A Jen Too Many

I had big plans for Christmas. I ran across this playhouse while goofing off one day, and decided that I would make something like that for my kids. I was going to set it up so that they'd see it first thing Christmas morning.

I was also going to make several pairs of dress-up ballet slippers using scrap material. Also blanket robes for everyone since blankets tend to get dragged off beds when there is TV watching going on. I knew that both of the girls would be having pajama parties at school, so they needed new nightgowns and Youngest Girl Child had asked me to replicate a nightgown from a Christmas storybook that she like (red with white collar and cuffs) so I wanted to make a couple of those. And the girls really do need an organizer of some sort to hang in their room to put all their hair things, play jewelry, Littlest Pet Shop animals, and other small things into.

Yeah. Good intentions / best-laid plans / blah, blah, blah.

Turns out there's a problem with sewing Christmas presents. I'm never alone. The only time I had to put all these wonderful things together was late at night, after I'd finally gotten the little ones to sleep. That was if I didn't have The Boy Child staying up late watching TV, or my sweetheart home on a day off. In other words, I only had about four hours of actual sewing time in any given week. And even then I had to give up some sleep to get those four hours.

The nightgowns got done, because those weren't a surprise, so I could sew them anytime. The blanket robes were made, because they were fairly simple to make (once I figured out how to do it.) The slippers proved to be much more complicated than I had expected. The one pair I managed to make took hours and looked terrible, so I gave up on them. The play house only got as far as prewashing the fabric (which is still sitting in my laundry room, getting in the way.) And now that Christmas is over, I finally have time for the organizers, which will not be a surprise, but which will make me, at least, much happier.

Next year both the girls will be in school all day. I am going to have so much time to get things done. What do you wannna bet I'll still be too tired to accomplish any of it?

My children built a tent in the middle of the living room yesterday and kept themselves busy playing Sick Mommy.

Why, yes, I did get sick for Christmas, thank you for asking.

Since we are all aware that I am not always a rational person, how, you might ask, did I spend my Christmas? Lying in bed, trying to recover? Gagging at the smell of food? Praying at the porcelain throne? Sucking down ginger ale as if it was all that stood between me and imminent death?

Or did I lose my senses entirely and try to make Christmas dinner? Especially since a) my husband came home from work and crashed immediately, never ceasing to snore until the wee hours of December 26, b) I was much too ill to be interested in food, and c) The Boy Child spent Christmas with friends and didn't came home until 10:30 p.m., leaving d) only two small people who are notorious for nibbling at at their food to eat Christmas dinner.

I can sometimes be a little bit obsessive about completing tasks I have assigned myself. Especially when I am not thinking clearly. The fuzzier my head is, the firmer my grasp on previous decisions becomes.

So, I didn't say to my beloved daughters, "Gee, guys, Mommy is sick today, so why don't you pig out on the pies and rolls that I made yesterday instead of having a real dinner tonight?" No, I said, "Don't worry, guys, I'll make it happen anyway." So I spent Christmas staggering from bed to couch to kitchen, gagging over the repulsive scents of honey glazed spiral-sliced ham and garlic-parmesan potatoes. I did have (barely) enough sense not to try to make our traditional Jello Salad of Instant Diabetes, nor did I make the green bean casserole.*

And then, I had to clean it all up. Which just proves that when I am sick, I am also completely insane.**
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*I thought about it, though. In the end, all that stopped me was that I didn't think I could keep standing long enough to stir the jello until it dissolved.

**Especially since only about three bites of mashed potatoes and 2 bites of ham actually happened that night. Although they did thoroughly enjoy the pies and getting to dish up their own Cool Whip. Which would be why there was very little left in the container this morning.

I am reliably informed (by Oldest Girl Child) that Santa will need Rudolph tonight, as it was foggy today.

We have just finished the letters to Santa. The milk and eggnog are waiting on the table, the letters neatly place next to them. Pictures drawn by Youngest Girl Child as presents to Santa are waiting under the tree. Oatmeal has been scattered around the front yard to feed the hungry reindeer.

They are almost too excited to breathe.

It is not quite as intense around here as it usually is, since we already opened most of the presents. Daddy is working tomorrow, leaving around 4 a.m. to get there on time. Opening the presents tonight allowed him to participate in the process. Tomorrow morning, we will all get up very early, so that Daddy can see the girls' reaction to the presents that Santa will bring, and get to read the letter that Santa always leaves them.

It's been a little weird opening our presents so early. There's a definite rhythm, a pattern I expect to Christmas. Having it changed like this has left me feeling off-kilter, almost like it isn't really Christmas at all.

Or maybe I'm just getting old and don't get as excited about Christmas anymore.

It is past bedtime already, and we still need to check NORAD to see where Santa is right now.

Merry Christmas to all of you!

You'd be hearing the cries of anguish wherever in the world you might be, except that I am utterly speechless with horror at the latest turn of events in our lives.

We have to find a new pediatrician.

I love our pediatrician. Big fluffy pink hearts luuuv her. She is wonderful. She never treats me like an idiot when I make an appointment based only on two days worth of sore throat complaints and a hunch*. She didn't bawl me out even a little bit when I confessed the girls were behind on their vaccinations and we needed to catch up on, oh, maybe the last two years worth of shots? She makes time to fit us in when I have a wee one who starts showing symptoms of pink eye at 7 p.m. on a Friday night. She is kind, she is patient, she takes time to explain things to me. I adore her. I rave about her to anyone I know who's looking for a pediatrician.

And I can't go there anymore.

*heavy sobbing*

I got a letter from the insurance company today, confirming that Oldest Girl Child and Youngest Girl Child have a new Primary Care Manager as of December 9, 2008.

News to me, since I'd never asked for a new one.

With the pathetic hope that somewhere a computer had screwed up, I called the pediatrician, and was told the office manager would call me back. I called the insurance company, and was told that our pediatrician is no longer part of the network. No-one could tell me why. Did she get tired of dealing with my insurance company? Did they decide she didn't meet their standards? I don't know, and I don't care. I just want her back!

The insurance company's Provider Directory search says that the nearest pediatrician is 14.59 miles from me "as the crow flies" and should take a mere 37 minutes to drive there. Google Maps, realizing that I am not a crow, assures me that the actual distance is 17 miles, all of it on a back road that has taken to putting on airs and calling itself a state highway. I've been to that town, driving that road. That road makes a snake look like a surveyor's line. I was scared to go the speed limit - and that was in the middle of the summer. I wouldn't be caught dead on that road in the winter.

The next closest pediatrician is supposedly 15.3 miles away. Reality: 23.3 miles, on a (real) state highway. Google assumes I will be able to go the legal posted speed limit and estimates 31 minutes to get there. I know there is a) construction on that road and b) it is one of the major routes to the local Big Employer. I estimate closer to an hour, longer at rush hour when traffic has been known to completely stop.

