The interview

As part of an assignment, my 13 year old had to interview my mother about her life when she was a child. My mother was 3 years old and the 7th of 9 children, when the Japanese occupied the Phillipine Islands. My son thought that was an interesting topic and really wanted to explore that in depth. He recently asked (more like demanded but such is the life of a mother) that I transcribe the interview for him. Here's the thing I don't want him to know.

I'm glad he made me do that.

While my mother had told me things about that time in her life, it was always a scant collection of stories. Most of the time she said that she didn't remember too much because she was so little.

In this interview she spoke of how her father was pulled out of their apartment in the city by the Japanese a number of times and questioned. Her mother and her siblings kept vigil, praying and worrying all night until my grandfather came home. My grandfather was not a part of the government or an official of some sort. He was a CPA. Mom recounted how they fled the city in a horse drawn cart. How her brother told them to go to the province because at least there was fresh food there and very few Japanese. The supplies and resources were scarce during the occupation because those things were intercepted by the Japanese and the people had only the soldiers' leavings.  Her eldest brother was in his early teens. She remembers that it was he who had friends in the province farmlands that gave their family refuge. She suspects this brother might have been a guerrilla fighter or at least helped the resistance and the American soldiers. He was maybe 14 - 16 years old at the time. She spoke about how her mother died at age 43, only 5 years after the war ended.

My son asked a question that probably was worded poorly. Maybe he was asking how the family interacted during all of this. How did they cope? What happened during the darkest moments? But no, he instead asked this:

"Did your family feel stress?"

Stress. That euphemism for anything that might bother us like a parking ticket or a library fine. Even the bigger dramas like looking for a job or fixing a septic system pale in comparison to the stressors my grandparents faced. And when he asked the question, to me it felt like a first world question and not anything that remotely applied.

But my mom instead said that she thought it was incredibly stressful for her parents. She said that she thinks that was why her mother died so young; the stress of moving her 9 children, the eldest of whom was helping the resistance and was gone for weeks at a time, and the effort to keep her family together, safe and fed, left her with insufficient reserves to fight off illness when it came.

Mom also talked about her evil stepmother. The kids had nicknamed her "Kabayo," which means "horse." It was not a term of endearment. And before I heard this particular story, I would never have labeled her the evil stepmother. But that is a post for another time.

After I was done transcribing, I did what any good Asian mother would do. I piled on the pressure.

I told my son that he's the eldest grandchild. That he needs to do a great job because he's inadvertently stepped into the role of family historian. There is the chance that his younger cousins and siblings won't have the opportunity to do this interview. As much as it pains me to admit, it could happen.

 And if any of you are lucky enough to have your parents around, set up your recording devices and start talking. You'll be amazed at what you find out.

The boy's award

Last night we attended the boy's Water Polo end of season banquet. I know I have that tunnel vision that a lot of parents get. Even when your child is in a team sport, your eyes stick on your own child. Last night, though, I was struck by the caliber of the kids in this program. The team captain, a senior, last night got up in front of the entire group of parents and kids and addressed them with such candor; unafraid to say that these are the most intimate friendships he's made in his life, that this team has brought him so much joy, that these guys have his admiration with how they evolved as a team and how they always watched out for each other... I was impressed. And those boys didn't tease or cajole or cat call. They nodded their heads, gave enthusiastic applause, and were candid themselves with their admiration for their captain and each other.

Enthusiasm is alive and well in high school. Who knew?

Because of our world stopping 2.5 inches of snow last week, the banquet had been rescheduled. Unfortunately that meant that the boy's JV coach was not in attendance last night. Drew already had a vacation planned. Instead he sent notes on each player. Here's what he had to say about our boy:

"Striker a.k.a. The Boss. He rarely missed a practice and never gave me any trouble. (He must save all the trouble for me. - MH) Too bad he won't get tall seeing how his dad is so short."

Striker also got the Most Improved Player award which is pretty awesome. It was voted on by the other boys on the team. Kristen, the head coach, said she completely agreed with the team's assessment with Striker's performance.

As we were chatting about the award and how great it was that he got it, he revealed, "I voted honestly, so I voted for myself." Hah!

Politician in the making.

BTW: another thing about our epic 2.5 inches of world stopping snow. Turns out that Bainbridge Bakers donated a cake for our event last night. Because our event was cancelled last week, Bainbridge Bakers made the cake TWICE! This was the most EPIC Chocolate Cake ever! It was HUGE and it defeated me and Hubby. We had to split our one piece. Amazing. Next time you're in Bainbridge Bakers, thank them for me, okay?

School lunches

A lot of the posts I have here are about my boy. Truth be told, he's turning into a man p.d.q. It is hard to refer to him as "the boy" when he towers over me at 5'11" and his voice is doing that Peter Brady "pork chops and apple sauce" thing. (Thank God for Nick @ Nite for the Brady Bunch reference still being relevant.) He's really turning into a responsible guy.

I haven't had to wrestle him to do his homework. Last year he brought home nearly straight A's. He managed to get all his requirements to earn his Scout 2nd Class. The biggest challenge with that was remembering to have his book with him at events and meetings. With Water Polo, he's been really responsible and only grouses slightly when he has to wake up before the sun to get into the pool for practice. After 2 short seasons in the pool, he's being groomed for the center forward position, earning his new moniker:  Striker. He's also been nominated to go to a training camp with the US Olympic team.

Wow, I get why parents brag about their kids' athletic & academic exploits. This is fun! What a rush!

But this morning we had a conversation about the kid he used to be and not the kid he is today. See, some logical consequences have long term pay offs.

My kids have been enjoying having soup for lunch. I will make a crock pot of soup before bedtime and pack it up in the morning for lunch in their thermoses. My boy has never been very good about remembering to bring his thermos back home after school. When he was in elementary school and intermediate school, he went through at least 4 thermoses. He still complains about the intermediate school's lunch policy of putting the classes' lunches in a basket to be delivered to the cafeteria. Then each child was to REMEMBER to get their lunches before they went home. He lost 2 thermoses that way.

When we went shopping for the thermoses, my daughter and he would select their favorite design. His would be understandably boyish or plain. My daughter would select pink & purple flowers and Barbies. After the years of lost thermoses, all we have left are the pink & purple flowers and Barbies. Striker, my mini-man has a grown man's apetite. One small thermos of soup will not carry him through the day. So, this morning I packed him his 2 thermos lunch in the pink & purple flowers and Barbie thermoses.

Yay for him being confident enough in himself to be okay with bringing his lunch to school in these ridiculous thermoses. Boo for his exasperation with me for even buying these girly thermoses in the first place. I reminded him about all the lost thermoses that he got to pick out. The black and silver one, the one with Hot Wheels on it, the plain green one, the blue one... all lost by a younger version of himself that couldn't remember to bring home his thermos.

