Abuzz

In case you were just going to ask me, "How was your weekend?" 

It was busy.

(In case you aren't interested in how my weekend was, you might want to stop reading now.)

Saturday, after cleaning the kitchen (which was in desperate straits) and dropping Mark off at his grandma's, Emma and I went to a mother daughter luncheon at the church.  (Braeden and Adam were rock climbing with the scouts.)

We had a lovely time, picked up Mark, met Adam at home and hit the garden center for plants, plants, plants!

We weeded and pruned and dug and transplanted and schemed and then sent out a distress call to Geri, Adam's mom, for help with our gardening.  We were having plant placement issues.  We promised her dinner if she'd help.

My mom called and was in the middle of telling me that I was busy and she'd been trying to get ahold of me all week...when I had to end the conversation because help in the form of Geri and niece Raelyn had arrived.  After putting all the plants in their places and a raucous dinner (Mark's friend Gavin was over too and when those two are on the scene, raucous is the only option) we had strawberry shortcake and Adam and I played a quick game of Catch Phrase with Raelyn (which is something of an adventure by itself).

The day ended and I hadn't ever really had a chance to breathe.

Sunday morning dawned early with a before church meeting, then church, then zipping home to grab our picnic-in-the-car.  We drove to Seattle and Benaroya Hall for a concert.  The Everett Youth Symphony was performing along with an Honor Choir that niece Talia and nephew Jackson were a part of.

Mark, after three hours of church, wasn't all that keen on 1 1/2 hours of symphony music.  He did perk up during Sibelius' "Finlandia". 

"Hey, I KNOW this song."

The Meldrums, a family Adam grew up parallel with, had a granddaughter in the choir.  She is 10 and sang an angelic solo--in Latin.  I loved it.

Our next stop was Geri's for a celebratory fete.  The Meldrums were there too and it was a cozy convivial gathering...until the friendly baseball game in the backyard heated up.

Adam, still wearing his white shirt and tie (I had commandeered his jacket to keep me warm on my perch on the deck) was the umpire.    The bases were 1) a pair of shoes, 2) a Bop It game and 3) a rock.  There were accidentally thrown bats (by my son, sorry Megan), in-yard home runs, discussion over just how to call interference by the trees, and my cheeks hurt from laughing.

Perhaps the highlight of it all for me was when Mark, who had already been hit in the face with the ball, emerged with a bicycle helmet and a toy shield to be the catcher.  He'd kneel down (His pants were already tragically grass stained from sliding into base--unless some laundry room miracle happens this week, we'll be purchasing Mark some new pants before next Sunday.) and peek over the shield with only his eyes and a fringe of red curls showing under the helmet.

By the time we got home, I'd been wearing high heels for 12 hours.

After our kids were in bed (and I remembered in a panic we have state testing for Braeden and Emma today), Adam and I discussed when we could have our new friends over for dinner.

Monday, no.
Tuesday, no.
Wednesday, no.  (Court of Honor.  Which means I get to sew on more badges.  Yaaaaaaaaaaaay.)
Thursday, no.  (We're BOTH double booked that night.)
Friday, no.
Saturday, probably not.
Sunday, no.

Adam said, "We're busy."

I think it's better than the alternative of bored and lonely.

But I'm not sure.

If I weren't so busy, maybe I could take the time to contemplate that.

Emergency Preparedness

We're having a deck built in our back yard.  (I will post pictures when it's done...and you should also come over for a BBQ when it's done.  Unless you're a stalker.  Then stay away.)

Part of the deck is covered and the roof is outside our bedroom window.

Adam and Mark were surveying the scene out the window the other night and the following conversation ensued:

Mark:  If the house was on fire, we could throw the fan at the window to break it then rip the screen out.  Mom could go first and we could go out on the roof and then drop to the ground.

Adam:  Or we could open the window.

Mark:  Yeah, I guess.


Did he want me to go first in a magnanimous gesture of chivalry?  Or did he want me to be the first one to clear out shards of broken glass?

I didn't ask.




btw:  I survived the dentist.  It was a nice dentist office.  I don't want to build a summer home there, but it was a nice dentist office.  Sadly, I have a cavity, but if that is the only damage to my teeth, considering their neglect, I guess I'll take it.  Heather made all the difference.  I felt much more comfortable being in the hands of someone I know and trust.  Some people need a buddy to exercise.  Some people need a buddy to go to the dentist.

Jittery

Good news:  Today I'm going to see my friend Heather.

Bad news:  She's works for a dentist.

She's going to clean my teeth and promised me after one of my posts about dentistry (and I seem to write about it a lot despite the angst/because of the angst) that she'd take good care of me.

Yesterday I mustered my courage and made an appointment.

For today.

Good, I thought.  I'll get it over with.

Then I remembered the death-bed-repentance-flossing that I needed to do.  Rats.  Now there's no time for that.  Yesterday when I sent Heather a facebook message telling her/warning her that I was coming to see her, she kindly wrote back that I should let her know what she could do to make me feel more comfortable.

I didn't answer, but now that I've thought about it:

Dear Heather,

Please pretend like I DO floss.  Please ignore any problems that need attention.  Please just hit me over the head with a shoe so I can be unconscious the whole time.

