Camp Is Not For Sissies

I read this post followed by this post in preparation for the upheaval to come my way this past week. Ambitiously I thought revisiting the experience would somehow soften the blow to my maternal gut, maybe loosen the knots of my anxious apron strings, and possibly slacken the white-knuckled grip on my offspring.

It didn’t help. Not. One. Little. Bit.

Camp is not for sissy mommys. It’s not a place to quell the fear of the unknown, or question the number of times underwear will be changed. There’s no room for weak, lip-quivering goodbyes, or provisions for desperate requests to sleep in the bottom half of your child’s bunk, despite vain promises to remain so quiet no one will ever notice.

I am a sissy mommy and I possess very little shame about it.

To make matters worse, and my sedative prescription stronger, this year we sent our rising second grader to camp along with his big brother. Read that again: A SECOND GRADER.

Chandler –said abandoned, seven year old – began talking about the idea several months ago after finding out that several of his friends would be attending the camp. I initially squashed the idea in the same emphatic way I squashed the scary looking spider in my bathroom, citing a litany of reasons, but one in particular I thought would be especially convincing. Without remorse, indignity or even the slightest hesitancy, I told Chandler that if he went to camp he would starve and die.

About right now, you may be questioning my parental prowess. You may even wonder if I have enough sense to be a parent at all. But hear me out on this - Chandler is very picky and really only eats two types of foods: sugar and preservatives. The occasional meat stick provides questionable protein, but for the most part, Chandler has gladly remained outside the perimeters of the food pyramid with little intention of future infiltration.

I patiently explained to Chandler that at camp he would be hungry which would make him miserable which would make him lonely which would make him miss me and his stash of all things processed in the pantry. So the best course of action for him this year, I reasoned, and probably until he graduated from college, was to remain with his mama.

Upset that he would miss out on all the fun with his friends, Chandler made a concerted effort to introduce new tastes to his sugar-addicted palate. He began trying exotic, sophisticated foods like spaghetti and tacos and hamburgers, twitching and gagging with each bite, strangely resembling the contestants on Fear Factor minus the teased hair, whitened teeth and obvious enhancements.

Chandler begged and pleaded and cried and gorged himself on tacos for weeks until we finally relented, and signed him up for the five days of camp that would send my gastrointestinal tract into disrepair.

With mounting trepidation and ingestion of an entire roll of Rolaids, I reluctantly drove Chase and Chandler to camp. They were excited and happy to joyfully reunite with their South Carolina friends.....



...unloading their sleeping bags in their respective bunks.....



...while I rocked maniacally in a corner of the cabin, my body curled in the fetal position.(Not really. But I was so doing it in my mind.)

We said our long goodbyes without the expected dramatics, and then I blubbered all the way home.

The second day of camp, Chandler wrote the following letter:



Dear Mom,
I am having a great time. There is food I like, but I really miss you. I don’t want to go to camp next year. I love you, Chandler.

Check the back.



I love you.

Miss you.

Come pick me up.



COME PICK ME UP.

My gastrointestinal tract will never be the same.

(part two tomorrow)

Tough Days

It’s been a tough few days in our household for the following reasons:

1. Georgia/Florida game - Our beloved Georgia Bulldogs had their tails handed to them on Saturday. At one point, it became unbearably difficult to focus all of my attention on the game because I became sickeningly fascinated with my husband’s right eye that started twitching the moment the other team – the WRONG team - scored.

(I’m here to report that the eye didn’t stop quivering until after the sermon on Sunday. John may seem under control with his emotions to others, but the reactions of his eyeballs suggest differently.)

2. Time Change - I am now more than ever before convinced that the time change is from the devil. I realize that we received an additional hour of sleep Saturday night (because I am good at math like that) but somehow time changes of any sort make the folks in my house completely BONKERS. Grumpy moods and lethargic attitudes prevail, and no amount of Halloween candy scavenged from individual stashes can provide enough sugar needed for some extra energy. And that’s just the adults.

3. The Election – Quite frankly, the guy I wanted to win lost. While I am concerned with the direction our country could take, I continue to maintain that none of this was a surprise to God. The very Being that breathed humans into existence is the same Power that is holding our nation and our world in the palm of His hands. I still watched the election results roll in late into the night with what may be considered naive hope but even after the disappointing returns I went to bed peacefully. Very tired, yet still hanging onto some joy.

So after the emotional and physical whirlwind of the last few days, the following photo can be the only result:

Sing, sing a song

There are some moments too precious, too priceless to accurately articulate. Some moments make your heart so full you feel as though others can see it swelling through your chest, frightened that it might truly burst. It’s those times you want to freeze permanently in your mind and you find yourself begging your Creator to help you remember.

