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Wednesday, 26 November 2003
Home Alone (Almost)
I'm home alone again. Well, almost. My husband left me.

Well, not "left me" left me. He just went to Texas for Thanksgiving to spend time with his mother and stepdad and dad and stepmom and bio-dad and bio-dad's wife and brothers and sisters and assorted spouses. You get the idea.

He left Tuesday morning at nine or so. I was in a dark mood. The baby had been awake for an hour in the middle of the night. I was tired, head-achey and wondering why I thought it was a good idea that he take this trip. Overnight, someone had broken into our house and strewn laundry and papers everywhere and peed on the toilet seat. Oh wait. No. That was my family. The day before.

At any rate, I stormed around a bit, grumbling and complaining to my baby and then thought, "Oh wait, I don't have to react this way." I actually stopped myself cold! I felt like such a grown-up.

Later in the day, I sat nursing the baby, expecting the kids to return home any second. The door bell rang. "It's open!" I hollered. I'd already unlocked the door in anticipation of their arrival. No answer. I think I actually said, "arg" and untucked my legs and unlatched the baby and went to the door, muttering.

A second before I reached the door, I thought, "Oh wait a second. That was probably a delivery." The boys don't ring the bell. They knock. Then I thought, "Oh, he sent me flowers! Because he knows what a big sacrifice I'm making!" and then, "Oh, he knows we don't have extra money! I wish he wouldn't have."

I opened the door to see the brown UPS truck pulling away.

I see a box.

Of books.

My husband is addicted to books the way other men are addicted to power tools.

Only four more days home alone. Sort of.

Posted by Mel at 10:15 PM PST
Updated: Thursday, 27 November 2003 9:14 PM PST
Saturday, 22 November 2003
My Bad Judgment
This morning, the phone rings. It's N., one of the boys' friends from fifth grade. They've known him since kindergarten. As a kindergartener, he was adorable--a very round, dreadlocked, smiley kid. Let's just say he's not so cute anymore.

So, N. calls. TwinBoyA always answers as if he's channeling Jerry Seinfeld ("Newman"). "Yeah, N.?" he sneers.

Then, "Mom, can I go to N.'s birthday party today at 3?"

I pause. We normally do not allow our kids to play at their friends' homes unless we know the parents very well. We do not know N.'s parents well. N.'s dad has dreadlocks, too, and plays in his own steel drum band. N. has two older brothers. N. gave TwinBoyA two videos for his ninth birthday: Jurassic Park and Lara Croft: Tomb-Raider (both rated PG-13). TwinBoyA's never been allowed to play at N.'s house, though N.'s been to our house lots of time. But this is a birthday party. And TwinBoyA is ten now.


I dropped him off at 3 p.m. on the dot. I walked him to the door and one of N.'s teenaged brothers answered the door. When he opened the door, I smelled dogs and cigarettes. I said, "You're having a birthday party for N.?" And he kind of shrugged and said he didn't know. "I just got home, but there is another kid here, so I guess so."

Oh. "Can I talk to your mom or dad?" He hollered for his dad. I waited, peering into the stink of the house from the porch.

His dad came to the door, looking a little weary. "Are you having a party for N. today?" I said.

He kind of look confused. He didn't seem to know. "Well, yes," he said. At least he sort of said something like that. I said, "Well, I'll be back at 5 p.m. to pick him up."

That was my error in judgment.

At 5:05 p.m., I drove up N.'s street. The street was dark, but ahead I saw a bunch of kids riding a bicycle-cart contraption. I recognized N.'s dreadlocked bulk and saw four or five little girls hanging on the thing, but couldn't spot TwinBoyA. N. waved for me to pass him, but I rolled down my window and shouted, "I'm here to pick up my son!"

"He's in the house," N. said.

Oh. In that smelly house with N.'s dazed dad and his two teenaged brothers? Alone?

Okay, I know that I'm a little on the overprotective side. Even paranoid, I admit. But I would never allow that. Why would N. have left my son alone inside his house?