The third, fourth, and fifth options are all in the same practice. They are 16.63 miles away (Google says: 22 miles) but a lot faster to get to, since they are a straight shot up the freeway.**

All the possibilities, including those further down the list, work out about the same - a minimum 30 or 40 minute drive. Our current pediatrician is 7 minutes away. And we like her. She is local. And wonderful. My children get excited to see her even when they are sick. They are good for her when she gives them shots.

But - I can't afford her without insurance and I can't do anything about my insurance, because I found out about this two weeks after open season closed. I can't increase our flexible savings account withdrawals for the same reason, so I can't even afford to use the out-of-network provider option. I have to find a new pediatrician. It's enough to make a woman start swearing.

Oh, and the new PCM the insurance company assigned my children to? My doctor. Not a pediatrician. Also not accepting new patients. Speechless. I am absolutely speechless and reduced to incomprehensible noises.

Gaaaaaahhhh!
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*I was right - it was strep.

**Since we live close to the state line, they are actually out of state for us - not such a big deal, I suppose, but I do try to keep my money local. But that's another post.

I am having what I consider to be a surprisingly successful Christmas this year. Which is surprising because I started the season off with bad news about someone dear to me, and I was as far from the Christmas spirit as I have ever been in my life. Putting up decorations, playing carols, wrapping presents, messing with a tree - the last things I wanted to do. Curling up on my bed and being sad and weepy - very much what I was in the mood for.

Other people in my family (especially the smallish ones) would not have understood that, however, so I did it all anyway, gritting my teeth and feeling sorry for myself. I am now relieved to find, though, that my Christmas spirit has revived a little. I don't do well at faking being cheerful.

Sadly, I have to confess that my definition of Christmas success = "Getting everyone presents that will make them happy." Very shallow, I know. Come on, though - don't you hate having to get a present because it's expected, but you don't have a clue what to get? And you wind up getting something, anything!, to stick in the middle of a bunch of pretty paper, but you know as you're wrapping that it doesn't matter how many bows and ribbons you stick on the outside, or how shiny the paper is, the recipient is still going to give you that Christmas morning grimace that says, "I am disappointed and my feelings are hurt, but I don't want to make you feel bad, so I'm going to pretend I like this ... thing ... you gave me."

No, really, truly, I do love Christmas! I love shiny paper, and yummy smelling trees, and glittery stuff everywhere. I just find presents stressful, especially since Certain Members of my family will never tell me what they would like. If I ask (and I ask every year, in forlorn hope) I just get a shrug and the response, "Oh, whatever you get me will be nice."

Must. Kill.

It makes me paranoid enough that I tend to eye them beadily all year long waiting for any hint that might give me a clue as to what they might like. Not that it does me much good. If they do like something, they either go out and buy it for themselves before I can do anything, or it's something so esoteric that I can't remember what it is long enough to find it online. Or it turns out to be several lightyears out of my price range.

It's so much easier buying for small children. The only problem there is restraining myself from getting all the cool! shiny! fun! toys!*

This year, though!! This year I have been amazingly lucky in spotting great possibilities. Also both the girls have gotten old enough to seriously participate in picking out presents, and it turns out Youngest Girl Child has an uncanny, and possibly illegal, talent for figuring out exactly what any given person in the family wants most. I am overjoyed and intend to have her give me lessons as soon as she is old enough to know what lessons are.

This is why you have children - the hope of someday being able to mooch off their talents. It's all so very, very heartwarming.
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*Repeat after me, 200 times: I must not spoil the children. It will lead to life-long difficulties for them. I must be a Mean Mommy. I must impose limits and allow reasonable (but not dangerous!) natural consequences to smack them in the head on a regular basis. No rescuing. No saving. No playing Mother Bountiful. I am not playing with dolls. I am raising future adults. I will teach them to be strong, capable, and independent if it kills me - and it might.

(I was going to comment on my sister's blog, but it started getting long, so I just decided to put it over here.)

Where, Cannwin asks, does her daughter get the long list of name-brand items she is asking Santa for, for Christmas? After all, she points out, "we don't have any channels for her to be brainwashed into certain products with."

You don't need TV, dear sister. She gets it from her friends at school. Trust me on this one. *sigh*

I am getting very tired of constantly saying:

"I know that's what your friend's family does, but our family doesn't do that."

"I'm sorry, but Mommy and Daddy have veto power over Santa's gifts and we won't let him bring you that. I don't care what your friend got for Christmas last year."

"That's wonderful that your friend has Butterscotch. Nevertheless, you can't have Butterscotch. You can't have S'mores, either."

"You are too young for make-up and nail polish. It doesn't matter if that it's OK with your friend's parents. I'm sure that is the best decision for their family. It is not the best decision for our family."

"You are not going to get (merchandise of the week) just because your friend has one. If you get one it will be because you need one. Stop asking!"

The context: Watching a movie that featured a scene of the first Christmas.

Oldest Girl Child: That's Mary. Like Mary had a little lamb.

Mommy: Different Mary.

OGC: Oh.

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The context: While looking at Mommy's scriptures, during Sacrament.

YGC: Is every page important?

Mommy: Yes, dear.

YGC: (Spots a highlighted verse) Look! Someone colored!

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The context: Storytime at the library during a preschool fieldtrip.

The Librarian: ...because he didn't want to get just underwear and socks like last Christmas! (Turns to children) You don't want to get underwear and socks for Christmas either, do you?

YGC: I don't wear underwear!

And all the mothers in the room laughed hysterically while Mommy blushed bright red and tried to think of a way to tactfully rebut her daughter.

When I was a kid in Oregon, my brother and I looked forward every Christmas to The Cinnamon Bear. It would start right after Thanksgiving every year, one 15 minute episode a day, until Christmas Eve.

I loved it. It came on at 7 p.m. every night. I kept an eye on the clock, and if something happened to make us miss the day's episode I screeched the walls down.*

At some point we stopped listening to it. (I'm not sure if the radio station stopped airing it, or my parents got tired of my tantrums.) I never forgot it, though, and wanted to make sure my children also got to listen to it. I tried taping it off the radio, but that was less that 100% successful. A few years (well, OK - several years) later, I looked it up on the internet, but found that it cost a small fortune to get the complete show on CD. And since a small fortune was the last thing I had right then...

But! I just found out it's now in the public domain! If you want to share something special with your children, you can download the entire show at The Cinnamon Bear. (Not the same link as the one above. The first link has more information about the show - the second one has free downloads.)

Here's a quick synopsis of what the story is about: Judy and Jimmy are helping their mother get the Christmas decorations out of the attic, but they can't find the Silver Star for the top of the tree. The Cinnamon Bear helps them de-grow to his size, so that they can go to Maybeland in pursuit of the Crazy-Quilt Dragon, who has stolen the star. Many adventures follow!
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*Much to my parents' joy, I am sure.

Dear Santa,

My little sister wants me to write to you. I hope you don't mind; I know I'm asking for some very unusual items, but honestly, I find that the older I get, the harder it is to think of things I want to receive as presents.*

Here's my list:

1) A magic wand that will clean my house with one wave of my hand. Especially under the furniture, because stooping down to clean is getting problematic. It's not the stooping that's the problem - it's the getting up again later.

