ITBS - (Irritible Bowel Syndrome??) Bubble Testing

Could you pass it?...and just exactly what wouldja pass, do ya think? Ewwwwww. Alright. It's not irritable bowel syndrome, it's the Iowa Test of Basic Skills. But I can't even tell you how similar . . . .

OK here's the thing. Not a year has yet passed in my #1 son's educational career that he has not had the indistinct pleasure of taking at LEAST one standardized test. He's in the third grade. It's that time of year. Spring - when we look for dogwood blooms, chirping birds, tulips and jonquils popping out of the ground, white patent shoes, and - standardized testing.

Here's the way this will go. Initially chapping my derriere will be the hunk of hooey we'll be handed about the testing being given (at great sacrifice of time, money, etc.) for the benefit of the students. However, shortly behind THAT memo will come another one, which will follow through and serve as secondary rumpus chapping and communicate (for our convenience) an online website where we can study - and, get this - practice test - our children, so that we can improve - IMPROVE??!! their scores.


WHOSE scores - the children's - or GASP- the school's???????



There I said it.

It's p-o-l-i-t-i-c-a-l, friends. Sure, I can use the results to give me indications of where my son is in his Lexile framework, particularly since AR star testing is such a joke. It gives me a good basis for how much extra stimulation he needs at home and in what areas, and I appreciate having that information, but lets be honest about the purpose of this testing. It is not given for my child's benefit. It is our SCHOOLs that are being tested, and the students are just the pawns.

Now then. Having said that and registered how burnt my butt is, (isn't THAT ladylike!!) I'll report that no more than I like it, what lights me up so dang much is that they (the classic THEY) think I'm such a dumb crackah. I don't MIND that my son has to TAKE these tests - I mean it IS good test taking practice - if his school is going to continue to be as incredibly stupendously superb as it is. Just come on out and say, (ok I know this'll never happen because not only am I not a DUMB crackah, but I'm not a naive one either) "We're doing standardized testing this week so that we can determine how well the school is doing percentage wise within the state. Please study your kids like CRAZY so that we get good scores, we rate great, and this school continues to be able to get good funding, good teachers, a nice extra county stipend for their paycheck, blah blah blah." I would appreciate that honesty.

On the subject of school, today I am wearing, for the first time, my amythyst teardrop pendant that I got for Christmas. Well. I got it set for Christmas. The amythyst was a gift from #1 son last year. Second grade year. He won it for me. In a contest. A writing contest. Essay. They were given a title to write about. Here's the title:

WHY MY MOM DESERVES A DIAMOND

Here's the way it went. The whole thing went down without my knowledge. Several weeks before Mother's day, a local jewelry store sponsored this contest. It was many elementary schools wide but by grade so that only same age children were competing with each other. Anyway, when #1 son won second place, his teacher called handsome husband to come pick up the certificate and essay so it could be my mother's day gift. Handsome husband goes to school, picks up packet, brings it home, and #1 son gives it to me for my mother's day gift. I read the essay, then handsome husband explains what has transpired during the past few weeks, and tells me that #1 son has won the second place in this essay contest of 1200 students. When I told my Mama that story, she said that was HER mother's day gift.

So now #1 son and I go to the jewelry store to pick out our stone. I wanted him to choose it since he won it for me. We knew since he won second prize it would be something other than a diamond and I felt as though there would be several choices. There were - the owner of the jewelry store brought out a tray of beautiful loose stones and told us to choose whichever one we wanted. There were many stones, and many shapes and sizes, and my son chose the most lusciously divine oval amythyst for me.

It sat in the jewelry box until the beginning of December, when handsome husband asked what I wanted for Christmas from the boys.

"I would luuuuuve to have my mother's day amythyst set into a pendant. I'll even show you some pictures of ones I like. How's that?"

So he and our jeweler designed one just for me. There's not another amythyst pendant just like this. First the stone was won for me, then the pendant was designed for me. I feel so very special today with it on. I guess it's couture jewelry - better than Harry Winston!!!

TTFN

METRO ATLANTA - GOTTA LOVE IT! ROBBERS TEARING DOWN WALLS AND TY BUILDING NEW ONES

It seems that robbers in Kennesaw, a suburb of Atlanta, have thought up a brilliant new way to break into houses with security systems. I was listening to the news tonight while cooking dinner. As I'm putting chicken into the oven I hear Monica Pearson telling me that two men broke into a home by literally tearing the vinyl siding off of the home and going through the wall!!! WHAT??? Come on. I heard it wrong. I'll listen again when it comes on at six. By then I'll be finished cooking dinner, the kids will be finished eating and everything will be quiet because the two of them, along with their Daddy, will be in the basement. working on Pinewood Derby cars, just in case you wondered. :-) At six o'clock Monica smiles at me, rolls her eyes and tells me that two men broke into a home by literally tearing THE VINYL SIDING OFF A HOME AND GOING THROUGH THE WALL. I heard the woman right. :-O

It works because the sensors are usually on doors and windows. There's nothing to keep someone from going in THE WALL. People don't usually use their motion detectors, particularly if they have pets.

You gotta want to steal somebody's stuff pretty doggone badly to want to go to that much trouble. They did it in bright daylight too. . . in a subdivision!! What's next, I ask ya.......


On the other hand and not too far away, Ty Pennington and his crowd is with us. Today they unveiled the house they just built for a family in Cherokee County, just north of Kennesaw. Tragic story. Take a look:

http://www.wsbtv.com/news/10750379/detail.html

Walls comin' down, walls goin' up.

PINEWOOD DERBY CARS, WOOD FILES AND AN AUDIOFILE

It's the time of year for my three guys to be holed up down in their wood shop, sawing and sanding and filing and gluing and painting on what they hope will be a first place winner in the annual Cub Scout Pinewood Derby race, which will be held January 20th.

The past week or so my handsome husband and our two yummy sons have hit Hobbytown hard. They love the trip. It's a tradition and I, I'll just tell you, stay far far away from it. I let them have their car part buying trip just like I would want them to let me have a shoe shopping trip. No pressure, no hurry up I'm ready to go. It's their trip.

Now, I'm two floors away, not just one. They're in the basement, and I'm on the second floor. Okay? So. In order for me to get to them I would have to descend TWO flights of stairs. Got it? The dishwasher is on. The washing machine is going. The dryer is going. The TV downstairs is on, and the TV up here is on. #1 son has his tower fan going in his room. Ceiling fans on all over the house. Over all that, not only occasionally can I hear the music that my handsome husband has crankin' in the basement, but I can feel it through the floor in my feet!

If I walked down there and peeped around the corner, the two larger of them would be concentrating on their Pinewood Derby cars with their heads hunkered over their work. They might be tapping their toe, and #1 son will be irritated at the volume, that's my guess, but I can just about guarantee that my little Jr. Mint would be doin' the salsa while he's sanding his.

During the work session I bet they listen to approximately 100 songs at a minimum. He turns it down to background volume at times, changes it up, but always there's music. My children won't know it but they'll hear music from many genres and I don't even know if my hunky hubby will know that he's teaching them. When there is a really great part that he wants them to hear for some reason he turns it up loud. When he turns it back down sometimes I hear him talking to them about instruments, musical artists, names of musical groups, bands, and so on. When children learn and don't know they're learning it's a great thing but when parents teach great things and they don't even know they're doing it THAT's serendipity.

I guess I should either teach them sign language or mention to him at some point that he might want to think about lowering the volume. Well no one's perfect.