Now before I get comments that I should get the boy a proper non-girly thermos, you should know that I'm already planning to do so. No worries, okay? In fact, we have been trying out a set I got from Costco and it looks like a winner. It is dark blue with not a flower or Barbie in sight.

Not a soccer mom

The beginning of every school year of my childhood started with the predictable writing prompt: "What did you do this summer?" 

I can tell you what I didn't do. I didn't work on my blog at all. I didn't get to sleep in except during August. While you working people would find that whiny, I am and have always been a night owl. Parenthood doesn't allow you to be a night owl. I remember being disgusted that my parents would fall asleep in front of the TV at around 9 PM. I get it now. Staying up past midnight and then having to get up at 6 AM so your son will be at the pool by 7 AM leads to crankiness and sleepiness. 

My boy took up water polo this summer. He's loved the sport since he took a summer camp for it about 2 years ago. What sealed his enthusiasm was the last Olympics when both the US men's and women's water polo teams silver medaled. After years of signing up for the youth league and the youth classes which are routinely cancelled because of low enrollment, he's finally old enough to play with the big boys. They really are the big boys because this is the high school team. 

At my boy's first game, within the first few minutes of him being in the pool, he made an assist for a goal, the first of that game! It was so exciting. Less exciting were 2 failed passes later in the game when he inadvertently gave possession to the other team and in the second case, assisted them with a goal. There was a little bit of grousing from a parent sitting next to me. I sidled up to them and cheerily asked them which player was theirs. They told me that their boy was entering the 11th grade and had been playing for 3 years. He was probably the team's biggest and most able player. I then told them that my boy was just entering the 8th grade and this was exactly his 6th time in the pool since practice started. They didn't grouse after that and were very understanding of his errors considering what a novice my boy was. At 5'10, he doesn't really look like an 8th grader, and when you add the fact that all you really can see of him is his head and sometimes his arms when he's in the pool, he looks like a kid who is much older.  I really like the group of parents of the water polo team. I've been told by a couple of them that starting the athletes in their 8th grade year really makes the transition into high school so much easier. They already know a lot of the kids at the high school and the older kids tend to take their younger team mates under their wing. 

That was exactly what I reminded myself of every week of summer when I woke at the crack of dawn... Well, 6 AM. He had practice every day of the week either starting at 7 AM or 8 AM and lasting 2 hours. Then he had practice every evening at 7:30 PM - 9:30 PM. The fall schedule is not much better except that the early morning swimming practice is only 2 times a week, but the evening practices are 5 times a week. 

I only had a break from that schedule while he was off at summer camp for a week and also for the week that he was taking his NRA Hunter's safety course. He is surprisingly good at shooting targets. He's angling for us to get him a rifle or a kit for him to make his own. I have to admit it is too much testosterone for me to make a rational decision about. Maybe I should just let his dad deal with all of that. 

Thoughts of my boy getting a college water polo scholarship started swimming in front of my eyes. One of the coaches went to University of Hawaii after she played for our girls team at the high school level. I started hoping hoping hoping that my boy could follow in those footsteps. Then a quick google search later, I found out that they don't even have mens water polo at UH. How does that happen??? I consoled myself that Stanford, M.I.T., Harvard, and Princeton do. Still, him going to UH would have been nice so he'd be around family.

I'm adjusting to dealing with a sport that will require me to get on the ferry to go to games. This is something that a lot of parents do here on the island. I've always thought it was crazy to do, but when I think that the people on the US National team are playing well into their 30s, I realize that this is a sport that can guide my boy through his high school, college, and young adult years. I suppose that getting up early and dealing with the ferry will be easy enough for me to do. 

There will be no reprieve for me when the season is over though. Most of the boys are also on the swim team to improve their form and speed in the water. I've heard rumors that swim team practice starts at 5 am. 

Bummer. 

Our legs are broken

I fell asleep last night probably around midnight. I'm reading the book Nurtureshock. If you haven't heard of it, it is one of those books that will change the way you talk to your kids. Right now I'm on the section about sibling rivalry and am astonished by it. There I go, all tangent-y. Sorry about that.

Anyway, around 1 a.m., Hubby woke me from a sound sleep and told me that he finally got an email from the producer of Starship Excelsior. Woohoo! He read me the entire email. He then retrieved my phone and read me the email that also accepted me to the Starship Excelsior cast. I admit, I was pretty excited to hear all of this, albeit rather groggy. I fell back asleep to dreams of Star Trek podcast stardom. Or at least bit parts.

Then this morning my son reminded me of what date it is. That's right people. April 1st. The boy is lying in wait for his sister to come home from a playdate to give her some fake (but non-poisonous) chocolate milk. Realization hit me that my husband might have been waiting until after midnight to give me the fake news that we were bound for stardom.

The jerk!

I ran downstairs and demanded he show me these alleged emails from the producer of Star Trek Excelsior. Well, turns out I should have trusted my man. Here is my acceptance letter.

Hello!

I'm James Heaney. I executive produce Star Trek: Excelsior (assuming "executive produce" is syntactical, which I assure you it is not. "Executively produce," maybe. But not "executive produce." Anyhow, I've already digressed). We received your audition last week, and it's been sitting in my inbox ever since waiting for a spare evening when I'd have a chance to listen to it.

That evening was tonight. Long story short, it was a fine audition. I like your voice, I like your microphone, and female voice actors are always in short supply on Excelsior. In short, I'm grateful to you for taking the plunge and sending in your audition. And I'm pleased to tell you that you "passed."

What happens next is, we put you on our directory list. Your name will sit there waiting for a part to open up that we believe fits your voice better than any other on the list (this usually takes a number of months). Since Excelsior usually has its main characters at least six months before an episode is released, the first roles to open up will almost definitely be very minor parts. If you do a good job with those smaller parts, and get your lines done on time, you'll remain in the cast rotation indefinitely. It'll be great.

Now, of course, most people who audition want to ultimately land in a major role on the show. And, to be honest, most people who stay on the list long enough do eventually end up playing a significant part. But the availability of major roles is unpredictable, and really has a great deal to do with luck. My point being, I can't promise any big parts in your future. It could definitely happen, but, as with any show, the parts we are trying to fill from episode to episode are usually the bit parts. If bit parts are okay with you, though, we're looking forward to working with you! (This little disclaimer may seem silly and obvious to you, but you'd be surprised at the high casting expectations from new auditioners that we've had to deflate over the years.)

Like I said, solid voice/solid mic/female is a triple threat here at Excelsior. Thanks for sending in your audition and welcome aboard! We really couldn't do it without generous people like you volunteering to help keep the Excelsior flying!

