the fight for women's suffrage, she could remember when women could not vote. Note: Effie Hobby would be 110 today, and I cannot find any record of her death.

So I believe women now have an obligation to vote for Hillary Clinton. Because Hillary Clinton will not be remembered for her politics. Hillary Clinton will be remembered for being the first woman President of the United States.

The Cadillac of Minivans

I know some of you must be wondering why I have not mentioned anything about moving. That's because we aren't. At least not right now. Here's why not:

1. I have come to terms in my mind with sending my kids to Catholic school. So what if they don't have science until 4th grade? We have "Science Saturdays" at our house anyway. Yes, Charlie is a quirky kid. That's in addition to having migraines, and possibly epilepsy (it is not as bad as it sounds). He's going to be quirky in public school, too. And besides, they won't have to spend half of Sunday in Parish School of Religion.

2. Charlie's teacher is awesome. Really, really awesome. She's about 24, cute as a button, loves being a teacher and genuinely loves kids. It gives me hope that the principal has a open mind and can move in the right direction as far as staff.

3. Not to be shallow, but we love our house. We have renovated the whole house, hands on, ourselves. We had a beautiful new garage built, and worked on the yard and garden for 9 years.

We made an offer on the house I mention in my post Legos and All, though we had not yet sold ours. It was a very fair offer in this abysmal housing market. The man who owned the home flips homes for a living and needed to sell this one in order to start a new project. Although the thought of owning two homes was scary, Mark did the math (he always does) and we could pull it off for six months. Well, the owner counter-offered with something ridiculous, actually he wanted over asking price. We let the contract lapse.

A few weeks later we were at a benefit gala for a school in memory of a woman we knew who had died recently. We had friends there from church, school, soccer, t-ball. As we spoke to people I kept saying things to Mark like "We can still play t-ball here, right?" and "Of course we'll still go to church here, right?" The husband of the woman who died, who had been bugging us for months not to move, begged us one more time that night. Is was like God Himself shined a light down upon us, and angels sang. Mark and I both had the same thought.

A few days later I called our realtor, who is our friend, goes to our church, has kids in the school etc. and told her the news. We wanted to take the house off the market. It had absolutely nothing to do with her, but that we decided everything else fell into place, and if we needed more living space, heck, we could finish the basement. There was silence on the line. I waited for the disappointment, irritation, veiled anger. It didn't come.

"You don't need a bigger house, Cindy. With three boys what you need is a better car."

Save the World With Oxyclean

I am pretty confident there is nothing I can't clean. I think of it as a battle. Woman versus mess. My Friend Ellie's weapon is Biz Bleach, my mother swore by laundry detergent, but only the suds, myself, I prefer Oxyclean.

My 4 1/2 -year-old tends to barf when he coughs too much when he is lying down. This has resulted in many a soiled bedcover, and if we are lucky he only hits the sheets and not the blanket and comforter. When he was younger, if he had a cough, we would put him to bed with a "barf bucket, " which, I swear, is an old Oxyclean container. Anyway, as of late we feel like he is old enough to make it to the restroom. Difficult, yes, because he doesn't always feel it coming on. The most recent occurrence, he almost made it to the potty.

Allow me to digress a moment. Many years ago my father traveled extensively for work, all over Europe and Asia. He frequently brought back artifacts he found along his journeys. One time, while in China, he saw a beautiful china blue wool oval rug, decorated with images of the four seasons as the artist perceived them. I don't know if you know this, but the quality of a rug is determined by how many fibers are in the surface. You cannot even penetrate this rug with your finger. It's about eight feet by 5 feet, and when we moved to this house, my father graciously gifted the rug to us because it fit perfectly in our center hall on the second floor. You, Dear Reader, are not stupid; you know where this is going.

So, back to the main crux of this tale. One evening I was sitting in the office writing when I hear Atticus' door open and see him run across the hallway. I knew he was attempting to get to the potty, and I was such a proud parent. He barfed a little in the potty, and I repeated "I am so proud of you, I am so proud of you," as he sobbed. Mark came and cleaned him up as I changed the sheets. We finally got him tucked back in, and as I was heading to take the sheets to the basement, I looked down. You guessed it. [WARNING YUCK YUCK AHEAD] In a path from Attie's room to the bathroom was a swath of barf. Chunky barf. I stood there for a moment, wheels turning in my head. I could only think of sending the rug out for cleaning. Then I took the sheets to the basement. The Oxyclean container mocked me from the shelf as if to say "I dare you." I grabbed a bucket, a scrub brush, and a few towels and whipped up a batch of Oxyclean.