TTFN

MIZZIZZ NAN-SHE PELO-SHE

Shock Story: Nancy Pelosi Is A Woman!

Ben Shapiro

Apparently, Nancy Pelosi (D-San Francisco) is a woman. Coming on the heels of other shocking revelations, such as John Kerry's service in Vietnam and Barack Obama's racial background, Pelosi's womanhood is a true stunner. Next we'll be hearing that Hillary Clinton has a famous husband. On January 4, Pelosi took the gavel as speaker of the House of Representatives. She was escorted to the podium by her six grandchildren, including a sleeping baby she carried with her. After thanking her family for helping her move from the "kitchen to the Congress," Pelosi humbly chortled over her own achievement. "For our daughters and granddaughters, today we have broken the marble ceiling," she crowed. "For our daughters and our granddaughters, today the sky is the limit." The media would hammer any Republican congresswoman who dragged her grandchildren with her to work; it would rightly be considered a political ploy with children as props. Nancy Pelosi, however, could breastfeed on the speaker's podium and receive the plaudits of the mainstream media. "It seemed the ultimate in multitasking: taking care of the children and the country," fawned Charlie Gibson of ABC News. The paternalism of the left has reached new lows -- taking care of children and taking care of Americans are now two sides of the same coin. No woman in the history of politics has used her womb like Nancy Pelosi. According to Pelosi, the power of childbearing gives her extra-special abilities when it comes to recognizing national security threats. When asked on CBS's "60 Minutes" what qualified her for leadership on national security, she answered: "I, as a mother and a grandmother, 14 years on the intelligence committee. Don't tell me I have any underestimation of what the threat is to our country." Obviously, cleaning up spit-up prepared Pelosi to clean up terrorism. In defending herself from charges of San Francisco liberalism, Pelosi relies once again on her ovaries. On September 21, 2006, Jim Lehrer interviewed Pelosi. "Finally, as you know -- I'm sure you know -- the Republicans running in these congressional races in November, you're a target of a lot of this -- speaking of focus -- and they say, 'Do you really want to turn the House of Representatives over to a liberal Democrat from San Francisco?' How do you respond to that sort of thing?" he asked. "An Italian Catholic mother of five, grandmother of five, going on six," Pelosi quickly responded. Pelosi is ardently pro-abortion, pro-homosexuality, soft on crime, soft on drugs, soft on illegal immigration, anti-gun rights, anti-religion and anti-welfare reform. She wants to dramatically escalate taxes and doesn't believe that we're currently engaged in a war on Islamism. But she used the Lamaze method, so don't you dare call her a San Francisco liberal! How will Pelosi control the House? With her "mother-of-five voice." How will she bully others into doing her will? The same way she clubbed Republicans over the head about the Mark Foley scandal -- by invoking her super-duper authority as "a mother and grandmother and the leader of the House Democrats." This is absurd. There are literally billions of mothers in the world. I love motherhood as much as the next fellow, but it has absolutely nothing to do with running the House of Representatives. Lady Macbeth had a child (Act I, Scene 7), but she wouldn't be my first choice to run a country. It is no less offensive for Pelosi to run based on her uterus than it would be for a man to campaign based on his working prostate. When Nancy Pelosi uses her womanhood and motherhood as a gimmick, it insults both women and men. It insults women by stating that their special qualification for inclusion in politics springs from their genitalia. It insults men by stating that estrogen makes for superior political know-how. It insults children by making them pawns to be used for Nancy Pelosi's political machinations. And it insults voters: only babbling idiots would buy such claptrap. Politics is politics.It is not changing diapers, burping the baby or driving to soccer practice.

----end----

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On the subject in the last paragraph of using her grandchildren as pawns (I guess that's what Ben meant) when Nanshe hauled all her offspring up with her to be sworn in I heartily disagree. Any Grandmother worth her salt would do the same. Most mothers would as well, but that your career would go clockwise down the toilet unless you were south of the equator. Then it would go down the toilet still, just in a counter clockwise direction. At any rate it's the only thing Nanshe has done so far that has made points with me until today when she banned smoking on the legislation floor. Another point or two. Go Nance. We don't even smoke in public places down here in cracker land.

OK now. Nanshe's proud of her status as the first woman speaker. I get it. I feeeeeeeel it. The priiiide of womanhood abounds, and all that hoo hoo. Get OVER it Nance, let's just get to work honey. Don't embarrass the whole sector of people you're representing sooooooo proudly. You'll tarnish the frickin' tiara.

TTFN

LOTSA MUTHAS

I tell my kids most frequently about multiple mothers. I have many, you have many, everyone has a multiplicity of mothers. The conversation usually comes up because at the age of my children presently they stay confused with regard to the dynamic of who belongs to which. For example, Jr. Mint on a regular basis says from the back seat of the car,

"Mommy, who is your mommy?"

Now he knew it last week but since that time we have visited or been visited four times, told seven various old family stories, and looked at a photo album or three. I look in the rearview and he's scratching his head as he asks. He's flummoxed, bless his heart. #1 son is dissolved in laughter.

"Mama. Mama is my mother, hootie poo."

"But. But. Ohhhh. But. . . . but WE call her Mama!"

"Yes you do. That's because your older brother heard ME calling her that when he was tee tiny and before Mama could decide what name she wished to be called by her grandson, he decided for her by out-of-the-blue one day hollering "MAAAAAAMA where aaaaaare youuuuuuu?". Then once you came along and heard your brudder calling her Mama you called her the same thing, naturally. Understand?"

"Mmm hmm."

We got three miles.

"Mommy?"

"Yeesssssss?"

"Who is Daddy's Mommy?"

I thought #1 son might wet his pants. I hadn't seen him laugh so hard since his Dad got inline skates. That's not exactly true. Since his Dad stood UP on his new. inline. skates.

So we went through this same converstation with everybody's Mama - after mine and Daddy's then it was Mama's mama, Granny's mama, cousins' mamas, yada yada mama yada blah dee mada blama yama.

Fortunately it was only a four mile trip home. By the time we pulled into the garage #1 son had hyperventilated and Jr. Mint was so thoroughly contused that when we got inside I perched him on the kitchen barstool, thrust a smoothie under his nose and said OK let's make a list of Mamas. (At this point I thought one big list might be the best way to go. Diffuse the issue?)

My ONE statement about parenting is that, in the end, it's a learning experience that's list is longer for the parent than the child if the parent lives long enough and this was one exercise that was a testament to that theory. We started out just Jared and myself and after the first thirteen Mamas the gales of laughter and conversation lured Cole to join us. Well. It may've been that or the smoothie then the popsicles, I dunno. Eeeeenyway.

Besides Grandmothers, Godmothers, Great Grandmothers, Birthmothers, Birth Grandmothers, cousins that have Step-mothers, Ex-Step-mothers, we have Room mothers, Party moms, I even have a Weatha Mutha which is particularly appropriate to mention today.

In the end the conversation wasn't at all about Mamas but about responsibility and caring and opening your arms and your heart, and how it had nothing to do with whether you were related to someone or not. I have a dear friend whom I've never met who has the same ethnic background as one of my sons, and her husband has a different ethnic background (same as my other son) and his family does not accept her. Or her children. It's tragic. The reason it's tragic - besides how she grieves and hurts over it, and how hurtful it is or will be at some point to her children - is that her in-laws don't have one fat clue what they're missing. Their lives have a hole in it they aren't even aware of, and that mutha-in-law hasn't yet. become. a. Mama.

