A Jen Too Many

It is currently snowing. We are told we can expect as much as another foot. My sweetheart gets to stay home from work tomorrow. The girls and I played Set this evening. Oldest Girl Child is incredibly good at it. I barely won the first round, which is pretty amazing when you consider that her age is measured in the single digits still and I am ... well ... old, OK?

Somebody stopped by yesterday and offered to finish shoveling our driveway for $25. I couldn't say, "Yes," fast enough and was tempted to throw myself at his feet in gratitude. The Boy Child, who would normally be earning the shoveling cash, has cleverly vanished from home for the last week and we have not heard from him. I am sure he will reappear once the snowstorms are safely out of the way and the driveway is cleared for good (or until next winter.)

No more school for the rest of the week. Youngest Girl Child got her snow week homework out of the way already, but she only had a couple of things to do. OGC has a whole package of papers and is starting to get snarly about the whole process of being required to do a small amount every day.

I thought about going to the store today to pick up a few things we are low on, but my sweetheart went out to pick himself up some soda and came home with the report that the roads are still very slick. So I decided we were fine for the rest of the week with what we have. Besides, judging from the photos I got in my email this afternoon, there is no point to going to the store right now - I have more in my pantry than they do on their shelves. (Note: These are not my photos. They are just a couple of the ones I was sent.)

Every year when we put up the plastic tree, we have cookies and eggnog. The kids and I put the tree together, while their father takes pictures. Sometimes the girls like to dress up. We always use multi-colored lights, because I am the one who buys the decorations and that's what we had when I was a kid. I like a tree with those kind of lights.

Either Mommy or Daddy puts the lights on, then the kids put the ornaments on. We have a tree skirt I made many years ago, some old glass ornaments I got at a St. Vincent de Paul thrift store when I lived in Oregon, several newer glass ornaments (that are gradually decreasing in number as one or two break every year) and a large number of figurine-type ornaments that were either gifts from friends and family, or made by the girls at school and church.

This year we have two new ornaments - a wreath the Youngest Girl Child made out of sparkly pipe cleaner and a milk jug lid ring, in kindergarten, and a styrofoam ball studded with beads and sequins precariously held on with pins made by Oldest Girl Child. The ball is already starting to shed pins and I worry for its longevity.

We also have: a tongue depressor Star of David (OGC), a tongue depressor snowman (YGC), a tongue depressor Rudolph (OGC), a felt-and-pipe-cleaner sled made by one of my sisters and given to me many, many years ago, a blue glass ball with "Merry Christmas R.S. '98" written on it in puffy gold paint (given to me by a friend who died a few years later), a white plaster (I think) snowflake on a blue background (OGC), a plastic bead wreath (unknown), manger figurines I bought a few years before I met my husband (baby Jesus has been lost for years), and a piece of lace the girls found at the bottom of one of the boxes which I used to use as garland back when I was roommates with Cari.

At the top of the tree we have a star, also lit up with multi-colored lights. and another decoration that I brought with me when I got married. The girls both want to be the one to put it up on the top of the tree, so we arranged things this year so that they could both have their hands on it when it went on. (That's another good thing about an artificial tree - it's really easy to make the star stay on.)

There's nothing on there that would impress a decorator, but I love everything on there. Christmas trees are supposed to be gaudy and tacky and full of little kids' art projects. There's a law about it. Somewhere.

OK - time to jump back into Vintage Photo Fridays!

These old school photos are all of my mother-in-law. The Kilgore referred to is Kilgore, Texas. Later on she became a Kilgore Rangerette, which my husband informs me is a Big Deal and Very Impressive.

Genetics crops up again, here. In the first two photos I can really see the resemblance to Youngest Girl Child, but in the two later photos she reminds me of Oldest Girl Child. I see my husband and The Boy Child in the two youngest photos, too.

It's most striking in the first and last photos - '42/'43 and '47/'48. I've seen that exact same expression on YGC's face ('42/'43). In the last photo, it's the way she's looking at the camera. She smiles like her oldest granddaughter and has a look in her eyes that I've seen in OGC's eyes.

To see other vintage photos check out Paper Dolls for Boys.

I am sitting in the house, nearly alone. The Boy Child is the only one here and he is leaving soon to go hang out with some friends. My Sweetheart has gone to work, the girls are gone to school. I have been working on shoveling out the living room, which was left in a more than usual state of chaos this morning.

Except for the buzz of the computer fan and an occasional metallic clack from the dryer, everything is quiet.

I am handling the first day of school very well. I seem to have gotten my weepies out of the way last night at 10:30 p.m. when I turned off the movie I'd been watching and starting my nightly closing-up routine. That's when it hit me that I would spend the next day without a warm little cuddlebug filling the house with her special brand of sunshine, and I broke down and spent about half an hour crying.

Yesterday was filled with getting ready. There was paperwork from orientation to be filled out, clothes to be laid out, pictures to be taken (for the school's star student* forms), backpacks to be filled up, and interspersed throughout the whole thing Oldest Girl Child's fits of glee, and Youngest Girl Child's bouts of, "But I don't want to leave you, Mommy!" followed by hugs and weeping. Her weeping, not mine.

Not that YGC was as upset as she made herself out to be. Her feelings were real, but I know her well enough to recognize when she's exaggerating or pretending more than she's really feeling. I've probably mentioned before that she does this thing where she sometimes decides how she's supposed to feel and then acts it out. Unfortunately, these feelings usually tend to be negative. She decides she's afraid of something, or some situation, for example. Or she decides she's shy. Or she decides she doesn't like something. That's what she's been doing with school - taking her normal trepidation and acting out this dramatic, negative scenario.