Sincerely,
James Heaney
Executive Producer
Star Trek: Excelsior

Hubby's acceptance letter went on an on about the "reckless" willingness he has to throw himself emotively into a role. I got only the trifecta of having a good voice, good mike, and being a girl. *sigh* Truth be told though, Hubby is the one with the real talent at voice acting. He's pretty amazing.

Just wait until he gets cast as a Klingon. Knock your socks off. Kaplah!

Sitcoms

My 12 year old boy made my jaw drop on the floor today. In modern terminology, what followed was a parenting epic fail.

We were having a perfectly lovely dinner. We were eating fish tacos made with soft tortillas. Hubby was trying to hand the boy one and apparently the boy wasn't catching on. So Hubby said, "Just take it and put it in your mouth."

To which the boy said, "That's what she said."

You might have heard that line on the sitcom, "The Office," as a crude punchline which turns the most innocent word or phrase instantly into something filthy. While certainly, a line like that delivered in my husband's office with a bunch of grown men around would have brought guffaws of laughter. But delivered out of the baby face of my child, it brought its own level of crazy.

My husband said, " I need you to know that was inappropriate. I have no more patience for you today."

I was shocked and tried not to lose my cool too much.

I started with being reasonable: "It is my fondest hope that you will grow up to be a good kind man. That you will be respectful and honest. That you won't be one of those guys who don't respect women and treat them like objects. That joke you told was crude and objectifying. As a guy with two sisters, I'd hope you'd be more respectful. I'd hope you'd be protective of your sisters and in turn be respectful to other girls and women."

Pretty good, right? I should have stopped there. But no, here comes the side of epic with that fail.

"I know you're going through a lot of changes right now and you're probably thinking about sex a lot. Here on the island, we hear of parties teens are having sex just for fun. Like instead of playing Playstation they're having sex. But it cheapens the experience and you end up objectifying yourself and others if you participate. You have my blessing to masturbate to your heart's content. Actually, save up your pennies and buy some good quality lube. I think it is more important to get rid of that frustration. Just j that stuff off. (okay, that might not have been my exact words but you get the drift.) I'd rather you jerk off than be a jerk."

The boy was completely mortified. He didn't even ask for seconds on his dinner. He just kind of left the table in a daze. My husband, for his part, was smirking in the kitchen while listening to my major tangent. Later, he told me that I was a freak because I have masturbation on the brain. He only says this because yesterday I had asked him to explain the punchline of a joke I heard on a podcast the other day. It went like this, "If God didn't want us to masturbate, why did He give us ziploc bags, warm grape jelly, and rubber bands?"

I still can't figure that one out.

We are not alone

After having a truly awful week with my eldest, I attended a seminar at the local middle school called, "Understanding the Disorganized Teenage Brain." I already knew that brain development is not truly done until age 25. But I didn't know what to do about that. How is knowing that the 12 year old's brain is not fully developed going to help me when he won't do his chores without a major confrontation? Too much drama in the house.

It shouldn't have been a surprise to me when I showed up a touch late and saw the room full of other perplexed parents -- many of whom I recognized from preschool years 9 years ago. OMG. I know that in the whole of human experience, raising a 12 year old boy is not something new. This earth has seen this countless times and people do survive. And the boys usually don't turn out to be serial killers or kinslayers. They turn out to be lovely charming men. Or douchebags. There are plenty of both. All men were 12 years old at one time in their lives.

This, too, shall pass.

So, predictably, the lecture started with a review of the science -- that human brains are not matured in the prefrontal cortex as late as the mid-twenties. There are significant changes happening in the brain starting at around 10 - 14 years old. These changes SEVERELY impair the child's ability to organize. See, that last little bit I thought was peculiar to my own child. But it turns out that organization and the neural pathways needed for that particular skill, are nonexistent in the disorganized mind with an immature prefrontal cortex. In fact, there was a statement on our handouts in bold lettering: "Teens DO have brains."

Yeah, right.

So anyway, the part that was most helpful was the strategies to help your child organize. It takes 21 days to form a new habit. So this is day 1 for me. One of the things I need to do is demonstrate organization. So when I do things that help me keep track of my stuff, I say it out loud. Like, "I am putting my keys on the key rack. I am putting my watch in the jewelry box. I am putting my hairbrush in the bathroom drawer." These are little things. But apparently, this is modeling meta-cognition, or thinking about thinking. So for the next 21 days, I am going to concentrate on saying out loud the things I do to get organized. The other thing the lecturer touched on is that I need to let the kids in on when I am planning a big event. She said that when you're a kid, your parents will announce that you'll be going on vacation and one morning, all you had to do to get ready was put on your shoes and go. But there is a lot of planning and organizing that goes into a vacation. That needs to be modeled so that they can see what the process is. How do you choose the budget? Location? Transportation? Lodging? Packing? Preparing the house? Care for pets? See, I'm exhausted just listing all those questions.

The other thing to do is adopt a flat affect. Turns out that the thrill seeking part of their brain is in high gear during these years. So if you're thinking that you might be paranoid because you think your kid is just trying to get a rise out of you, you're right. Not the being paranoid part but the latter. He is just trying to get a rise out of you. It activates the thrill seeking part of their brain and that's all good. So now, I need to act like I'm on massive doses of mood stabilizer and say things like, "I'm sorry that you've waited until 11pm on Sunday to let me know about this 20 page report due tomorrow. I'm sorry I won't be able to help you tonight. I need my sleep. I will help you with it tomorrow." All this said very quietly, calmly, and with a completely blank expression. We'll see if I'm even remotely capable of doing it. Scorpio, after all.

Sharon had accompanied me to the lecture. After, we talked about ideas to help us remember that these boys were our babies. Unconditional love is somewhere in us buried, we just need to access it. We talked about buttons with baby pictures on them that the boys could wear. Maybe custom t-shirts with images of the sweet baby boys so that every time we want to throttle them, we'd be stopped by the achingly cute cherubs on their chests. Sharon had the best idea. She suggested baby head masks. They'd have to be as big as their torsos to make it be in proper proportion to their teenage bodies, because how could you ever yell at a baby's face for not turning in his homework on time?

I talked to my mom at length this morning about all the things I learned at this lecture. She's been praying for me to gain patience, especially when I deal with my son. I guess those rosaries are finally paying off. Or maybe not. Only time will tell.

I'll let you know in 21 days.