TODAY IS THE DAY IN THE DAY

Leetle feet . . . appropo of nuttin'. Just like the pic.

We were fortunate enough to have my brother and his wife spend a couple of days with us over the holidays. When my brother describes the way something was back when he was a kid he calls it "back in the day".

My kids wear Heelies. #1 son doesn't walk at all anymore unless the situation presents itself that he isn't able to roll. He pops out his wheels and puts in the plugs for school but the minute he comes in in the afternoons those plugs come out and in go the wheels. Loves going to the grocery with me now. I can send him waaaaaaaay far down to the other end of the aisle for something. He's into it. There's Heelie etiquette, boundaries. It's a big deal.

I've already told you about handsome husband's ipod. Apparently you're supposed to capitalize the i, but i refuse.

I have a Motorola Q which I sync to Outlook and it is email, calendar (the holder of my entire family's schedule when I'm away from the laptop), plus it's my phone, address book, contact list, and I understand it could be the source for my music too but I ent got that far yet. I have an issue with plugs in my ears. See previous post.

Today as I was talking on the Q, watching TV in the kitchen cooking dinner (greens and black-eyed peas etc.) I caught a glance of #1 son outside riding his bike with his Heelies on and he gets off the bike and starts rolling right along. That's sort of like emailing on the laptop while text messaging I think.

I wondered, while I was tearing stems out of turnip green leaves, thirty years from today where we will be in our world that we will say "back in the day we only had smartphones to do that with", and "back in the day, we had these archaic tennis shoes with a wheel in the bottom called Heelies," and "back in the dayyyyy, Apple had these things called ipods that were HUGE and you could only fit 20,000 songs on them." "and you had to stick earbuds in your ears......"

So today is the first day of 2007 and we are in the day. Welcome to the day.



Given that it's the first day of the year and my family has been rolling around in my head all of this day, here's my little list of 2006 angels:

My handsome husband
My children
My Mama & Daddy
My sister and her husband
My three nieces
My brother and his wife
My niece and nephew
My Grandmother
My Mother-in-law and her husband
My brother-in-law and his wife
My sister-in-law and her husband
My two nieces and three nephews

Yes there are more. Of course there are. These are just the ones I have to put my hands on frequently or else life's not good. Have to look at 'em, have to talk to them, have to know about them. Some more often than others, some not as often as I wish, but there it is.

This is an awesome list. For a person to have a list this long is fabulous and to end one year and begin another with THIS M-A-N-Y people in your life on a regular basis and this isn't even a fraction of the folks that I come in contact with on a regular basis and just lemme tell you, the folks ON this list are ALL phenomenal people. The ones that aren't even repreSENted here - aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, cyber friends, PTA committee peers, neighbors. . . . ohh.

There can not be a day in 2007 that would POSSIBLY top 2006 if it does I may possibly exPLODE from the sheer perfection of that day. (as in back in the . . .) Have a good one. Day that is.

TTFN

NEW YEAR OLD LOVEES

A new year is upon us. Time for my traditions, packing up static stuff for donation, wrapping up loose ends, unfinished projects, blah blah dee yada yada.

My favorite tradition after I get all the chores done that make me feel new and clean and clear and minimal and right-great-straight to start, is to close my eyes and place my open palms on my chest and picture first the faces who brought me here. And. Not only their faces. My Mama's smile, my Dad's hands, my Grandparents' . . . . .my ohhhh here we go. They each have their own signatures.

Here's a pic of my handsome husband, his brother, and our nephew (handsome husband's sister's son). This picture makes me feel -uh- something like pride but with humility mixed in - whaddya call that??? I don't know what it is but it's just the pleasure of having been a member of something for such a long period of time that makes me feel as if I know every loving thing about everyone. Even though clearly I don't. It was taken by my brother in law on my back deck and I swoon every time I gaze at it. I don't look at it. I gaaaaaaze at it. I have a hard time believing it because this person in the middle was a couple of months old when I came into the picture. I rocked him, I babysat him, and now HIS child is MY son's buddy. Wowzers. I was a great aunt years and years before I was a Mom. Did he have a baby early or did I have my babies late??? YES. That's the answer to THAT question.

I can't think of anything critically urgently spiritually transiently important that will begin in 2007. Perhaps it means I can't think or either it means there may be nothing particularly spectacular about the year 2007, but what's spectacular is inherent in our family, our head, our heart, our lives, our loves, our homes. I dunno. Maybe I'll use less butter. Walk more. Smile more. Spend less (nahhhhhh......). WHUTever. After many years the resolutions begin to all sound so evermore like babble, same ol' babble dee gook. Resolutions, lists, call 'em what you will. You know yourself. You know how you react to 'em. Do it so you succeed, man. Write your script.

Happy happy.

RIPS ME A NEW ONE

Burns me a new one, rips me a new one. Know the meaning when it leaves my lips? Betcha do. Mmm-hmm. Howsomever, I thought, for some bizarrrrrre reason, that it would be a grrrrrrrreat idea to get my handsome husband an ipod for Christmas. Between his ipod, the computer, and the DVD thingie he's rippin' and burnin' music and schtuff all over the hoose and damn if he ainta got earbuds in his horns every time I look at him. I'm thinking now that an ipod would be an appropriate gift for a wife to give a husband if he were all up in her space and she wanted him to quietly disappear into another dimension. Just for the record, I wasn't in that sad predicament. But the hunkity hunk is enjoying the thang and that's just da bomb. So, I s'pose my mission is accomplished although it sure doesn't feel like it when the only thing around here to talk to is the guinea pig.....

Aaaaaand speaking of new ones, Happy New Year to us all. Black eyed peas and greens tomorrow, and a day of rest. There'll be a fire in the fireplace, games with the kids, maybe a leisurely ride in the country. The first day of the new year should be spent as we hope the entire year shall go, and so my tomorrow will be spent with my family, and in touch with my friends.

TTFN

PRETTY IN PINK

I'm happy now. Reporting. I like this format better, and even if I didn't, it would stay for awhile. I can't fiddle with it any more.

Formatting is EASY PEASY NOW!!! WAY TO GO PEOPLES!!

Here's a little pic of my baby asking the girl behind him in the Santa line to hold hands.

TTFN.

CAN'T LIKE IT

I don't like my new format. I have tried to like it but I'm having no success. Mainly I've tried liking it so diligently because I don't wanna take the time to go back and choose another one. It's sooooooo harrrrrrrd. It's sorta like picking a ding dang paint color, not something I can do quickly, and so I drag my feet even going to that screen because it's like the little pebble that initiates the avalanche. . . the first domino . . . the first HA in the HA HA game. But do it I must, because this new format ith not me. Too dahhhk, dahhhlink. It's preeeeety but ith just not me.

While we're on the can't like it jag, I'll just mention that I'm not liking these folks going out in the freezing cold wilderness for sport. I don't CARE if they're experienced mountain climber whatever they are's, I demand they all stop. Can't we all get the HINT now that so many have lost lives in the cold? If we have the wanderlust for this sport is there a virtual one that would suffice please? Geezle pete.

That's all I have not to like at this moment. Otherwise I'm good.

One thing I found out this weekend I doooo like verra verra much. Grapefruit juice and vodka. Thank you sister-in-law.