I recognize what she's doing, because, well, that's what I used to do when I was little. It wasn't a positive trait for me either. In fact, it caused me a great deal of trouble in my early years, especially the tendency toward being negative. If I had allowed myself to be positive, it might have worked to help me, instead of hinder me, but... *shrug* With YGC, I'm working on teaching her to overcome that negativity, to be positive and find a way to make the good happen, instead of going all passive and moving to avoid the bad that might never come.

I hope I am doing the right things to help her. It scares me to think of how difficult her life will be if she doesn't learn this.

For example: Last night OGC said to me, "Mommy, do you remember the girl who sat at my table during orientation? I think she wants me to be her friend. She looked like she was shy."

I couldn't help flashing back to what YGC said after leaving her orientation. "I don't think they want to be my friends."

They are both going to be self-fulfilling prophecies, if I can't head YGC off.

When she forgets to be negative, though, YGC is very excited about going to school. Just before bedtime last night the two of them were literally jumping with excess energy and the decibel levels were getting alarmingly high.

We had orientation a couple of nights ago, which had us going to the school for the girls to meet their new teachers, and for me to get school supply lists and find out what the teachers' expectations are for this school year.

YGC's teacher seems very nice. YGC had drawn a picture for her (a fountain, I was informed, looking at the confusion of blue marker blobs and lines) which we gave her as soon as we got in the room. She smiled brightly at YGC, thanked her and said she'd hang it up. She gave us a sheet of paper with everything we might need to know - start times, lunch times, etc. I would have loved her for that alone. In Oldest Girl Child's previous years at school no-one has ever done that for me. I know more now about how the school operates than I ever have.

OGC's teacher is the only man teaching in this school. I think this will be a good experience for her. I was impressed by his manner during the orientation, and rather taken aback by his announcing that the kids didn't need to bring any school supplies. He will provide everything they need, although we are welcome to donate anything we like. So I sent OGC off to school this morning with everything we'd bought for her, telling her to give it to her teacher.

We've been working for the last month on getting YGC in the habit of getting up at 6:30. She is a little night owl, much like her parents, and has always been resistant to a schedule. Oh, I could get her on one, if I worked hard enough, but the first breath of wind that came along would knock her off that perch.

Really, the amazing thing is not that YGC is a night owl, but that OGC is such a lark. She's been waking up at 6:30 all summer, just because that's what she's used to and she likes to get up that early. She's like my brother S, who has also always mystified me. After half a lifetime of early risings I still hate, hate, hate them, and take several minutes to figure out how to keep my balance and make my eyes focus. If I jump out of bed too quickly I tend to walk into walls.

To make life easier (on me), we bought the girls a nightlight alarm clock. OGC is usually up before the alarm goes off, but YGC has been waking up very nicely to the alarm and, after taking a few minutes (to get her balance and focus her eyes?), will stagger out to the living room, wrapped in a blanket. She'll huddle in a corner of the couch watching some half hour show, like Fetch, or Cyberchase, then emerge to announce that she's hungry.

Last night, we discussed the morning procedure for school days. "No TV until you are dressed!" I told them. OGC was fine with this. In fact, she was up and mostly dressed when I staggered out of the bedroom this morning. My alarm goes off five minutes before theirs, so I was able to hear their alarm when it went off. YGC staggered out, OGC went to turn on the TV, and I stopped her. "Remember? Clothes?"

"Oh, right!" So then OGC turned to chivvying her sister into her clothes.

TV is a great motivator. YGC was moving in record time.

Their father is working swing shift right now, but he wanted to be up to see them off, so I got him up at a quarter after, and he joined us for scripture study and family prayer. Then we headed off to the bus.

Which was 20 minutes late.

This was good and bad. It gave YGC time to play with the other kids at the bus stop and relax. It also, however, gave her more time to agonize and cry and worry about bad things. In the end, though, when the bus drove off she was grinning as she waved to me from her window.

And then I went home and took a nap, which was absolutely delicious. Right now I feel rather weird, kind of twitchy and itchy. Even with TBC here the house feels empty. I'm feeling very relaxed after that nap (two whole hours!! Do you know how long it's been since I took a long nap like that? Usually I catch, at most, 15 minutes, and even then it's frequently been while sitting up with YGC on my lap.) I've been cleaning, while rejoicing that it won't all be undone in the next half hour. I would listen to music, but I'm enjoying the silence way too much. It's so nice and peaceful here right now.

But the emptiness is still making my skin feel weird.
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* Every student at the school fills out one of these forms. Over the year the school counselor will randomly draw a few every week, which will go up in the cafeteria until the next week. When they come down, the kids get to take them home, along with a folder and a certificate and pencil. I guess it is meant to be a self-esteem builder kind of thing.**

**Something that tends to backfire on OGC. Last year she came home from field day with a ribbon for participation. She ignored it until I picked it up and said, "Oh! You got a ribbon?" She kind of rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah, everyone got one of those." It's now just another toy, played with rather less than most of the others. She does enjoy being a star student and having her picture up, though. She adores attention.

Travelin' Oma's School Days Seminar - Day 2 Homework

~Blog about a trip that was a disaster. Ideas: "Our honeymoon should have been perfect, but" or "I woke up in Disneyland with chickenpox."

To be honest, my memory is a little hazy about that trip. Or maybe not hazy. Maybe I've just repressed large blocks of time.

We had gone travelling the previous summer with The Boy Child. I was 7 months pregnant with Oldest Girl Child, huge, miserable, already short of breath. It was only meant to be a day or two, but after visiting Kirtland we thought we'd jaunt on up to Palmyra, and after getting to Palmyra we realized the Hill Cumorah Pageant was going on and that seemed like something not-to-be-missed, so we stayed to see that, and, all in all, it wound up being a week before we got home.