Fully Programmed

The Great Wolf Lodge sent us some marketing materials earlier this month. We went there for Spring Break the year they opened and I guess they've been missing our contributions to their bottom line. I more precisely should say that they sent the brochure to our 3 kids. It was a glossy full color one complete with word scramble, connect the dots, beautiful pictures of happy children who have parents that look good in swimsuits. Clearly all fantasy shots. But there was a fun little activity that our princess took to immediately. It was a picture of an empty suit case and the directions stated that you draw all the things you need to bring with you to the Great Wolf Lodge. Princess enlisted the help of her brother and Lil'T to figure out what to draw. I could figure out what most of the pictures were. There were 3 sets of bathing suits, a speedo which is the bird shaped drawing in the upper left corner supposedly for my husband. There was a sack lunch and a bottle of milk. There was one pillow. There was dog food, a stick, and even Holly in the suitcase. Tho I'm pretty sure Holly would object to being stuffed in a suitcase. There was one really puzzling picture that looked like a rectangular brush with a dark stripe down the middle.

Me: What's that?

Princess: Oh, that's the money you could be saving if you switched to Geico.

I don't know how I feel about that. I don't think I'll get nominated for parent of the year considering that my kids are so easily programmed. On the other hand, maybe I should switch to Geico. Then maybe we could afford a trip to the Great Wolf Lodge.

Again with the drama

Let me start this story with the simple statement that the boy is okay. He's alive and his usual 12 year old self.

Things were a little shaky earlier this week. On Sunday, his Boy Scout troop went on a canoe trip from Bainbridge Island, WA to Bremerton, WA. This is in preparation for their 70 mile canoe trip scheduled for next week in Canada. So anyway, we dutifully got him his life vest and all other gear he'll need for this high adventure. He was paired up with Charlie who is a scout master, eagle scout and navy man. All good things. Except that some motorboat passed by too close to their canoe while they were waiting for the other canoe behind them to catch up. The wake from the motorboat swamped the canoe and my son and Charlie found themselves treading 50 degree water for 20 - 40 minutes. The time is differing only because the people on shore think it was more like 40 minutes and Charlie estimated it as only 20 minutes.

So I got an unexpected phone call from the woman whose summer house witnessed the entire scene. At the time, my son was warming up in her shower. She was very worried and asked if she should call 911. She said that she's not a medical professional but she would feel more comfortable. I told her that I was an RN and wanted to know what his status looked like. In recounting the story, I say that I asked her if he had lost consciousness, if he was shivering, if he had control of his extremities, if he knew who, when and where he was. She said no, yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes. I talked then to my son who was in the shower and knew exactly who I was when he heard my voice. He also told me that he couldn't hear me very well because of the shower. Then I talked to Charlie who said that he knows what hypothermia really looks like because of his training, but that my son was just cold and recovering quickly from their ordeal. That 911 wasn't necessary.

I ran outside during this conversation to get Hubby who was working in the back yard. I quickly told my girls to get shoes on and get in the car. That their brother fell into the Sound and needed to be checked out immediately. I grabbed his down comforter, a squid hat (because it was the closest hat at hand as I had just finished sewing it), and my first aid kit, thermometer, and stethoscope. Princess, with such concern for things other than her brother, complained loudly that the saimin I had just cooked for her would be cold and ruined by the time we got back home and could she please just finish it. Ah, the complete disregard for the welfare of her brother... so refreshing. We piled in the car and Hubby drove at 3 mph for the entire drive. Okay, he was kind of speeding, but it felt like he was crawling. We got to my son's location and he was bundled up in an electric blanket, 2 plush blankets, drinking tea, wearing a touk, and surrounded by 3 teenaged girls. Yeah, his life is so hard. Not a bad way for a 12 year old boy to be rescued. He was quite pink, no obvious neuro deficits, tympanic temp up to 95.2 degrees F, able to move all limbs with good capillary refill to toes and fingers, and absolutely mortified that I brought a squid hat and nothing else for him to dress in.

There were phone calls from all the scout masters that night. They've revised their plans for the 70 mile trip to include a motor boat trailing behind the boys just in case. My husband and son were furious with me at the mere suggestion that maybe he sit the 70 mile trip out. I was shot down pretty quick. The only thing that I could maybe work on is getting a layer of fat on the boy as he is so slender, he had no reserves to slow down the heat loss.

I suppose I better put some Oreos and fried chicken on my shopping list for the week.

I blow you up ... BOOM

This past Saturday was Princess's First Communion. Pictures to follow provided that Hubby gets back from his business trip and remembers to offload his camera. I don't have a card reader for the behemoth memory cards on his SLR. Anyway, Princess was dressed in a sleeveless Cinderella pick up skirt tea length white satin gown. Her hair was up in a big pouffy bun (ala Carrie Bradshaw in Sex In the City) and she wore my handmade veil under it and a rhinestone/pearl tiara in the front. Around her neck she wore my mother's gold cross which Lola gave to her that morning. She wore brand new white shoes with 1.5 inch heels. By the end of mass, I was holding those heels while Princess ran around shoeless. To complete her ensemble, Princess wore white gloves that went up to her elbows. She looked like a real princess. She just needed a scepter and cape.

The kids were asked to be there at 3pm so that they could have their formal portraits taken. I took advantage of my early arrival to reserve seating for the 18 people who were going to be coming to witness Princess's First Communion. We had Lola, Uncle Dwight, who came from Hawaii, Uncle Norm, Aunty Bridget, Cousin Katie, who came over on the ferry, Uncle Davey, Aunty Jan, their kids Alex & Ashley 4 y.o. and Aidan 18 mos., Grams, Gramps, and Aunty Di who came from California. I went to my car and got out every piece of clothing I could find. Came out with a raincoat, hat, bandana, umbrella, paperback, and a bunch of Monopoly money that the now defunct dollar store used to give out as coupons. So I laid out said items and sprinkled a bunch of reserved signs made with the play money all over the pews. Then I waited.

Aside from a couple of snarky comments from people who came later and I told that I had reserved the 2.5 pews, people were pretty receptive to me having reserved the spots. To the one lady who exclaimed in disbelief, "3 pews!" I say, 'Chick, I was here for over 2 hours before you moseyed your way to get a seat so shut it. And peace be with you.' In my head of course.

Grandparents and our family took the front pew and the uncles, aunts and cousins took the 2nd. We had a couple of friends in the 3rd. It all worked out pretty well. Except for when the homily started.

The way the church is situated, the main lectern is on the left side of the altar (stage right). We happened to be seated in the first 3 rows of pews directly to the left of the lectern. We were pretty much spitting distance from our priest. So when the homily started, Fr. Emmett (who is a very sweet man) started talking about Pentecost -- a pretty big day in our faith -- celebrating the Holy Spirit's coming to the apostles and giving them the gift of tongues. One might argue that the Spirit was moving my 2 nephews and my niece. After all, are we not instructed to make a joyful NOISE unto the Lord?