2) While we're at it, how about a little tiny amount - just the littlest, teeniest, bit - of water from the Fountain of Youth? Just a teaspoon or so. I don't want to be a teenager again. I'd just like to stand up from the floor without creaking too much.

3) Some of that water would go over well for my husband as well. If you give it to me, Santa, then I could give it to him, and it would be our little secret where it really came from, OK?**

4) Can you lay your hands on some spare wisdom? I don't know what happened. I was supposed to have a lot of it by this stage of my life, but it seems to have gotten lost in transit. I have way too many situations where I don't have a clue, especially with my children, so anything you can get me would be a big help.

5) Could that magic wand also make my children fall asleep 5 minutes after being put to bed? If that's not asking too much? And maybe keep them safe whenever they're out of my sight, too?

Thanks, Santa. I know you probably don't have any of this one hand, but hey, if my daughter can ask for Butterscotch, I can ask for something equally impossible, right? You won't mind. Right?

Jen
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*Usually because anything I might have put on a list I've already gone and bought for myself.

**I ask this because you wouldn't believe how difficult it is to buy for that man - you'd be giving me a really great present if you could help me get the perfect present for him.

I ran across this, here, and though it was a great idea.

Open the nearest book to page 56. Write out the fifth sentence on that page, and also the next two to five sentences. The closest book, not your favorite or the most intellectual.

Little sister, I'm tagging you!

All the children sat looking at Pippi, who lay flat on the floor, drawing to her heart's content.

"But, Pippi," said the teacher impatiently, "why in the world aren't you drawing on your paper?"

"I filled that long ago. There isn't room enough for my whole horse on that little snip of a paper," said Pippi. "Just now I'm working on his front legs, but when I get to his tail I guess I'll have to go out in the hall."

From Pippi Longstocking, by Astrid Lindgren. Left on the desk by the computer last Monday when I got home from reading to Oldest Girl Child's class. It's just as well, I suppose. It doesn't have quite the cool factor of Glory Road, but it's infinitely better than the Illustrated Young Reader's Dictionary, which also needs to be put away.

Ooh, ooh!! Guess what?! We returned the Scholastic books order form yesterday, and there were books for me in the order! Woohoo! Specifically the Chronicles of Narnia box set, which I have wanted for lo, these many years, and never been able to justify the expense. But this was pretty cheap - compared to what it normally is - so I splurged and treated myself.

Besides it helps out the teacher, so that's a good thing. Right? Of course it is! I'm doing a service to the community by buying more books - helping the school, helping the kids, helping the publishing industry. I'm not an out of control book fiend. I'm patriotic!

It hit me last night, that we (as in the parental units) have gotten sucked into a routine every night at dinner.

1) We all sit down to dinner
2) Youngest Girl Child looks at what dinner is and announces, "I don't like that!"
3) The Parental Units try several strategies: a) Ignoring her; b) Telling her she has to have one No Thank You bite; c) Bargaining that if she will have just one tiny nibble of dinner, just the minutest portion, barely an atom on the tip of her fork, then she can leave the dinner table and watch some TV before bed
4) Half an hour after dinner YGC says that she is hungry and heads to the kitchen for a snack.*

Wow. This is so incredibly not good. And it just snuck up on us, too. It's kind of funny. This is one of those situations that before I had children, I would have said I would never do. Though, honestly, I usually don't do things like this. At least I don't think I do. Of course, now I'm wondering what else I haven't noticed I'm doing.

It's amazing how much harder parenting gets once you have actual children around!
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*In my defense, I'd like to point out that the snacks she eats are usually pretty healthy: apples, carrots, celery, whole grain bread, string cheese.

We finished off the last of the pie the other night, except for Youngest Girl Child's last piece of pumpkin pie. She didn't want to eat it right then, but she was worried that someone else might see it, assume it was unclaimed, and eat it before she got back to it.*

Not sure what to do about this dire possibility, she and Oldest Girl Child put their heads together and came up with what seemed like a sure-fire solution. They put it on a plate and hid it.

Unfortunately, they hid it in the cupboard next to the sink, the one where I store my big mixing bowls and empty storage containers.

They told me about their brilliant idea late in the afternoon yesterday, when the pie had been in there about 24 hours. I quickly retrieved it only to find that (as I had feared) the lack of refrigeration had not done it any good. As YGC said, "Look, Mommy! It's fluffy!"

Yes, it was. Very fluffy indeed.
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*This is not an unwarranted fear. It has happened before.

Little girls who are sent to brush their teeth need to be repeatedly reminded of why they are in the bathroom. Otherwise, they could spend the whole time playing with their hair in the bathroom mirror and come out without ever having had toothpaste or toothbrush in the vicinity of their mouths.

What does it say about our family when the father of my small children lets them stay up late to watch a really great TV show with him - about the current state of research into interstellar travel? And they're actually interested?


It's amazing how everyone gets ravenous as soon as bedtime is announced. I wish they were this hungry at dinnertime.


Comment from their father on the noise coming from the girls' room: "It's a slumber party in there every night."


The number of excuses for getting back up after having been put to bed is infinite. If not more.

There's been a discussion on one of my email lists about ways to spend less money on Christmas this year. It's the sort of topic that comes up every year, but this year the tone of the posts has been a little less casual, a little more intense.

One mother shared that, among other cost-cutting measures such as making wooden toys for the children, they are re-gifting some of the children's own toys to them. They are going to buy new batteries for old presents that haven't been played with in a while, wrap them, and let the kids open them on Christmas morning as new presents.

(If you are reading this, S., you know where I'm going.)

My parents did something like that once. Once.

It's one of those ignominious family stories, the kind they hate to have us retell. The kind that elicit mingled groans and laughter from everyone, and the question, "What were you thinking?"

One year for, I believe, Christmas, my little brother S. got a Lite Brite. He and I both* were ecstatic about this, and wanted to play with it constantly. And then the lightbulb burned out, and nobody bought another lightbulb and we couldn't play with it anymore, which was very disappointing. It was put away, and we forgot about it.

At some point the two of us ran across it again, still lacking a lightbulb. I was older, though, and I had a brilliant idea.** I knew where Mom kept the lightbulbs, so I got one out and put it in myself. We had so much fun playing with the Lite Brite again! Until we tried to pull the pegs back out.

Yep. Plastic designed to handle a low watt bulb doesn't handle a 60 watt bulb so well. The pegs and the black pegboard they fit into melded into a near solid mass on the side nearest the lightbulb.

And that was that. The end of the Lite Brite. No-one was very happy with me, including myself.

I don't know when the second Christmas was. In the time distortion of childhood memories it seems like it was several years later, but it might have been just a few months later. (It can't have been all that long, though, because both events happened in the same house, which we were only in for four years.) My dad was trying to get a business of his own off the ground, and things weren't going so well. There had been a great demand for his product when he started, but now demand had tapered off dramatically and our finances had gotten very tight.

As a parent, one who has known a tight Christmas or two myself, I can sympathize with them. As a child, I was appalled, though not nearly as upset as my brother was when he opened a fascinatingly large box to see his old Lite Brite, refurbished, with a new pegboard, new pegs, and new lightbulb.

