Category Archive

So I took Elvis to get his shots this afternoon, so he can go to kindergarten in the fall–or more precisely, stay in kindergarten come next February–and the visit did not bode well initially. We went into the the doctor’s office, where there was a very long line–unusual for a bright summer day. Apparently the office is transitioning to a new computer system, and they thank us for their patience. I remember when they got the new computer system. That was the day I first called to make this appointment and was told they couldn’t make any appointments that weren’t for that same day until the new computer system was finished installing, in about 24 hours. Which was fine, I was happy to call back 24 hours later. Except that I forgot to call back 24 hours later. I forgot to call back for about 504 hours. Anyway, suffice it to say that the new computer system has been around for several weeks, so it’s not a matter of them getting used to it or working out kinks. It’s a matter of every single patient having to go through an initial really-long-check-in-process. So where was I? Sorry, it was just the most amazingly long line, and it was made even longer, as I shall explain in the next paragraph…

…because SOMEBODY (i.e., Elvis) kept running out of the office and into the lobby and up the stairs and onto the elevator and coming back down again extremely pleased with himself and shouting, “There you are!” This might not have been quite so bad if it weren’t for the fact that this office building boasts the World’s Slowest Elevator. Seriously, it would take a full three minutes for it to travel from floor 2 to floor 1. I’m talking actual travel time, not waiting-for-people-to-get-on-and-off time. No one else was using the elevator, probably because it’s so stinking slow that even people in wheelchairs would rather take their chances with the stairs. What’s going on in that elevator? Is it being controlled by the pediatrician’s new computer system? Anyway, every time Elvis would take one of his magic elevator rides, at least two new parties of patients would come into the doctor’s office and get in line, so I was just not getting ahead, as you can imagine.

Fortunately, at one point a woman who had come in at the exact moment that Elvis was rushing out the door to go up the stairs again saw me come back into the office and let me get in line ahead of her, which was where I would have been if he hadn’t been such a stinking turkey in the first place. God bless that saintly woman. I wish I could have rewarded her with something better than a 50-pound monkey boy flailing around and screaming for me to let him go. “I STUCK! I STUCK!” Yeah, I know, buster. I stuck you there. At one point he even tried to get tricky with me, asking me for hugs, which are easier to wriggle out of than wrestling holds. Fat chance, pal. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 47 times and it’s my foot on your back until the nice lady brings your file up on H.A.L. over here.

Naturally, when I had to loosen my grip in order to dig through my purse for his insurance card, he escaped yet again, and once again, I had to go after him and wait for the three-minute elevator. I’m sure the people behind me were madly in love with both of us by now. I’m expecting flowers and marriage proposals by the dozens. Anyway, I finally, finally got us checked in, and that’s when the miracles started happening.

First of all, the nurse took his weight.  She took his weight, meaning that she told him to step up on the scale, and he did.  He even stayed there long enough for her to move the little thingy back and forth so she could get the exact half-poundage.  This has never before happened.  Then she measured his height.  He’s 46 inches.  I always suspected, but I never really knew.  What good is this information?  Who cares?  I have it now, and I’ll find a way to use it.

Then we went into the exam room and waited for the doctor, who showed up within three minutes.  I know, I was pinching myself!  Elvis just lay there on the exam table and let her examine him.  She looked in his eyes and up his nose, felt his tummy, even checked that Very Personal Area–and he was fine.  Didn’t so much as flinch.  Okay, maybe he flinched a little, but it was very brief.  Overall, he was the picture of cooperation.

So the doctor pronounced him perfectly healthy and said she’d send the nurse in to do the shots.  I asked if they had any restraints, half-jokingly–well, mostly pretending to be half-joking, but in reality quite serious–and she said, no, they didn’t have any, but she’d have them bring “reinforcements.”  So two nurses came in, one to hold him still while the other administered the shots.  Elvis didn’t like being held still, but that other nurse was so swift, he was half-immunized before he even realized what was happening.  It was amazing.  He didn’t even cry until the last shot (there were four), but then he got his bandages and they released him, and he just walked off in a daze, like it had all been a crazy dream.  I tell you, I came this close to crying.  I couldn’t believe how easy it was.  I walked out to my car, half-expecting to find the Virgin Mary in the fingerprints on my windshield.

You know, this day started out pretty crappy, but now I’m beginning to think that somebody up there doesn’t hate my guts.  I don’t know how He or She did it, but…thank you.  I needed that.

Not quite a year ago, my husband spent $1,500 and multiple man-hours building a deluxe play structure in the back yard for our children.

It is a beautiful, sunny day in Oregon.  Are my children in the back yard, playing on their $1,500 play structure?

Negative, Rampart.

They are in the front yard, watering the driveway and running back and forth across the street, in their bare feet, because hot asphalt that could very well have broken glass on it is so much more comfortable than grass.

They just don’t like the back yard unless there’s mud there.

Next time we feel like spending $1,500, we should just take everything out of the back yard and make it a giant mud wrestling pit.  We could charge admission.

The carpets are already ruined.  What do we have to lose, besides our dignity?

Never mind.

Mister Bubby makes his game plan

Mister Bubby: Mama, I found the perfect shirt for getting a girlfriend.

Giraffemom: Oh?

MB: Yeah. You have to have cool clothes to get a girlfriend, you know.

GM: So I’ve heard.

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Princess Zurg faces her mortality

Princess Zurg: I can’t believe I’m almost in the fifth grade.

GM: Yeah. Crazy, huh?

PZ: I can’t believe I’m already ten years old!

GM: Me either.

PZ: Is time speeding up, or am I slowing down?

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It’s not enough that you stole my youth? Now you must steal my eggs?

My two youngest children eat fried eggs for breakfast every day. They will probably get heart disease and die before they’re twelve. It will be on my head. But that’s what they like to have for breakfast. Girlfriend might eat something different, but not if Elvis is having an egg, and Elvis always has an egg for breakfast. That’s his thing. Unless I get up before everyone else and start making pancakes, eggs must be fried and consumed first thing in the morning.

Usually I like to have cereal for breakfast. Sometimes, though, I’m in the mood for eggs. I prefer mine scrambled. Unfortunately, I must prepare my eggs secretly if I am to eat them myself. If Elvis and Girlfriend discover that I am making eggs, they will immediately descend like vultures and demand to have my eggs. Mind you, they have already had their own eggs and moved on to other, non-breakfast activities. Also, if I tried to make scrambled eggs specifically for them, they would act like I was trying to poison them. But it’s as if they can’t stand for eggs to be eaten by other people, namely me, and they will stop at nothing to prevent it, including eating scrambled eggs.

So this morning I had a hankering for eggs. It was almost ten-thirty, and the kids were all in different rooms, doing their own things. I made perfect scrambled eggs. Like, the best scrambled eggs I’ve ever made in my life. They were the perfect consistency. I was really looking forward to eating them–even if I did have to do it standing at the sink so as to avoid the appearance of enjoying breakfast. As soon as said eggs were out of the pan, Elvis and Girlfriend ran in from the other room and started circling my plate. “Need eggs! Need eggs!” they cried. “No, these are Mommy’s eggs,” I said. “You’ve already had your eggs. I’m eating these eggs. Go and play.” “Mommy’s eggs! Want some!” And then one of them kicked me in the shins while the other one ripped the eggs right out of my hands, and they just started shoveling them in their mouths. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t exactly like that–it’s all sort of a blur now, but suffice it to say that they ate my toast, too. Little fiends.

That’s why I’m currently locked in the master bedroom, eating some different scrambled eggs I prepared whilst they were devouring my original eggs. These eggs were not as good as the first ones. And the incessant pounding at the door is getting to me. But I ate them all by myself.

Why does the victory seem so hollow?

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Somebody tell me I’m being ridiculous

My kids’ babysitter is a very nice woman. She doesn’t have any children of her own, except for her foster son, who is Princess Zurg’s age. She’s very good with my kids. She loves them, and I suspect that they love her, in their way. She offered to take Elvis and Girlfriend to see the real-life Thomas the Tank Engine at the end of the month–well, not THE real-life one, as he doesn’t exist, but A real-life one who comes into town and takes kids on a ride and lets them eat a picnic lunch in his vicinity, or something equally awesome. With PZ in summer school and MB easy enough to farm out to a friend’s house, I could have a few hours to myself. Only one problem: I don’t think I could stand to miss the looks on Elvis’s and Girlfriend’s faces when they saw a real-life Thomas the Tank Engine. So, no, that’s not going to work for me. I must come along for the Thomas the Tank Engine ride. It just wouldn’t do otherwise.

Then there’s the other thing. She’s also offered to take the younger two to Mommy & Me/You & Your Pre-schooler swimming classes–because she knows that they like to swim, and that I do not. That would afford me a little break a couple days a week, and they would get to swim, and I wouldn’t have to. Doesn’t that sound just jim-dandy? So why don’t I like this idea? As near as I can figure, I feel guilty for not wanting to take them swimming. I really do enjoy spending time with my kids. I even enjoy playing in the water with them on occasion. It’s just the thought of having to take them swimming on a regular basis that fills me with dread. Schedules, obligations–it’s so complicated. Can’t we just set up a cheap wading pool in the back yard and call it good? They would never know the difference.

So I was hoping that the classes would already be full, and this would become a moot point. Well, the baby swim classes are already full. (All 25 slots. Yeah, 25! Crazy, huh?) There’s one pre-school class left that is not full. I could easily register for that. I could send my babysitter–who should really be given a name, for simplicity’s sake…let’s call her Gertrude. (What? I like Gertrude.) So I could send Gertrude, and I’m sure Elvis would have a great time with her–he likes Gertrude, and he likes swimming, and he’s not apt to be having conflicting emotions and wondering why Mommy doesn’t love him enough to take him swimming herself. But for some reason I don’t want to. For some reason I feel like I ought to take him swimming myself, but there’s two problems with that: 1) I really don’t relish the prospect of having to get up and go swimming three mornings a week–not that I hate swimming, mind you, it’s just the having to swim that I hate. 2) I really think that Gertrude wants to take him, and I will somehow hurt her feelings if I say I’d rather she stay and watch Girlfriend while I go, and it really doesn’t make sense to do it that way when you re-read Problem #1.