I rang the bell. Twice. Finally, N.'s dad came to the door. "I'm here to pick up my son," I said. He called for TwinBoyA, then disappeared down a set of stairs to find him. TwinBoyA came into sight and was at the door when the dad came up the stairs. I said, "Tell them thanks," and TwinBoyA said, "Thanks!" And we left.

He smelled like he's been at a bowling alley. I said, "So, tell us all about it. What did you do?"

TwinBoyA said, "Well, first we just played some games that were all rated E."


"Then, we walked down to the 7-11 and bought some stuff."

The 7-11? "Who walked?"

"Me and J. and N."

Oh my. I don't even let my boy play in the front yard without an adult watching! I would never in a million years have allowed him to walk a half a mile to the 7-11 to buy anything!

I managed to just breathe.

Then, he said, they played in the yard. And then played more video games.

He was starving.

"Didn't you have birthday cake?" I said.


"So, N. did not have birthday cake?"


Sigh. Never again, I thought. Never, ever, ever again.

I said, "I hope you had fun," and inside my head, I added "because you will never, ever do that again."

I should have known better. We overprotective mothers have standards to maintain!

Posted by Mel at 10:10 PM PST
Updated: Friday, 30 July 2004 8:04 PM PDT
Thursday, 20 November 2003
Random Babygirl Thoughts
Babygirl hugs now. She hugs DaycareKid to the ground, but she also hugs me tight around the neck. She still does not give kisses, however. She likes to hug the kitty, too, but the kitty doesn't always appreciate her affection.

She is obsessed with cleaning, which is ironic, considering I am not. Today she insisted we vacuum no less than four separate times. What's funny is that DaycareKid is terrified of the vacuum, but the last time we used it, he didn't even whimper. We're doing aversion therapy and getting the carpets clean at the same time!

Babygirl also uses the broom twice a day, at least. I'm surprised she hasn't whacked herself in the head with it since it's full-sized and she is not.

Give the girl a washcloth and she'll get busy washing the floor or the wall. Put a baby on the floor and she'll wipe him with a baby wipe. Leave a piece of trash on the floor (as my sons do) and she'll pick it up and ask me to open the trash compactor. She likes to take the dirty diapers outside to the trash can.

She's had a cold for two weeks and snot continually drips from her darling nose. She lets me wipe it, sometimes even blows a little. I can't wait until she is well again.

Miracle of all, she napped today in her crib! It was literally the first time in over two weeks. A miracle. God is still on the throne.

Babygirl loves her stuffed animals. Big Bird is her favorite. She hugs it around the neck and tucks it under her arm. She is the first child of mine to play with the enormous assortment of stuffed animals that we've accumulated.

Her eating habits are different from my boys, too. She likes meat: turkey cubes, tuna, crab, salmon. She eats vegetables without pause, but will spit out perfectly good home-made cookies. What's wrong with this child? I'm trying to fatten her up, but apparently she inherited some weird skinny-girl genes from my husband's side of the family.

She had two baths today because she insisted that she be allowed to jump in the tub with her brothers. One this morning, one this evening. She's extra clean, but tomorrow morning she'll probably have dried snot on her forehead.

Today, I made either the biggest mistake ever or made the best discovery ever: I put Babygirl on the kitchen counter while I shrugged off my sweater. She likes to be tucked in one arm, sitting on my hip while I work in the kitchen. It's very annoying to work with one hand.

So, I plopped her on the edge of the counter and she looked around like she had landed right smack in the center of heaven. She sat on the counter for the next thirty minutes while I did dishes and fed DaycareKid. She adored the vantage point and is a careful baby who stayed in the middle of the counter so she was in no danger. I have a feeling the counter will be her favorite spot.

She's a tyrant, but she's a cute tyrant!

Posted by Mel at 11:01 PM PST
Updated: Friday, 30 July 2004 8:08 PM PDT
High-Speed Excitement
I have a new computer. I have a new high-speed internet connection. I have a new color printer which also scans and copies. I've pretty much left the old century behind. Finally.