REDNECK KENNEDYS

When I was a kid I used to spend time with my Grandmother, who was interested in both fashion and politics. This presented a lethal combination in the day and even now mockeries are made but I digress and digress a little more I must for I just remembered something my cousin that my cousin gave me shared with me awhile back. I'll get back to my primary point in a minute. Mebbe more.

I have always enjoyed beautifying my surroundings for when my family's home environment is pleasing to the eye, attention given to the specifics, the details, and the function of our home and the rooms in it, it becomes a comfortable, peaceful place to be. Same thing works for fashion and since I live with three male humans, I dress them in much the same way . . . pleasing to the eye, attention given to the specifics, the details, and their function so they can be comfortable and peaceful. Purty darned simple, it's not rocket science, but the point is there's no reason NOT to look good, and there's no reason your home shouldn't look good eeder.

Now back to cousin, who's an interior decorator. She'd been telling her husband that YES, decorating the house WAS necessary and then she ran across an article. Oooooh, yeah. Proof. The article said that kids who are raised in homes that are decorated, that have color on the walls, that have art in the homes, that have a parent who is in tune to the aesthetic presence of the home do better in school, are more interested in extra curricular activities, are more connected socially, and are more prone to be self-starters.

Been more than a minute but back to Grandmother. She had subscriptions to every fashion magazine of the day, and every news magazine as well. A small footstool in her living room held a foot high stack of magazines and defied to be touched lest the mountain of mags slide off the side like lava. There was another stack on the brick hearth, another one in the front bedroom in the nightstand, and yet another in the . . . er, . . ok the bathroom. So.

While scouring through every single one of these rags to find pics of current fashion, I unwittingly learned more than I ever dreamed or wanted to know about politics. Well there it is. And in the meanwhile I just developed a lifelong yearning to look at Jacqueline Kennedy. I can't call her Onassis, sorry. Doesn't work for me. Anyway Grandmother had books about the family, about her, about her doings while she was in the White House. I had the magnifying glass out, man. I was looking at her necklines. Her sleeve length. Skirt length. Heel height. Her pearls, her hats, her gloves, the way she stood, and especially the way that she put her left hand on top of yours when she shook your hand.

Over the years there have been seven thousand and one movies made of the Kennedys' lives, scandals, family secrets, assasinations, and political journeys, and I have watched them ALL for one - OK two - reasons. A. so I could see the obligatory shot of the yard football in khakis, and 2. so I could see that many beautiful people in one family.

Well this week while my boys had strep and I was stuck at home, I was going through old photographs of my parents and my handsome husband's parents. And guess what? My eyes began to glaze over. I laid them all out in front of me at one time and I made a decision right then and there. Sometimes it takes until you're forty seven years old to realize that you have what you've been looking at dreamily all your life.

Our parents are drop-dead gorgeous people. I've always known it independently of each other, but when you put them all together, they're almost too pretty to look at at once.

My sister is beautiful, my brother is a huge hunky athlete. They're both tall, lanky, gorgeous people. On top of that they're both smart as whips. . . and they're smart in such different WAYS, too!

My sister-in-law is an enormously talented writer and storyteller and can pick up many musical instruments and just begin to play. My brother-in-law is a civil engineer that builds the most important bridges in the city of Atlanta and he's a handsome devil too (looks exACTLY like my hubby). My handsome husband can play a half dozen musical instruments too, has forgotten more information about just anything you would want to ask him than I'll ever know.

Many of the above have made the most beautiful babies you'll ever see. They're polite, they mind, they're successful in school, they're motivated, kind, continue to enjoy being with family as they grow into their teens and adulthood . .


Nope. The Kennedys have nothin' on this family. Look at the stock we came from! I don't know what I did to get to be a part of my family and a part of handsome husband's but I'm here baby and I'm enjoying it.

Now I just have to perfect the Jackie wave.

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS AND OTHER WHORE HOUSE STORIES - or Aunt Donna and the Cousins

***Our Christmas gift in 2002***
This was taken on a playground in Denver, Colorado, where we went to get him

Santa and boys Christmas 2004. The pic above is Uncle Lee Lee and #1 son Christmas 2001. My brother became Uncle Lee Lee, we don't know why. #1 son named him that when he was 20 months old. His name's Dan. This is one of my favorite shots, and one of #1 son's favorite spots to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My sister in law, the very one that kvetched last week about my Christmas shopping being completed at such an early date, is the life of the Christmas eve party for handsome husband's family. My boys have googlezillion family traditions they cherish but one of the most fun is when Aunt Donna grabs them along with all their cousins and makes them her cohorts in crime as she recites 'Twas the Night Before Christmas', right just exactly pre prior to immediately before present opening time. Aunt Donna's no dummy. You get complete cooperation . . . . before. . . . gift opening time.

Aunt Donna is a master storyteller and a great southern writer. The talent in this family that my husband gave me is most amazing and worthy of a blog entry of its own, and lest I stray too far from my original story here, I'll leave that subject and go back to 'Twas the Night Before Christmas' and Aunt Donna and the Cousins. Ayter-lay on the ahlent-tay *wink* *wink*. Another day.

Now then where was I...... oh yeah. So several years ago, my kids were about ohhhhhh six and 22 months, and it's Christmas Eve, and Aunt Donna (as always) has procured some sort of fabulously silly headgear for she and the cousins to wear while relating their story. Then she passes out candy canes to each. Jingle bells maybe, things just keep coming out of a bag with Aunt Donna for the kids to wear or hold so I get the years confused unless I look at a pic. Anyway the picture can't get any more perfect - cause you KNOW these children are the most beautiful in the world already, and here they stand between the fireplace and the Christmas tree, pretty as a picture, ready to recite a Christmas poem that the older ones at least almost know by heart, they've been doing it for so many years with their Aunt. So here we go:

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

"Now Dasher! Now Dancer!
Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!
On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes--how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

OKAY. It's a LONNNNNNNNNNG poem, and in the particular verse that begins with AS DRY LEAVES THAT BEFORE THE WILD HURRICANE FLY, (you'll notice that's six verses in - seven if you count the calling of the reindeer), Aunt Donna's tongue got twisted in the MOST unfortunate spot and the house-top became the whore house.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the whore house the coursers they flew,
with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

Makes you wonder about the kinda toys, doan it. Hmm.

Aaaaaaaanyhoosie, that's a favorite Christmas memory for the adults. Went right over the kids' heads, but I'm looking forward to the day my boys are old enough to share it with them.



TTFN

YES I DO THANK YOU DOO

doodles said...

May I say that I know you go to bed each and every nite and say "Dear Lord I have a wonderful life and it's just fun!".

8:56 AM

Yes maam. I do - thank you - go to bed saying man this is too good to be true. I should do it more often so thank you for the reminder. And I'm so glad you mentioned this because I've been thinking about this very subject for quite some time. Seems I always write about good things - er - well - maybe MOST of the time. It's more fun. BUT. You know there's always a big but.

Every so often however I think about ol' Kathy Lee Gifford. Anybody remember her? 'Member how she always made out like her life was soooo perfect and everything was so great? THEN it all went ten toes up in a BIG. BAD. WAY. Well truly she boils up in the back of my mind in a terribly twisted way more often than I wish, not for the reason you might think, but because I just want THE WORLD AT LARGE to know the reason I write about the good stuff is because it's more uplifting and more fun. . . .also very much because I always believe no one wants to hear the ook about me because everyone has their own ook. No one even like their own ook. WHY would they want to listen to mine??? READ mine? This is what I've discovered about myself. It's not a KLG-esque-ism-ittude. SO. In the interest of the aforementioned, let me share with you the following horrible-grotesque-esses regarding yours truly:*

1. My house generally does not get cleaned if my children want me to play with them (I could use any number of other, less substantial excuses but let's go with that one).
   