Am I mentally ill, or just a woman who doesn’t want to be happy? You decide.

Take my poll!

Mister Bubby:  Momma, at field day today I got an extra ticket for no reason.

Giraffemom:  How did that happen?

MB:  Just that a fifth-grade girl gave it to me.

GM:  Oh.  That was nice of her.

MB:  But Cameron got three and five.

GM:  From the fifth-grade girls who try to kiss him?

MB:  Yeah.

GM:  Because they think he’s cute?

MB:  Because they love him.

GM:  Hm.

MB:  I’m trying to get a girlfriend.

GM:  Really?  One in the fifth grade?

MB:  Probably.

GM:  Sounds good.

MB:  Only it might not be ’til second grade.

GM:  Yeah, there’s probably not enough time to cultivate that relationship in the last week of school.

MB:  Luckily, there are some good fourth-grade girls, though.

GM:  Yeah.

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My sister, who started blogging this year, is approaching her hundredth post and is wondering how to commemorate it.  Just out of curiosity, I looked up my 100th post (almost four years ago!), and it made me think about how much has transpired since I started this blog.  For one thing, I have a whole other kid!  Which means Elvis is no longer my baby.  But it’s fun to remember when he still was.  (Incidentally, that picture I was fretting so much about after the “extreme haircut” turned out to be one of my favorites, ever.  And his hair doesn’t look nearly as short as I remembered it being.)

Part I

SD: Maybe I should get you a pager.

Mad: So you can page me during the day and ask, “Have you done this yet?”

SD: That’s what I do to people at work.

Mad: Bring it on. Maybe it’ll help me.

SD: Maybe I could invest in one of those electro-shock collars, too.

Mad: Whatever works.

SD: Well, that’s what I’m looking for, what’s most effective.

Mad: I hear you, man.

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Interlude: Princess Zurg learns the meaning of “TMI”

Princess Zurg: Stop slapping Mommy’s bum.

SD: Why shouldn’t I slap Mommy’s bum?

PZ: Mommy’s bum is private.

SD: Not to me.

Mad: Nothing’s private when you’re married.

PZ: Nothing?

Mad: Pretty much.

PZ: You mean you can see each other naked?

Mad: Yes.

SD (simultaneously): You sure can.

PZ (incredulous): Do you see each other naked?

Mad (thinking we’ve had this talk? a couple times?): Uh…yeah.

PZ: Do you–(stops, wheels turning…thinking…thinking…thinking………..then suddenly) Do you like my picture?

Mad: I love your picture.

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Part II

Sugar Daddy (referring to the paper towel and wet tea bag his wife has just set upon it): Would you throw that away please?

Madhousewife gives her husband her “Are you kidding me with this?” face as she throws the wet tea bag and paper towel–which she was not quite finished with–into the garbage can.

SD (feeling unjustly maligned by the “AYKMWT?” face): It’s just–they pile up, all over the counters–

Mad: Whatever, dude.

SD: They do! They’re just like your tampons, all over the place. (???)

Mad: Right. Just like tampons.

SD: Somebody’s testy.

Mad: Whatever.

SD: Doesn’t like being nagged about leaving paper towels all over the place.

Mad: You have a thing about paper towels, I have a thing about dirty socks. (Unspoken: And popsicle sticks and empty Otter Pop wrappers and Slurpee cups and glasses of milk with soggy cookie crumbs in the bottom and shrink wrap and wet towels and globs of hair gel in the sink, yea, that precious cultured-marble sink-integrated-with-the-countertop sink that someone just had to have so his bathroom could match the caliber of his home, and strawberry-and-banana smoothies left to rot on the bookcase while their would-be drinkers leave town for a week…ad lib, etc., usw.)

SD: Well, you should nag more about the dirty socks.

Mad: No. That’s not the way it works, son.

SD: Somebody’s testy.

Mad: Whatever.

SD: Are you mad now?

Mad: Nope.

We went to church with my sister on Sunday.  Princess Zurg went to Primary (children’s Sunday School) with her cousins.  Princess Zurg has a love-hate relationship with Primary.  On the one hand, she finds it a lot less dull than the sacrament service.  On the other hand, it is still a little too “churchy” for her tastes.  She likes the classroom portion, when they discuss the application of religious principles to real-life situations.  She doesn’t enjoy when they read from the scriptures because there aren’t enough girls in them.  (She has particular disdain for the Book of Mormon, which is heavy on war stories and mentions only three women by name, one of whom is a harlot of no consequence.  That really galls her.)  She likes the singing…sometimes, when they’re not singing “annoying” or “childish” songs.  In other words, it’s really more of a tolerate-hate relationship.

I feel her pain.  I wasn’t too fond of Primary at her age, either.  I wasn’t too fond of church, period, and the feeling didn’t become warmer or fuzzier when the teen years hit.  I found the church youth programs alternately dull and condescending.  Or perhaps both simultaneously.  I was probably around thirteen when I decided I just wasn’t going to go to church anymore, because what were my parents going to do, make me?  Well, actually, it turned out they could.  I think so, anyway.  It was a long time ago, and I remember them putting up with my crap for about three weeks, and then the jig was up.  I don’t remember exactly what “changed my mind.”  I suppose I was just a people pleaser at heart.  Anyway, that’s another story.  My point is that I sympathize with PZ’s frustration, but at the same time, she’s only ten and not a very responsible ten, and I’m not going to let her just stay home by herself.  I don’t think she even wants to stay home by herself.  I think she wants us to change religions.  That’s not apt to happen.  And like I said, we need to take her with us, if only to keep her off the streets.

Historically, PZ has acted out in very loud, very public ways during various portions of the worship service, starting when she was about, oh, two?  Two-and-a-half?  We were walking into the chapel one day when she suddenly threw herself down on the floor and started screaming, “No!  No church!  NO JESUS CHRIST!”  The incident was all the more remarkable because PZ at that age was more or less non-verbal much of the time.  It would take more motivation than I currently have to provide you a laundry list of PZ’s childhood impieties; suffice it to say that the above anecdote is representative of the rest of the iceberg.

We don’t “allow” PZ to disturb other people’s worship–not any more than her school teachers “allow” her to disturb other students’ learning experiences–and in the last couple of years, she’s made great strides in the Appropriate Church Behavior department.   In the last several weeks, though, she’s been particularly vocal with her complaints.  This Sunday was no exception.  Girlfriend was not hip to strange church nurseries, so I was walking the halls with her and happened to pass by the Primary room, where the kids were learning a new song called “Home Is Where the Heart Is.”  (Technically, it’s not “new,” but this generation of kids did not know it.)  The second verse goes like this:

Out in the hall, I did my mental Marge Simpson grumble–”Hrmmmm”–and hoped that I had just misheard the lyrics.  They didn’t actually set up Father as Mr. Strength and Wisdom whilst lumping Mother in with the rest of the household members who needed his righteous dominion, did they?  Well, probably they did, but I was reserving judgment for the time being.  Right about then, my sister (who happens to be the Primary president in her ward) came out to the hall and told me that PZ had been quite disturbed that Father got strength and wisdom, while Mother just got stuck with the kids.  Yes, we chuckled over it, but I also said, “Good for her.”  At least that’s what I was thinking.  Inside the Primary room, they were still practicing the song and the music director was telling the kids, “This time, sing it like you mean it.”  PZ burst out, “But I don’t mean it!”  And at this moment, as much as I wanted her to suck it up and not make a scene or embarrass her cousins, I also couldn’t help but think, “That’s my girl!”

For those of you not up to speed on your Mormon Minutiae, the LDS church has a fully correlated curriculum–it’s a by-product of the David O. McKay era as documented in David O. McKay and the Rise of Modern Mormonism (fascinating read, I assure you)–which means that Primaries all over the world teach their kids the same lessons and the same songs.  This “Home Is Where the Heart Is” song is, unfortunately, part of the 2008 Primary program set to take place in October, in every Primary on the face of the earth, including ours.  So this was not the last time PZ will have to be affronted by this song, as well she knows.  She’s written (and mailed) a letter to the General Primary Board, hoping that the lyrics to this song will be changed by prophetic mandate before the October program.  No, we have not yet begun to see the end of PZ angst over this topic.  And I have to tell you, this time I’m grateful for my daughter’s utter inability to let stuff go.  It may be sad and wrong, but part of me is actually looking forward to her complaining every week about this song.  I hope she complains good and loud.  It’s nothing new–folks in our Primary are used to PZ’s feminist rants–but it has the potential for something big.  Like what?  I don’t know.  It’s just so rare that I can support my daughter’s righteous anger, and I’d like to relish it, if you don’t mind.

I realize how silly this must sound, making such a big deal out of a little song–really, only a little part of a little song–as though I didn’t belong to a patriarchal church with a treasure trove of gender disparities that are hard to reconcile with my basic sense of justice, not to mention logic.  You’re probably wondering, all things considered, if Madhousewife doesn’t have bigger theological fish to fry.  Well, yes, ordinarily I do.  But this is not a theological fish fry.  It is a cultural fish fry.  Where the fish are sometimes coated in theological batter.  I’m going to abandon this metaphor before it destroys me.  Next paragraph, please.