So all during the homily, there were some gender clarifications: "Mommy, Alexander called me a boy. I'm not a boy. I'm a girl." There were also some threats of violence: "I blow you up. BOOM!" And general discontent voiced by the youngest of the 3: your basic baby cry. All this peppered by my brother and sister-in-law's desperate whispers of shush, put that down, don't touch that, quiet, etc. It gave me a major case of the church giggles. You know the kind where you can't laugh out loud but your body can't help but laugh so your shoulders start shaking up and down.

Hubby's sister Diane waited to see the famous church pinch that my mother used to deliver to us on a weekly basis. You know the kind right at the back of the arm on a nerve apparently connected to your voice box. One well placed pinch and you are effectively silenced for the remainder of the service. My mother wasn't sitting in the same row as the kids so only could give a stern look which was miserably ineffective. When asked why the pinches weren't delivered, she said simply, "I couldn't reach." She also hoped that nobody would notice the family resemblance and that she could pretend that those grand babies were not hers.

For his part, Fr. Emmett made every effort not to look in our direction. He truly is a soft touch. One can only hope that he didn't hear the ruckus, that he may have left his hearing aid out... but I suspect that everybody heard them. My friend Steve had arrived late to the service and was sitting clear across the church away from us. When we talked about what the kids were saying, Steve said, "That was you? I heard that."

For the rest of the visit with my brother and his family, our catch phrase was, "I blow you up ... BOOM!"

I can't wait to see them again. Even if I get blown up several times a day.

Thar she blows!

Last week was our Spring Break. The first weekend was Hubby's mother's birthday so we had wanted to head out on Friday after his work and make it to So. Cal. by Sunday, Gram's actual birthday. Sadly, last week, Lil'T and I became human tubes with the stomach flu. Nothing stayed down and everything ran for the closest exits with frightening speed. At one point in the middle of the night while I was retching into a bucket, I actually started weeping. (cue violins) I begged my body to realize that the grilled chicken ceasar that was dinner was long gone and nothing was left inside. I was empty, but in perfectionist mode, my body continued to heave nothing but air for several hours that first night. On Tuesday morning, I while I rested, Lil'T climbed in to our bed and proceeded to vomit all over it. So she and I camped out on the sofa for a good part of the week watching endless hours of Nick Jr. and Dora the Explorer. (I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm the Map, I'm THE MAP!) Lil'T didn't stop spewing until Sunday. We started our journey on Monday and SURPRISE, Lil'T had one last bit of sick in her. Nothing like cleaning your kid up in the parking lot of a Carl's Jr.

I do need to brag a little bit though. Lil'T at 3 years old is the most conscientious vomiter of our brood. Our son was famous for having the bucket in front of his face and turning his head away at the last moment to hit the floor. Once, on a road trip, he actually woke us all in the middle of the night screaming. He then rolled over and went back to sleep. After about 10 minutes, he sat up, vomited on the comforter, and then proceeded to lie down and go back to sleep. Just like a rock star. Are you kidding me? In contrast, Lil'T will always ask for her bucket. Of course it is the 3 gallon, very dramatic bucket with a handle. She could fit in this bucket with room for a rubber duckie. She will cry for it but if it isn't in reach, when she will vomit directly into a toilet, sink, or other within reach vessel. Unless she's in bed and can't get to the edge fast enough. At least she cries. I can be woken from a sound sleep to full alertness by the sound of a whimpered, "Bucket..."

I'll post more on our trip later. Highlights though: Legoland, visiting with family and friends, Laguna Beach & Monterey Bay Aquarium.

Cutest Kid Contest

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep is a network of professional photographers who help families when they suffer the loss of an infant. They volunteer their time and materials to take pictures of the family so that they can remember the life that was lost. It is a compassionate program and I am going to enter my kids in The Cutest Kid Model Search contest -- a benefit for this organization. Please join me in supporting it. To enter, follow the link above. You'll be asked to donate $1 per vote.

Don't keep your kids out of the competition just because you know that in a throw down, my kids are cuter...

Been there

Shopping with kids guarantees that you will visit every bathroom of every store at least twice for any child who needs your assistance. Those that don't need your help will wait until everybody else has gone and then just as you are to leave a store, suddenly announce that he too needs to visit the restroom. This makes a shopping trip that should last only 30 minutes last about 2 hours. At least it feels like 2 hours.

Today we went to Costco and had lunch. I told the family that I was going to the bathroom and asked if anybody wanted to go with me. Nobody did. As is typical, upon my return, Lil'T and Princess both announced that they had to go.

I know this detailed account of our bathroom visits really isn't that interesting to read, but this post is not about us. It is about a mother with 2 kids, likely twins: a boy and girl around 4 years old. I put Teira on the potty when I heard this monologue from outside our stall.

"Libby, I'll just hold the door closed for you. Don't lock it. Your brother and I are waiting. Don't lock the door. I said no. (exasperated sigh after she discovered that Libby had indeed locked the door.) Okay, well hurry up, we're all waiting for you to be finished... Are you done? Libby, I asked if you're done. Well, if you're done, wipe yourself and pull up your pants. I said, pull up your pants. Okay, your brother has to go to the bathroom too. John, don't lock the door. Libby, what are you doing? OH GOD! GET UP OFF THE FLOOR! LIBBY! OH GROSS! GET UP OFF THAT FLOOR THIS INSTANT!!! JOHN, GET UP OFF THE FLOOR. OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"

At this point she started panicking because she couldn't get the door open. Then kids' grandmother asked from outside the bathroom if everything was alright.

"MY KIDS ARE GOING PSYCHO! LIBBY! OPEN THE DOOR THIS INSTANT!"

This mom totally lost it as both her kids were lying on the bathroom floor of the Costco. (You may have the impulse to rub yourself all over with hand sanitizer. Go with that.) She started pounding on the bathroom stall door.

"LIBBY! OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!!!" *pound, pound pound* "OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN IT!" Repeat.

Lil'T and I had finished washing our hands so we waited for Princess outside. I didn't want that poor mom to be too embarrassed with us watching. You could tell she had tried to hold it together as much as possible but just couldn't handle both kids peeking out from under the bathroom stall doors. I know that I'd have gone over the edge if I found my kids lying down on the floor of the Costco bathroom. At least it was the ladies room. I've heard horror stories about mens rooms. Hubby says that the bathrooms on the WS Ferries are so filthy that he'd rather hang his butt over the side of the boat than go to the mens rooms. Then again, he may just be telling tales because he hates having to take Lil'T to the bathroom.

The kids must have opened the door because while we were waiting both kids bounced out of the bathroom and that poor mom had returned to normal. She even offered to help them get a drink of water from the fountain.

I'm sure she felt embarrassed, but she's got to know. We've all been there. Every mom of every little kid has been there. At least I have. She doesn't need to feel embarrassed.