2. I will skip a trip to the grocery store to stay home and organize something cuz it makes me feel better. (That's sick.)
3. I am not a flexible person. I'm working on it, but not very hard. I try, but not very often.
4. I think I know lots more than I really do. On the other hand I know what I don't know. I do know, yes, it's a paradox. Welcome to my husband's world, bless his heart.
   
5. I'm not willing to even try to learn some things. There are lots of brick walls in my noggin. It's a darn shame. Again. Welcome to my husband's world, bless his heart.
   
6. I have a short fuse, I overthink everything, and I expect way too much from everyone, including and especially myself. I am working on that. HARD.
7. I still don't like it when my Mama tells me what to do. I'm forty seven. WHAT a baby.
   

OK, that's enough. But anyhoodiepo, the point is this. I was thinking back to the first six months or so after we brought our #1 son home, and I wrote letters to his birthmother, after the first several letters I reviewed them one day and realized that everything in the letters was positive, beautiful, wonderful, perfect. Great news, good things, blah blah blah yada yada. She must think I'm making all this hoo-hoo up, I thought. NOBODY's life is THIS PERFECT!!! So I started putting in some of the yucky stuff. . . the real stuff about life with baby. Handsome hubby thought I was nuts. But our adoption counselor (whom the letters still had to go through for the first year) thought it was a great idea, and in fact, she and birthmother read the letters together and birthmother was so thankful to finally read a 'bumps in the road'. Duh. Of course! NOW she knew the letters were REAL. It was then that we began a real relationship. Eight years later we're very close.

So. I hope to always share the wonderful things just because they are so wonderful, not because our lives are so perfect. I hope they bring about the responses like my friend Doo had. Those responses give me a bump in the butt too. Yes I should go to bed every single night saying exactly that Doo.

DEAR LORD I HAVE A WONDERFUL LIFE AND IT IS JUST FUN!!!









* I won't share those of my family members. THAT's truly grotesque.

TAGS AND TOGS AND TUGS

Called my sister that my handsome husband gave me. "What's your husband's daughter's new daughter's name again?" Well it's not as stupid as it sounds, I mean his kids are popping babies out faster than an automated tennis ball machine. So she tells me.

"What're you doin'?" says she.

"Putting gift tags on Christmas presents."

"Putting gift tags on Christmas presents. You goober. *sigh* I have to go. I have real work to do."

That's not what she said, but that's what I heard when she said whattheheckevershesaid. It was the tone. I heard it, yes I did. There were different words, but THAT's what she said. Hmmmph. I know because I have heard the same thing come out of other people's brains, and some actually say it from their lips, too. Yes. I do my shopping early. And that's all I have to say about THAT.

So I got off the phone with sister in law and composed a broadcast email to the parents of Jr. Mint's preschool classmates, for whom I am the PAH-TAY Mom. (This, for those of you who are not cool enough to know, is what used to be called Room Mom.) We are doing a group donation to MUST ministries. Rather than each family donating a pair of mittens or socks which is what they're doing church/preschool wide, we're putting a twist on it, compiling our donations and purchasing an entire coat/hat/mitten/sock SET, letting the children compose a letter to the receiving child and enclose it in the box, wrap it, then take it down to the tree themselves and place it underneath. As I looked at this coat I got so dirt cheap at Old Navy (they're on SUCH great sales this time of the year.....) I thought well, what could it possibly hurt to stick a toy in each pocket. . . .) hee hee. Who has to know?

Now then. Went out to meet #1 son today at the bus, which stops to let him off directly in front of the house. Jr. Mint goes out with me and runs the front yard while we wait. Laps. Gets the wiggles out. So right as we see the bus coming, he heads straight for me from across the front yard and hollers MOM!!! So I turn around and look his way and darned if he doesn't tuck that head and those shoulders one shoulder lower like a FOOTball player!! I was skeert. Did I move to protect myself from being plowed??? I DID just have surgery on the shoulder, and my joints are arthritic past my years, but if I moved he was likely to go straight on out into the street. Apparently I was the break. So. When you're a Mom you stay. I prepared. I planted my feet. I bent my knees. I protected my . . er, I got ready. Five feet short he plants his right foot, stops for effect, raises his head, brings his arms straight out to the sides palms to the sky as if in a production number, grins and says, "GOTCHAAAAAAA!"

When my muscles finally relaxed, Jr. Mint was hugging me and laughing and #1 son's bus had stopped to let him off. When he hugs he grabs my pants, it never fails that he always pulls them down an inch or two before I can grab them and pull them back up and make him stop. One of these days he's going to pull them off before I can react. I just knew today would be the day - right there in front of 65 elementary school kids - friends of #1 son's, no less. How much worse could it be? Gotta get him to quit doing that. I guess I would've just turned around and said "GOTCHAAAAAA!" What else can you do???

CHILI CHILDREN

Chipper chilly children cheerfully chant.

Sunday Santa sang silly songs.

Eleven elves lick eleven little licorice lollipops.

Comet cuddles cute Christmas kittens carefully.

Two trains travel together to toyland.

Santa's sack sags slightly.

Ten tiny trains toot ten times.

This was the family activity at bedtime. There were more - OH so many more but you get the jist. My nine year old looks at his daddy with a glassy eyed expression and his mouth open, cocks his head and says, "Dad, what the heck are chilly children?" His Dad looks at him and cocks his own head right back, perplexed.

"Well," says Dad. "My guess is they're kids that are slightly cold, son." This takes a moment to sink in.

A light slllllooooooowly comes on. The elevator slowly goes up to the top floor. My son giggles at his own statement, then the giggle becomes a bellysnort which travels to his cheeks and shoulders simultaneously, his cheeks turning into tight, shiny apples and his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. "I thought it meant Chili Children. Like Soup Children or Chowder Children."

Boys. When do they ever stop relating everything to food?

THE DAY AFTER, MORE TO BE THANKFUL FOR, AND JUST MORE. . .

Yep. I can see my own cheecks under my eyes. I ate that much. Ate like an obsessed moron. No, make that I was an obsessed moron. There's too much of meeeee.

Thursday we had Thanksgiving at our home for my handsome husband's family. It was a beautiful day, outside and in. My children enjoyed the company of their cousins, playing outside so hard until when it was time to eat they came inside soaking wet with sweat, breathing hard from the bottom of their lungs, and not in the least interested in food. They washed their hands dutifully, went through the motions, head bowed hands folded Amen, yes I ate a bite of the green stuff, yes I cleared my plate, yes I drank some juice, yes I said thank you can I go BACK OUTSIDE NOW PAH-LEEEEEEEEZ???

We had a few more folks at Thanksgiving at my house. My new sister that my brother in law (husband's brother) gave me had Thanksgiving at her house last year. It was her first in the family and she jumped right in. She's that kinda gal. I am so thankful. Anyhooter, she and BIL have fabulous friends-for-neighbors. Live on a cul-de-sac and we know them all because they all were integral in their wedding last year, and come frequently to family events that are held at BIL's house. One couple was going to be alone on Thanksgiving. Kids are grown and so on. . . . Ohhhhh, nnnnnewwwww. They came to our house.