I know I belong to a patriarchal religion.  I’ve come to terms with that, in a way.  I had to find a way to live with it, so I did.  Find a way, I mean.  And the fact is, most Mormon women don’t feel oppressed by the church’s patriarchal structure.  I don’t feel oppressed by it.  It is more an intellectual annoyance than anything–because, in fact, there is much in the religion that is empowering to women.  Some Mormon women don’t even find it difficult to reconcile those aspects with the patriarchal ones.  I am not one of those women, but that is neither here nor there.  The church continues to evolve on gender issues.  Some things really have changed; others really haven’t.  But the fact remains:  back when this “Home” song was written, it was not controversial to assert that men had authority over their wives and children, but these days no one would get up in church and say that without ducking.  Today there is an increased emphasis on wives and husbands being equal partners, even while the church refuses to repudiate the patriarchal order.

This is frustrating for most Mormon feminists, who would rather deal with open sexism than this political correctness, but I’ve chosen to take the church at its word.  We believe in both patriarchy and equality–fine.  It may not make sense, but neither does a lot of other stuff; it’s religion, not rocket science.  I can dig that.  What I can’t dig–won’t dig–is the notion that this doctrinal paradox mustn’t produce cognitive dissonance.  Some folks don’t have the cognitive dissonance; I appreciate that.  But they need to understand that their lack of cognitive dissonance is attributable to faith, not reason.  Not that reason doesn’t inform faith; it does.  But religious mysteries cannot be “solved” by reason alone.  That is why they are mysteries.  I don’t want to remake church doctrine to suit my personal sensibilities, but I insist on acknowledging the mysteries, so I insist on acknowledging the cognitive dissonance.

This is why I’m happy to have my daughter publicly object to this silly Primary song–not because I think it’s a hill worth dying on, but because I know it’s not a hill the church is willing to die on either.  It’s just a tiny thing that niggles at me, and so I niggle back.  It’s easy to say, “Well, it’s just a song, and there’s a rhyme scheme and a rhythm to maintain, and it doesn’t mean that Mother doesn’t have ’strength and wisdom true,’ just like Father, but there just wasn’t enough room to say it that way, and for the love of Mike, it’s just a song, what do you want, Madhousewife/Princess Zurg?”  But it’s also just as easy to point out this:  A hundred little things add up.  My daughter hears this song and thinks it diminishes women.  I think it infantilizes them.  It’s not devastating; it’s not abusive; it’s just annoying–nothing more than annoying, in and of itself.  But if the church wants its patriarchy-equality paradox, maybe it should stop teaching my children songs that undermine its professed value of male-female equality.  It’s a little thing, precisely.  That’s why it’s not too much to ask.

Make no mistake–I labor under no illusion that the church is going to change this song or have it removed from the children’s songbook, nor will I be embittered because of that.  I just want other people to think about it, about its implications.  Something they won’t be able to help doing when my daughter runs out of the room screaming every time they sing it.

Princess Zurg:  There was a boy in my class whose mom let him watch Spiderman 3 but wouldn’t  let him watch Corpse Bride, even though Spiderman 3 is rated PG-13 and Corpse Bride is rated PG.  She said Corpse Bride was too gross.

Giraffemom:  Well, Corpse Bride is a little too macabre for some people.  You know, it’s got all those dead people and…maggots.

PZ:  But those maggots aren’t even real.

GM:  Yeah, well…

PZ:  And Spiderman 3 is rated PG-13 for violence.  Corpse Bride only has one little duel in it.  And it doesn’t have any naked people in it, or anything disgusting like that.

GM:  No.

PZ:  What’s grosser, maggots or naked people?

GM:  Uh…I guess it depends on who’s naked.

PZ:  You mean, if the maggots are naked, they’re grosser, and if the people are naked, they’re grosser?

GM:  Something like that.

 

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So those of you who have been studying for the exam might recall that I’m an assistant librarian at church.  They called me to the position a couple of years ago, and I remarked at the time that Ward Librarian was a position of extreme power among Mormons because librarians are the only individuals aside from the bishopric who have keys to the church library.  Why is the church library such a well-guarded facility?  I guess because electronic equipment is stored there.  Like old TV’s and DVD players and ancient cassette players.  Oh, and erasers.  People are always “borrowing” our erasers and “forgetting” to return them. 

Totally irrelevant aside:  We keep our chalk and erasers in an old wine crate.  The head librarian was conscientious enough to black out the words “Red Wine” but not the word “Mondavi.”  Nor was she conscientious enough to remove the paper towel that resides at the bottom of the crate that says, “Get me wet and I’ll erase for you.”  For some reason that disturbs me more than anything else I’ve seen at church in recent years.  End totally irrelevant aside.

Anyway, as I was saying, any jerk can get keys to the church building itself, but the key to the library is most precious above all other keys.  So naturally I was rubbing my hands with glee, anticipating the moment they bestowed one of these babies upon me.  Well.  There’s a scientific term for this phenomenon; it’s “premature gleeful-hand-rubbing.”  For about a year and a half I did not have any keys, to the building or the library, and every time I had library duty, I had to hunt down keys from one of the other librarians, or from one of the bishopric, and while it wasn’t like crossing the plains on foot in bitter winter and losing my toes to frostbite, it was still a trial for me to bear.  Inconvenience is the scourge of our modern times. 

About a year into this business, I became reconciled (mostly) to the fact that I was never getting a key to the library, and I would just have to settle for the power trip that accompanies eraser disposition.  I kept telling myself, “You know, self, it’s not that they don’t trust you.  It’s that they’re too lazy to make copies.  I mean, they’re too busy.  They are so busy, and they can hardly expect to make your individual library key a top priority, no matter how many times you and the head librarian keep reminding them that you still do not have a key, and you do in fact need one.  It’s not like crossing the plains on foot in bitter winter and getting frostbite.  At worst, it’s like being in a covered wagon and having a cold.  So you can just suck it up, self, and stop trying to rise above your station.”

Then a wonderful thing happened.  The bishopric member from whom I most frequently borrowed keys (because he lives down the street from me) came in one Sunday and presented me with a key to the church building.  Which, as I told you, is the key that any jerk can get–but still, it was more than I had before.  I was now equal to any jerk in the church.  That was nothing to be ashamed of.  Of course, I still needed a library key in order to discharge my librarian duties to the best of my ability–which I ever-so-humbly reminded him, whilst expressing extreme gratitude for the gift already given.  At which point he said, “Oh.  I thought you already had one of those.”  I so humbly and graciously told him that I had not that precious key, but I would be ever so indebted if he could procure one for me.  No pressure.  I’d just been waiting a year and a half, which was not remotely how long it must have seemed to the pioneers crossing the plains in bitter winter, on foot or otherwise. 

In spite of the fact that I was clearly not under any imminent threat, he promised that he would get me a key the following week.  And you know what?  Eventually he did.  And I’m proud to say that since I’ve assumed ownership of that key, I have not once let my rowdy friends into the library to watch unauthorized videos or erase things with wet paper towels.  I have been the very picture of responsibility.

Until I let Elvis play with my keyring with the iffy clasp and the keys to the church building and the library fell off.  Actually, a lot of things fell off–the grocery store club cards, the Blockbuster Rewards card, the tiny and purely decorative rape whistle–but I found all of those things in pretty short order.  The church and library keys were nowhere to be seen.  Naturally.

I didn’t panic initially.  I reasoned that since Elvis had most recently taken my keys down to the mailbox to get the mail (that’s his new favorite chore, second only to taking out the trash), the keys must be somewhere between our front door and the mailbox.  Which is across the street.  Yes, I let him cross the street by himself.  “Street” is really an overstatement–it’s more like ”a stretch of asphalt separating my sidewalk from my neighbor’s sidewalk, that sometimes cars drive on.”  Okay, this is really a topic for another blog.  Forget I told you where the mailbox was.  Suffice it to say that I visually scoured every inch of the path that Elvis would have taken to get the mail–and I found a couple of decorative doohickeys from my keychain that had been missing for several days–but no church keys.  I’ve always been afraid that Elvis would accidentally drop my keys into one of the gutters and I’d never see them again, and if you think I didn’t check the gutters–twice–you are mistaken.  That’s when I realized they (the keys) could be anywhere.  Possibly even in my house–meaning that I might never find them!  Augh!  This was when the panic started.

Knowing that if I told the head mucky-mucks that I’d lost my keys–not just the key to the church building, which any jerk can get and which jerks lose all the time, which is why they have to keep re-coding it, but also the coveted, most-precious-above-all-other-keys library key–I had about as much chance of getting replacement keys as I did of getting my pre-pregnancy breasts replaced.  Short of a miracle, it was simply not going to happen.  And it’s not like they would have relieved me of my librarian duties, since I was obviously not to be trusted with church property.  No, they would keep me as assistant ward librarian, forcing me to keep borrowing keys year after year, mocking me with their power–power that I would never again hold, so long as I lived.  It would be a little mini-hell, not unlike what the pioneers went through when they got to Utah and there were no department stores yet. 

So in desperation, I told my kids that my Very Important Keys had been lost and that whoever found them, I would buy that person a Webkinz.  (Is Webkinz an acceptable singular, or should it be Webkin?  This is the question I always ask myself, unless I am too worried about my keys.)  To be perfectly frank, I didn’t expect I would have to deliver on that promise, as I am a pessimist and believe that once something is lost, it can never be found again, all historical evidence to the contrary.  At some level I probably believed that God was punishing me for my negligence.  Letting my five-year-old borrow the keys so he could get the mail, which is across the street–tsk tsk. 