Our parents, poor things, didn't get quite the reaction they were hoping for.
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*Our younger siblings are much younger than us, so it was still just the two of us at that point.

**I had a lot of brilliant ideas back then. Most of them weren't all that brilliant. Unfortunately, I didn't ever realize that until I was halfway into implementing the idea. That was generally when the unrealized, but very fatal, flaws would come to light.***

***This is why I went around with a large shock of hair sticking straight up from the top of my head for several weeks in 6th grade. It turned out that it wasn't such a great idea to try to deal with tangles and knots by cutting them out. Scissors just don't make a good replacement for hairbrushes.

Who would have thought a birthday party would cause so much trouble?

The girls just got home from a birthday party for the Little Girl Across the Street. LGATS knocked on our door Thursday night to give the girls their invitations. There was much excitement and rejoicing (and relief from me that she had invited both girls, not just Oldest Girl Child) until I realized that the party was today. Saturday. Luckily at 4 p.m., because it was too late to go out shopping for a present that night.

I could have taken them shopping Friday night, but my sweet husband and I were planning on going out to dinner with some other couples. Everything got canceled, however, when Youngest Girl Child came down with pink eye. The doctor had assured us that she would be able to go to the party (she would no longer be contagious after three doses of the prescription eye drops), but I was not so sure when I put her to bed Friday night. She was pretty miserable and her eye was looking much worse, even after two doses.*

This morning she woke up with her poor little eye so swollen and red that I was sure I was going to be dealing with a broken-hearted little girl when OGC went to the party alone, but things improved remarkably once she had the third dose.

By the time she got her fourth dose of eyedrops she was looking only slightly like someone had punched her in the eye. So, thinking everything was going fine now, off we went to the store, all three of us, the YGC, the OGC, and me.

Well, OK, I admit, I am experienced enough by now to know not to expect "everything to be fine." Whenever is everything fine where kids are concerned? But I did at least think it was only going to be the normal quantity of maddening behavior from them.

They started on each other in the car. Truly nasty attacks on each other. Mean tones of voices, harsh words - they were rapidly degenerating to the level of "You're ugly and stupid and nobody loves you!" category of verbal assaults when I stepped in and announced that any further behavior along this line would lead to turning around. We would go home, we would not buy presents, and furthermore there would be no birthday party.

They were quiet after that, except for the crying. Pouting is silent, so I guess that doesn't count. Especially if I avoid looking in the mirror at them.

When we got to the store they went nuts. Every toy we saw they wanted. They weren't looking for a birthday present. We were Christmas shopping! When I finally yanked their attention back to LGATS my little Bobbsey twins settled on the same toy. No, not one from the two of them. The same toy, twice. The only difference was that one toy dog was brown and the other was white.

I didn't like it, but I try to allow them to make their own decisions as much as possible, so when couldn't distract either of them to one of the other fascinating toys I shrugged and took them off to select pretty bags to put the presents in, and birthday cards to tuck in with the presents.

Second verse, same as the first... Identical bags. Identical cards. I'm afraid I lost my temper at that point and insisted they at least have different cards.

And then we checked out and I discovered that the dogs, which were marked on the shelf as $4.88, actually rang up as $14.88. Allow me to emphasize - FourTEEN, not four. Granted, I was certainly unhappy about the price, but the fact that I could use this as a way to leverage getting something different (from each other's choice) was certainly a factor in returning the pups on the spot and getting my money back.**

I decided to have our do-over at the dollar store. I warned the girls before we went in that I wanted each girl to choose something different from what her sister was giving, and gave them permission to choose more than one gift. It took several minutes of trying to drag them away from playing, but we finally walked out of there with five toys each - 10 in total, not one duplicate among them. Except for the two pairs of earrings - one pair came with a pretty purse OCG picked out, and the other came with a glitzy tiara YGC chose. I figured that worked as different enough.

It was getting late in the afternoon by this point, so I was moving a little quickly as we headed out of the mall.*** Concentrating on just getting out and getting home, I was not thrilled to realize the way I was going was blocked by a large group of people. People? No - a parade. A parade? In the mall? Wait a second - what had the guy on the loudspeaker just been going on about? Someone special?

I looked down and saw a red hat bobbing along. It was Santa!

"Hey, look guys, it's Santa Claus!" OGC looked dubious. YGC bounced up and down.

The parade came closer, and I could see the red hat more clearly. It was not Santa. It was a Stormtrooper.

No. No, surely not. If this wasn't Santa what the heck was it? And wasn't this going to be fun - explaining to the girls that Mommy was mistaken and there was no Santa at the mall today?

I looked again. There was another red hat, visible for a moment then gone again. And ... Yes!! It was Santa! Woohoo! Mommy reputation - saved! Disappointment and tears - averted! The whole parade stopped for a moment to let the small brass ensemble change songs, just as Santa drew up opposite us. He looked at the girls and waved at them. YGC bounced some more and chattered excitedly about Santa. OGC looked in the general direction of the floor and scowled slightly, drawing closer to me.

And then the parade moved on and a woman dressed in generically festive Santa Helper clothing gave the girls two paper reindeer headbands to wear, while giving them a sales pitch about coming to see Santa and get their pictures taken. OGC's scowl deepened at this, and she refused to let me fix the headband for her.

Now, OGC has never been comfortable with Santa. She flat out refuses to go near him. She feels the same way about any costumed character. The Easter Bunny? No go. Mother Goose, who was at her school when she registered for Kindergarten? Absolutely not. She wouldn't even go close enough to get the coloring book Mother Goose was giving away. I had to take it for her. So, I asked her if she was still afraid of Santa.

She thought about it. "No. I just feel shy around him."

I suppose that's a little better than being stark terrified.

We climbed in the car and OGC fixed her headband all by herself, which she was very proud of. Then the girls pretended to butt heads like fighting deer, and then YGC reached out and ripped off one of OGC's horns. Then OGC sobbed, and YGC offered to give OGC her own intact headband in recompense, and OGC refused and continued sobbing. I persuaded OGC to accept the offer and the apology, and we made it home without too much further trouble.

Then we counted the minutes until it was time to go to the party and I watched them cross the street. It was wonderful - a child-free house - for about an hour, and then I started wondering when they were coming home. It was getting dark after all. After two hours I went to get them, expecting tears of protest. They greeted me with cries of, "Mommy! Why didn't you come to get us!"

*sigh* That's all I need - the LGATS's dad thinking I'm an irresponsible parent who can't be bothered to pick up my children at a reasonable time. I forbore to point out that the invitation had a start time, but no end time for the party.

Bedtime is in one half hour. I can't wait. After yesterday and today, teaching Primary tomorrow should be a piece of cake.****
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*Accompanied by much screaming and tossing her head around to try to escape us. I had to pin her to hold her still. Even then the only thing that really worked to calm her down enough to actually get the medicine into her eyes was the warning that she couldn't go to LGATS birthday party without taking the medicine.