In the car, my son was cracking up at the recounting of this mother's harrowing visit to the bathroom. He thought it was so disgusting for those kids to be lying on the floor of the bathroom. This from the same kid who when he was about 4 years old picked up the urinal cake out of the urinal and asked, "What's this?"

Yeah, that urinal cake. The one that everybody pees on. The one that my husband says every guy aims for. That urinal cake.

I didn't burn the boy or douse him in bleach. But I think I used up my entire bottle of hand sanitizer.

I had to rub it all over him and myself just to feel clean again.

Contributing to the delinquency of a minor

Yesterday evening was Princess's Ice Cream Social and Open House at school. I have been attending these events since 2002. Every year I say to myself, "Next year, I will not come at 6:30pm. I will not endure the craziness of the gymnasium with kids hepped up on ice cream and the noise levels nearing the sound of a jet planes." But every year, I forget. Every year, I get begged and cajoled into getting in the car at 6:15pm so we can be there just as they start. Every year, my kids are near the first in line. I'm there so early that there are still parking spaces in the lot. It's not right.

Hubby was late in Seattle so it was just me and the kids. After our cups of ice cream, we eagerly waited to check out all there was to see in Princess's classroom. She proudly showed me her papier-mache model of the island. She had watercolored an adorable sunshine-in-a-box project. I thought that was very clever. She also showed me her biography report that she made into a cube. I actually had seen that one before, but we got to take it home. And she also made a book about the world. Up on the bulletin boards were her letters to her penpal from across the island at another elementary school. Her letters from her Lola and her Grandpa were also posted. I had to adjust the growing-up and sent-from pins on the map. Lola's letter was erroneously placed on Lanai. Wrong island. I also put Grandpa's pin a little more south in California. They had him in the middle of the state. I don't even know what is there.

On the dry erase board, Miss B. wrote a list of things to remember to take home. It looked like this:

Things to take home:
*Map of the island
*Biography cube
*Sunshine-in-a-box
*Book of the world

My son and I read off the list and noted a missing item. You really should take home your child. We kind of giggled about that and then I said, "I dare you to write it." He hesitated a little, scanned the room quickly to see where the teacher was. I said, "I'll even keep lookout." He said, "Okay, where's the pen?"

So I stood between him and Miss B who was talking to another parent. Scrawled in kid writing instead of super precise teacher writing was one more starred item: *Your kid.

We sauntered away from it and waited for people to notice. It took a little while, but then somebody did notice and there were a couple of laughs and it was pointed out to other people who got a kick out of it. It would have been fun to see Miss B's reaction but she was too busy. I'm hoping that Princess will see it in the morning and come home with a story about it.

For those of you who knew me growing up, you know that I was so straight laced that my laces were practically sticks. So this little act was really no big deal. But I found this benign act of graffiti with my son to be so fun.

See, I know that my kids know that I love them. That much is evident. But stuff like this shared tiny joke does something more. It lets my son know that I like him.

I really do.

Tess and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

That title is directly from Judith Viorst's classic of a similar name. Just sub Alexander for Tess and you've got it. It was one of my favorite books as a kid. That and the story of Rikki Tikki Tembo Nosarembo Chari Bari Ruchi Pip Peri Pembo. I'm not sure if that is how that was spelled, but I've never forgotten that fictional character's name. He nearly died of pneumonia or drowning because his brother had to say that entire name when looking for help. Go look it up.

I was asked by my dear friend Julia to write this blog post because she has an unhealthy relationship to her keys. I think I'll have to blog on her key problem. It got so bad at one point that my husband suggested she gets one of those lanyards to wear around her neck and couple it with one of those key rings that clips to your belt. With two points of contact with her body, there would be a good chance that she could hold on to them. My situation on Wednesday filled her with a sick kind of redemptive joy. Oh well, here goes.

Hubby left very very early on Monday morning (4:30am wake up time) on a business trip to Houston. Before he left he asked me to go to bed at a reasonable hour. I've gotten a little addicted to Facebook. One of my friends manages to be online at 11pm my time so I end up chatting with her for an hour or so. Next thing you know, it is 1am and I need to get the kids up at 6:30am. This is just not good for my health. So told Hubby that I would try to get to bed on time. On Monday night, I found my friend online and managed to stay up until 2am my time. I was a bit of a wreck on Monday morning but managed to get the kids off to school and then I crawled back in bed with my youngest. I couldn't do that again.

When Hubby called to check in that day and asked when I got to bed, I told the truth. I certainly could have lied and said that I went to bed at 11pm like a good little girl, but I know he is wise in the ways of computers and can figure out exactly when I logged out. For all I know, he has my desktop mirrored on his Blackberry. So I vowed to go to bed at 10pm that night especially since I had an 8am appointment with my son's teacher for conferences on Wednesday morning.

Well, I did better but not 10pm better. I got to bed around midnight but was feeling pretty positive about that time. A good six and a half hours of sleep might just do the trick. That was until 1:30am when Lil'T decided that she didn't want to go potty and would instead prefer to whine a good long while. She also found it necessary to fight me picking her up out of bed to put her on the toilet. I finally got her back to bed by 2 am but because Hubby is out of town, I allowed her sister and her to sleep in my big bed with me. Big mistake. Lil'T kept complaining that her sister was too close. At one point, Princess was practically lying on top of me. That's when I kicked Lil'T out of bed. Around 2:30am. I lay there for what felt like hours before I decided to get out of bed and shop Ebay for a while. I finally got sleepy at 5am. Yeah, 1.5 hours before I had to get up again to get Princess to school. Plus I had to get dressed and ready for the conference.

In the book, Alexander woke up with gum in his hair. At least he had a good night's sleep. Having the conference at 8am meant waking Lil'T up at 7am. You wouldn't think that was a big deal but she normally wakes up at 8am. A 3 year old deprived of an hour of sleep whiny and clingy. Compounded with the fact that she's on antibiotics for a sinus infection. Way more opihi than normal. How wonderful to have to deal with her while That's teacher was telling me all the ways that he shouldn't have failed Art. Or Science. The boy disliked his Art teacher. I hear it is a common problem. But he shouldn't have totally blown off Art. Meanwhile he's acing Math. He failed Science because he missed the due dates for his project since we were in Hawaii. And instead of turning the project in, he just held on to it. OHN. So, he will be turning in the final project on Monday and hopefully the grades will be revised. No matter what I say, he won't deal with Art. He'd rather just fail.

Then I get a phone call from Julia. She'd had her car serviced and hoped that I could help her out. So I went to pick Julia up at her house, picked up Princess from the bus at our house and off we went. Since we were so close to the mall, I decided to see if Ross and TJ Maxx still had some of those formal white dresses they hauled out for the holidays. I just wasn't thinking 1st communion back in December. I'll remember when it is Lil'T's turn.