Anyway, I knew I was being extreme, but on the other hand, I really wanted my keys back.  I wanted them at least $13.99 worth.  So I did some back-of-the-envelope calculations and decided that the worst thing that could possibly happen was that I never found my keys.  The second-worst thing would be that both of the older kids found the keys simultaneously and I’d have to buy two new Webkinz and Mister Bubby would say that was unfair because now Princess Zurg would have three and he’d only have two, which would remind Princess Zurg that some kids have seven Webkinz, and we’re really falling behind in the showering-children-with-gifts department, and they would both (continue to) grow up with this disgusting sense of entitlement and they’d never succeed in the real world.  So that’s why I did what I did.

The next 24 hours I just spent re-reconciling myself to the fact that I was never going to have keys to the library.  Then, on Tuesday, we were coming home from swimming lessons, and as Elvis was unlocking the door (with my utterly replaceable house key), Mister Bubby spied the church keys on the welcome mat.  Yes, the welcome mat.  The one that’s right in front of the freaking door.  Now, I assure you people that I had looked all around the door, including that area with the welcome mat, including the welcome mat itself, and the keys were not there.  So make of that what you will.  This was either a test of my faith–which I think I failed–or it was fate smiling on MB, who has been yearning for a Bengal Tiger Webkin(z) for about three months.  Maybe it was both. 

So yesterday, true to my word–and ever so happy to be in possession of all my keys again–I took MB down to the local Webkinz dealer and I bought him a Bengal Tiger.  You know, I still don’t really “get” what Webkinz is all about.  It’s not a fad I ever would have bought into, except that my (or should I say the kids’?) babysitter bought MB and PZ Webkinz for Christmas, and the two have been obsessed with their online pets ever since.  Like I said, I’m still not real clear about what the deal is with these things–they could be part of some weird cult or an international slave trade, for all I know.  For the first couple months the kids had their Webkinz, I didn’t take any interest because a) I’m a busy person and I have my own frivolity to see to, and b) I’m generally negligent.  Then one day MB called me over to see the new swimming pool he’d bought for his Panda, so I went over and looked, and there was this panda bear wearing swim trunks and taking a swim in a pool–and I just about died because it was just the cutest thing I had ever seen. 

Do you get it?  It’s a panda bear and he’s wearing clothes, swimming in a pool, brushing his teeth and sleeping in a hammock, just like he’s people.  It’s beyond adorable.  Maybe a small part of me wanted this Bengal Tiger just for my own enjoyment, and that’s why I lost my keys in the first place.  The Lord works in a mysterious way, that’s all I know. 

 

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Giraffemom:  Mister Bubby, that Bengal Tiger is freaking adorable.

Mister Bubby:  I know.  What should I name him?

GM:  I don’t know.  What do you want to name him?

MB:  Well, one thing’s for sure.  I’m not naming him Jeffrey.

GM:  No, he doesn’t look like a Jeffrey.

MB:  Maybe “Teeny.”  No, that’s a girl’s name.

GM:  Yes, “Teeny” is a tad effeminate for a tiger.

MB:  I know.  How about “Tigey”?

GM:  That sounds…appropriate.

Dear Princess Zurg,

Today you turned 10. That means you’ve been here with us for a full decade, and also that I feel old.

I was just thinking about how grown-up you’ve become. Today we hosted the biggest birthday party of your partying career. Fourteen of your friends came. (It rained, of course.) You got along well with everyone, even the annoying kids, and accepted all of your gifts graciously. I was especially impressed later in the day, when your brother made a comment in front of your friend that might have embarrassed her, but you quickly changed the subject. That was mature and thoughtful, and I was very pleased with you.

I was also pleased that you weren’t too mature for a rousing game of Pin the Fork on Lord Barkis. You’ll be in double digits a long time. There’s no need to grow up too fast.

Happy Birthday, my sweet girl,

Mommy

This morning I was driving to the grocery store and watched a school bus pass in front of me.  I saw one of the students through the windows; she looked unhappy.  Not suicidal-unhappy, just bummed out to be going to school.  Monday morning, you know.  Or maybe she was suicidal, who knows.  I was just thinking back to when I used to take the school bus, when I used to go to school.  I lived in Oregon and went to school on many a morning just like this one–damp and non-commital.  You look eastward and you see fluffy white clouds against a bright blue sky.  You look westward and there’s a storm happening or about to happen.  You’ll see the sun today, but it’s impossible to tell how much of it or how often. 

Often the weather triggers memories of my childhood.  I don’t know why that would be.  I’ve intentionally suppressed most of my childhood, for no particular reason, but little things bring it back to me against my will.  This morning I was thinking how glad I was not to be on a bus headed for school.  Sometimes when I visit my children’s schools, I put myself in that place again, behind the little desk next to all the other little desks, alphabet marching the perimeter of the ceiling, walls smothered in pertinent information.  Education is very colorful in elementary school.  It looks delightful from the outside, but when I imagine myself inside, remembering those days as a young child at school, I can’t help getting a little bit sick.  I realize you couldn’t pay me to do these years over again. 

Princess Zurg asks me from time to time whether it’s harder to be a kid or an adult.  I tell her adults have more responsibilities, because to her that’s what “hard” means.  I also tell her that adults have more freedoms–because they have more responsibilities.  She doesn’t really process any of this.  She’s convinced that kids have it worse, and frankly, I’m not sure that she’s wrong. 

I didn’t have some horrific childhood.  I recall some very pleasant experiences, even in school, which I really liked for the first few years I went.  I wonder if part of the reason I don’t like to remember those aspects of my childhood is that my children’s experience is and will continue to be so different.  They don’t get to spend their afternoons exploring the vacant lot, randomly meeting kids in the neighborhood streets, riding their bikes to the local store, generally enjoying the lack of adult supervision and consequent interference.  But mostly I think I just don’t like remembering that general sense of helplessness, being at the mercy of adults and their plans for me.  Was this really the way I felt at the time, or is it just my perspective as an adult?  I treasure my adult perspective; maybe this is my problem.  I don’t want to trade experience for innocence because innocence doesn’t last.  That’s why the prospect of reliving childhood fills me with dread.  Fortunately, you only have to do childhood once.  Unless you become a parent, that is.

Next Tuesday Princess Zurg starts at the School for Incorrigible Girls.  Initially I was disheartened to learn that they’d accepted her to their program.  Deep inside I was really hoping that they would tell us PZ wasn’t bad off enough to benefit from their services.  I thought, This is not what I want for my child.  But in the last week it’s become clear to me that this is the correct course of action, and the fact that I don’t want it is basically irrelevant.  I don’t want a lot of things, but to a large extent they are out of my control.  Where I was once at the mercy of adults and their plans for me, I’m now at the mercy of my kids and their plans for themselves. 

Dear Elvis,

Ordinarily this is the time of year when I sit down and write something reflective and poignant about the unique joy you’ve brought into my life.  However, today was a very long day.  You’re still not asleep.  Your birthday threw up on my house.  Your father is passed out, drunk on chocolate cake and possibly the flu.  I’m tired.  You’re a great boy.  I love you.  Good night.

X’s & O’s,

Mommy

When I was growing up, my parents informed us that we were allowed two (2) birthday parties during the eighteen years we lived under their roof.  So every year when the birthday rolled around, you’d have to think really hard, Is this the year I want to spend one of my two birthday parties?  In my case it helped to be anti-social.  I had my first birthday part at age 11.  It was a slumber party.  It was fun.  I had my second party at age 13.  Only one of my friends could make it.  It was still fun.  (Yes, I know it sounds pathetic beyond reason, but I had less than a handful of close friends at that age, and it was really okay.  The rest of being that age sucked, but the friendships were okay.  It helped that I was anti-social.)

My oldest child had her first birthday party at age six.  I didn’t want to throw her a birthday party because Princess Zurg being Princess Zurg, I knew we would have to throw her one every single year after that.  But she had asked for a birthday party–I think–and my husband thought we should give her one.  As I said, I didn’t want to do it because a) it was raising the bar for future birthdays and b) I’m not a party person.  This is one of those times when it doesn’t help to be anti-social.  Fortunately, my husband is not only a fan of raising the bar, but he’s also a party person.  So he basically planned and executed PZ’s whole birthday party.  His mother was in town, and she helped out, too.  I did almost nothing.  I baked a cake.  From a box.  Seriously, almost nothing.  It still stressed me out.

Every year since then, we’ve thrown birthday parties for each of the two older children.  This year Sugar Daddy wanted to throw a party for Elvis, but I strongly discouraged it.  I do not need the bar raised for any more children at this juncture.  I would rather wait for Elvis to decide on his own that his parents need to jump a little higher.  Anyway, as far as Elvis is concerned, every day is a holiday.  SD seems to think we need to correct disparities among our kids before they become aware of them.  Me, I’m from the “in my day, we didn’t have birthday parties–we made cake out of dirt and set our hair on fire and we liked it!” school of parenting.  Because I’m lazy, number one, and number two–well, it’s really all about number one.  Does there really need to be a number two?

The problem is that I am just not an “event” person.  I like routine and consistency.  My idea of mixing things up is to…you know, I tried to come up with an example, and I just couldn’t.  I don’t like to mix things up.  I like things to stay the same as much as possible.  Except for the things I want to be different, of course.  I colored my hair Saturday night–a different color.  It’s like I went crazy.  I need everything else to be stable for a while so I can adjust.

Although my husband has consistently done the lion’s share of the work for our kids’ birthday parties, I still feel a tremendous amount of stress over them.  I think what worries me is that the kids won’t have fun, and then they’ll want me to do something about it.  And obviously I’ll be screwed because if you haven’t been paying attention, “fun” is not my strong suit.  “Fun” is SD’s department, but I have a feeling that were we to have a “fun” emergency and I looked to SD to solve it, he’d say something like, “Geez, is it not enough that I’ve done everything else?  Can’t you make a single contribution?”  And obviously I’ll be screwed. 