It was simple, really. Mary Mac was sitting in my lap the other day, her pudgy legs draped over mine, and we were singing joyfully at the top of our lungs to a song we both knew. Her happy face reflected my own as we enjoyed a moment over a silly song, one of the many pieces to the puzzle of memories that embody my daughter.

Near the end of the song, Mary Mac suddenly stopped singing and looked me straight in the eye with a look I can only identify as puzzled.

“Mommy, is that your good singing voice?” she sweetly asked.

“Yes, it is,” I replied.

“Oh. That’s okay, you can’t really help the way it sounds,” she responded, and then continued with her song.

Camp Mommicriesalot

Chase is home from camp.

This past weekend, I made the four-hour trip to retrieve him. It was supposed to have only taken two hours but I am directionally challenged and had a little trouble discerning north from south. By the time I realized my mistake I was already an hour into the trip, had to turn back around for another hour and begin the trip once again. North, South, East and West are words you will not find as part of my love language.

By the time I arrived, I was somewhat frazzled and desperate to see my little boy. All of the campers were gathered under an outdoor pavilion beneath what appeared to be a haze of brown smoke. Upon closer look, I realized that it wasn’t smoke, but a giant dust cloud that had accumulated as a result of poorly bathed campers. Do not misunderstand - showers were available - it’s just that most forgot to involve their bar of soap.

I found Chase, joyfully wrapped my arms around him, and burst into tears.

(For those of you who question the emotional stability of yours truly, and possibly wondered if I would display said emotions for all to see, know that I did not disappoint.)

I wasn’t prepared to see that my son was three inches taller, or that he had stubble on his beard. His voice was decibels deeper and he had outgrown all of his clothes. The exponential development that occurred in Chase over a six day period reminded me of the changes that take place when Bruce Banner transitions into the Incredible Hulk, bursting through his too small t-shirt with loaded biceps and six-pack abs.The only difference was that my son wasn’t as green. (His neglected teeth however were a different story.)

While I may be exaggerating a bit, he did look different. For instance, a week ago, his hair did not look like this:



And, caked dirt (otherwise known as “pigskin) did not cover the entire area beneath his knees:


Nonetheless, none of that mattered, as I was just happy to have my life-sized Linus back with me where he belonged.

All the way home, Chase excitedly told me how much he loved camp, recounting the adventures and mishaps he experienced with his friends Hunter, Thomas and Wilson. I listened as he sang all of the praise and worship songs learned, as well as the prototypical camp cadence that only a nine-year-old boy would enjoy:

I don’t know what I’ve been told
I stuck my finger up my nose
Pulled out something big and green
Thought it was a jelly bean.


So Chase survived, and I didn’t do so bad myself. (Except for the public release of the ugly cry). Yet another parental hurdle cleared, all the while knowing that there will be many more to jump as my children race to the inevitable finish line of their childhood.

I don’t care what I’ve been told
Letting go is getting old
Let them always live with me
Even when they’re fifty-three.

Celebrating a Different Kind of Independence

Summer camp is not for sissies. It requires a mental toughness, a fierce independence, and a quick adaptation to a different environment. One must be able to welcome the new, while loosening the grip on the old, with a sense of challenge and adventure towards the independent journey ahead. Camp is not for the weak, but a place of growth for the strong.

Which is why I was asked politely to leave.

My oldest son, Chase, is at summer camp for the first time. (As in OVERNIGHT, without his mom.)

I have been mentally preparing myself for the “drop-off” since the time my deposit cleared, and the precise moment I lost a little more of my mind. Leaving my nine-year-old son, unfortunately, happened just as I envisioned, only with more dramatics, more heartache and regret than even I could have imagined.

There was much crying and last minute hugging. Goodbyes were repeatedly spoken as if it would make the moment last longer. Arms were wrapped around legs in an effort to keep the other from leaving, tears flowing to the ground in a way that was almost embarrassing.

And then I was reprimanded, told to gather myself and release my grip from around the legs of my child.

The nerve.

Much to the chagrin of his mother, Chase embraced the send off with much maturity, much bravery, clearly demonstrating DNA from his paternal side. Smiling wide with pearly whites that won’t see a toothbrush for the next five days, my son joyfully reunited with his three closest friends from South Carolina in a moment that made my heart full and the ugly cry worthwhile.

The older my children become the more I accept that God expects me to hold them with open hands. They won’t always be under my care, my protection, my watch and I have to trust in the promise that He will be with them wherever they go.

Overnight camp is just another rite of passage towards independence and a painful reminder of how swiftly my time with my children is expiring. It is difficult not to cling to them with a grasp that dares to defy time, but I know that with each year that passes, my hold must loosen so that they can cling to Him instead.

But if Chase thinks he is going off to college, he’s got another thing coming.


Hunter, Chase, Wilson and Thomas reunited


Future campers: Powers, Chandler and Lane

The joy of friendship

We're searching for a drama camp for Mary Mac

And I Thought It Was Hot Outside....