It was a tiring, breathless trip, filled with small mishaps, but also full of wonderful experiences, memories that I still treasure. So, the next summer, it seemed only logical to block out the time to take a trip to Nauvoo to see the temple during its open house.

The trip wasn't all bad. I saw my first fireflies. I saw the place where some of my ancestors lived. Ummmm ...

Give me a second. I'm thinking.

Things went wrong from the beginning. OGC was the sort of baby you couldn't overstimulate. She was never happier than when in the middle of a noisy crowd, a trait that was apparent in her first few days. They was so much to see! Hear! Do! Learn! Even then, she was a raging extrovert.

Which meant that, faced with the stimulation of a trip, she wouldn't sleep. All day long that first day of travel, sitting in her car seat, watching the countryside outside her window, nearly delirious with delight. That night, at the motel, at 2 a.m., with an exhausted sobbing Mommy, who still hadn't learned to let Daddy take over sometimes.

I go blank after that.

The next thing I remember is standing in line to tour Carthage Jail. It was sooo hot. The line was huge. OGC wanted to get down and practice walking. I was Excessively Tired and Not Happy. I left my husband standing in line with the baby while TBC and I went to find a drinking fountain and a bathroom. I looked at several highly memorable and significant Mormon memorabilia with complete indifference, then shuffled back to the line to find my baby running around barefoot. Some ... woman ... had taken it upon herself to remove my infant daughter's footwear. It was too hot for a baby to be wearing shoes! she told me, smiling cheerily at the woman she obviously considered a completely incompetent mother. I was too angry to speak.

... filing through the uppper room at Carthage jail, hot, hot, hot, very crowded, just wanting to get out of there ... driving to Nauvoo, where we parked amid a huge number of cars, then walked and walked to get to the restored cabins ... TBC (or was it his father?) leaving my camera behind at the blacksmith's demonstration and not realizing until much too late that we'd lost it - all our photos, gone! ... getting baby food at some convenient grocery store ... sitting on the floor with an excited baby, so so tired, and too afraid to let her cry herself to sleep, because the noise might get us in trouble with the hotel management ...

The next day it is our turn to take a tour through the Nauvoo Temple. We are short on time when we finally get there, I don't remember why. Realize the baby's wet, ask where is a convenient place to change her. Get blank looks from the volunteers. After much discussion, get directed to a portable restroom, which doesn't alarm me. This isn't the first LDS temple open house I've been to, after all, and the facilities are uniformly clean and sweet smelling. (We put a lot of effort into making these things nice.)

Open the door and walk into the nastiest, filthiest public bathroom I've ever seen. Nowhere to lay the baby down but the floor and I didn't even want to set a foot on that floor, much less my baby. Obviously the volume of visitors has overwhelmed the small Mormon community in the area. Go back to the volunteers. I am worrying about missing the scheduled time for our tour. More confusion and blank looks from the volunteers. Impossible and ridiculous suggestions. I give up (she's only wet) and we get in line.

Ask another volunteer several minutes later, when we are nearly at the head of the line if there is anywhere to change a baby. Well, maybe. Back there? He thinks? Checking it out would mean losing our place in line, possible losing our chance to see the temple, all on the weight of a "maybe". Decide to take my chances with the perceptibly loaded diaper, but feeling increasingly frazzled and unhappy. Not to mention, the baby is heavy. I'd pass her to her father, but if her diaper goes, my dress is easier to clean than his suit.

More waiting in another line. We finally get in the temple. I am too upset and distressed, too worried about the baby's diaper to enjoy the once in a lifetime experience.

And then it happens. The diaper hits critical overload and a long line of liquid splashes down my dress. Luckily the absorbent fabric of my skirt catches it all. The brand new carpet I am standing on (back aching) is safe and dry.

I am ready to burst into tears.

We finish, go back out. See another volunteer, ask again about a place to change the baby. Get directed down a long staircase, to the first bathroom. Back aching, dress stinking, feet hurting, I look at those long stairs, then lose it entirely and give the poor young woman the most venomous glare and refusal I have ever given anyone in my life, frightening her and causing my husband to look at me as if I have lost my mind.

Sit impatiently and angrily through TBC and my husband eating something sweet. Frantic to get back to the car, where I can finally change the baby. Finally, finally, FINALLY!!! get to change the baby. Trying not to be angry on the way back to the hotel. Trying not to ruin the experience for TBC and my husband. Not succeeding.

The baby finally started sleeping a little on the trip back, but I still can't think about that trip without getting angry and weepy over it. And while we'll talk sometimes about the previous summer's trip to Kirtland, no-one ever brings up the Nauvoo trip.

It was years before we traveled for fun again.

I've been reading Kira's blog, Kiwords, for years. Not only is she a brilliant writer, it's a fascinating glimpse into life with little boys, something of which I know very little. (The Boy Child was no longer particularly little when his father and I married.)

In Kira's latest post (about triumphing over a video game that had given her trouble) she says:

"Can I try now?" Raphael wanted to know. "Can I have a turn?"

But no, he couldn't because it was bedtime.

I immediately visualized how a statement like that would go over in my estrogen laden household, and I couldn't help but wonder if boys react anything like girls to being told, "Sorry, but it's bedtime. Fun's over. Go brush your teeth."

Is there an immediate emergency siren-like wail of despair? Stomping? Inadequate teeth-brushing as a way of punishing the mean mommy?

Do they lurch as they stomp, physically overcome by the cruelty of the world until they cannot walk without throwing themselves about, reeling side to side, backward and then forward with every step? Are there slammed doors? Is there earsplitting weeping, sufficient to make the dead wince and cover their ears?