Anyway, because we were leaving the island, I let the kids use the DVD player in the car. Lil'T and That wanted to stay in the car and watch the DVD. I told them that they could provided they lock the car doors. I left them my cell phone in case they got harassed by anybody. Then my son could call the police or call the store for help. Plus, I was just going to pop in and out since Princess had a lot of homework to complete before Thursday.

After about 10 minutes in the store and seeing nothing but pink, yellow, peach and mint dresses, we were headed back to the car to leave. Just as we were leaving we saw That and Lil'T coming into the store. My son had to use the bathroom. Here is the exchange that followed.

Me: "Did you lock the car?"

Him: "Yes."

Me: "Okay, let me have the keys."

Him: "What keys? You never gave me the keys."

I ran out to the car and sure enough, he had locked every door. And he left the DVD player running so the car was on accessories power. At least the engine wasn't idling.

Remember, I had left him with my cellphone. He left that in the car too.

So I was stranded a good 17 miles away from my home. My husband was in Houston. And I only had 2 of my friends home phone numbers memorized. Who memorizes phone numbers anymore??? I didn't have enough loose change to make a phone call at the pay phone. Thankfully the TJ Maxx sales people rock and let me use their phone. I called both of them and neither was home. Panic. Then I called my husband on the off chance that he had one or the other's cell phone number. He had Julia's phone number. I hoped and prayed that she wouldn't screen the call. That she wouldn't see "TJ Maxx" on the caller ID and say, "meh, I won't answer." But perhaps the fact that she was driving at the time helped me out because she answered after only a couple of rings. She said that she could come out but she had to find a way to take care of her daughter who was at swimming lessons. I told her how to get into our house and asked her to bring every key that she saw because I had the Toyota keys there too. Wouldn't it have sucked if she got to me and brought the wrong car's keys? And she had to go back to her house and pick up her van because in case she had to jump start my car, she wanted to use the van.

So we shopped and waited. At some point I noticed that Lil'T was walking a little funny. I walked over to her and got hit in the face with that distinctive foul odor that all moms dread. I asked her, "did you poop in your pants?" She got all teary eyed and told me that she had. So I found a 5 pack of panties for $3.99. Yay for TJ Maxx once again. If it had been Nordstrom, I'd be paying at least $10 for one panty.

I tried to get by on the sly. I don't know why, but I didn't want to embarrass her and let all the shoppers at TJ Maxx know that Lil'T had an accident. The doctor told me that a lot of kids on the antibiotic get diarrhea. It is a very common side effect. Unpleasant, but common. So I go to purchase my pack of panties and Princess pipes up, "Mom, I think Lil'T pooped her pants." I swear she was yelling it at the top of her lungs, but I'm sure she wasn't. I just loved the looks I got (real or imagined) from the other people there. The checker cut the panty bag open for me and I was off the the handicap stall in the ladies room. It happened twice, but the second time with more histrionics from Lil'T. She was really upset. Clean up was aided by my quick thinking and a sanitary napkin in her underpants. When you're diaperless, you do what you can with what you have. Thankfully I had the pads. Can you imagine if I only had a tampon?

Could this day get any longer?

Julia showed up about an hour and a half after I called. I couldn't thank her enough. Luckily, my car started up no problem, even with the DVD player in perpetual menu mode as the movie had finished ages ago.

When we got home and finished eating our $0.89 burritos from Taco Bell because there was no way I was going to cook after all of that, I bathed T, showered myself and felt a whole lot better. Sadly, I still had to contend with Princess's homework. She was up a good 2 hours past her bedtime. Poor thing.

Oh well, everybody has days like these once in a while.

Even in Australia.

Culinary arts

When That was around 4 or 5 years old, my brother Dave and his wife Janice played and insidious practical joke on us. We didn't know it at the time, but they got us good. They bought our son a kid cookbook. On the surface, it would seem that my chef brother had good intentions. It was a cute cookbook with cartoons of bears and dogs cooking all kinds of seemingly wonderful food. What happened next was no less than a full frontal assault on our sensibilities.

My sweet son soon asked to cook dinner for us. I dutifully gathered the ingredients to such classics like tuna casserole topped with potato chips, mini english muffin pizzas, tuna melts, and so on. See, that list of food doesn't sound bad at all, does it? And yet, in the barely capable hands of my pre-school aged son, it was all bad. Really bad. At dinner times, Hubby and I would tuck in to our meals all smiles and eating with great enthusiasm for the boy's efforts. All the while, spelling out our true evaluations of the meal. Our son didn't know how to read yet.

"Wow, this is so good, son. Great job. I think this is I-N-E-D-I-B-L-E."

"I agree, Honey, really great job. I think I'm going to have another serving and maybe P-U-K-E."

"Mmmm, me too."

And so on. But the upside of us braving those early scary meals is that our son is creative in the kitchen and still comes up with interesting concoctions. He's moved on to desserts.

I wish I had a picture to show you, but I think it would look a little rude. You'll just have to imagine it yourself. The look of it is likely quite familiar to you.

Our son decided to experiment with Jello brand products -- the two major categories of which are pudding and gelatin. Unfortunately, all we had in our pantry was chocolate pudding and lemon jello. Still sounds perfectly sane, right? It isn't. So here is my son's recipe:

1 six oz. package of chocolate pudding
Milk
1 six oz. package of lemon jello
Hot & Cold water

1. Prepare chocolate pudding according to package instructions. Pour into 5 squat highball glasses, preferably clear glass. Don't worry if slides down the sides of the glass. This actually enhances the final effect.

2. Prepare lemon jello according to package instructions. Pour over the chocolate pudding, taking care not to disturb the pudding much, you don't want the jello to dissolve the chocolate pudding.

3. Cover each glass with plastic wrap. Refrigerate for several hours. Serve.


You will learn that jello doesn't firm up well with the chocolate pudding inside of it. We didn't know if this was because of the milk in it or if the dessert itself knew that it was going to be a disaster. So imagine the lemon jello is still liquid when served. The chocolate pudding, semi solid. See where this is going?

My sweet husband called me to the refrigerator while these desserts were convalescing. He told me to brace myself and then take a peek inside. What I saw when I opened the refrigerator reminded me greatly of my last bout of the stomach flu. Or maybe the day after overindulgence at an all you can eat buffet. Sorry to be gross. But we still refer to that dessert as diarrhea surprise.

It tastes okay if you keep your eyes closed.

Can't get enough of That

That: Hey Dad, it says here that this gas is 10% rum.

Hubby: What? Where did you read that?