But it took some time to get all these things synchonized, so in the meantime, I've been silent here, despite the wacky world-happenings and domestic happenings closer to home.

Babygirl is running across the living room, hollering, as babies like to do. She's saying "bap", which usually means "apple", but today it means "bap."

YoungestBoy is due home from kindergarten any moment. He amazed me today by doubling numbers all the way up to 1,024. This kid has a sharp mathematical mind and seems to be able to hold numbers in his head--he adds the hundreds, then the tens and ones and adds it all in his head.

TwinBoyA came in the door announcing, "no homework" and "A on my spelling pretest."

TwinBoyB came through the door literally dragging his coat on the rainy sidewalk and said he's sick. His illness disappeared, though, and now he's kind of vague about his symptoms. He has to study spelling and social studies for tests tomorrow.

Babygirl is now crying in my arms. She doesn't care for the internet, high-speed or otherwise.

Posted by Mel at 3:17 PM PST
Updated: Friday, 30 July 2004 8:05 PM PDT
Thursday, 13 November 2003
Lessons I Learned by Watching Entertainment Tonight
I've learned three things tonight while watching Entertainment Tonight:

1) Always be sure to put on your makeup when going out for a drive, or you will look washed out in your mug shot. (Thanks, Wynonna, for this tip!)

2) Even scary-looking men with straw-straight hair and teeth two sizes too big and eyeliner can critique women's fashions. (Thanks, Stephen Cojocaru, you freakish man.)

3) Women who weigh only 58 pounds also think that their stomachs are fat and bloated. (Thanks, 58-Pound Anorexic.) What's ironic is that the Victoria Secret models profiled after her were nearly as thin, only they had fake breasts.

I've also decided that the words "ninny" and "dunderhead" are underused.

* * * * * * * * * * *

And now, for the cold, hard facts.

Today I:

1) Changed 5 poopy diapers;
2) Grabbed a wet girl from the bath immediately after she pooped in the tub;
3) Wiped noses approximately eighty thousand times. Okay, only 80 times. Still, it was a LOT.
4) Washed dishes three times.
5) Helped YoungestBoy find four pictures of things that start with the letter "N." Very few items in catalogs start with the letter "N." Glued on pictures: necklace, neck, noodles (ripped from the Campbell's can!) and "Noah's Ark."
6) Played outside with the babies and blew bubbles.
7) Laughed heartily at Baby Wrestling. Babygirl loves to hug DaycareKid, but always ends up trying to tackle him with a look of pure glee on her snotty face. DaycareKid looks bewildered, Babygirl cackles with joy and I burst into laughter. As Martha Stewart would say, "I don't want to go to jail!"--oh, I mean, "This is a good thing."

Well, that's enough for now. Now, I must watch Diane Sawyer interview Britney "I Can't Seem to Keep My Clothes On" Spears.

Posted by Mel at 9:50 PM PST
Updated: Friday, 30 July 2004 8:07 PM PDT
Wednesday, 12 November 2003
Buying a Box
My kids are thrilled with me today. I bought them a huge box. Well, a huge box which contained a new computer . . . but in their view, the computer is incidental. It's all about The Box.

This is no ordinary box. The Box is large enough to enclose a ten year old and an 5 year old. It's the largest box we've ever owned. Two of them sat in it and watched television tonight through the little slots that are meant to be handles.

My first three children are boys. Since I began this parenting journey ten years ago, I have learned the following things from my boys:

1) The only playthings really necessary are sticks, rocks, mud, water, boxes and Nintendo products, in that order.

2) Peeing directly into the toilet water is a skill which small boys do not possess.

3) Slinkies will last approximately twelve minutes after being removed from their boxes on Christmas morning.

4) Justice is the most important thing (ie. "That's not fair!").

5) Silly Putty will melt into your shorts if you sit on it.

6) The more expensive the Nintendo game, the more likely that it will be scratched and destroyed.

7) If a little salt is good, a lot of salt is better.