My handsome husband enjoyed his Thanksgiving day, in his own words, "more than any Thanksgiving since Daddy's been gone". That's seven years. I am so thankful.

Friday morning we got up, packed an overnight bag, and went to my Mom and Dad's. When we arrived I went to my Grandmother's house next door where my sister was preparing the dressing for my Grandmother. She has taken over this duty since my Grandmother, who is ninety nine years old, can't manage it any longer. I have to say she does a bang-up job, and it's not easy to get it just right for Grandmother, the sage, the black pepper, the salt, the chicken broth, because she never had a recipe to speak of, not to mention the fact that she's naturally very disturbed well maybe irked is a better term that she can't do it herself so she's somewhat - er - snippish at times. You know, it happens to everyone when our bodies fail us, alrightie? I'll be the same way when I'm ninety nine, I guarantee. Heck I'm that way now. But anyhoosie, seester is so very kind to Grandmother and smooths right over it, continuing with grace and style, patting Grandmother on the shoulder and sing songing calming reassuring words while all along moving in a continuous motion in the kitchen to work out the kinks in the dressing to the satisfaction of Grand Matriarch on her oak rocker throne with the cabbage rose cushion, her sweet hands folded in her lap and her feet crossed at the ankles, sitting like the Southern lady she's been all her ninety nine years. I am so thankful.

Saturday morning seester and I took our kids on an adventure. Kept them out all day. Took them to the Discovery Museum, took them to eat lunch, took them for ice cream. Inbetween stops travelling from one place to the next, they all spent time in the back of the van together, and seester and I got to talk. When has that happened? Minivans are good there I said it. Make you look like Mommys, but guess the hell whut. We are. No shame in being what you are, and couldn'ta done that in a porsche. I am so thankful.

Now we're back home, it's Monday, things are frightfully normal again. I am so thankful.

WON ONE TODAY

I got to be Room Mom (it's called Party Mom these days. whutever.) for Jr. Mint's preschool class quite by default this year. At orientation at the beginning of the year, Jr. Mint and I were the last ones to leave and the line was still blank. Teacher looked at me with pleading eyes, what could I do. There it is.

So today was the Thanksgiving feast. Now here's the background story. All year long (keep in mind this is preschool, not brain surgery, 'kay? and there's not much to this Room -oops!- Party Mom thang at the Preschool level). An untrained person can do it which is why I'm holding my own. Mostly about communication and organization, and I'm not good at muchanuthin but I can do those two things with my hands tied and blindfolded, baby. Anyhoodiepo. Every time I send out a broadcast email to the parents Joyce shoots me one right back saying "I think it might be better if . . . .", and then she always ends it with, "Just a thought!" Ugh. Sometimes she's right. Lotsa times. I appreciate the input. She's a smart gal. Thing is she likes to carbon copy all the other parents with the tweaky suggestions. Arrgggghhh. Makes everyone uncomfortable. But whaddya do.

A pattern began to develop. No one could make her happy and nothing was ever done just right. So school started in September and here we are at the end of November. Joyce is one of the two Moms that was responsible for today's Thanksgiving Feast and since I'm the Party Mom I was there too to make sure everything went smoothly, to be there in case they needed any help. And as you can imagine, Joyce is a perfectionist so today's party was incredibly organized, the centers were beautifully prepared and everything went like clockwork. BUT. During the pilgrim hat craft center, (where the hat was made with a fudge stripe cookie and a marshmallow dipped in melted chocolate.....looked just like a pilgrim hat, too) my Jr. Mint dropped his chocolate covered marshmallow into his lap before it made it to his fudge stripe cookie. Well he didn't care too much, but it got all over Joyce. She was shaken. She was upset. She wanted to take his pants off and go wash them out in the sink. (They keep an extra set of clothes there.) She apologized to me profusely.

"Joyce," I said. "Presoak is our friend. It's JUST chocolate!" Joyce wasn't convinced.

"Wait'll your son gets this age," I said. He's nine months old now. She just got back with him from Moscow. My gosh he's beautiful. Oh. That's another story. Anyhow. "Wait'll your son gets this age. His pants'll look like this too. Don't worry about it!"

Still not convinced.

"Listen," I said. "As soon as we get home, Jr. Mint will go outside with a toy in each hand and either sit in the driveway or sit in the pile of leaves in the front yard. When he comes back in, I won't be able to SEE that spot of chocolate because the spots of yard dirt will be camouflaging it. So you and my son go finish his pilgrim hat. Okay?"

I think I actually saw her muscles relax. I know I heard her let out an audible sigh of relief.

For the rest of the party, she seemed more relaxed, more eager to participate in discussions between parents, easier to laugh and talk. Maybe it was my imagination. I hope not. Maybe I won one today. A parent that is. . . .

GET 'ER DONE

Getting ready for Thanksgiving. Funny how you look at your house with new eyes when you're having a googlezillion people over. My handsome husband is re-caning antique ladderback dining room chairs that our derrieres have been hanging out of for two years now, and re-gluing a kitchen chair that has been in the basement for six months. I have gotten up the gumption to wrap up a project or two that came to a skreeching standstill months ago. It's quite a head scratcher, when you figure you're s'posed to treat your family like company and your company like family. But then, since it is family coming over for Thanksgiving, I guess we're goin' about it right proper-like.

My kids on the other hand, will go the opposite direction with their rooms when they prepare for Thanksgiving and see how much stuff they can get OUT. That way when their cousins get here they're fully loaded and ready for an entire day of all-out . . . . whew I don't even wanna KNOW what. Hopefully it'll be warm enough outside where most of the whatever-they're-gonna-do will take place in the yard or the fort. Please God.

Two years ago just before Thanksgiving I found out a friend, who was also #1 son's best friend's Mom, had an inoperable brain tumor. They gave her only a few months to live. She was five months pregnant, her military husband was getting ready to be sent to Iraq, holidays were here. She had a six year old and a fourteen year old. Melanie died four months later, in February.

This is the third Thanksgiving since I heard that news, second Thanksgiving since she died. Everyone knows how priorities shift and silly sediment falls out and the real things rise to the top when something like that happens, it's happened to us all, but Thanksgiving changed in the most remarkable way that year and has remained changed in my life, in my heart. I owe it to Melanie. She was a devoted Christian with a deep faith. She lived it, she exuded it, she claimed it.

Our family Thanksgiving was at our home that year too - the year Melanie was diagnosed. I bought Chinet plates and go-cups and a paper harvest tablecloth, and had the kids go out in the yard and gather pinecones and beautiful acorns and other treasures, and scatter them in the center of the tables for our 'centerpieces'. That was the extent of time spent on decorating and gussying up the tables or the house. I believe we had twenty eight that year. It was a blast.

May get out the china this year, may not. May wash the tablecloths and send them out to have them pressed, may not. I'm fairly certain I'll go by Publix and pick up the latest and greatest in the Little Pilgrim collection, so the salt and pepper won't sit alone. That's a kick. Point is, Thanksgiving is whatever we decide to make it nowadays. And it's peaceful and calm and it remains a holiday for the giving of thanks. Not the washing of china. Unless we want it to be.

Thank you Melanie.

THE VETERANS WALL

Every year at my son's elementary school there's a Veterans Wall. Students are asked to bring pictures of relatives that served, and these pictures are put up on the wall for the week prior to Veterans Day. The wall is on the main hallway of the school and is at least forty feet long, stretching from the front door of the school where the main office is located all the way down to the secondary, or parallel hallway. It's the main thoroughfare of the school.