Is there prolonged sulking once the initial dramatics are over? Pouting as they throw themselves onto a corner of the couch, staring blankly at the TV screen? Can you see a recounting of past wrongs done to them flickering across their little faces? Do they slump over with groans of despair and anguish to lie obstructively across the couch so that no-one else can sit down?

Do they yell at their siblings?

Am I going through all this because I have girls, or because I have children? TBC was not inclined to dramatics until he became a teenager. If the girls increase the drama by the same percentage that TBC did ...

Wow. Ummm - can I just go hide in a hole when that happens? Please?

One of The Boy Child's best friends is getting married, so I've been going through the loving couple's online registry this afternoon gauging how much we can afford to spend on a present (and rather surprised at the modesty of their list - the most expensive thing on there is a $100 vacuum.)

Funny story - years and years ago, before dinosaurs walked the earth, I had a roommate who was getting married. She was in college and all our friend were either in college or working for minimum wage. In other words, everyone we knew was as broke as we were. The week she got married there was a sale on drinking glasses (six to a package) at one of the local discount stores. Sure enough, when she was opening presents after the reception she found that she'd gotten 14 dozen sets of glasses! (And boy, wasn't I relieved I'd gotten something else? I actually had considered those glasses ...)

When The Love of My Life and I got married we kept things very small. We weren't even planning on having a reception, but a friend decided we needed to have one and threw us a small open house at her home. We wound up getting something like 10 presents out of it, several of which were broken. It wasn't a statement on anyone's feelings about the marriage, honestly. It was just a funny coincidence. To this day I have a beautiful cobalt blue pottery bowl with a long, thin crack in it that I am very careful to never use for anything heavier than dried flowers.

Do you have any funny wedding present stories? Share them in the comments!

There is a certain member of my family, whose pseudonym shall not be revealed (but said person does not own one pink article of clothing and has never been married) whose idea of a bowl of cereal involves a mixing bowl and three quarters of a box of cereal.

Which is why, when my sweetie and I saw 17 Again (on a date! an actual date!) I laughed until I couldn't breathe, during this scene (starts at 1:23):



I wish I could have found a longer clip of just that scene. Hmmm. Oh, well.

Going to see that particular movie was less a function of wanting to see it, and more a function of our babysitter (The Boy Child) getting off work late and us having only 10 minutes to get to the last movie that hadn't yet started. Not that we needed to worry - we got there 10 minutes late and still had two previews to go before the movie started.

It was a good movie, though. We were glad we saw it. I'm not sure I would have enjoyed it so much if I hadn't been through the whole teenage boy thing, but given where I'm coming from in life (feeling older, thinking back wistfully to when I had a figure, blah, blah) it was a lot of fun. (It also didn't hurt that my sweetie and I are both complete and unabashed nerds and got a kick out of the rabid collecter/gamer/etc. sidekick.)

So, if you're looking for a good movie, think about this one, especially if you are middle-aged with teenagers.

I don't know if it's a consequence of teaching the CTR 5 Primary class, having two small children in school, or The Boy Child working at the local grocery store (although it's probably the fiendish combination of all three) but I have been sick more often this last winter than I've been in years. It's all very annoying.

Last night, my visiting teacher called, wanting to set up an appointment for next week. I had been feeling worse and worse and all day, and by the time she called I had a raging headache and a fever. When she found out I was sick she was full of sympathy, and asked me, "Do you have anyone to take care of you?"

Take care of me? Huh?

No. No, I do not have anyone to take care of me. I'm the mom. I take care of other people, not the other way round. Now, her children are older than mine. Maybe some miracle happens over the next few years. Maybe one day I'll wake up sick and find my children gathered solicitously about me, yearning to take care of my poor sniffly self. But I doubt it. I certainly don't recall ever doing that for my poor mother.

Actually, I am finding lately that I tend to regard my parents somewhat in the same light that I regard my children. I obsess about their safety. I try to take care of them as best I can living this far away. If I don't hear from them for awhile I start to worry something terrible has happened and I have to grab hold of myself to keep from panicking.

The only difference in fact, is that my children are who I teach and prepare them for a wonderful (I hope) future; my parents are the treasure troves of my past who I'm afraid to lose. I care for my children to ensure their future happiness. I care for my parents to ensure my future happiness.

So as much as I'd like to think I've grown out of the selfish child who demands her parents' time and attention constantly, I must admit that I still want my mother when I get sick.

We bought a new (to us) car a few weeks ago. It seemed a good time to go car shopping. It was the last week of the year and the economy wasn't exactly doing so fantastically. We thought this should translate into better prices. When you throw in that my darling was driving a car with 216,000 miles on it (original engine*), it just seemed like an even better time to look into car prices.

We came home with something far cheaper than we had dreamed of, which also was very nice-looking (I'm pretty sure he would object if I called it pretty, but just between you and me - it's pretty), and big, and made my sweetheart a happy, happy man. His old car was loaned to The Boy Child, who had been driving an old clunker with an alarming tendency to stop working at unpredictable moments - always a bad thing when you are driving down the freeway.

Happy, happy, joy, joy. Everything is going well and everyone is pleased, especially TBC. Right? So why am I bringing this up now? Not that blogs are only about bad things, but you (clever reader that you are!) are undoubtedly thinking that since I didn't bother writing about it last January, only to bring it up now, something must have changed.

You're right.

The CHECK ENGINE light came on, and TBC took the car to the mechanic. I just got off the phone with them. Seems like stuff happened, then other stuff happened, and now there are serious problems, with things bent that shouldn't be bent. Fixing it will be expensive. Very expensive. So expensive that the mechanic assures me it will be cheaper just to completely replace the engine.**

I'm still waiting to find out their estimate on the cost of putting a new (to us) engine in the car. The last time we had to do something like this it was $1,000, so I'm assuming it will be at least that.