8) Sleeping in on Saturdays is against the Law of the Universe.

9) Screaming is an appropriate way to settle disputes. If screaming fails, use elbows. (To the gut, to the head, whatever is closest.)

10) Cleanliness is pointless and unobtainable.

So, I have a new computer. They have The Box. We're all happy tonight.

Posted by Mel at 10:03 PM PST
Updated: Wednesday, 12 November 2003 10:09 PM PST
Sunday, 9 November 2003
The Boringest Woman on Earth
I hereby proclaim myself the Boringest Woman on Earth. How did I earn this title, you ask?

Well, for four days my husband's been out of town. In four days, I drove the car twice. Once to pick up a book at Barnes and Noble and once to take the kids to the video store and Wendy's.

In four days, I did too many loads of laundry to count, including every towel in the house (which I had to use when my washing machine lost its mind and spewed water everywhere). I have literally one dirty load of laundry left. I'm ridiculously proud of this fact.

In four days, I saw four other adults: Beth, who picks up YoungestBoy for kindergarten; Sam, whose son, James, came over to play on Friday morning; and John, who dropped off my kids after school Friday and Brenda, who let my kids play at her house after school on Thursday. Now, geez, as I'm recounting it, I guess I saw the lady at Barnes and Noble and the fast-food worker at Wendy's, too. I'm such a liar. I guess I saw the Dominoe's pizza guy, too. Geez, I practically have a social life.

In four days, my baby took no naps.

In four days, I mopped twice.

In four days, I vacuumed twice.

In four days, I read a book.

In four days, I cleaned off the kitchen counter.

In four days, I cared for eight different children.

In four days, I had no real conversations with anyone, other than instant-messages on the computer. I barely read the newspaper and hardly saw the news.

In four days, I screamed "YOU'RE DRIVING ME CRAZY!" at least once. Maybe twice.

I am the Boringest Woman on Earth. Who lives in a shoe. With so many children she doesn't know what to do.

Husband should never be allowed to go on business trips when their wives are at home turning into pumpkins.

(Have I used enough nursery rhyme imagery yet?)

Wave if you see me at the grocery store! I'll be the one with the twitching eye and sparkly tiara. Yes, they are giving out tiaras now to really dull women.

I have to go. The children need a whuppin'.

Posted by Mel at 8:46 PM PST
Updated: Friday, 30 July 2004 8:14 PM PDT
Saturday, 8 November 2003
My Twitching Eye
My eye is twitching. This can mean only one thing: I need sleep. But my eye will continue to twitch, because I need something more than sleep. I need to be awake in this house while all the children are asleep. I crave silence.

Babygirl skipped her nap again today. I'm not sure why I bother to say it that way. The truth is, naps are an exception, not a rule. My husband laughs at me because I am so optimistic that she'll nap again regularly. I'm a "glass half-empty" kind of girl. I can find the downside in any situation. I nicknamed myself "The Dream Basher" early in my marriage. My husband would have all these plans and ideas and dreams and I could effortlessly smash them into smithereens. I know. It's a gift. He's the Dreamer and I'm the Dream Basher. (We're meant for each other.)

I had a fairly productive day. I woke up at 6:55 a.m. and thought, "I should get up and shower while Babygirl is still asleep." Then fifteen minutes later, I heard her cry out. Oops. I managed to shower an hour or two later. Babygirl was distracted by one of the boys downstairs, so I sneaked upstairs and got into the shower. It was only a few minutes before TwinBoyB escorted her upstairs. She stood outside the tub and sobbed.

TwinBoyB begged me to take them somewhere. It's cold and rainy here. Where would I take two 10 year olds, a 5 year old and a baby? He wanted to spend his allowance money which was burning a hole in his pocket. I finally decided to take them all to the bank (drive-thru), video store (to rent games) and to buy lunch from Wendy's. I've been trying to get a baked potato from Wendy's for a few weeks, but keep forgetting to order it. So, that's what we did. We rented two games, then went through the Wendy's drive-thru. I remembered the potato today!