Yesterday was an exceptionally hot day as demonstrated by my post whining about the warm temperatures of the pool water. Little did I know that by the end of the day that water would seem frigid compared to the temperature INSIDE my house.

Curiously, late in the afternoon, when everyone had come inside for the day, I noticed that the children were unusually grumpy and that their hair was matted with sweat. I, too, was warm and uncomfortable, but it did not give me pause as my body temperature has not been regulated since the year Milli Vanilli got busted for lip-synching.

Because you can't pull a fast one on me, I finally put two and two together - I'm quick like that- and glanced at the display of our thermostat: 84.

Seriously, 84. A mere 15 degrees away from a fever.

Frantic calls to the air condition guy revealed that service would not be forthcoming until the following morning which meant we were stuck in our humble sauna for the night. We would awaken the next morning pounds lighter.

(It's a little weight loss plan I like to call "Ignore your thermostat and the high-pitched whirring sounds coming from your basement and watch the fat melt away.")

Nick, the kind repair man, arrived joyfully on time the next day (praise Jesus)with toolbox and billing sheet in hand. He was so young and fresh-faced looking it was all I could do to keep from tying his shoes, or from holding a tissue up to his nose with instructions to blow.

The news was not good. Our unit, which was probably installed the same year as the demise of Milli Vanilli, will have to be replaced, and regrettably, not until a very long time away - tomorrow.

So, tonight we will sleep in our pool.

It's Getting Hot In Here

It's hot.

And we have a pool that should offer us some cool refreshment, much like the old school commercial where joyful folks take the Hi-C plunge and are instantly invigorated by the coolness.

Instead, the temperature is much like the tepid water that flows down the drain of your bathtub or the "warm patch" you unfortunately happen upon when swimming in a public arena.

But here's the thing. We swim in it anyway. And on top of the warm temperatures, our water is - how to say this delicately?- GREEN.

We returned from Atlanta and found that the chlorine filter was not operating properly - which John was able to fix because he is McGyverish like that - but it still takes a few days to get the water back into sparkly condition.

Again, we swim in it anyway. What's a little green substance coming out of your children's ears when it is a kajillion degrees outside, especially when you have access to large quantities of q-tips to clear up any algae residue discovered?

This photo depicts John's frustration over his green pool and an uncanny likeness to the Heatmiser.



What did I tell you?



The children were so hot that they could only float motionless to stay cool:



See, I'm not exaggerating about the green. Compare my son's swim trunks to the color of the water and you will find that they are the same SHADE.



But we swim in it anyway.

'Cause it's hot.

Identity Crisis

Like most, we took great care and deliberation when deciding on the names for our children. There were several choices that brought us joy just by mere utterance of the proposed monikers. Here are a few we tossed out to those who inquired:

Scooby Doo. (Yiiikkkes)

LaLa (This revealed the disdain some adults have for the teletubbies. I feel sorry for the mothers of the teletubbies as the awkwardness they must have to confront on a daily basis must be tiring.):

"And what does your son do for a living?"
"He's a teletubby."

Dill Pickle (This always produced a SOUR expression.)

(For the record, I know the jokes are terrible. Please locate the mean, little red box in the upper right-hand corner to safely exit when you have had enough.)

While we weren't entirely serious when mentioning these considerations to others, we readily admit the enjoyment we received from their reactions. It become somewhat of a sick game to summon the most outrageous name of the day to share with family and friends, all in the name of a good-hearted chuckle.

(And when you are pregnant, there are few things that are funny when the stuff between your shoulders and your waist line actually touch and hair pops out of places that are just wrong. In my hormonal mind, laughs, while contrived, were deserved and much needed.)

In the end, family names were chosen for all of our children, and for the most part, our offspring are happy with the choices made.Except, it would seem, for Mary Mac.

Her first and second names are a combination of each grandmother's name. Mary is my husband's mother and Mac is from mine. (As a point of clarification, my mom is not a truck driver with hairy arms and nicotine stained fingers as the name might suggest. It is Mackaela, which has been shortened to the very feminine Mac.)

Anyway.

The initial identity crisis began when Mary Mac first began talking. She has two older brothers and often found herself in a situation necessitating a firm claim over playroom territory and/or toys. "Mary Mac's!" she would bellow at her brothers so often and for so long that she thought that to be her identity. For months, when anyone asked the child her name, she would respond in the possessive form, "Mary Mac's."

That stage transitioned to a new level altogether when Mary Mac demanded that we refer to her by a new name she came up with all by her defiant self:

MARSHMALLOW

Reluctantly, our family mostly complied, particularly if it prevented a monkey fit in public. With child number three, we were past caring about the strange looks received by others as we called out to our green-eyed Marshmallow. Even if it did leave those observing with the impression that we were members of some hippy cult who, after gazing all googley-eyed up at the groovy, blue sky, chose to name our baby after the shape of a fluffy cloud.