So I’m especially anxious this year because PZ wants a party (again), and my trouble is two-fold:

1.  She’s turning 10, and neither SD nor I know what most 10-year-old girls are into, or at least what they won’t scoff and turn up their noses at.  We can’t use our own child as an example of a 10-year-old girl because if there’s one thing we do know about 10-year-old girls, it’s that they are not like our 10-year-old girl.  If they were, Barkis Bittern would be bigger than Mickey Mouse and Hannah Montana wouldn’t have a career.

2.  If by some miracle we could come up with something 10-year-old girls would think was cool and wouldn’t bore PZ to tears (or alternatively, incite her to violence), it wouldn’t matter because PZ is also inviting boys to this year’s party.  It makes sense because the vast majority of her classmates are boys, and I’m glad that she has co-ed friendships, but it sure does throw a monkey wrench in the party planning machine, which is not exactly humming along in the first place.  If it were a party just for boys, that would be one thing, but girls and boys?  Between the ages of eight and eleven?  Addendum:  Make that 14 neurotypical girls and six autism-spectrum boys.  Most of the girls already know each other (as they are either from church or PZ’s old school) but don’t know the boys (who are from her new school), and vice versa.  (No, we’re not expecting 20 children to show up, but past experience has taught us to cast a wide net.)  You can see why my brain is about to explode.

So I did what any modern parent in this dilemma would do.  I consulted the internet.  It was not helpful.  The internet told me to provide a lot of snacks and play a lot of popular music, and the kids would just mingle as kids that age are wont to do.  Really?  Truly, internet?  I’m no expert on tween-age kids, but methinks you are trying to pull a fast one on me.  Anyway, PZ doesn’t like popular music, and the sound of her complaining would drown out any mingling that might miraculously occur under those circumstances.

The internet also told me I could throw an American Idol party.  Um…yeah.  This may sound, well, un-American, but we actually don’t watch AI at our house.  I don’t think PZ knows what an American Idol is, and even if she did, I doubt she’d approve.  The internet also gave me a lot of ideas for destination parties.  Like bowling–bzz! try again.  Or a swim party.  In April.  In Oregon.  Moving right along.  “Have each guest bring a can of cat or dog food in lieu of a gift and take a trip to the local animal shelter.”  Who are these people?

The internet also had a lot of advice about co-ed slumber parties.  For tweens!  Not that it would be any more appropriate for older kids, but still–what am I?  Am I some kind of sick fuddy-duddy because I would not in a million years if you paid me throw a co-ed slumber party?  Won’t they have plenty of time for that when they’re in college?  It’s no wonder I’m socially handicapped.

The internet also told me that all tweens “live for the mall,” and a good idea is to give them all some money and set them loose on said mall.  That’s when I began to suspect that the internet didn’t know what it was talking about. 

Which brings me back to my own expertise, aka the Blank Slate.  I went shopping with the younger two kids this morning so we could buy decorative birthday plates and napkins for Elvis’s birthday, which is tomorrow.  Elvis is still at a low-maintenance age.  All he needs is a cake and some fire, and he’s good to go.  I was hoping to get some Thomas the Tank Engine merchandise, but would you believe it, they were all out of Thomas.  Oh, they had some Thomas blower-thingies and some Thomas stickers and a few of the world’s cheapest and most pointless Thomas “party favors”–I say “party favors,” because had the package not informed me of its contents, I would have had no idea how to label them.  But all the useful stuff was sold out. 

The pickings were slim in general, and the only thing I could interest him in–besides the red lawn signs which said, “The party STOP’s here!”–were the Barney plates and cups.  Fortunately, I am not Barney-averse.  Unfortunately, since I had Girlfriend with me, too, I ended up buying probably twice as much as we needed.  I briefly considered throwing PZ an Ironic Barney Party, but I thought that might be too meta for the tween crowd. 

So I decided I’d ask some real people–like you folks who are on the internet, but not of the internet.  Tell me what you think is a good party idea for tweenage boys and girls.  Something low-maintenance and on the cheap.  If you can’t say something non-sarcastic, don’t say anything at all.

On second thought, say whatever you want.  It will toughen me up for when the tweens besiege my house with their pre-adolescent discontent.

After twenty-eight months of breastfeeding, Girlfriend–aka Madhousebaby–is officially weaned.  It is a bittersweet day.

More like a sweetbitter day.

And it would appear that to get back at me, she has taken up snoring.  Fortunately, she has her own room.

Also this weekend, Girlfriend has started sleeping in a big-girl bed and wearing big-girl Thomas underpants that actually fit her.  Before I know it she’ll be having bowel movements in inappropriate places and going off to college.  ‘Scuse me while I wipe this tear from my eye.

1.  She knows when her diaper is soiled and requests to have it changed.

2.  She starts imitating adult grooming behavior, e.g. applies deodorant to her stomach.

3.  She insists on wearing her brother’s Thomas the Tank Engine underpants, despite the fact that they’re two sizes too big for her.

4.  She will not wear just any diaper, but only diapers with Winnie the Pooh on them.  And not just any old diaper with Winnie the Pooh on it.  It must be the diaper with Winnie the Pooh hanging from a red balloon, with Tigger riding a tire swing on the back.  The diaper with Eeyore on it is so last week.

Oh, honey.  I just don’t think so.

Waiting after swim lessons

Giraffemom:  Mister Bubby still hasn’t come out of the dressing room yet.  What could he be doing in there?

Princess Zurg:  I think he’s asking what color lipstick he should wear.

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Social studies

PZ:  Mom, I heard that kindness is the best weapon you can use against a bully.

GM:  I suppose that’s true.

PZ:  Do I hit them with kindness, or do I kick them with kindness?

We’re back from the school carnival.  We spent the first hour and a half in the cafeteria, eating overpriced junk food.  Pizza, chips, hot dogs, soda.  It wasn’t that the kids ate so much food, but they took their sweet time with it.  Especially Elvis, who nursed that 12 oz. can of soda so long, I thought the whole shindig would be over before the last drop touched his lips. 

The problem was that we couldn’t have food or drink outside the cafeteria, so we were effectively quarantined there until Elvis decided he was all done.  Of course I understand why they don’t want any food or drink outside the cafeteria on Carnival Day–would you want to clean up after 3,000 people tromped through the building with foodstuffs and little children?–but it was still annoying, especially because Mister Bubby started whining about wanting to go play games, but he refused to go by himself (Princess Zurg having tromped off with a friend about twenty minutes earlier), so we were all stuck there in the cafeteria and I really wanted to scream and/or punch someone.  Not the kids.  Maybe the principal I might have punched, had he walked by, but lucky for him, he did not.

Anyway, my babysitter happened to be at the carnival today.  Her son doesn’t go to MB’s school, but his cub scout troop had a booth at the carnival, so they were working it and decided to stay for fun and games and overpriced junk food.  Her son was the friend PZ had just tromped off with, and she said she’d take MB around to play games while I played the Waiting For Elvis To Finish Drinking His @#&$ Soda game.  Fifteen minutes later Elvis finally agreed to give up the can, and we were allowed to leave the cafeteria.

We walked into the gymnasium, which was full of folks playing various carnival games–you know, the kind that don’t interest any of my children–and when we’d reached the center of the room, Elvis threw up.

Well.  So much for keeping things tidy. 

This is when the principal did show up, but I didn’t punch him because, well, he’s really a pretty nice man, and I was mostly over all that anger over being trapped in the cafeteria with the Slowest Drinker On Earth, and also, I was so freaking happy that Elvis threw up someplace where I didn’t have to clean it up. 

I mean, imagine if he’d gotten sick in my car.  That would have been the worst!  My car’s disgusting to begin with, but adding vomit to the mix, I don’t know, I might have just intentionally driven us into a brick wall, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with it.  If he’d waited until we got home, that wouldn’t have been quite so bad, but he probably wouldn’t have done me the favor of losing it on the linoleum.  He always has to throw up on the carpet.  And this time he probably would have gone all the way upstairs just so he could throw up on the new carpet!  That would have really depressed me. 

So yeah, that was awesome.

The principal assured me that Elvis was not the only child to throw up today.  Which was kind of disappointing, as I rather enjoy the distinction.  Everyone step aside for the Traveling Vomit Show.  Thank you verrah much.

So Elvis and the baby and I went outside for some fresh air.  Elvis immediately spied the bouncers and proceeded to move to the front of the line, but of course I pulled him away.  I am a woman of little shame, but I seem to have just enough to prevent me from putting my kid in an inflatable bouncer thirty seconds after he’s lost his lunch in the most public of places.  He took it surprisingly well.  We played on the jungle gym instead.  Eventually we made our way to the swings.  He seemed to be feeling much better, but I figured if he did get sick again, well, throw-up flying from a swingset would be a new experience for all of us.  And again, it’s not like it was my car.

I could have sworn that trip to the carnival lasted four hours, but we were really only there for two and a half.  I can’t complain, though.  Seriously, he threw up in the school gymnasium.  How lucky can I be?

The other day I was reading in the Oregonian about these sisters who were getting tested for the ovarian cancer gene.  Or something like that.  I don’t understand how this gene testing stuff works, or what they test you for, and I don’t really care.  I have no interest in testing for cancer genes.  The kind of genetic counseling that would have been useful for me is testing kids for that Craps-in-His-Pants-and-Couldn’t-Care-Less gene. 

Seriously, who wants to sit in his or her own filth for hours on end, no pun intended?  Answer:  My children.  My children do.  They hate to have their diapers changed.  They just scream and run away from me.  I have to hunt them down and sit on them for the privilege of changing their diapers, and yeah, I resent it a little bit.  I have one who’s out of diapers who still disdains using the toilet for the waste-elimination job that Really Counts.  Why would a person prefer soiling himself to spending a couple minutes on a harmless commode that has never–no, not once–ever swallowed a single human child?  Why?  Why? 