When we got home, the boys immediately disappeared to play Nintendo. I played with Babygirl on the living room floor for awhile, then decided to vacuum. Not only that, I decided to move all the furniture and vacuum underneath everything.

I found enough unpopped popcorn kernels to feed a large homeschooling family of rats for weeks. It scared me. But I feel very virtuous now, with super-clean carpets. After that, I put away two baskets of laundry. Then, I whipped up a double-batch of chocolate chip cookie dough. I froze three dozen balls of dough to bake later and baked three dozen cookies. (I need to go pop them into a ziplock bag!) I have only one dirty load of laundry left in the house. I have impressed myself.

We had soup for dinner, then I made all the boys shower and wash. "Let me smell your armpits. Oh! You smell! Get back in there and wash this time!" And then a few minutes later, "Okay, let me smell you again. Did you wash your hair? You did not! Wash your hair! With shampoo!" It took TwinBoyB three tries to get totally clean.

They all have clipped fingernails and toenails and clean hair. Even though we are skipping church tomorrow because Babygirl has another runny nose.

How shrunken my world has my world become when I feel a sense of accomplishment because I have clean carpet under my couch and three dozen balls of frozen cookie dough in my freezer and freshly scrubbed children? I'm not sure whether to pity myself or laugh at myself.

When my husband goes out of town like this, I start to notice that I don't really have a local girlfriend to call and shoot the breeze with. When I was newly married, it bothered me a lot to have shifted from many friends in college to no friends as a newlywed. As we moved from state to state, I noticed that it took longer and longer to connect with women, to click and find someone to telephone in the afternoon while standing at the sink doing dishes.

Now, when the phone rings, it's either A) my husband; B) my sister; C) my mother; and D) someone calling me to ask what someone else's telephone number is. I've become a Directory Assistance of sorts for church people to call! Even a good friend called me yesterday to ask for someone else's number! A while back, my great-aunt from Wisconsin called me (she NEVER calls) just to ask for my sister's telephone number in Japan.

I have often been lonely for women's companionship. Women my age usually have children who are older than my younger children. They are often immersed in their careers. Often, they have long-standing friendships and it just takes too much time and too much work and too much commitment to establish a new friendship.

Then there is the added complication of being a "Pastor's Wife." Just that title alone puts an automatic distance between me and other women. (The ones who know. I often don't tell.) People have assumptions about what a Pastor's Wife is like. I don't really fit any of those stereotypes, but I do feel myself guarding my Real Self. I have to keep some things to myself, keeping in mind that if I complain about my husband, I am putting their pastor in a bad light. So, the church women are not a source of comfort or friendship to me for the most part. (I do have one good friend at church, but she's mother to three children, plus is consumed by a new career. She literally has no time.)

Well, woe is me.

My eye is still twitching and I'm squinting through my contact lenses. The buzzer on the dryer has gone off and I need to get those cookie dough balls into a bag. The fun never ends.

Posted by Mel at 8:15 PM PST
Updated: Friday, 30 July 2004 8:17 PM PDT
Friday, 7 November 2003
Fred is Dead
Fred is dead. At least he looked dead the last time I checked.

Fred's been living with us since May of 2002 when YoungestBoy found him gliding across our driveway. YoungestBoy immediately picked him up and caressed him, as little boys who love slimy things do. He christened the creature "Fred" and that's how we ended up with a pet snail.

We kept him in a Rubbermaid shoebox for quite some time. When it became apparent that YoungestBoy would not allow me to let Fred go back to his family, I bought a creature box, designed for small pets. When I'd remember, I'd sprinkle water on Fred and give him a carrot or a lettuce leaf. Once, a telemarketer called and said, "how many pets do you have?" and I said, "Well, that depends. Do snails count?"

Fred lived on and on. We kept his box tucked behind the couch so that the afternoon sun wouldn't sizzle him. Mostly, we forgot about him. He was pretty much the ideal pet.