**Yes, I know I could have insisted they give the dogs to me at the marked price, but I just didn't want to deal with that right then - and I really did want to get rid of the stupid things.

***Naturally I had forgotten where the store was, and parked on the opposite side of the mall.

****My primary class - 10 kids. Equal distribution of boys and girls, but three of the boys are ADHD. It makes for an exciting two hours.

Why is it no-one in this family can figure out what there is to eat? Every single member of this family will come and stand before me when they are hungry and ask me what there is to eat. When I ask them what they want to eat, they all say the same thing: "I don't know!" This is pronounced in a tone of voice that makes it clear that I have taken leave of my senses. How could they possible know what they want to eat? That's my job! I refuse, however, to fall into that trap. If I start trying to list things it will take years and cost millions of lives, and we will still never come to an agreement on what they think will taste good and what I am willing to prepare.

So I pronounce ultimatums.

"You can have an apple. If you don't want an apple, you can have a carrot or a celery stick. We also have bread. Those are your options."

It's amazing how quickly the people who couldn't think of anything they wanted, suddenly are full of ideas that don't involve vegetables, fruit or bread - all of said ideas involving work on my part, of course.

I've got The Boy Child and Husband Darling trained to do most of their own cooking* The girls, however, are still young enough that I don't want them using the stove. Oldest Girl Child is allowed to do some cooking with strict supervision and much trepidation on her mother's part; Youngest Girl Child is not allowed near hot burners yet.** The girls do know how to make sandwiches and similar items, however, and we make cookies once a week (learning about fractions, volume, and that unsweetened baking chocolate is pretty nasty when you try to eat it straight.)

My goal is to eventually have everyone in the family responsible for their own breakfast and lunch. I would only have to plan and prepare dinner every night. Currently, TBC is never home at dinnertime, and Husband Darling is rarely home then, so they are excused from cooking it; the girls, however, are going to be taking their turns at making dinner as soon as they are old enough. My excuse is that this is to teach them to be self-sufficient.*** But now you all know the truth. I'm just lazy.
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*Kind of - The Boy Child is trained. Husband Darling will prepare his own food about half the time. The other half of the time he looks pathetic and starving and too weak to move. Then I rush to fix him something and he recovers very nicely.

**She touched a cherry-red burner when she was two, giving herself a third degree burn on her index finger, and I still haven't recovered.

***I knew a girl in high school who used to brag that she didn't know any traditional womanly skills, in particular cooking. Even then, I thought that was pretty stupid; I have never thought that being able to take care of yourself was particularly demeaning. Neither do I find helplessness particularly empowering.

Courtesy of Cannwin (but I think I will forbear tagging 8 other people, since I don't know that many bloggers that well. Feel free to jump in if you are interested, though!)

1. I have a case of mason jars filled with applesauce and another case of jars filled with spiced apple rings, sitting on the floor next to the loveseat. They have been there probably over two weeks, but I'm trying not to think about that. I need to take them to the basement, but they are heavy, and I keep putting it off.

2. I am very good at procrastinating.

3. Case in point: I put off going to the store Saturday until I was almost too tired to care about the fact we needed eggs and milk, among other things. I hate shopping on Saturday because it's so crowded. I like to shop during the times the store is likely to be fairly empty.

4. I like being a stay at home mother because it lets me arrange my schedule so that I can do things like avoid the stores when everyone else is there.

5. The biggest factor in favor of home schooling, as I see it, is that I could arrange my whole family's life so that we could do everything when no-one else is. Sightsee in one of the Big Cities near us, travel to visit family, go to the library or the park.

6. The truth is, I'm just an antisocial hermit.

7. No, really, I am. I think it's part of the whole too-shy-to-say-hi-to-a-friend-in-the-street thing that I have going on. My personal hell would be being famous and having complete strangers walk up to me in the street, saying, "Wow! I know who you are!" And then I would have to be friendly and say, "Hi!" and pretend that I wouldn't really rather melt into the nearest wall to hide my shy self.*

8. Long hair is really good for hiding from the world, if you wear it down around your face. You can pretend other people can't see you if you can't see them.** Unfortunately, I am officially too old for long hair anymore. It accentuates all the recently developed downward drooping lines in my face and makes me look older than I think is fair. So I now have a short I-am-a-middle-aged-woman haircut, which looks OK on me. I guess. I miss having long hair, though.
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*Heaven, on the other hand, would ideally consist of getting to hang out with the people I know and love, in a big, quiet room, with lots of books and interesting conversation. Kind of like an unofficial family reunion.

**AKA "magical thinking".

I ran across the Jitter Bucket pattern quite a while ago and salivated over it for months. I even asked for it for my birthday. (With no luck. I don't remember what I got instead, but it wasn't the bucket pattern.) Then my local JoAnn's held a pattern sale (I love to get patterns at 99 cents each!) and I ran across a very similar pattern.

I was happy, happy, happy! Until I got home and tried to make sense of the directions. Oh, my.

Now, I have been sewing for nearly three decades (and boy, doesn't that statement make me feel old.) I even have a degree in Home Economics.* I know my way around a pattern. In fact, I don't even bother with a pattern 90% of the time anymore. I just measure and cut, eyeballing where necessary. Because I know how to sew.**

But I couldn't figure this pattern out. I have never run into worse directions in my life. I couldn't make heads or tails out of it. So I did what I should have done months before. I made it up. (If you don't like my way of doing this, or if you want an actual pattern, you can find a free one here.

I measured the height of the 5 gallon bucket I was planning on using, doubled the result and added a few inches to allow enough fabric to cover the inside bottom and overlap the outer base. Then I decided to add enough fabric to make a pocket on the inside, too. (I can't give you the actual numbers - sorry - because I made this awhile ago, and can't remember anymore. And I really don't feel like measuring everything again. Besides, whatever bucket you use will be a different size anyway.) I measured around the bucket, then, and (adding an inch for two 1/2" seam allowances) used that as the measurement for my width. I wound up with a large rectangle. (Yes, the bucket tapers. I ignored that. If I had tried to taper the fabric I wouldn't have been able to pull this over the top, which is wider than the bottom. I wanted to be able to wash this, so I made it fully removable. There is a little extra fabric at the bottom, but it's really not an issue.)

The first thing I sewed was a row of elastic that was meant to tuck under the base of the bucket. Then I did some more measuring and decided where to put the outer pockets. (I did all of this on the flat piece of fabric.) I made the pockets out of some leftover fabric scraps and ribbon that I had.

As you can see, I used tucks to form the pockets on the bottom row, and gathers for the upper row of pockets. The pink row of ribbon is hiding a length of elastic that I placed to fit into the top rim, where the lid would ordinarily have snapped on. I wanted something to hold the slipcover up, and help keep everything in place even when the bucket was empty. (If you click on the picture you'll get a better / larger view to see how I stitched everything.) I sewed the bottom of the pockets first, then did the stitching between the individual pockets.