I’ve blocked out a lot of my childhood memories, but I’m pretty sure that if I’d had a thing for pooping in my drawers and acting like it was no big deal, I would have no shortage of family members reminding me of this former quirk every chance they got.  And I guess if this had been a trait on my husband’s side, my mother-in-law would have told me by now.  Or maybe not, I don’t know.  Maybe she’s afraid that if I found out she was withholding such information until it was too late and I’d already reproduced with her son (four times!), I would not forgive her.  It’s possible.  If I could go back in time five and a half years and tell my past self that the recalcitrant Princess Zurg would be my easiest child to toilet-train, I probably would have socked me in the face and huddled in a closet somewhere, sobbing uncontrollably and maybe tearing out my hair.  I’d be in a mental institution now, and my youngest two children would have never been born.  So I guess it’s all for the best that my MIL keeps some things to herself and time travel is not yet a reality.

It seems like someone has always got constipation or diarrhea.  You would think all I ever fed them around here was white bread and tainted Mexican food.  Before you tell me to talk to my pediatrician, let me assure you that the only advice I’ve gotten from multiple pediatricians is, “Wow.  Sucks to be you.”  Which is not really advice, but that’s still all I got. 

My youngest hasn’t had a proper bowel movement in at least a week.  I can’t give her the Miralax that her doctor prescribed because the only fluid she’ll drink anymore, since I decided to wean her, is breast milk, and it’s not like I can dump a capful of Miralax down my gullet and have it come out through my breasts in a therapeutic dosage.  At least I don’t think I should try that.  My children have exceptionally high tolerances for fiber.  I could feed them oatmeal laced with wheat germ and flaxseed three times a day, and they would still be irregular.  Not that I would dare feed them such a concoction because I never know when they’re going to turn around and get viral dysentery on me.  That did not come out right.  Never mind!

Topping off the list of Bowel Habits Not Conducive To Toilet-Learning is the fact that they all prefer to do their business standing up.  Which is fine when it’s the other business and they’re a boy, but standing is really incompatible with Western-industrialized hygienic defecation models.  You know what I’m saying? 

Okay, I’m done now.  Hope you all weren’t eating lunch or anything.

I suspect my Elvis has been using my toothbrush for the last week or so.  He has a perfectly good toothbrush of his own.  It has Thomas the Tank Engine on it.  It even plays music.  (”They’re two, they’re four, they’re six, they’re eight–shunting trucks and hauling freight.”)  But apparently Thomas the Tank Engine has nothing on a pink brush with full-size bristles.  Not as far as my boy is concerned.

In related news, I’ve noticed that my baby does not like to eat cereal.  She only likes to eat my cereal while she’s sitting on my lap.  In point of fact, she does not like for me to enjoy my cereal by myself.  It must be a shared experience. 

What is the point of this commentary?  Well, we all three have this cold/cough thing that we can’t seem to shake.  I wonder what that’s all about.

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Speaking of Elvis and the shared experience, his occupational and speech therapists are working on a social story for him about using the potty.  It’s pretty simple:  “I can use the potty.  I like to use the potty at Safeway.  I can use the potty at home, too.  Mom and Dad are happy when I use the potty.”  No heavy indoctrination.  Just good old-fashioned emotional blackmail in a clinical setting.  Anyway, to make the story more concrete for him, they’ve asked me to take some pictures of our bathrooms, the toilets, the house, etc.  They also said it would be nice if I got a picture of the Safeway potty.  At first I chuckled and thought, heck, why not, I have no pride.  But now I’m thinking…no.  Not really a place I want to go, taking cameras into supermarkets to get images of the bathrooms.  Like, here’s the line and you just crossed it.  No.  I think we’ll have to keep the Safeway potty “more abstract” for the time being.

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It would appear that we will soon be enrolling our oldest daughter in the School for Incorrigible Girls.  Actually, it’s more of a School for Incorrigible Kids, as there are probably more boys there than the other, but School for Incorrigible Girls sounds better.  More Roald Dahlish.  Also, maybe like the name of a USA Up All Night Movie.  But we won’t go there.Anyway, yes, we have an appointment this afternoon to meet with the relevant mucky-mucks of this “clinical program in an educational setting,” or however it’s referred to, and check out their facility.  Stroll around the grounds until we feel at home, as it were.  I’m going in with an open mind.  That’s all I can say.  If you don’t hear from me again, it’s because the men in white coats took my open mind and ran with it.  (Look, I’m the one putting my kid in a funny farm.  I think you can afford me a little levity.)I’ve been thinking lately about when Princess Zurg was first diagnosed, how her preschool teacher had said of course PZ could be mainstreamed, no problem; how the autism specialist who did her evaluation said PZ was going to be just fine because she had good skills and good parents.  I’m not bitter or anything.  I’m just feeling the irony.  Irony isn’t a bad thing.  Sometimes you just have to sit back and appreciate it.

I want to say, in all seriousness, thank you for all of your support and concern vis a vis the Princess Zurg Issue.  I don’t mean to jerk you around with dead skunk posts.  Gentle readers, you are my friends.  Your patience and good karma mean a lot to me.

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As long as I’m talking about folks who are related to me, I want to tell you that my sister–my actual sister, whom I know in real life–is blogging on WordPress, and you should go visit her.  If you like my blog, you will probably enjoy hers.  Not as much as you like mine, of course, because that would hurt my feelings–but you can just keep those inconvenient details to yourself, should they arise. 

Princess Zurg and Mister Bubby tell each other’s fortunes 

Princess Zurg:  You’re going to get poked in the bottom with a fork and be stuck in the garage for a million years.

 

Mister Bubby:  You’re going to get eaten by a lion.

 

PZ:  Really?  What’s his name?  You do know that lion’s name, don’t you?

 

MB:  Humphrey.

 

PZ:  Humphrey?  Are you sure?  Are you sure it isn’t something scary, like “Scar”?  You know, from The Lion King?

 

MB:  You’re going to get eaten by a lion, and his name is Humphrey.

 

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 Princess Zurg and Mister Bubby practice their mind reading 

Princess Zurg:  Guess what I’m thinking.

 

Mister Bubby:  What?

 

PZ:  Just guess.

 

MB:  Raspberries.

 

PZ:  The fruit, or the rude sound?

 

MB:  The rude sound.

 

PZ:  How did you know?!

 

MB:  Now guess what I’m thinking.

 

PZ:  Let me look in your ear and see what your brain is thinking. … You’re thinking about total darkness.

 

MB:  Nope.

 

PZ:  You’re thinking that ear wax feels really good.

 

MB:  Wrong again.

 

PZ:  Well, how am I supposed to know?!

 

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 Princess Zurg and Mister Bubby enjoy toilet humor in the morning 

Giraffemom:  Mister Bubby, you need to use the bathroom before we leave.

 

Mister Bubby:  I already did.

 

GM:  No, you didn’t.

 

MB:  I went when you weren’t looking.

 

GM:  When?  I’ve been with you since you got up.

 

MB:  I went while you were still sleeping.  I went while I was still sleeping.  I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and got back in bed without waking up at all.

 GM:  I think you’re telling big fibs. Princess Zurg:  Mister Bubby, I think you’re just stalling going to the bathroom.  Get it?  Stalling?  Bathroom stalls?  [Laughs hysterically]

Q.  What’s awesome about your kid being suspended from school?

A.  You don’t have to dread that inevitable phone call from the principal, asking you to pick her up again.  Yes!

Princess Zurg continues to struggle in school, and we in turn continue to struggle with Princess Zurg.  I am beginning to fear that PZ’s first grade teacher was right when she said there was a narrow window of opportunity for children to learn the skills necessary for school success.  Honestly, I want to puke as I type that.  Well, not “puke” so much as “punch someone in the face,” but you know, tomayto, tomahto.  Anyway, I have never liked the idea of people having expiration dates stamped on them.  Undoubtedly, in general there is such a thing as a “Best Before” date, as the brain develops and eventually starts pruning away those parts that aren’t used (neuroscience, schmeuroscience).  That’s why early intervention is so critical.  On the other hand, when you’re talking about a person’s temperament, how late is too late?  And when you’re talking about Princess Zurg, how much is temperament to blame, and how much can be laid at the feet of her disability?  If we may speak of disability as having feet.  You see the stress I’m under, how it affects the language arts.  You must be patient with me, or read no further.

It was easier when she was in kindergarten, in first grade, and even second grade, to keep things in perspective.  There’s always hope that a five-year-old can get her act together eventually.  What happens in the primary grades usually stays in the primary grades–except when it doesn’t.  When you carry it with you to third grade and fourth grade and beyond, that’s when the future starts looking grim.  Yes, she’s only nine years old now.  But in less than eight months she’ll be in fifth grade, and a year later she’ll be in middle school.  We are hurtling toward the apocalypse, we have not been saved, and we can’t seem to find a church that suits us.  I will drop that metaphor before it herniates, but you get the idea.  I’m scared.

In September things seemed so promising.  Her medication was making a real difference–and I still think it is.  It just isn’t a big enough difference, not where it counts.  The number of aggressive behavior incidents has not dwindled to “zero”–not by a long shot.  And it’s been almost six months, give or take a couple weeks’ vacation.  It’s time for another IEP meeting, time to advocate for my daughter’s interests again, and I’ve got nothing.  No brilliant ideas.  No half-baked ideas.  No gut instincts.  Just nothing. 

What’s going to happen is that our “team” is going to recommend the day-treatment program they first brought up in September.  (You know, the one in freaking Tigard?  You might remember.)  I’ve been trying to find the paperwork on it.  I’m afraid I may have recycled it in a fit of maternal protectiveness–or rather, a fit of self-protectiveness.  I didn’t want to believe I’d ever have use for it.  So I’m trying to do some research about it on the internet.  The web site says it’s a “constructive all-day outpatient alternative to residential care, providing education for children (ages 7-11) experiencing serious psychiatric difficulties.”  Wow, that’s hard-core, isn’t it?  But then, so is hitting and kicking people and making endless rationalizations for your bad behavior.  That’s not autism.  It’s sociopathy.