Is it worth it? Do we junk the car or fix it? My sweetie is sleeping and we haven't talked it over yet. We haven't yet gotten rid of TBC's old car, but it probably needs a new (to us) engine, too. I doubt it would cost much less to replace that engine, than to replace the nicer car's engine. Or we could just get rid of both cars, let TBC use my car to get to work, and save lots of money on car insurance. Of course, I'll be pulling my hair out with frustration since I won't be able to do anything while he's off having fun with his friends in my car, so that's maybe not such a great idea.

I'm just glad we went ahead and got a new car already. Whatever decision we make now, we'll be able to take some time and figure out the best approach, not have to beg for speedy repairs while also begging rides to work. (The last time this happened to us it was our only car, and it took that mechanic a month to get the car fixed. Not a fun time at all.)
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*You might be wondering what he was driving. A Santa Fe. He took very good care of it and did all the maintenance immediately if not sooner. We didn't wind up buying another Santa Fe, but we were more than willing to consider it.

**And I believe him. The best mechanic I've ever had, with picture-in-the-dictionary kind of integrity. Sooo nice to be able to work with someone I can trust completely.

I have run into an absolutely delightful time waster. Akinator is a website where you can challenge the program to "guess" what character you are thinking about.

I noticed it is heavily weighted toward things familiar to people in their teens and twenties. The Boy Child introduced me to it, and the two of us took turns choosing characters. He tended to pick people from animes, mangas, video games, World of Warcraft, etc., and usually had his characters guessed. As someone a generation older, who really enjoys books from my grandparents' generation, I found that I didn't have too hard a time stumping it. If you do pick an entirely new character, you get to add that who you were thinking of to the database. I got to add people like Wendell Urth and Valancy Stirling, which was kind of fun.

There is a pink hobby horse leaning against the wall in a corner of my bedroom. It is right next to the the jewelry armoire that my husband gave me for Christmas early in our marriage. I had mentioned that I would like a jewelry box, and I showed him some pretty ones at Walmart. He decided that bigger was better, so got me a full fledged armoire.

In front of the armoire, impeding my access, is a box of old photographs that I am slowly (very slowly) scanning. It's taking a while because I am saving them in two formats - extremely large and detailed TIFF files that I burn onto DVDs and much more convenient JPEG files that I keep on the computer for easy access. It takes forever, especially since I have to type in all our known information about each photo. I got stalled when our DVD burner died; we have a new one now, but I've been putting off getting back to it. The days just go by so fast and I'm always left at the end of the day with a list of things I meant to do.

One of the photos is of my mother-in-law when she was a little girl. My husband pointed out the other day that it could almost be a picture of Youngest Girl Child. YGC has the dimples, hair and eyes of the oldest of my two brothers, but the shapes of her face and eyes are just like her grandmother's.

Oldest Girl Child just got her hair cut in a bob. She's been growing it out for quite a while, but when YGC went in a few weeks ago to get all her long hair cut off*, she got so much attention that OGC got jealous and decided she wanted to do the same. It took my breath away when I saw her, and even two weeks later I am amazed at the resemblance to Cannwin. There'll be times when she'll move a certain way, or I'll see her at a certain angle, and it takes me right back to Cannwin's childhood. (Of course, her father looks at OGC and sees his family in her features!)

The Boy Child has always been a little double of his father. He's grown up taller than his dad (the height comes from his mother's side) but the resemblance is still strong. Even in personality they are very much alike.

I've been thinking about the similarities and differences between the siblings in my family lately. All of us are artistic. Of the five of us, four are writers, one is a photographer. We have two blondes, two brunettes, and one of us (me) who inherited our father's red hair.** Three of us take after the skinny side of the family and two us take after the, umm, sturdy side. We are all very tall, with one brother well over six feet. He's the only person I know who makes me feel short. We all have green eyes, although my blonde brother's eyes tend to change from green to blue depending on the light. He is also the only one with dimples, which I thought was very unfair when I was young.

We tend to be hyperactive and impulsive. We are all romantics. We tend to be very private. We all have a very strong work ethic, but all of us have taken / are taking a while to figure out where we want to be and what we want out of life. One of my brothers told me that he thinks, for our family, our thirties are everyone else's twenties. It takes us that long to find ourselves. I think he's right.

Unfortunately, while I might be emotionally and experientially in my thirties, my body knows darn well it's 10 years older. When I had my 40th birthday, everything started falling apart. I had to get reading glasses, my hair started going gray in large chunks, and losing weight got much harder. And that was just the obvious changes. I swear I'm creakier than I used to be.

Which is probably why I haven't gotten the pink hobby horse out of my room yet. Yeah ... that's why.
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*She'd been begging for awhile to get it cut. I've been putting it off because she was just so cute with the long hair. She has a very sensitive scalp, however, and was just miserable with the work involved in taking care of her hair, so I gave in and took her to get it bobbed. She loves it, although she is annoyed that she still does get the occasional snarl.

**Not that you would know that to look at me now. My gorgeous Titian hair gradually darkened over the years until I am now mostly a brunette with strong red highlights. The darkening is part of the package with the red hair. I color it red on a regular basis, which doesn't restore my former glory, but does appease my vanity!

The mother up the street seems to think I am unnecessarily harsh with my children.

A week ago, it snowed. Our first serious snowfall of the winter, only one inch, but still deep enough to sled in, throw snowballs with, and make snowmen. School was cancelled. The girls raced to drag out their snowsuits and headed for the garage where their sleds have been stored since last winter.

Within minutes they were back inside. The new girl (E.) down the street was out, sledding in her yard, which has a much better slope than our yard. Could they, please, please, go play with her?