That: It says right here, "At least 10% Ethanol. Isn't that rum?"

A little more of That

I posted the slide show of our trip to San Francisco. You might have wondered why I had a picture of the "Old Timer" stall from the San Francisco Zoo. Well, here's the story.

My kids and my mom were walking through the barn at the petting zoo. There was a stall to the left labeled "Old Timer."

My son said, "Look Lola! It's an Old Timer. Just like you."

My mother, after peering into the stall she said to me, "Your son is calling me an old goat."

Someday he'll want for better skills at talking with people of the opposite gender. That day has not yet arrived.

Although, over the weekend he made us all proud with some fabulous theatrics.

We were playing a game called Werewolves. It is a good party game very similar to the game Mafia. In a nutshell, you are either townsfolk or you are werewolves. Some townsfolk play special roles like Cupid who picks 2 people to be lovers. Should one of the lovers die, the other dies instantly of heartbreak. In our group of friends, we had 1 eleven year old girl and 2 eleven year old boys. It never got old to pair up the one girl with one of the 2 boys because they grossed out so much at being one of the lovers. Anyway, on one such occasion, the poor girl was picked first to die and we waited to see who would join her in death. At the perfect moment, my son cried out, "No!!! Why her! Please, not her!!!" He fell to the floor in one of the most dramatic death scenes I've ever witnessed. The rest of us were totally cracking up and applauding such a great interpretation of his role.

I need to get that kid into acting lessons.

Psyche!

When a phone call starts with, "I've got a proposition for you," you've got to be wary. Especially if the caller is your husband and he's at work for some crisis, you've got to be wary. He went on to tell me that there was some essential equipment that he needed so if I brought it (along with the children), I would be treated to a nice dinner on the company's dime. It wasn't too shabby a deal, especially since That has been asking to go to a fancy restaurant for his birthday.

It takes some time to get each child dressed nicely for an evening on the town, especially since 2 of them are girls. I'm just thankful that Princess doesn't wear make-up or I'd have to take a couple of hours to get ready.

We weren't able to get reservations at the place that That had picked out, but Hubby's boss had a favorite restaurant that was a good second choice. They serve high end Italian food. My son didn't want to have Italian food because on Monday, he'll be attending a pizza party for his Knowledge Master team. I suggested he order a risotto or ravioli -- just try something different. This restaurant had nary a pizza in sight. It was very fancy. To give you an idea, when I entered I thought to myself this is not a place that has high chairs. I was right, sort of. The one high chair that was there was in use. Thankfully, after that family was done, we were given the high chair for Lil'T.

That ordered a venison ravioli which was so good he didn't even offer me a taste. The girls had gnocchi which was as close to a kid friendly meal as they could muster. Hubby had penne with salmon and I had the Chilean sea bass. I think I'll have good dreams about that for a long time.

In fancy restaurants, they don't give you a dessert menu. Instead they bring a tray that showcases all the desserts. I think they know that once you lay eyes on those treats, there really is no going back. You must have some. You should have seen the kids' eyes when the server brought out the tray. We all placed our orders and the tray was whisked away by the server for the neighboring table.

Lil'T didn't like that one bit.

There was some whining crescendoing into a full out wail. I did my best to comfort her but I was off my game because it was kind of funny. We tried to explain that our desserts would be coming, that those weren't ours. She was having none of it.

Next time we'll just tell the waiter to leave the tray and to just put together a new one. Showing a kid all those goodies and then taking them away is just mean.

I didn't pray for that

I have reached the end of my rope. Actually, I am barely hanging on to a rope. In fact I'm slowly slipping down the surface of whatever it is that comprises my life.

My 11 year old son (turned 11 today) has worn a great big hole in my patience and has my level of unconditional love dangerously low. I'm sure I'm remembering it wrong, but I remember being a pretty good student. Sure, I often procrastinated on some projects, but I eventually did do them even if it meant a couple of late nights. I might have to ask my mother about that. I did pretty well in school and so did my husband. So I don't understand how I'm getting this bachi -- what goes around comes around.

How did I get a son who is so disorganized that he was capable of losing a trombone? A TROMBONE! This isn't some tiny little instrument. This is a big, trip-over-it-when-he-leaves-it-in-the-hallway trombone. It was missing for the last week. He did find it again at school and brought it home yesterday. Shockingly, he's only lost his retainer once. It is a tiny thing but he's never supposed to take it out unless he's eating. You'll never guess where I found it -- his sock drawer. How do you lose a retainer in your sock drawer? Does this even remotely make sense in any universe?

Two months ago, my husband and I made a deal with my son who is perpetually late on his homework. He complained that we were always riding him about it. My husband proposed the deal that we lay off completely. In exchange, if my son manages to do all his work, then great, we all win. If he doesn't, he'd have to do the work when we told him to, no argument. Well, he took us on our word. We did not bother him about his homework. But true to form, he didn't do any of his assignments. *sigh* Do I have sucker written across my forehead in some kind of magical marker that is only visible to kids?

So this morning I called his school counselor for advice. I called to find out if there were some kind of program, summer school or workshops that he could attend that might help with this. As I laid down my woes at her feet, instead of coos of, "oh, you poor thing..." I got raucous laughter. She said, "I don't mean to laugh but I know your story all too well. It's mine too, and my son is 30 years old now."

"Wow! That's great. How great is it to know that there is a light at the end of the tunnel." I was so relieved to know that a child like that could make it to adulthood.

She said, "What's funny is that now he's a pediatrician. If you had told me that when he was 10 years old, I would have fell right over."

We went on to compare notes, laughing in our commiseration.

"As a joke, my husband and I bought him a guitar. We thought that it would be nearly impossible to lose something that large. Now he's a pretty good guitar player."

"Oh," I said laughing, "I expected you to say that he did lose it and then you ended up getting him a cello."

"No, a piano! 'Here, try to lose this!'"

She was impressed that my son had managed to lose the trombone this last week.

She said she wishes she could say that at age 13, a switch goes off and all of a sudden he will start caring about his assignments and his surroundings. But that didn't happen. In her experience, her son ended up making it all the way through school just kind of scraping by with good enough grades, but not the best. When he went to college, when he was out of her home, he stepped up to the plate and really buckled down. Clearly, he's come a long way having earned his medical degree and specializing in pediatrics.

So maybe the gloom I've been feeling over the past few weeks is unfounded. This too shall pass, right?

A couple of nights ago I watched the movie Evan Almighty. There is a scene where God played by Morgan Freeman asks one of the characters, "If you pray for patience, do you think you receive patience or get the opportunity to learn patience?" It was a good line. If I'm honest with myself, I've prayed for patience a boatload of times. So I guess it is my fault in that sense.

Next time I'll be more specific.