Each year my son takes the same picture of his Grandaddy and places it on the Veterans Wall. It's an 8x10 sepia. Not quite black and white, not quite color. Rosy cheeks, brownish tones with a litle mauve thrown in, but the layer underneath is black and white all the same. It's a picture that was done, at some time waaaaay in the past, before my time even but passed down to me, on heavy duty photographic quality card stock. If you believe in fate, you'd think mayhaps it was because little hands, decades later, were going to take it to school every year, year after year, and place it on a Veterans Wall that six hundred children would tromp and flounce and skitter by a dozen times a day for five days.

Not sure how much of Veterans Day my #1 son comprehends right now in his realm of consciousness. He's nine. Not sure how much of it I want him to comprehend. It tears my heart out when I close my eyes and contemplate it myself, and I'm forty seven. I only want to understand it to the extent that I can sincerely and graciously, to the depths of my being, be thankful for those who have the sense of deep dedication, loyalty, understanding of responsibility and service . . . . . . . to go where they have gone and do whatever they have done. I can't even think and never have understood how anyone could lead normal lives after such a thing and whether that shows how silly and shallow I am or how beautifully trained and sadly unappreciated they are or were I don't know but either way or both who could ever do more for their country and family and people they don't even know than this?

So someday my nine year old and my four year old will 'get it'. In the meantime, every year they'll proudly haul the sweet sepia tone picture of their Grandaddy to school and smack it up on the Veterans Wall for six hundred kids to walk by a dozen times a day for five days in a row.
Happy Veterans Day to Daddy and to Junior, my Daddy that my husband gave me, and thank you for defending our Country. And Happy Veterans Day to all Veterans, and many many thanks!!!

Here's a link to a prior blog entry where I shared a letter my Dad wrote to his uncle, thanking him for his service to our country: It's worth reading, if you don't mind my bragging on my Dad's raw honesty and eloquence.

http://kidsinthecastle.blogspot.com/2006/09/heroes.html

Tea and a scone OH HELL NO YOU ENT

I was sitting at Barnes and Noble the other day with a hot Tazo and a blueberry scone reading Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Actually. I wasn't reading Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I was reading love letters written to Elizabeth Barrett Browning by Robert Browning. I was in my happy, peaceful place, I had exactly twenty three more minutes before I had to spring out of the comfy chair I was all gooshed up in to go get Jr. Mint and become The Mommy Van again, there was nice music coming through the speakers and I was partially sub-aware of murmur-minutia occuring around me which was kinda nice itself. Then. From somewhere behind and to the right came a mean, loud, baaaaaad OH NO. OH HELL NO YOU ENT A GONNA. DOAN CHU EEEEVEN THEENK ABOUD IT. DOAN MAKE ME COME OVA DEAH!!!

Now. . . . . from the tone of the voice and the way she spoke it was obvious she was speaking no hollerin' at a child, but with the insertion of the word HELL who could be sure? Anyhoosie the point was. . . . mood was gone, Barretts were no longer speaking to each other, suddenly the scone seemed like just a biscuit and the Tazo just a cuppa sumpin, and I just left early in a funk to get Jr. Mint. Became The Mommy Van twenty one minutes early. On the way out I purposely took the route by OH HELL NO mouth. Indeed she had been speaking with her TODDLER. The funk stayed with me for a little while. I didn't care a flip about being jolted out of my happy place, or being ripped from the Brownings twenty one minutes early. The funk was a "how could anyone talk to a sweet baby like that" funk. Sort of a "I'd kinda liked to have run into her quite by accident with my knitting needles" funk. Maybe a "Oops! I am so sorry I don't know HOW I tipped my Tazo down your pants" funk.

I guess I should be glad she had her toddler in a bookstore. There are worse things.

QuESt for SUCCESS

That's what my sister's working on. She's the Instructional Specialist for the middle school in the very town where we grew up. She and her best friend, who is the Head of the gifted department of the same school, co-authored the original grant application for the school which resulted in the awarding of $312,000 in Comprehensive School Reform Grant money for the 2005-06 and 2006-07 school years.

The school is using the money to implement a national award winning program called the QuEST school improvement model. Seester facilitates the grant and serves as the academic coach for the school.

According to the figures related in a longitudinal study begun in the 2005-05 school year, schoolwide scores reported gains in the percentage of students who met or exceeded expectations in all content areas recorded.

Reading scores increased by 7 percent, language art scores increased by 11 percent, and math scores increased by 7 percent. "Positive progress in every area is due to extreme focus on teaching, posting and internalizing the performance standards for middle school students in Georgia."

Yeah yeah yeah. It's all cause of my seester.

Now besides that leetle accomplishment *har* she has two beautiful children and a kind, endearing husband. Not to mention. She purty.

HALLOWTHANKMUS

I can't take credit for the term. Our pastor coined it. Well I don't know if he coined it or not but it was the title of his sermon yesterday. Pretty ding dang appropriate, huh. Hallowthankmus. He said he ran across a sale a couple of weeks ago that said "PRE-HALLOWEEN CHRISTMAS SALE". What the. . . . .?

So far we keep the holidays separate and consecutive at our home. I hope to always keep it that way. Halloween is just for fun, and it's over tomorrow. Then we begin preparations for Thanksgiving. Harvest decorations go up, we start talking about stories of our country and how it came to be and why we celebrate Thanksgiving - not just because of pilgrims and freedom, but for the hundreds of reasons we have to be humble and give thanks on a daily basis.

After Thanksgiving, we pack up our harvest decorations. Then we start getting excited about Christmas. I start burning holiday scented candles, and slowly, step by step our home becomes a holiday home. Most importantly, during the Christmas season we discuss the real meaning of Christmas. We don't write it X-mas and we don't say happy holidays. It's Jesus' birthday, so we throw Him one heck of a bash. We love throwing parties at our house.

TTFN

FRESH MILK, A CORN MAIZE AND A BONUS ROUND

My two largest male humans are leaving town for the weekend. It's Cub Haunted weekend and they're camping. Jr. Mint would never make it through the fright night tactics, plus, and, besides, which, mostly, it's s'posed to rain. If he went he'd be miserable but he doesn't know that and he'd argue with you if you tried to tell it to him, so that doesn't stop him from grieving over not being able to go.

Sooooo, as handsome husband and #1 son are packing, preparing, and just generally doing male preparations and gyrations which involve rope and knives and batteries and fuel and tents and such, my Jr. Mint's heart sinks lower and lower. As his heart sinks his head drops to his chest and he is sitting on the step with his elbows on his knees and his toes pointed out and I peep out and now I have a broken heart too. So it's part of growing up and no I won't overdo so as to spoil him or allow him to expect this every time, but I want to enjoy my weekend and him to enjoy his as well, soooooo I have such an exciting weekend planned for the two of us, but he can't get there yet. He's in the moment, he's dealing with the hole in his heart where his dad and his brother and mainly the BIG HONKIN' CAMPING TRIP are s'posed to be.

But I have visuals. Web page enticements. Audio. Ohhhhhhhhh yeah. My baby and I are gonna rock this town.

Saturday morning we are going to the dairy where they have a corn maize, hayride, farm and garden tour and squealer races. On the way out we're stopping at the country store to pick up some fresh milk. Haven't had any of that in years. Then we're going for pizza for lunch. Going home after that to nestle in for the rest of the day. Movies and popcorn at home, games, reading, activities and just generally being together. Hopefully it'll be cool enough for a fire and hot cocoa.