I measured again, and folded up my base fabric to stitch the inner pockets. (I goofed a little on my measurements there, as I found when I went to figure out just where to stitch the bottom.) Then I sewed up the side seam, forming a tube, matching the pockets and ribbon as I went. And then I finally got to put what I'd done so far onto the bucket and gloat! (Always my favorite part of sewing. It's still amazing to me how you can take a 2 dimensional sheet of fabric and construct something so very three dimensional.***)

The fabric didn't exactly meet at the bottom (oops), so I wound up using more of the pink ribbon to make up the difference. I pinned it in place, then pulled the fabric back off the bucket and wrestled the whole mass onto my sewing machine, where I stitched around the edges of the ribbon with brown thread, kind of making it up as I went. (I think it turned out reasonably well. It's at the bottom anyway, so who cares?) As you can see, I arranged the fabric on the bottom so that the seams went from one corner to the other. The idea was to have them make an X shape. Ah, well.

This is the completed bucket. I gave it to my daughters for their multitudinous Barbie dolls. Unfortunately, the Barbies never seem to actually get put away in there, and there are still far too many weeping sessions over not being able to find various essential Barbie clothing accessories. Shoes especially. (I obviously am much better at sewing than teaching my children to be organized. I didn't even have to empty this out to take pictures of it. I just retrieved it from where it was lying on its side, half-buried in toys.****)

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*Yeah. My secret shame. I actually took two years out of my life to get an Associate's degree in Home Economics. It all happened because I thought, when I graduated from high school, that I had to make a decision right then about what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My dad always said that if you made a career out of what you were good at you'd be happy, and I knew I was good at sewing, so... It wasn't until a few years later that I realized I was good at other things, too. Like writing. And scientific research. And designing print layouts, and eyeballing distance / proportion, and estimating job costs, and typing, and organizing everything but my own home. Many of them things that tie into the same skills that make me good at sewing. Only I was young, and too dumb to realize that. Hence the Home Ec.

**Ironically, in all the things that I have learned over the course of my life, the things I have found most useful were things I never expected. Sewing is one of them. Sewing is, hands down, one of my top three useful skills. Especially now that I have little girls, and I can rarely find them clothes at the store that don't seem to be designed for streetwalkers.

***Once, years ago, I was trying to understand topology and I ran into something called a Klein bottle. It's what you get if you take a Moebius strip and add a dimension. Now, being as this was back in ancient times, and there was no such thing as the Internet yet, I couldn't find a picture of one to help me wrap my mind around the concept. So I made one out of fabric. It was very helpful and I was able to grasp the concept immediately. Unfortunately, that was as far as I ever got in understanding topology. While I still think it's all very cool, my brain is simply not equipped to handle that kind of higher math and if I try to push myself melted stuff starts trickling out of my ears, which is very messy and hard to clean out of my hair.

**** Note to self: Find a way to reduce the number of toys in this house, without triggering hysteria. Vitally important not to trigger hysteria. Remember that.

Diane Duane quoted Kipling in her blog recently. OK - a month ago today. I forgot I had her bookmarked until I tripped over the bookmark while looking for something else, and while I was catching up I found the Kipling quote.

I thought the poem she quoted was remarkably apropos of the current U.S. economic situation. (Go - read her post. Follow the link above.)

She already posted the poem on her blog, but I'm going to post it here, too, since I am currently in a state of mind where everything I write is obvious garbage and even a one word sentence, like, "Hello," is clearly the worst thing anyone, anywhere, has ever written, and I should burn all my pencils, delete all my files, and flush (page by page to avoid destroying the plumbing) every spiral-bound notebook whose pure white pages I have ever profaned with my words.*

So it seemed like a good idea to put something up here that is absolutely guaranteed to be fantastic writing.

Jennifer's fantasy of the week: Tattooing the complete poem on the bodies of every politician, banker, and CEO who contributed to this mess.

"we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things" Sheesh. Words fail me, they really do.

The Gods of the Copybook Headings
Rudyard Kipling

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four—
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

. . . . .

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man—
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:—
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
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*Actually, I'm not even going to post this. It is going to join the multitude of drafts I have created in the last couple of weeks, which were all utterly trite, meandering, pointless, and stinky, smelly garbage. You are not reading this. It is all an illusion.

Daylight Time to Standard Time - it's a good thing, right? This is the time change where I get to sleep in an hour. This is also the time change when I put the kids to bed at the same time according to the clock, but their bodies think it's an hour later, so they fall asleep more quickly and easily because they're so tired.

Right? Right?

So why have I been dragging around all week? I'm exhausted. And the girls are not settling down. If anything, they've been more giggly and silly at bedtime than usual, and taking longer to quiet down and go to sleep.

If I had three wishes they'd all be for more time to sleep.

Well, maybe one for Helen of Troy-like beauty. And another for limitless wealth. But then, sleep. Definitely.

What I really need is a way to stop time. I could be up and working 24/7. Sleep would happen when time wasn't moving forward. I could sleep all I want without disturbance, and still have more time on my hands than I've ever dreamed.

Yeah. That would be my third wish.

This is how I keep from blowing up like a parade balloon in the week before Halloween: I don't buy chocolate.

I buy Twizzlers, and Jolly Ranchers, and Dum Dums, and Tootsie Rolls, and SweeTarts. I buy bubblegum, and suckers, and jawbreakers.

I do not buy chocolate. I also do not buy peanut butter candy.

There is no temptation in this house. Not one teeniest bit of temptation.

At least, not until late Halloween night, after the kids have gone to sleep ...