"Sure!" I told them. "Have fun!" I reminded them of the rules when they are playing at someone else's house and waved them off, thrilled at a chance to have an empty house. A quiet, house. An empty, quiet, peaceful house.

It was heavenly. I cleaned a bit, read a bit, enjoyed the silence a whole lot. And then I started to wonder where my children were. Hadn't they been outside rather awhile?

I ducked outside and looked up the street. Yep, there they were, little red sleds vivid against the snow as they whooped their way down the hill. I went back to enjoying the quiet.

A while later I checked again. Not in sight, this time. I told myself to stop worrying. They're fine, I told myself. Probably just playing in the backyard. Not kidnapped. Not running off across the subdivision to find a busy road to play in. Do not walk up there, Jennifer. Allow them some independence. They're safe. Stop hyperventilating.

I went back in the house and tried to concentrate on the silence again, but worry kept me on edge until I was able to see them in the front yard again, sledding away. I went back to enjoying the empty house.

I repeated this cycle another two or three times, then decided it was time for them to come home for hot chocolate and lunch. I knew if they stayed up there, E.'s mother would feel obliged to feed them and I didn't want that to happen. So, after calling them a few times with no sign that they heard me, I put on my boots and coat and walked up the street.

It wasn't them. As I got closer, I realized that the kids on the sleds weren't my little girls. They were some little boys, playing with E.'s brother.

I didn't panic. Not for more than a second or two. It was easy, after all, to figure out what was up. They'd gone inside, without permission.* I wondered if they'd spent much time outside at all, or if it had been the little boys I'd seen every time I saw the red sleds going down the hill. I started to debate appropriate natural consequences.

I asked E.'s brother to let the girls know it was time to go home (I didn't want to walk up the steep, icy driveway,) then waited. After awhile I realized they weren't coming out any time soon, so I dared the ice. As soon as I was in the door I realized something was very wrong.

My children were taking so long because they were changing clothes.

Have they been playing dress-up? But, wait, those aren't their clothes... Why are my children wearing strange clothes?

E.'s mother came into the front hall from the back of the house, carrying a grocery bag, as the girls started to stumble through excuses.It took me a few minutes and several repetitions from both girls, as well as input from E.'s mom, but I finally figured out what had happened.

I don't allow play makeup or nail polish. I just think they're too young. There's time enough for that later. Right now is the time to be little, without the pressure to be attractive. it bothers me to see a small child dressed and made up like someone 10 or 20 years older. People who still measure their age in single digits just don't need to try to look sexy.

But that's my opinion. Other parents don't see things the same way I do. E.'s parents don't see things the way I do. The first time the girls played over there they came home wearing makeup and nail polish. We had a talk, I explained that in our family that wasn't allowed, and I kept an eye on things after that to avoid having a repeat of the incident.

This day, they'd been playing with nail polish again. Although, as it came out later, it wasn't the first time. In fact, Oldest Girl Child admitted that they'd been putting on nail polish every time they went there. They'd been careful to remove it before they came home, however, so that I wouldn't realize they were breaking our rules.

This time, things didn't go well. They'd spilled a bottle of bright red nail polish. OGC's shirt was ruined. Youngest Girl Child's pants and shirt were likewise ruined, only more so as she had evidently been the one to spill the nail polish. E.'s mother had tried to wash the nail polish out, with as little success as you might imagine.

I explained to the girls that they were in trouble. E.'s mother tried to apologize and take the blame. I told her it was OK. The girls (and here I realized I'd forgotten to breathe and had to stop to take a deep, rather shuddery, breath) knew they were doing something wrong. E.'s mother apologized again, and said she hadn't realized they weren't allowed to play with nail polish. I replied, giving them a stern look, that they knew.

OGC just stood there, head down, face completely hidden in her hair. When she looked up, I could see tears streaming down her face. It would have been more comforting if I hadn't found out later about the long-term scheming to deceive Mommy. We went home in the borrowed clothes, ruined clothes in the bag, tears freezing to little cheeks as we walked.

There were more tears over the ruined clothes (both of them had been wearing their favorite shirts) and OGC ran into her bedroom, from whence issued wails and sobs. YGC didn't seem to realize the seriousness of her circumstances and was soon explaining to me, quite cheerfully, why it was OK for them to use nail polish and go inside when they had been forbidden to do both and how it was all OGC's fault anyway because she was just doing what her sister was doing.

I called my sister and talked until I got my equilibrium back. More than anything else, I was upset and horrified by the fact that they had deliberately and systematically deceived me. I didn't care whose idea it was. It was bad enough that they had thought it was an acceptable solution. It broke my heart to have my sweet little people lie in such a calculated manner.

In the end their father and I decided the most important issue was the lying. The nail polish had been its own punishment in the loss of the favorite shirts. The betrayed trust, however, needed an emphatic statement. So we sat them down, OGC still silently weeping (over getting caught, in her father's opinion, not guilt over her crime,) and YGC still quite cheerful.

We talked about trust and the consequences of losing trust. We talked about doing the right thing, even if the person next to you is doing the wrong thing, even if that person is your sister. And then we told them that we couldn't trust them anymore. Because of that, they weren't allowed to go into anyone's house until we felt like we could trust them again. We didn't know how long it would take to trust them again. Probably months.

They accepted this. I think they were so relieved not to get into immediate trouble that they didn't realize the long term effects of this. They haven't asked to play in anyone's house yet, but I meant it when I said it would be months. In fact, OGC wants to have a playdate with her best friend from school, and she's getting a no - because it would involve going inside the friend's house.

We washed the borrowed clothes and took them back after school this last Tuesday. The girls handed them to E.'s mother, and them apologized for the trouble they caused her. E.'s mother looked at me like I was a monster, which bothered me and made me wonder if I was doing the right thing.