[WARNING YUCK YUCK AHEAD] Step 1. With the brush, I brushed the chunks onto the hardwood floor where I could mop them up. Step 2. Using the scrub brush and some Oxyclean (mostly just suds, thank you Mom) I brushed the surface until it no longer smelled putrid (yes, I had to put my nose down there which excessively grossed out my husband). Step 3. We then took towels, laid them out and continued to dance around on them, rotating to new ones until they came up dry. I do not discount the density of the rug, but that does not take away from the genius of the process. Done. Mark looked at me with awe and amazement. By morning there was no evidence of a disaster at all.

Believe it or not, that is not even my proudest achievement. My coup was when Charlie was about 14 months old. We had just gotten the first furniture we've ever had that wasn't either passed down or purchased at "Value City" furniture. Somehow my angel got ahold of a Sharpie ( for which I take full responsibility) and in a matter of minutes took it to the new couch, entertainment center, floor and dining room wall which had wallpaper. I freaked. Then I vaguely remembered from my retail days that rubbing alcohol got ball point pen out of fabric. Might as well give it a shot, right? I had also learned by experience you have to dab these things, not wipe or you just spread it around. The entertainment center and wood floor were a breeze. The dining room wallpaper would not come clean. I did not expect it to. Sharpies are supposed to be permanent on paper, right? So I chalked that up to stupidity on may part, but it didn't really matter because we would eventually replace that wallpaper.

I stared at the couch. If I messed this up, the warranty would be void. The pressure was on. I looked at the stain. "You versus me," I thought. I dabbed. I looked at the cotton ball. There was some ink on it. I was encouraged. I dabbed some more. Same deal. I decided to get a cloth. More ink came off. I dabbed faster, the stain started to fade. Thirty minutes later I was victorious. I looked at the clean couch, and collapsed on the floor, spent. Then, just for good measure, I cleaned the area with Oxyclean to remove any rubbing alcohol residue.

The moral of the story is this: No talent is insignificant. No battle too small. Whatever it is that you can do to improve this planet is very important, even if it's your little corner of it.

The Tears of the Phoenix

In the fall I realized I was behind the times in that I had not read the Harry Potter series of books by J.K. Rowling. They are extremely well-written, and the plot-lines are brilliant. Being a huge Star Wars geek, I was immediately immersed in the whole fantasy thing. The stories could be considered a little scary for the target audience, but for adults just good fun. I am presently reading the fifth in the series: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Last night when reading I was caught off-guard and driven to tears.

In the fourth book, I believe, is the introduction of a type of ghoul called a Boggart, which is a little bit different than the "real" Boggart of English mythology. In the Harry Potter books, the Boggart is a ghoul which has the ability to manifest itself as the thing that the witness fears the most.

Forgive me if you already know this, and correct me if I'm wrong, but Harry's best friend is Ron Weasley, who has four older brothers and a younger sister. Ron's mother, Molly Weasley, considers Harry another son since Harry is an orphan. In the passage I refer to, Harry is passing the study where Mrs. Weasley was supposed to be "cleaning" which in the wizarding world means clearing the room of messy magical creatures. Harry enters the room only to see Mrs. Weasley sobbing over the dead body of Ron. Harry feels his heart jump out of his body, and as he approaches Mrs. Weasley, the dead body changes from Ron to the dead body of another of Mrs. Weasley's sons, then the dead body of her twin sons, then another brother, then finally to Harry himself. Each time Mrs. Weasley attempts, through her sobs, to cast the spell to destroy the ghoul, she is overcome by grief and is therefore unsuccessful. As Harry stares at his own dead body two other wizards come and extinguish the Boggart, then console Mrs. Weasley.

"I see them d-d-dead all the time!" Mrs. Weasley moaned... "I d-d-dream about it."

You don't have to tell me that my boys are not wizards in the midst of a battle between good and evil where wizards are killed all the time. And although we don't think about it all the time, don't we occasionally visit our own fears in our heads? Mrs. Weasley had only to witness a false image of the dead bodies of her children, her sons, to be taken to that level of horror. Isn't there a level of grief that is only imaginable? We can only hope that grief will always remain a ghoul locked in a writing desk.

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."