My husband and I have joked about having her committed, but the sad thing is, a generation ago that’s exactly what would have happened to people with Asperger’s Syndrome.  They’re too functional to be disabled, so they must be sociopaths.  What do you do with children who won’t respond to discipline, besides give them more discipline (which they continue not to respond to)?  It’s all well and good for me, an adult, to experiment with psychotropic drug therapies (you know, the legal ones), but when you’re dealing with a pre-adolescent child whose brain is still developing (rapidly), said experimentation is decidedly unappealing.  In other words, I’m willing to medicate my daughter if medication is what she requires, but this repeated trial-and-error stuff makes me nervous.  On the other hand, we can’t really wait for puberty to run its course, either.  Or maybe we can.  The point is, I don’t know. 

I’m anxious to take action, but at the same time, I hate to be rushed. 

Mister Bubby:  Mommy, there was a big spider in the toilet, but I peed on him and then I flushed him!

Giraffemom:  Good for you.

Mister Bubby:  It was hilarious!

When Elvis gets upset, he starts shouting words that comfort him.  Words like “ketchup” and “french fries.”  Only it’s more like, “KETCHUP!  FRENCH FRIES!  HAMBURGERS!  PIZZA!”  Just saying the words seems to help him calm down.  The list changes according to his mood and current preferences.

Today’s list:

“POPCORN!”

“PANCAKES!”

“THOMAS!”

“JESUS!”

“SALAMI!”

“APPLE JUICE!”

Yep, that about covers it.

Princess Zurg and the Problem of Gender 

Princess Zurg:   Men and women are just so different.

Giraffemom:  They are.

PZ:  They have different points of view.

Giraffemom:  They do.

PZ:  They even have different points of view going to the bathroom!

Princess Zurg and the Enemy

Princess Zurg has a nemesis in her classroom.  For the sake of privacy and propriety, he shall henceforth be called “Dummyhead.”  Not a day goes by that she doesn’t complain about how Dummyhead is making her life miserable just by being him.  Sugar Daddy’s advice about dealing with difficult people was to think of one good thing about the person, no matter how trivial a virtue it might be. 

So this morning at breakfast SD asked her, “Did you think of one thing you like about Dummyhead?”

PZ thought very long and hard and finally said, “His hair.”

“So the next time he annoys you, just think about how you like his hair.”

“Is that really supposed to work?” she asked incredulously.

SD assured her that he did the same thing when he had to deal with people he didn’t particularly like or get along with, and it worked pretty well for him.  With that he went off to work, leaving PZ to ponder the wisdom of her father’s words.  After several minutes, she spoke again.

“I like his hair, but I don’t like the way it looks on his stupid head.”

I’m mourning the passing of Gordon B. Hinckley, the late president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  It’s a strange thing to be so emotionally affected by the death of someone you never met, though I suppose this case is no stranger than perfect strangers mourning the death of Heath Ledger.  I’ve seen exactly one Heath Ledger movie (10 Things I Hate about You), so while I appreciate the tragedy of a promising and talented actor (and father) dying at the young age of twenty-eight, I don’t feel a sense of personal loss. 

There’s nothing tragic about the death of a 97-year-old man.  Pres. Hinckley lived a full life, active and relatively vibrant pretty much until the end, and now he can rest and be reunited with his dear wife, whom he lost a few years back.  It’s not sad that he is dead, but I am sad because even though I didn’t know him, I did know him.  He was president of the church for twelve years, but he’s essentially been the public face of the church for the last almost-thirty years.  Most of the men who preceded him in that office became severely ill and incapacitated in their final years, and the burden of leadership fell on Pres. Hinckley as a result.  I’m not qualified to give his eulogy, and this isn’t a religious blog, so I’m not going to say anymore, except that I will miss his humor and Christ-centered leadership.  And thus am I melancholy today.

On a lighter note, it would appear that I will shortly be mourning the passing of Rudy Giuliani’s presidential campaign, a most unfortunate demise that is all the more regrettable insofar as it was avoidable.  (I know Iowa was a lost cause, Rudy, but why did you forsake New Hampshire and Michigan?  Why did you forsake me, Rudy?  Why?  Why?  Why?)  With Fred Thompson gone and Rudy not long for this world–and not so much as a Duncan Hunter to kick around–all I’ve got left is Romney and McCain.  A sorry state of affairs, indeed.  Insert heavy sigh here.  Oh, well.  Things could be worse.  Bob Dole could be running.  (Insert bad Viagra joke here.)

Which brings me to another point:  Whichever one of you cats ends up winning the nomination, DO NOT pick Mike Huckabee as your running mate, no offense to him.  And by “whichever one of you” I really mean you, John McCain, because I think the Mittster is too smart for that numbskull idea.  (I’ve taken to calling him Mittster in an attempt to inject some humanity into him.  Is it working?  Well, at least I’m doing something.)  No offense to Gov. Huckabee, who seems like a nice enough guy, and he’s folksy and plays the guitar and whatnot, but like the original cast of Saturday Night Live, he is not ready for prime time.  Some of you in this race–who shall remain nameless–are 72 years old, and that whole one-heartbeat-away issue should figure heavily into this particular decision.  Don’t blow it.  And by “don’t blow it,” I really mean, “You don’t blow it.  You don’t blow it, John McCain.”  That’s all I have to say.  (Except P.S. Sylvester Stallone would not be a good choice either.)

In other news, Elvis inches ever-so-slowly toward toilet-trainedness.  Sugar Daddy reports that on the last couple trips to the Safeway, which has wheelchair-accessible automatic doors on its restrooms, Elvis has joyfully pushed the button to open the door to the men’s room, gone inside and used the potty, washed his hands, and returned triumphantly, proclaiming, “I had privacy.”  I asked SD how much he thought it would cost us to put one of those automatic doors in our house, but he insists on sticking to that six-month moratorium on home improvements.  Not one to pander to special interests, that SD. 

It snowed last night.  The kids have the day off school anyway, so it was kind of a waste, that snow.  And you know, several weeks ago I made a special point of buying all the kids new gloves because whenever it snows, I can never find their gloves.  And so here we were today, snow on the ground outside and kids home from school, wanting to play in said snow, and where were the gloves?  Heck if I know.  Stupid snowy day.

Reading this thread at FMH on taking sick kids to church has inspired me to tell you about the experience I had a few weeks ago–the Sunday right before Christmas, actually.  Sugar Daddy had to be at church early because he was singing in the choir.  He took the older two children with him, and I was to follow later with the younger two.  That morning Elvis woke up and told SD, “I sick.” 

Now, here you need a little bit of background.  You might recall that back in September, right after the fire, when we were still staying in hotels, Elvis (and the other children) got some sort of stomach flu.  That’s when Elvis picked up two new phrases:  “I sick” and “Gonna barf.”  The actual sick-and-barfing period lasted just a few days, but it’s fair to say that every single day since then, at least once a day, Elvis has come up to SD or me and said, “I sick.  Gonna barf.”  Of course, it didn’t take us long to figure out that he wasn’t actually sick, nor was he going to barf; he was just making conversation.  So we would just tell him, “No, you’re not sick, don’t barf,” or words to that effect, and life would just go on as before. 

So when Elvis said that he was sick on this particular Sunday, none of us thought anything of it.  He’s not savvy enough to know how to get out of going to church; if he doesn’t want to go to church, he will just scream, “NOOOOOOOO!!!”  Just like the rest of us.  Anyway, SD took the older two kids to church with him and I set about getting myself and the little kids ready to go.  At some point I noticed that Elvis seemed particularly lethargic.  I also noticed that he wasn’t fighting putting his Sunday clothes on.  I called SD on his cell phone and told him I thought Elvis might actually be sick.  SD said that he needed me to bring something to church and if Elvis still seemed sick, I could take him home.  So I finished getting us ready, drove down to church with whatever-SD-needed-me-to-bring-I-can’t-remember, and we slipped into the pew with Princess Zurg and Mister Bubby right before the service began.  At least I think it was right before.  It might have been right after.  It’s sort of a blur.

Well, Elvis seemed to be doing okay, and I felt like I should probably stay for the rest of the service because, after all, it was the Christmas program and the Christmas program is less boring than ordinary church because there’s more singing and less yakking about religious stuff.  Also, I knew that if I left immediately, the baby would throw a fit because, dangit, she just got out of the car, and she wasn’t going to go back into the car without a fight, and if I could just make it through the chapel service, I could dump her in the nursery for the second and third hours and not have to fight her at all.  Yes, I admit it was this latter motivation that animated me.  Or prevented my animation, as the act of staying didn’t involve much acting, just sitting and waiting.

So Elvis was very subdued, but he was eating Goldfish crackers and keeping to himself and not talking about barf, so I thought, “Okay.  We’re okay.  We can make it through the next forty minutes or so,” and I just sat there listening to the choir and whatnot and being very relaxed and unsuspecting.  As the hour wore on, however, I thought how very unusual this subdued-ness was in Elvis, how very uncharacteristic and foreboding it seemed, and I thought, “As soon as the choir sings the last number and SD can take these other kids, I’m taking you home, buster.” 

So before the choir sang its last number, a gentleman I did not know or recognize got up to speak–about Christmas, I reckon–I really don’t remember because I was staring so intently at Elvis in all his subdued, lethargic glory and hoping against hope that he was really just tired, because kids sometimes get tired, you know, and he’d been telling me every day for the last four months that he was sick and going to barf and never delivered, and why should today be any different? 