I love the comedian Mitch Hedberg as much as I don't like going to the dentist.  Here's what he said about it all:

I can't get into the whole flossing thing.  People who smoke cigarettes, they say "You don't know how hard it is to quit smoking." Yes I do. It's as hard as it is to start flossing.  

"You seem jittery."

"Yeah, I'm about to floss."

I'll let you know how it goes.

Assuming I survive.

Me, Whining. Again.

I'm a pretty boring person I think.  Conventional.  Married, three kids, suburbs.  Brown hair.  Brown eyes.  Nonathletic.  Not wealthy.  No criminal record.  Not one to make waves.

Except for sometimes.

Without meaning to.

My children and their education--it may be the death of me.  When I decided on a sunny day on the drive from Concord, California to my little apartment in East Bay that I would indeed homeschool Braeden, I don't think I knew what I was in for.

I know I didn't.

But here I am.  Homeschooling.  Divergent.  Constantly have to explain.  Some people approach my homeschooling like I'm crazy/have the plague.  Some people give me misplaced praise, saying things like, "I could NEVER do that."  They probably could.  I mean, I can.  Most people don't really care either way.

And I like that.

Now that I find myself trying to have both my older children attend school in unconventional ways, I'm feeling even more aberrant.  I'm stuck in a net of bureaucracy with different officials telling me different information with different levels of nice.

One kind lady at the Office of Superintendent of Public Instruction (OSPI for us lucky enough to be interacting with them), told me about a bulletin I could find online that would have information I needed.  Yay!  A definitive source of information.  Something to arm myself with when I return to talk to Ms. Unhelpful (and not nice).

When I located it and printed it off, it seemed like the script the adults used in Peanuts cartoons.  Unintelligible.  At least to the likes of me.  I knew Adam would be able to decipher it so I set it aside for him to contemplate when he got home (along with Braeden's algebra...it isn't always easy being me, or having to admit my deficits to my teenage son).

All afternoon, I chided myself, "Why do I have to be different?  Why can't I just do things like everyone else and not have to lock horns with Ms. Unhelpful (and not nice)?

I don't know.

I don't.

But there it is.

Somebody Alert Wall Street

When I graduated from high school (almost 20 years ago...I know, I don't look that old.  Do I?  Do I? Never mind.) my mom, among other things, gave me office supplies.  I didn't realize I'd need them (because when I lived at home I always found that kind of stuff in my mom's desk) but they were a brilliant gift.  I've used the (left handed) scissors, tape dispenser, and stapler all these years.  She also bought me a box of staples.

5000 of them.

And I use staples.  Every day I staple history pages together.  Or literature.  Or phonics.

This past weekend, I ran out of staples. 

Yesterday I went to Target and bought a new box of staples.  5000 more for the next 20 years.  It cost $1.29.  I will never pretend to be a financial adviser but if you want to make a sound investment, I'd put my money on staples.

What a deal!

The Continuing Saga

You may remember my past Shoe Wars post.  Like any good chronicle, it's long and episodic.  Mostly because the girl keeps needing shoes.

Friday night (after pedicures and Greek food--the boys and Adam had generously gone to Father and Son Camp), we went to the mall.  Our mission:  new church shoes for Emma.

Happily, thankfully, to my everlasting relief, our taste in clothes and shoes seems to be coinciding more often than not.  On the other hand, the appropriate height of a heel is not something we can see eye to eye on.  (Arguably, Emma wants high heels so she can see eye to eye with me...)

Our feet are the same size so gone are the days of cute little girl shoes.

But she's still little girl age.  At least when it comes to shoes.  At least in my mind.

Eleven is no time to be embracing stilettos...or anything approaching stilettos.  What it came down to is Emma wanted heels and I wanted none.  We compromised on a short heel but it had to be a wedge rather than a separate heel.

Emma wondered why that would possibly matter.

I had no idea.

But it did.

And when you're the one paying, sometimes you don't need to have all the answers.

We bought some wedge heels.  They're cute white slip-ons.  I'm hoping I'll inherit them someday when Emma's feet grow and mine do not.

As we were walking to the parking lot, Emma said, "I'm sorry, Mom."

"About what?"

"Arguing with you about the shoes."

If I'd been wearing unsteady high heels I would have fallen over.  Apologizing is a new skill Emma's acquired recently and it is disarming.

I assured her that like my mother and my tween self before her, mothers and daughters disagreed about high heels.

It's what we do.

Then we eat chocolate.

My Mom

When I was growing up, sometimes on Mother's Day someone would speak in church and rhapsodize about the virtues of their mother.

My mom told us, "Don't you EVER do that."

But sometimes I want to rhapsodize about my mom.

Because I love her.

There is this problem though.

My mother is a poem I'll never be able to write

But everything I write is a poem to my mother.

Sharon Doubiago

I wish I had the words for my mother.  I struggle with the space in a greeting card.  I struggle here.  Everything I can come up with sounds trite and cliché. There's so much to thank her for--more and more I'm realizing as my motherhood experiences lengthen.  A great thing about growing up though is that my appreciation for her as a person, as a friend, expands.  She is fun to be with.  She has good advice.  She understands me.  She's as tough as nails.  If I ever needed anyone to help me...with just about anything...she'd be my first pick.

Happy Mother's Day to my dear mother.   Assuming there is anything praiseworthy about my siblings or me, it is because of your goodness...and the sheer force of your will.

I love you.