After thinking it through, though, I've decided I did. I've been through raising one teen already, and I know how trust gets strained between parent and child during those years. If I can't trust them going in, if I let them think they can get away with deceiving me like this now, then we're in deep trouble when they're older. There'll be enough trouble with lying later on. Let's not get started early on this.
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*One of the rules about playing at someone else's house is that you may not go play inside without letting Mommy know and getting permission first. There are very few houses where they have permission to play inside. This was one of those places, but they didn't have permission for that day. I wanted them to play outside because I wanted them thoroughly worn out by the end of the day so they'd go to sleep quickly.**

**An especially longed-for result with YGC, since she is a complete night-owl and getting her to fall asleep before 10 o'clock at night is quite the adventure.

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.

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.

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.

Someday, my adult children will get together and laugh at me, the way my siblings and I laugh at our parents' foibles. "Remember how Mom used to panic if we were late getting home," one of us will say to another, " and then she'd call the police?"

"Do you remember how she never picked us up on time," will come the reply, "and we had to wait forever, sitting on the curb?"

"Oh, yeah. That's how I learned to always carry a book with me!"

My children will say to each other, "Do you remember how Mom always got lost coming out of the airport?"

"And then she'd panic, and yell at us to be quiet, when we weren't talking, and it would take her half an hour to find her way out of the bad part of the very large city we were in?"

"Yeah! Wasn't that hilarious? At least in retrospect?"

I drove The Boy Child to the airport today. He is visiting his mother for the next week. Getting there was no problem; it never is a problem. We have three major international airports near us, however, and not one of them uses the same road leaving the airport that you take going in. I get lost every time, no matter how careful I am. The worst experience was the time I wound up in rush hour traffic, which took us two hours to get out of - and the first landmark we recognized was the airport, which meant we still had to find our way out. It was very late by the time we got home.

Today, a three hour round trip took over five hours. Less than 10 minutes of that was spent actually dropping TBC off. About 45 minutes was spent on rest breaks for the little ones. The rest of the extra time I spent trying to get away from the airport.

I kept Oldest Girl Child home from school today* because she was complaining all yesterday evening that her throat hurt, then woke up with it still hurting. Also, she said her tummy hurt, although she swore she didn't have to throw up. So she had to come with us, which had me on edge the whole time, waiting for the vomiting to start.

Coming back, I started worrying about whether or not TBC remembered to take his ID with him. At first I comforted myself with the thought that if something went wrong, he was an adult and could take of himself. And then I comforted myself with the thought that if something went wrong he could call me and I could turn around and go rescue him. And then I realized I left my cell phone plugged into the charger at home. And then I just chewed my nails and tried to breathe slowly and calmly. Also to stop speeding up as I panicked.

All of which didn't help me keep my mind on the exit signs as I drove around (and in and out of) that airport's Big City. I refrained from pointing out the drawbridge when we drove over it (twice) since I didn't think I could panic and provide chirpy explanations at the same time. I narrowly avoided the toll road I didn't know was coming up until the big sign announcing "TOLL PLAZA AHEAD". And I managed to turn around every time without too much trouble, although I never did find the original road on which I'd gotten lost.

The last hour of the drive Youngest Girl Child upped the stakes by crying continuously that she was on the verge of throwing up. Every so often she'd make abortive retching noises into the plastic garbage bag I stuck in her lap. (I might have nudged the speedometer a bit at that point.)

I was so frazzled when I got home, that my husband suggested pizza instead of me cooking. Which was just hunky-dory with me.
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*Which led to much crying and sobbing.

You can blame this one on my sister.

1. My PDA
I went for years without a PDA, never feeling the need for one. And then my husband upgraded to a cellphone/PDA combination and I decided to appropriate his old one. I'd been eyeing it for awhile and had started thinking it would be a pretty handy thing to have around.

Thus is a monster created.

I actually wore out the first one I had, and insisted on getting another one of the same model, a Palm M130. It's old, but the faceplates are interchangeable!* And since it's so old I can pick up cool accessories really cheaply, like this portable keyboard that I can keep in my purse for those moments when writerly inspiration strikes. (Cannot write with the stylus. Must have my keyboard. My thoughts go faster than my fingers when I can't type.)

I go everywhere with my PDA It's either in my hand or in my pocket. Although I do tend to put it down in absent-minded moments and then forget where, which leads to me wandering around the house, searching frantically, begging my family to tell me if they know where it is. When my first one broke I practically went into withdrawal and when my second one got dropped in water last night I had to work hard to keep a firm grip on myself. (But it dried out by this morning, and it works, it works!!)

I do have to admit, though, the biggest attraction it holds for me, and what I use it for the most is

2. Ebooks
I discovered ebooks before I discovered my PDA, but as delightful as it was to find all sorts of free books out there, it drove me crazy that I had to sit at my computer to read them. Not a problem anymore! 90% of my PDA use is as an ebook reader. That's why it goes everywhere with me - I'm constantly reading. (Note to self: no more reading while washing dishes one handed.)

Not that I don't have other forms of entertainment. I'm thoroughly hooked on

3. Netflix
I have to admit, our subscription to Netflix is almost entirely for me. For years I never went to movies, and I love movies! Going to a movie when you have a nursing infant, however, is not a fun thing to do. I only tried it once. It ended ... poorly. (Apologies to everyone who was wondering what the crazy woman with the crying baby was doing at The Lord of the Rings.)

It does take two hands, but no more, to count the number of times I've been to a movie in a theatre since Oldest Girl Child was born. I just wait for them to come out on DVD.