This gentleman, whoever he was, seemed to speak for a very long time.  I’m sure everything he said was of great value to everyone present, with the possible exception of me and Elvis, who was looking more and more “tired” by the second.  Finally, the gentleman at the pulpit began to wrap things up, and just as he was uttering what I believe was his last prepared sentence of his remarks, Princess Zurg let out a blood-curdling scream because Elvis, God bless him, had just relieved himself of stomach contents, and little Goldfish bits were swimming in a vomitous river than ran through our pew.

I’m sure this poor gentleman wondered what on earth he’d said to upset the little girl in the third row, who was now standing on the bench and screaming, “I’VE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE!  HELP!”  Unfortunately, we were on a side pew and the only way out was through the vomit or over the heads of the people in front of us. 

It was one of those moments when I knew I had to do something, but I just couldn’t remember what it was.  I looked up to the choir seats, where SD was pantomiming a vomiting action, and when I nodded vigorously to confirm that that was indeed what had happened, he came down into the congregation and grabbed the now-sobbing Elvis–who, I forgot to mention, does not like being messy, no, not one bit–and took him to get cleaned up.  PZ was still screaming, Mister Bubby was whining, I didn’t have so much as a diaper wipe on me, and I was still holding the baby, who really wanted to get down and walk through the Goldfish bile.

So eventually my brain kicked into crisis mode, I handed the baby over to a friend several rows back, and I went in search of…paper towels.  I still couldn’t think clearly, and to tell you the truth, I was laughing too hard.  A couple people were concerned at first because they thought I was crying, but that just goes to show how little they know about me. 

Can I just say here that the people I go to church with are wicked awesome?  Because by the time I returned to the pew with paper towels, these two other ladies had already cleaned everything up with a single hand towel from the kitchen and the wet wipes from their diaper bags.  I didn’t even know these women.  They were like little barf-cleaning angels. 

So I went to check on SD and Elvis, who were just walking out of the men’s room.  Correction:  SD was walking, Elvis was skipping.  You never saw a happier, more bright-eyed-and-rosy-cheeked child.  It was like he’d just purged himself of a demon, and now he was ready to take on the world.  Needless to say, I took him home anyway, if only for propriety’s sake. 

So trust our family to make church exciting for everyone.  The holy spirit has been known to affect people in a variety of ways, but I think this may be the first documented case of charismatic puking.  At least at our church.

The following week I was in the church library, chatting with some other ladies, and one of them mentioned Elvis throwing up and said she didn’t know if this would make me feel better, but when her husband’s oldest son was just a little boy being toilet-trained, he (the son) had diarrhea one Sunday, and not only had diarrhea at church but had it in the middle of the chapel service in the middle of the middlest row, and it not only got all over the pew and the floor but proceeded to drip all over the people his father had to climb over to get him out of there.  (You would think such an event would clear a pew pretty rapidly, but apparently the sermon was really riveting that day, or something.) 

It might have been wrong, but that did make me feel better.

I’ve decided that 2008 is going to be the Year of the Potty.  Elvis is going to be five in April, and I would like him to be using the toilet before then.  Dare I dream?  I do.  What’s more, I think where Elvis goes, Girlfriend will follow.  She’s only two, and that would make her a prodigy in our family–heck, in our family you’re a prodigy if you’re trained before age four–but she idolizes her big brother, and if he uses the potty, what options does she really have?  (Don’t answer that.)

The trick is making him think it’s his idea.  Historically I have not been good at tricking my children.  They’re pretty smart.  That’s the challenge of parenting, being smarter than the children.  I can’t win on stubborn, so I have to use my wits.  Think, Madhousewife.  Think think think.

Nothing’s coming.

We own a potty-training video–I Can Go Potty!–which my children have always enjoyed, but nevertheless have not found inspiring.  I’ve been thinking of replacing it with a video or book starring a beloved children’s show character–if I could only find one starring a character that my children are familiar with.  People rave about Bear in the Big Blue House’s (or is it Big Blue Bear in the House?) potty video, but my kids wouldn’t know that bear from Adam.  Does it make a difference?  Is Bear in the Big Blue House charismatic enough that my children could fall in love with him (and by extension, the toilet) at first sight?  Various Sesame Street characters have starred in potty-training books.  My kids know some of the Sesame Street characters, but I wouldn’t bet on them finding Ernie or Elmo compelling in that particular role. 

Actually, the characters that the youngest two are most endeared to are Barney and Thomas the Tank Engine.  I heard that Barney had a potty video, but I haven’t been able to locate it on the interwebs.  (I have found YouTube videos of “Barney taking a dump.”  I don’t know if that would be as effective or not…but there are still some places I’m not ready to go.)  I’m thinking that Thomas the Tank Engine and his engine friends do not use the potty.  You know, what with them being trains and all.  Sir Topham Hatt is theoretically capable of using the potty, but such behavior seems somewhat out of character for him.  And there are no Thomas the Tank Engine potty videos, so I need to just get off this track.  Ha ha, get it?  Track?  Never mind.

There is a Thomas the Tank Engine potty seat on Amazon.com, but it’s the First Years brand, and I’ve owned two First Years potty seats and really don’t care for them.  (I think we lost both in the fire.)  And I’d rather not pay $23.99 for something I don’t care for, especially since it’s just a Thomas sticker on the back of a regular First Years potty chair.  If it were a potty shaped like a train, that would be different.  Which makes me wonder, why hasn’t anyone made a potty shaped like a train?  They could pee in the boiler and poop in the tender.  It is really just wrong for me to talk about this.  Do you know that in the house I grew up in, nobody even used words like “pee” and “poop”?  I have no recollection of how we referred to those activities.  We all learned to use the toilet, so we must have talked about it at some point, but my mother had a strong gag reflex, and it just wasn’t kosher to discuss bodily functions in many venues.  Certainly not at the dinner table, which is where my husband and children like to discuss bodily functions.  My children are very, very fond of talking about toilets and toilet activities.  They think it’s hysterical.  I keep telling them they should be doers of the word and not hearers only, but they don’t like when I push my religion on them. 

So I was looking online for other, non-First Years potty chairs, and it’s a somewhat daunting task.  There are approximately 400 to choose from–including this “fancy potty chair” by Little Colorado.  It’s made of resilient Baltic Birch and has armrests and a built-in bookrack and toilet paper holder.  It can be mine for $70.99, plus $9.99 shipping and handling.  I think my first couch cost less than that.

There’s also a musical potty chair (Ababy, $64.95), a hand-painted “western” potty chair (Ababy, $68.95), and a toddler urinal (Visionaire, $39.19).  The urinal is a nice concept, but I have to tell you, it does not look stable to me.  I value stability in something that is supposed to collect my child’s urine.  That’s all I’m saying.  Evenflo makes this so-called “magic potty” ($41.88).  I’m not sure how to describe it.  It looks like it’s supposed to be some space-themed…”hover”-potty.  I dunno.  That doesn’t look so stable, either.  And when someone uses the word “magic” and “potty” in the same breath, I expect to be paying more than $41.88, or probably I am getting ripped off. 

On the more economical side of things, there’s the PRIMO Bunny potty ($9.99).  It’s a bright yellow bunny that looks kind of like a riding toy (handlebars yes, wheels no), and the bunny is sticking out his bright red tongue.  Huh.  I don’t get it.  If I wanted to be (extra-)narcissistic in a really weird way, I could go with the “Buddy Giraffe” toilet decoration (Jeckida Inc., $13.99), but just looking at it makes me a little upset.

Then there’s the Teamson “lighthouse” potty ($59.95).  What, for my great-aunt who collects them?  I wasn’t aware that lighthouses were a great motivator for the under-three set.

Which brings up another point.  Technically, Elvis’s nearly-five-year-old bum is big enough to use the actual potty–and really too big to use most potty chairs, which seem to be designed for infants under twelve months.  Go figure.  (Did the potty-chair industry not get the memo on childhood obesity?  They really need to step it up!)  But big kids can be afraid of the big potty, too.  So where’s my school-age Thomas the Tank Engine potty chair shaped like a train?  Must I really do everything myself?

In other news, Elvis has lately grown very fond of fire hydrants.  We have a lot of fire hydrants in our city.  I know, because every time we pass one, he says, “Hydrant!  It’s yellow!”  There’s a potty-chair idea here that I’m not fully comfortable exploring at this time, but perhaps at a later date.  Elvis has also taken to dressing up in his father’s clothes–which is better than him dressing in my clothes, I guess.  If only he would strive to emulate his father in other areas.  Toilet use, for example.  His father loves using the toilet.  Why did none of those genes pass along?  I’m just wondering.

On that note, I think I will go make lunch.

Dear Brothers and Sisters Who Come into the Church Library at 8:30 and Ask Me To Make 100 Copies of Something on Our Prehistoric Copier When the Library Closes at 9,

Is that what Jesus would do?

With (semi-)Christian Love,

Madhousewife

P.S.  I’m sorry, but I may have been rather frazzled last night, due to the fact that I had all four of my kids with me because my husband was out of town and my babysitter was working at her other job, and I nevertheless felt obligated to take my midweek shift anyway because it was one of only a handful of Wednesday evenings during the year when I am not tap dancing, and I feel like a slacker if I ask people to cover me when I don’t even have my class, even though they would probably have preferred that to me letting the baby rearrange the Bible shelf and Elvis practicing his cutting skills on the church programs and Princess Zurg and Mister Bubby calling each other “dumb butt” all night and me shouting false curse words at the paper feeder.  Nevertheless, I survived, and really, you should bring your copying in by 8:00.  The Holy Spirit leaves the library at about 8:45 (earlier if there are children present).

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So last night at the church library with four kids wasn’t as horrible as it might have been if I ha