Until, of course, YoungestBoy "caught" a slug in the backyard and put him in a jar at the end of last summer. Then, inexplicably, YoungestBoy put both Fred and the slug in his bedroom windowsill. The next day, the slug was just a slimy remnant of his former self. Fred was fried.

I moved his box out of sight. That was a couple of months ago.

Two days ago, YoungestBoy said, "Hey, I forgot all about my snail!" and I said, "Son, I think Fred is dead."

"He is?" YoungestBoy said.

"Yes, remember last summer when you left him in the windowsill? I think he got too hot and he died."

Silence. From the kitchen, I called out to him in the living room. "Honey, are you okay?"

"NO!" he said.

I peeked around the corner to see him curled in a chair, mourning. He was crying a little, his darling little mouth in heart-tugging frown.

"Now, I only have one pet!" he said. He moped for maybe half an hour, but it wasn't just about Fred. This distress was really about Greta.

When we brought Greta to our home in October of 2001, she was a bumbling ball of black fluffy puppy love. I had researched breeds carefully and chosen a Newfoundland because they are reputed to be gentle and sweet with children. YoungestBoy loves all dogs and wouldn't be intimidated by her adult size (over a hundred pounds). After much thought and research, we became dog owners!

We figured it was the perfect time for a family dog. The twins were 8 and YoungestBoy was 3. He was so lonely when they went off to school every day and I thought a dog buddy would be perfect.

And it was perfect. Except that two months later, I found myself unexpectedly (shockingly!) pregnant. After a long history of infertility, a pregnancy was the very last thing I expected. Now, we had a dog and would soon have a newborn! Suddenly, my perfect plan flew into disarray.

Despite the fatigue of pregnancy, I took Greta to obedience class and worked with her until she had decent manners. Her first year was a wild one. She was confined to the kitchen and family room and every night she would race through the house, sometimes hurtling herself over the couch, but more often running across it. She knocked down the children. When she got bigger, she stole food from the counter. Sometimes, she'd sit on the kids while they sat on the couch.

I was nervous about how we'd manage with a baby and a one-year old dog. Large breed dogs are still puppies through their second year, even though they are huge. Visitors always said, "Wow, she is so big!"

But my fears were largely unfounded. During the homebirth, Greta stayed in her crate and didn't make a sound. After the baby was born, she was interested in the baby, but always gentle. I thought my panic was unwarranted.

Shortly after Greta turned two years old, she was downstairs with the boys while my husband and I were upstairs with the baby. I heard TwinBoyB cry out briefly and when I came out of the room after putting the baby to bed, my husband told me that Greta had nipped TwinBoyB. Greta had been licking the butter dish on the counter and TwinBoyB scolded her. Apparently, Greta was startled and she nipped his face.

My husband was furious. I was shocked. He called a friend who used to train dogs who warned him that the dog would probably bite again. He talked to a nurse friend of ours who instructed us to put antibiotic ointment on it and watch it for infection. We agreed that if the dog ever did something like that, she would have to go.

I reiterated to the children that they should not scold the dog in that situation again. They were to give her commands often--before feeding her, before letting her outside, before petting her. I figured it was an issue of dominance, but we'd never had trouble before, other than one time when Greta growled at one of the kids. We'd just step up our efforts at letting her know who was boss.

Less than a week later, I was upstairs nursing the baby. YoungestBoy was downstairs watching television. Greta was keeping him company. The twins were at school, my husband was at work. The house was quiet.

Then YoungestBoy screamed. I put the baby (now crying) in her crib and leapt down the stairs. I knew instantly what happened, but when I got downstairs and saw the baby-gate askew and YoungestBoy clutching his face and sobbing, my heart flipped over. I put Greta outside and gathered my boy in my arms and pulled his hand from his face.

His cheek was red. Three scratches ended in a puncture wound and another puncture wound was bleeding near his jaw. He was hysterical. "She bit me! She bit me!" he wailed.

I led him to a chair and said, "Greta will not be living with us anymore" in a grim voice.