1. Touched an iceberg
2. Slept under the stars
3. Been a part of a hockey fight
4. Changed a baby's diaper
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Swam with wild dolphins
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a tarantula
10. Said "I love you" and meant it
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Stayed up all night long and watched the sun rise
15. Seen the Northern Lights
16. Gone to a huge sports game
17. Walked the stairs to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
19. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
20. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Bet on a winning horse
23. Taken a sick day when you're not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Taken an ice cold bath
28. Had a meaningful conversation with a beggar
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Ridden a roller coaster
31. Hit a home run
32. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
33. Adopted an accent for fun
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Felt very happy about your life, even for just a moment
36. Loved your job 90% of the time
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Watched wild whales
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Gone on a midnight walk on the beach
41. Gone sky diving
42. Visited Ireland
43. Ever bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited India
45. Bench-pressed your own weight
46. Milked a cow
47. Alphabetized your personal files
48. Ever worn a superhero costume
49. Sung karaoke
50. Lounged around in bed all day
51. Gone scuba diving
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Done something you should regret, but don't
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Been in a movie
60. Gone without food for 3 days
61. Made cookies from scratch
62. Won first prize in a costume contest
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Been in a combat zone
65. Spoken more than one language fluently
66. Gotten into a fight while attempting to defend someone
67. Bounced a check
68. Read - and understood - your credit report
69. Recently bought and played with a favorite childhood toy
70. Found out something significant that your ancestors did
71. Called or written your Congress person
72. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
73. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
74. Helped an animal give birth
75. Been fired or laid off from a job
76. Won money
77. Broken a bone
78. Ridden a motorcycle
79. Driven any land vehicle at a speed of greater than 100 mph
80. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
81. Slept through an entire flight: takeoff, flight, and landing
82. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
83. Eaten sushi
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read The Bible cover to cover
86. Changed someone's mind about something you care deeply about
87. Gotten someone fired for their actions
88. Gone back to school
89. Changed your name
90. Caught a fly in the air with your bare hands
91. Eaten fried green tomatoes
92. Read The Iliad
93. Taught yourself an art from scratch
94. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
95. Apologized to someone years after inflicting the hurt
96. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
97. Been elected to public office
98. Thought to yourself that you're living your dream
99. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
100. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn't know you
101. Had a booth at a street fair
102. Dyed your hair
103. Been a DJ
104. Rocked a baby to sleep
105. Ever dropped a cat from a high place to see if it really lands on all four feet
106. Raked your carpet
107. Brought out the best in people
108. Brought out the worst in people 1
09. Worn a mood ring
110. Ridden a horse
111. Carved an animal from a piece of wood or bar of soap
112. Cooked a dish where four people asked for the recipe.
113. Seen a child buried
114. Gone to a Broadway (or equivalent to your country) play
115. Been inside the pyramids
116. Shot a basketball into a basket
117. Danced at a disco
118. Played in a band
119. Shot a bird
120. Gone to an arboretum
121. Tutored someone
122. Ridden a train
123. Brought an old fad back into style
124. Eaten caviar
125. Let a salesman talk you into something you didn’t need
126. Ridden a giraffe or elephant
127. Published a book 128. Pieced a quilt
129. Lived in a historic place
130. Acted in a play or performed on a stage
131. Asked for a raise
132. Made a hole-in-one
133. Gone deep sea fishing
134. Gone roller skating
135. Ran a marathon
136. Learned to surf
137. Invented something
138. Flown first class
139. Spent the night in a 5-star luxury suite
140. Flown in a helicopter
141. Visited Africa
142. Sang a solo
143. Gone spelunking
144. Learned how to take a compliment
145. Written a love-story
146. Seen Michelangelo’s David
147. Had your portrait painted
148. Written a fan letter
149. Spent the night in something haunted
150. Owned a St. Bernard or Great Dane
151. Ran away
152. Learned to juggle
153. Been a boss
154. Been summoned for jury selection
155. Lied about your weight
156. Gone on a diet
157. Found an arrowhead or a gold nugget
158. Written a poem
159. Carried your lunch in a lunch box
160. Gotten food poisoning
161. Gone on a service, humanitarian or religious mission
162. Hiked the Grand Canyon
163. Sat on a park bench and fed the ducks
164. Gone to the opera
165. Gotten a letter from someone famous
166. Worn knickers
167. Ridden in a limousine
168. Attended the Olympics
169. Can hula or waltz
170. Read a half dozen Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys books
171. Been stuck in an elevator
172. Had a revelatory dream
173. Thought you might crash in an airplane
174. Had a song dedicated to you on the radio or at a concert
175. Saved someone’s life
176. Eaten raw whale
177. Know how to tat, smock or do needlepoint
178. Laughed till your side hurt
179. Straddled the equator
180. Taken a photograph of something other than people that is worth framing
181. Gone to a Shakespeare Festival
182. Sent a message in a bottle
183. Spent the night in a hostel
184. Been a cashier
185. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
186. Joined a union
187. Donated blood or plasma
188. Built a camp fire
189. Kept a blog
190. Had hives
191. Worn custom made shoes or boots
192. Made a PowerPoint presentation
193. Taken a Hunter’s Safety Course
194. Served at a soup kitchen
195. Conquered the Rubik’s cube
196. Know CPR
197. Ridden in or owned a convertible
198. Found a long lost friend
199. Helped solve a crime
200. Name one thing we didn't mention: Milked a goat

The context: Oldest Girl child wanted to color a memorial heart for her teacher to put up on the wall as part of her school's Jump Rope for Heart campaign. I tried to explain to her that she didn't know anyone who had died of a heart attack.

OGC: I've had a heart attack.

Mommy: No, dear, trust me, you haven't.

OGC: Yes I did. Remember when we were waiting for Daddy outside his work and my chest hurt?

Mommy: That was heartburn, sweetie.

****************

The context: Youngest Girl Child saying family prayer before bedtime.

YGC: Please bless my family not to die, because I would be lonely.

****************
The context: Butterscotch is a FurReal toy which has been sold in the local stores for the last couple of Christmas seasons, and cost a little over $300 as of last Christmas.

OGC: I'm going to ask Santa for Butterscotch for Christmas!

Mommy: I think that might be a bit too expensive, dear. Remember, Santa has to give away a lot of toys.

OGC: Oh, I know he'll give it to me. My friend Maree asked for one last Christmas and he gave it to her!

Mommy: speechless and wondering how to explain why Santa gave one to Maree but won't give one to OGC

Right. Blogging. Something I should do.

Wow, has it been that long since I actually posted something substantive?

Oops.

*groan* I am so not awake yet, though. I was typing a response to a comment before starting on this post and I kept typing the wrong words. I reread what I'd written, and kept looking at this one word, vaguely aware something was wrong, but not able to pull my mind together enough to realize what.

I'm like this in the morning. I can't make my eyes open for a while, then I have to wait until they consent to focus. If I try to make myself move too quickly I tend to lose my balance and walk into walls.*

Last night I made the fatal error of staying up until after midnight. A very, very bad idea.** It was very difficult waking up this morning and took much longer than usual to get all systems up and running. It's not my fault, though. It's because we had our ward Halloween party last night and it started at the same time as our usual bedtime.

So, we got home nearly 2 hours late for bed. This wasn't a problem for OGC (except for the crankiness we will undoubtedly have to endure when she gets home from school today), but Youngest Girl Child is a night owl. She never falls asleep until about two hours after I put her to bed. Whenever I put her to bed. It doesn't work just putting her to bed later, because she'll just fall asleep later. This makes me crazy, because it means I spend the entire evening fielding requests from her.

"I'm hungry."
"I'm thirsty."
"I want to snuggle."
"I'm not tired."
"I'm hungry."
"I'm bored"
"I'm thirsty."
"I can't fall asleep."
"I'm thirsty."
"Mommy, will you come talk with me?"
"I'm hungry."

It was 10:30 before she finally fell asleep.

Have I mentioned before my obsessive need for alone time? I tried once to get it by getting up earlier. You know what I found out? No matter how early you get up, if you don't want the rest of the family to get up, they will.

The only way I can get alone time - time when the house is quiet and I'm not dealing with any requests, needs, or injuries - is when I stay up late. Which is why I am so tired this morning.

Next year. Next year I will have everyone in school all day long. All. Day. Long. Hours and hours of solitude (except when The Boy Child and Husband Darling are at home. So, hours and hours of solitude a few times a month.)

I might actually get completely caught up on my sleep. Wow.
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*Of course, all that goes out the window when I start the day off with a healthy dose of adrenaline, the way I did the other morning when my alarm didn't go off and Husband Darling woke me at 7. "Bwaaaa!! Oldest Girl Child! GET UP NOW! Get dressed! Get your book bag! DON'T MISS THE BUS!"