Sunday after church we're going to see Open Season. I promised him a new toy this weekend but I don't know when we're going to squeeze in a trip to Toys 'r Us. Doesn't matter though cuz I promised it. He will have a $10.00 limit and we will enjoy shopping and looking/playing with toys until we find the exact/perfect thing. Since the rule at the house is something in/something out, we'll also enjoy deciding on a toy of his that he no longer plays with to give to charity.

Now inbetween all these things there are normal chores. Laundry, bedmaking, dishes, etc. Just as when you camp you have chores. It ain't all glitter wherever you are.

EARLY RELEASE

They make it sound like parole, but actually my kids are just getting out of school at noon this week. It's conference week. So in truth, my #1 son is feeling quite like by Thursday, since my conference with his teacher is on Wednesday, that he may very well be thrown in the pokey.

He's a good student, intelligent kid, teacher pleaser. Makes E's, he's in the gifted program, reads all the time, has great word attack skills, solves puzzles all the time, adores math, challenges himself, accepts challenges readily. . . . . Can not remember anything to save his neck. If he uses the word forgot once in a day, he uses it seven hundred and thirty four times. Forgets to bring his agenda home. Forgets his homework worksheet. Forgets his Friday folder. Forgets to bring home his A/R book. Forgets to take BACK his A/R book. Forgets to test on his A/R book. Forgets his FILL IN THE BLANK. You name it. And that's just the scholastic stuff. We haven't even touched on the regular ol' stuff like the jackets, glasses, and water bottles.

His goose is cooked. He knows his goose is cooked. He prolly feels the heat under his feathers already. We've discussed specific improvements to make and time limits to make them in, specific methods he might could use to help him in his quest to remember things, and he agreed (albeit reluctantly) that they were realistic, even though each time it happens it's "not my faaaauuuuult!" He knows this will be discussed in depth at the PT conference on Wednesday.

It's going to be the first time ever I have had to have a discussion of this type with his teacher. It's KILLIN' him. But. It hasn't killed him badly enough to start remembering things.

Today he comes home and says, "So Mom. We got our checkbooks today."

Huh?

"Yep. Got $250.00 to start, but everything costs. Even our checks cost. Mommeeee. Did you know checks cost money??"

Huh?

His teacher, in her wisdom, has created a system which is putting some TEETH into this problem that apparently does not belong to my son alone.

"Yeah. It costs $10.00 for desk rental, $5.00 for checks, $10.00 every time we forget our homework, $50.00 if we get sent to the office, $5.00 if we have a late library book, $10.00 for the guy that cleans our room for us, stuff like that, and we get a prize if we have money left at the end of the month. I can't wait. It's a great prize."

This is a wiiiiiiiiiiise woman. Why didn't I think of this?

Yeah son, I can't wait for you to win that prize either.

HALLOWEEN

So what's it all about, anyhoodeepo? Chocolate, I say. Who can get the most, the best, the fastest. That's if you're a kid. Initially, only in anticipation stages is it about the costume. During the candy gathering stage the costume is only a hindrance, unless the child is a toddler, in which case you get "Oooooh's" and "Ahhhhhhh's" which leads to more candy, usually.

If you're a parent, it's all about who can give out the A. healthiest candy, 2. most amount of candy, or III. least amount of candy and get the porch light flipped off fastest. Depends on your opinion of the holiday in discussion.

I don't quite understand not allowing your children to participate in trick or treating at all because of the old "it's a devil's holiday" thing. I mean, actually I think in some cases maybe I do understand it after all, but it's just my little theory that lots of parents are trying so hard to be good parents that they make issues where there just aren't any, just so they have another opportunity to be a good parent. It's a upside down, flupped up good/bad agenda with self absorption or maybe self promotion at the root of it. At least in the case of "Jane", we'll call her, whose daughter goes to preschool with my Jr. Mint. Daughter does not get to participate in Halloween in any form for the above mentioned reason. We research holidays before we allow her to participate in them, says she. Daughter is however, allowed to participate in the Christmas program, even though "Jane's" family is Jewish. Practicing.

Mebbe I ate too much Halloween candy as a kid, but I dun get it.

So OK, I don't let my kids dress up as anything scary, upsetting, or violent. No weapons, no blah, blah, yada yada. We go to the local outdoor mall and do their thing - each of the boys takes a buddy, we run into neighbors and friends we know, drink lattes along the way, one of us stays home to give out candy to the neighborhood kids and the other one takes our kids through our neighborhood, and between those two things they have bagsful of candy. When we come home, the boys each get to pick out ten pieces of their candy. . . . . and the rest goes away.

How is that about the devil????? Unless it's that we don't let them keep but ten pieces.....


TTFN

FAST FOOD AMERICAN STYLE ITALIAN FLAIR

While I was stopped at a red light this morning I looked off to the right, where there was a Wendy's sign announcing their new wonderful sandwich that I really must try. It's called . . . (trumpets blaring) the Italiana Frescata. The EEEE-tall-eeee-anna Fttttres-kaata!!!

Come on people. IT'S WENDYS. Singles. Doubles. Frosties. Smothered baked potatoes with poured orange cheese and limp broccoli.

WTH? Which brings me to what I (ain't this a kick in the head) was thinking about when I happened to gaze off into no man's land as I was sitting at that red light to begin with. Why is it so difficult to just be who we is? It's sooooo much easier to lead an authentic life. Be an authentic you. Me. Us. Whoever. Wendys.

I was sitting at soccer practice Thursday afternoon and on one side of me was a buddy soccer mom who is such a very authentic person - as far as I know her, that is. She's not a close friend. We don't socialize, but we come in contact frequently through our kids and if there's one way to get a good bead on whether someone is putting on airs or not it's to sit with a group of women when their kids are playing sports - especially when it's not recreation league sports, but sports leagues with certified coaches and tuition/program fees. Trust me on this one. Now this soccer mom buddy and her husband have been living in their home which has acreage for many years, and our bustling county has basically grown up around them, such that now their modest home and acreage for which they paid a modest, reasonable amount many years ago is worth sixteen I say SIXTEEN MILLION DOLLARS, and they are in the process of closing. Next week. She visited with my youngest son during practice, talked with him about the dinosaur images on his shirt, goosed him a time or two.

Couple of the other moms way on the other side of the bleachers couldn't be bothered to do much of anything but talk (loudly enough so that they could be sure and be heard) about their newest BLAH or their latest BLECH and they have the biggest YUCK and I'm pretty sure my son walked by them at least twice maybe three or four times and they didn't smile at him once, much less goose him or notice that he had dinosaurs on his shirt.

Not that I expect them to. Just making a point.

Authenticity. Lots to be said for it. I don't think I'll try the Italiana Frescata from Wendys. In fact I haven't been to Wendys in years. But I do have a real taste for a Frostie......

PARTY MOM

Yep, me. Thaaaaat's me. Pahr-tay mom. Picture me with a lampshade on my head, dancing on the preschool table.

Well it used to be called Room Mom. Not sure when the title changed, but I'd like to go on record as saying that I enjoy the term Party Mom entirely better. It seems younger, fresher, more updated, all terms which I appreciate immensely, and more and more on a daily basis as birthdays come and go.

Except for this. In a Preschool world, it tends to come out of their darling little traps as Potty Mom.

I think "CRAP!" would be the appropriate expression for that.

TTFN.