"But Mom, I love her!" He started crying harder.

I got ice, band-aids, a wet cloth. He sobbed and sobbed. "Why did she do that to me?"

I called my husband and told him what happened. I called the breeder and told her what happened and told her that I had to bring Greta back. (It's the policy of good breeders that dogs have to be returned to them if the owner can no longer keep the animal.) I just knew that I couldn't have an unpredictable dog in my house with my one year old baby.

The what-ifs scared me.

The night, at 8:30 p.m., I told the children that Greta would be leaving. "Do you want to say good-bye?" I really wanted to sneak out of the house under cover of darkness, but I knew they needed to cry and to hug her and to say good-bye. TwinBoyB and YoungestBoy both broke down, crying. TwinBoyA said, matter-of-factly, "This will leave a big hole in our family." He never really liked her.

The breeder's house was two and a half hours from mine. I wept most of the way. My tears were for my boy who loved his dog, even though she scared and hurt him. He had begged me not to take her away. "Mom, what if it wasn't her fault?" I told him that she never had a good reason to bite him. The next day he told me that he'd been lifting her ear to talk into it. He thought it was his fault that she bit him.

At 11 p.m., I drove up the dark, tree-lined driveway. The breeder's home is a large log-cabin, set in a clearing in the woods. The only time Greta made a sound was when I neared the house. She whined.

We spoke for awhile and went over the horrible events of that day. The breeder was kind and apologetic. I cried more, handed over Greta's rabies tag and her flea treatment. Then, I left.

My tears started before I got to my car. A few miles down the road, I remembered Greta's special food was still in my car trunk and I sobbed harder.

When I slipped under the covers at 1:30 a.m., I cried a little more and then fell asleep.

Now, two months later, YoungestBoy remembers every once in awhile. He'll say, "Mom, I really miss Greta," and tears will slip from his blue-gray eyes. He used to ask me if she could come back and live with us. Or if we could get a new dog. I always say "no."

So, Fred is Dead. Greta is gone. I comfort myself with the thought that my boy can grieve these losses in a safe place, with my arms around him. Maybe he'll be stronger in the end. I hope so.

Posted by Mel at 8:08 PM PST
Updated: Friday, 30 July 2004 10:07 PM PDT
Wednesday, 5 November 2003
It's Raining? It's Pouring?
Friday night, Al (my private investigator boss)called to see if I wanted to do some transcription for him. Forty or fifty pages, he said, due Monday morning.

"Sure," I said, thinking of two dollars a page. Forty pages? Easy as pie. I could do that in two nights, four hours tops. I could practically do that with one hand, in my sleep!

He called Saturday, hoarse, obviously sick, saying he'd bring the tape later and that he didn't need it until Tuesday morning. Excellent! Then, my dear husband who was extremely busy on Saturday (he had a funeral to prepare for, as well as the regular Sunday service), said from 1 to 3 p.m., he'd come home so I could get out of the house.

But then at 11:30 a.m., my friend, Paige, called, wondering if I could help her out by watching her 11 month old baby girl for a couple of hours. I said, "Sure, but I'm leaving the house at about 1 p.m. for a couple of hours." She said, okay.

But her husband didn't drop off baby Kyra until 12:30 p.m.! I called my husband and told him not to bother coming home. I'd just have some time off when the kids all went to bed! In addition to baby-care, I oversaw my son, TwinBoyB's, agonizingly slow progress working on a school book report. He spent four hours working on it!

Saturday night, then, found me rushing out of the house, gloriously alone, to see a movie. My timing was remarkably perfect and I enjoyed my bucket of popcorn and my movie.

Al's tapes were waiting for me when I returned home at 9:30 p.m. I said to myself, no big deal, I'll work on them on Sunday night and Monday night. Four hours, easy as pie.

Sunday was a long day, though. I stayed home from church because Saturday night from 1:30 a.m. until 4 a.m., Babygirl was AWAKE! I sat in my gliding rocker in the dark, nursing her while my feet got colder and colder, wondering if she'd ever sleep again. When I finally crawled back beneath the flannel sheets at 4 a.m., I had decided there was no way I was going to church! My throat was sore and my nose was runny from a lingering cold and now I was exhausted.