The problem with Netflix, though, is that it preyed on my fascination with

4. Loki
I have had a Loki-crush since I was a little girl reading Norse mythology. The other gods were interesting, but it was the stories about Loki that really made me sit up and take notice. As the years went by I read everything I could find that featured Loki. My favorites were the stories that represented him as misunderstood. It's kind of difficult to justify a crush on the Norse god of evil, after all.***

Netflix ties into this because they kept suggesting a series called Mythical Detective Loki Ragnarok to me. Every time I logged in, there they were, in my face, pushing Loki, daring me to try it in spite of the fact that it was

5. Anime
I used to think anime was so stupid. I was familiar with Pokemon, because The Boy Child was heavily into it, and I thought it was cute enough, but, my heavens, the style was so annoying, and couldn't they draw people that actually moved, instead of just using one picture per conversation?

No. No. Never. I would never watch anime without the impetus of a child with whom to watch it.

But ... it was Loki. I succumbed. I rented the first disc. I rented the second disc. I upped our subscription so that I could get the rest of the discs in the series without waiting. I stayed up late watching them, was grouchy with family members who interfered with my watching them, and when I finished the series I sighed with satisfaction and then started looking for more great series.

Princess Tutu? The duck, who turns into a ballet student, who turns into the superhero ballerina princess? Sooo much better than you would think from the description. Really. Not stupid at all. And a really wonderful, sweet

6. Romance
I adore love stories. I first encountered romance novels in high school, where they had a huge display in the middle of the library, chock full of ancient Harlequin romances. Lots of dominant men, stupid women, and fighting as a substitute for passion. What was a 15 year old girl to do? I gave up science fiction, I gave up fantasy, I gave up mysteries, and I got scolded by my teachers for rotting my brain. I didn't care - it was looove! Not to mention hot guys and a discreet amount of heavy breathing that never went beyond searing kisses.****

Even now I love a good romance novel. There's a fairy tale quality about them that appeals to me, especially when life isn't going well. A nice, uncomplicated happily ever after can really lighten my mood at those times. It's hard to find any, though, that don't embarrass me. I really do prefer not to know all the, ahem, details.

Plug for a friend - Cari Hislop - books that are quirky, funny, romantic, and worth

7. Staying up late
I hate sleeping. There are so many interesting things I could be doing instead. Especially since I started this mommy gig. I need alone time the way other people need air, and the only way to get it is to stay up late. If I get up early, so does everyone else. But if I can stay up until they've all fallen asleep, then I can have hours to myself.

Unfortunately, this leaves me pretty sleep-deprived, since my children never let me experience

8. Sleeping in
Oh, lost heaven of waking up without an alarm! Sleeping in anymore means getting up at 7 a.m. instead of 6 or 6:30. To think I used to regularly sleep in until noon on Saturdays when I was a teenager, and resented my parents rousting me out of bed any earlier. Dad always used to call me Sleeping Beauty, which just infuriated me.

Now, on Saturdays, it isn't just my kids dragging me out of bed, it's

9. Yard sales
Hee hee hee. *rubs hands together*

OK. I'll admit, I have to watch myself. I bought a bowl with a hole in the bottom once, just because it was only five cents. What can I say? It was marked down from 25 cents!

On the other hand, I get fantastic stuff, for almost nothing. Especially children's clothing. It's getting harder now, because the girls are getting into the ages where kids tend to wear things out, but every time I find a nice pair of jeans for 50 cents, it's worth the gas spent jaunting around town that day. And I got two complete sets of matching twin bedding for $5 last spring, which is making the girls' bedroom oh! so cute!

Of course, all this stuff just feeds my passion for

10. Organization
You would think this was a good quality. Hah! Well, it just all depends, doesn't it? Me, I am the Mad Hatter of organization. "Move down, move down!"

I tend to accumulate too much stuff (like fabric) and then I have to figure out what to do with it to keep it from taking over the house. So I organize it. I organize my frighteningly large collection of Tivo'd shows I mean to watch someday. I organize my To-Do lists. I organize my food storage. I organize the clothing one child has grown out of and the other child hasn't grown into.

I especially do this when life is starting to feel out of control. Not that I actually accomplish anything. I don't get rid of anything. It doesn't make anything else in life better. In fact, it uses time I should be spending on more important matters. But, it makes me feel better and I wind up with the illusion of some sort of control over things. I might not have working air conditioning, but by gum! I can find any ebook I own, all organized according to author.
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*I found a place online that was selling them for five cents each, so now I have seven, two of them red.**

**It's bright and cheerful. Also easy to find when I forget where I put my PDA.

***Can I help it if I find Trickster types attractive? You have to be smart to be a Trickster, and intelligence is mmmmm, yum. Dearest - I admit it. I married you for your mind.

****Very important since boys still made me fairly skittish. Non-threatening, that was the keyword, if I'd been self-aware enough to put it into words. All my crushes were on boys that looked like they were still pre-adolescent.

1. I have five dirty bowls sitting in my dishwasher. There are no bowls in the cupboard where the bowls are stored. The set contains eight bowls. How many bowls are missing?

2. There are five people in our family. When we set the table for dinner there are only three clean tablespoons. All the dirty spoons in the dishwasher are teaspoons. How much will it cost me to buy 8 new settings of flatware that all match?

3. I discover a small pink plastic cup under the couch and a large blue plastic cup in the side yard. The blue cup is plastered with dirt. How many pink cups will it take to fill up the blue cup with fruit juice?

4. There is a large white plate with a chip in the edge in the Boy's lair in the basement. A fork is balanced on the edge of the plate. Something red* is crusted on the plate and fork. How long will it take him to bring the plate upstairs on his own? How many hours will I need to soak the plate to soften the red substance?
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* Spaghetti sauce?