**Gosh, I am getting so old. I was complaining to a friend last night that I was tired and it had been a long day and I wanted to go to home, sit down, and maybe go to bed early. It was only a little after 7 p.m. I used to stay up until 3 and 4 a.m. all the time and get up and go to class the next day without a second thought. And now I can't stay up past midnight. Sheesh.

If you:

1. Have a blog;
2. Are a full-time college student;
3. Are a U.S. Citizen or a permanent resident of the United States; and
4. Could use $10,000;

...then you might be interested in this scholarship. The deadline is Oct. 30! If you are interested, do not delay!

I may be the crazy reading woman, with 34 books currently on my PDA. I may be known to read while unloading the dishwasher. Some of you might have witnessed me walking into parked cars as I strolled down the street with my nose in a book. (And then, instead of noticing I've walked into a parked car, get confused and wonder why I'm not moving forward anymore.)

But I am not book club material.

I joined a book club once, not long after we moved here, thrilled to have been invited and desperately hoping to make new friends. (I was so lonely right then.) I only lasted a few months. I found, unfortunately, that I like what I like and I don't like reading what other people like. The books the other members selected either bored or annoyed me. The book that I suggested* bored them. They were very nice women, but it just wasn't a good fit, so I quit.

I've just been invited to join another book club. The first meeting (which I didn't attend) was last week, following which I got an email letting me know what books they've chosen for the next seven months.

Wow. Is it just my limited experience, or are all book clubs like this? There are two non-fiction self-improvement type books (Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, and How to Win Friends and Influence People.) There are two classic 19th century romances (Pride and Prejudice, and Jane Eyre.) There is one family saga novel from the early 20th century (The Good Earth.) There are two books that I'd never heard of, but which, when I looked them up, really, really, really did not appeal me. One is series of poems about a girl who accidentally kills her pregnant mother (Out of the Earth), and the other is the autobiography of a woman who survived a horrible crime and put her life back together (Forgiving the Dead Man Walking.)

Granted - when you get a large enough group together, not everyone is going to like the same things, so it's probably hard to find something that everyone can agree on. And this is a group of women from my church, so I can imagine the participants that night felt a certain degree of internal pressure to suggest "appropriate" books. These certainly tend to be very safe choices.

There's a thread of commonality here, though, that turns me off, a sort of grimly educational / good-for-you feel to the selected books. Reading, this list says to me, is a serious business. No time for fooling around! We must be Improving Ourselves! We must be Learning! We must Familiarize Ourselves With The Classics! We must Educate Ourselves!

Ummm, seriously? Is reading that hard to do? I mean, isn't anyone interested in reading for fun? (Not that people don't read Jane Eyre for fun. Not something I would do, but I've heard it's happened.) But it's the same sort of thing, to be honest, that I saw in the other book club. The books were almost all Books With a Message. There were only two exceptions - the one I chose, and The Blue Castle,** by L.M. Montgomery. Both books were received with something less than enthusiasm. I received the distinct impression that they were considered to be rather too light and fluffy. Not serious enough. Not educational enough.***

I read because I love reading. I love stories. When I was a little kid I used to beg my mom to read to me because I loved the stories so much and wanted more of them. I couldn't wait to learn how to read, because then I wouldn't have to wait for anyone to read to me - I could read the stories to myself, anytime I wanted! And when I was naughty? I was punished by having my books taken away. (Fate. Worse. Than. Death. Trust me. A totally panic-inducing threat.)

Books aren't medicine. They're not something you force down, because they're good for you. Books are dessert. Books are hot fudge dripping down over slightly melty vanilla ice cream, with strawberry syrup stuff around the edges, toasty bits of almond sprinkled over it all, and a generous dollop of real whipped cream on the top, with a thoroughly carcinogenic, but oh-so-yummy maraschino cherry in a color nature never invented.

They're the sanity pill that lets you go one more hour without screaming at anyone. They're what you tear yourself away from in order to do important things, like feed your family, and earn your paycheck. They're the delicious treat you hide in your purse and take out when you're supposed to be shopping while your daughter is at preschool. They're the addiction that lets you escape when things are Just Too Much, feeling your muscles and posture relax as you slide into another world, where the problems are only real to the characters, and no threat to your life at all. Because real life has enough problems, and I don't want any more of it than I already have to deal with, thank you.

I'm just not book club material. There's nothing self-improving about ice-cream sundaes, after all.
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*The Beekeeper's Apprentice, by Laurie R. King. Fantastic book. First of a fantastic series. I loooove the Mary Russell series. Pink puffy hearts love it. The only Sherlock Holmes books I have ever liked that were written by anyone other than Arthur Conan Doyle.

**I immediately fell in love with it and it is now one of my all-time favorite romances, right up there with Daddy Long Legs.

***Or, as L.M. Montgomery said in The Blue Castle: "It was permissible, even laudable, to read to improve your mind and your religion, but a book that was enjoyable was dangerous."

Right now the love seat in the living room is unusable, because it is covered and stacked with various boxes. This is because I have a little galley kitchen, which, while it is not as small as it could be, is still not nearly big enough to accommodate the needs of a serious home canner.

I usually keep my canning stuff in the basement, but it is upstairs right now, where I have no room for it all. I can't put my boxes and pots on the counters, because I need to work there. I can't put them on the dining room table, because we need to eat there, and I am also using it as a workspace in between meals. I can't put anything on the floor because the dog will do unspeakable things to my boxes. So I am using the love seat, and my husband is being very nice about it.*

Currently, I have a mason jar case, containing 7 quarts of applesauce and waiting for 5 more jars to complete the dozen before going to the basement. I have the huge box that my Roma strainer and all its assorted accessories came in, which is holding all the pieces that are not currently air-drying on the dining room table. My water bath canner is on top of the applesauce case. My dehydrator is sitting on the kitchen table, but when it is done with the current batch of apple chips will go back onto the loveseat.

In the kitchen I have a 10 quart stockpot full of applesauce. I made it Monday (didn't have time for it yesterday) and need to reheat it, flavor it cinnamon, and can seven quarts. I also need to get started on the spiced apple rings. I am not making apple butter this year, since I still have several pints from a couple of years ago. We go through strawberry freezer jam much, much faster than apple butter.**

I also have plans to make some salsa since I have everything up here, another item which makes my husband very happy. That isn't as hard as it sounds - I make it with canned tomatoes and a salsa mix packet. All I have to do it cook it a little while, pour it in the bottles, and water bath it.

But first, I have to stop goofing off and procrastinating, so I'll end this post now.
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*Because he is unreasonably impressed that I know how to can, and thinks it is hard work. (It is, but it is fun hard work.) He also loves spiced apple rings.

**My daughters are such jam snobs. They refuse to touch commercially made jam, turn up their noses at jam which I have canned in a water bath, and go crazy for freezer jam. I have to threaten them to keep them away from it, and still have to hide it in the back of the freezer to make it last more than a few weeks.