My husband was gone all day Sunday. All day. Which meant I was alone all day Sunday, alone, that is, with four children. Oh, it was a long, long day, especially since I'd had so little sleep the night before. And, somehow, he'd volunteered me to watch our friend's twin boys (9 years old) for the afternoon.

(Mid-way through Sunday, I found myself wondering if I was the only grown-up spending her life with kids twenty-four hours a day. I decided that somehow I'd been relegated to the "kid's table" for the rest of my life. I want to sit with the grown-ups! But that's another topic for another day.)

So, Sunday night I typed five pages and said, "I'm just too tired. I'll do it tomorrow." I'd spent 12 hours with my four kids, plus two additional kids for the afternoon, and during four hours of those hours, I worked with TwinBoyB as he attempted to write his report and I did this all without enough sleep and with a cold. And with a baby who wouldn't nap.

Monday came. My sweet husband came home for an hour to entertain Babygirl so I could type. I typed and typed and typed. My fingers are dry and two tips are so dry they have cracked. So, they bled. Still I typed as quickly as I could while my husband helped. But he went back to work and I resumed babycare.

Then, it was time to make dinner. The daycare baby's mama came to get him, and I toted Babygirl in one arm while I made dinner. But what's this? TwinBoyA hollers, "Mom! There's water everywhere!" I rush to the family room which is adjacent to the laundry room. There is water cascading over the floor and I immediately realize that the hose has come loose from its proper place behind the washing machine. All the water from the machine is now all over my floor! I leap into the laundry room and plug the hose back into the wall. "Get towels! Find all the towels in the house and bring them here!"

TwinBoyA runs upstairs, exhilerated to be participating in this adventure! He returns with an armload of towels. I scatter them into the puddles, trying to keep the water from creeping into the storage room.

The kids are all now trying to find towels. What fun! I'm barefoot, holding Babygirl, squishing across soggy towels when I smell burning. Burning? Ack! Dinner! I have spaghetti sauce on the stove. I hurry into the kitchen to examine the sauce. Apparently, the burning smell was just a stray crumb or something on a burner. Nothing has burned.

I call my husband to tell him I'm having a crisis and to ask him when he's coming home. He responds to my pleas and shows up about five minutes early and then he takes Babygirl from me and feeds her spaghetti and beans while I clean up water. Every towel in our house is now soaking wet and I have piles of laundry everywhere.

But, I get the baby to bed and I type! I type and type for three and a half hours . . . and somehow, I still have more to go! The forty page statement is now more than forty pages. It goes on and on and on! Al had greatly underestimated the length of the statements.

At 11:15 p.m., I went to bed, though I only had 47 pages finished. I figured I'd get up early and type. But I didn't.

Tuesday now. I expect Al to call bright and early. But he doesn't! My husband comes home again so I can type for an hour. He leaves and mostly, I take care of babies, but then DaycareKid takes a nap. Shockingly, Babygirl naps, too, but not until 2 p.m. Their naps overlap for one hour and I type! Al calls and I tell him how much I've done and that there is more to go. He says he'll call me at 9 p.m.

So I have a reprieve, but the moment Babygirl goes to sleep at 8 p.m., I'm frantically typing again, fingers bleeding, eyes scratchy, feeling crabby. I am almost finished when he calls to fix the "inaudibles."

I finally finish at 10 p.m. and I've typed 76 pages. That's over seven hours of typing. The good news? I've just earned myself $152. My laundry room floors are sparkling clean. And finally, today, there are freshly laundered towels in the bathroom again.

Tomorrow at 3:30 a.m., my husband leaves for four days. When did I turn into the Old Lady That Lives in a Shoe? Some day I'll miss this. Really.

Posted by Mel at 10:37 PM PST
Updated: Friday, 30 July 2004 10:11 PM PDT

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