It's now been over a year since we last referred to our youngest as Marshmallow, and she seems to have finally embraced her originally given name. Our newest concern is the realization that in the future we will have to ward off any love interests bearing last names of "Nugget" or "Flurry", or even worse, "Rib", to prevent possible matrimony resulting in a name combination that only Ronald McDonald would enjoy.

So the identity crisis continues.

Clearly, Scooby Doo was the safer choice.

Hello Kitty

Our morning routine went rather smoothly today, particularly on a day that I have to be on campus by 7:15 am. Because I teach on Tuesdays and Thursdays, these mornings typically tend to be panic-filled and very task-driven as my husband and I maniacally wrangle children into clothes, serve breakfast, make lunches, look for runaway shoes and coats, and flip through folders, school communications and other thousands of pieces of paper that would send environmentalists into immediate cardiac failure.

However, today it seemed joyfully effortless as I left my house after kissing the three shiny faces efficiently groomed, packed and ready to ride and sing with their dad all the way to school. It was one of those rare moments I congratulated myself for having it SO together. Good for me.

I drove to school, making the necessary mental switch from parent to professor, with determined concentration on the lecture I would be giving. It is sometimes difficult to make the transition from a household where I just spent ten minutes applauding the independent bowel movement efforts of a three year old, to a classroom where I will present a two hour discord on Piaget's Theory to sleepy-headed twenty year olds. It takes unprecedented focus.

I pulled into the parking lot, checking into the rearview mirror for any last minute adjustments needed to my teeth, hair and face. College students will mercilessly pounce on any glaring imperfections so it's always worth a second glance before entering the world of the young and wrinkle free. I noticed that I forgot to put on lipstick and looked into my car cupholder.

A little sidenote here - I don't typically carry a purse. With young children, a pocketbook is just one more item to keep up with, particularly when it is all I can do to keep up with my children. Every once in a while I will attempt to be a real grown-up woman, assessorizing appropriately with a trendy little purse that ends up being an annoyance. For adult outings I usually rely on my husband's pockets to hold all of my necessary items - lipstick, driver's license, tampon (The last one is met with much resistance which, of course, makes me laugh)

Because of my purse aversion I have lipsticks strategically stashed in various places in my home and car. The cupholder in my car is one of them, but today my old faithful mocha brown was not in its usual place. I looked in the glove department. Nothing. I looked in the middle console. Zilch.

This should not be a big deal but it is. I fully depend on my lipstick to brighten my tired face which has been patiently waiting for a full night's rest for about eight years. Without a little color to my lips, I look washed-out and weary, and unnecessarily old. I looked in the backseat of my car, and on the floor along with many other random items, was Mary Mac's Hello Kitty lipgloss.

With no other alternatives available, I slathered on the gloss, noting that the flavor was deliciously similar to the Bubblicious gum I chewed as a child, gathered my books and laptop and headed to my classroom. While I may not have color to my lips, I did have a fabulous shine that was curiously complimentary to my overall look.

This is Mary Mac with the above mentioned lip gloss. Please notice the shine.


My students were waiting, and I stepped to the front of the classroom, ready to dazzle them with dynamic diatribe. As I opened my mouth to speak, my lips were slow to open. The generous amount of gloss I applied, mixed with my saliva, had turned from a fantastic shine to an unfortunate shellack. While my lips could part from one another, it was in a gradual, creepy manner that stretched my lips to freakish limits before finally being released with a loud slurp, a sound similar to the one made by a guppy when begging for algae-infused fish flakes.

I spoke several sentences, trying to ignore the slap of my lips as they opened and closed, as well as the snickers coming from my collegiate audience who, by the way, have now earned themselves a failing grade. The gloss was distracting us all, and I determined that the fabulous shine was not worth the smack, crackle and pop escaping from my mouth.

I excused myself to the bathroom and removed the gloss, along with several layers of skin from my lips. I looked in the mirror and was greeeted by a tired face, but, thankfully one that had a fully functioning mouth. So what if I looked old and worn out to my students? At least I passed my college courses which, after today, is more than I can say for them.

It's All About The Accessories

I use this blog to document the many mishaps and overall mayhem that occurs in my household on a pretty steady basis. I particularly became interested in this sort of internet memory preservation when I discovered there was a company that will gather my conglomeration of ramblings and organize it into a lovely book that my children can later hide from all potential love interests. Tangible proof, in my opinion, is going to be needed in future years to explain away any unusual physical tics developed as a result of parenting as well as account for the missing enamel on my teeth due to excessive gritting.

In the spirit of memory preserving, I will occasionally revisit past funny recollections of my children to securely record our family follies.

I recently took this picture of Mary Mac which reminded me of an incident that would be a shame not to share:


One morning, I was in a big hurry, a concept that children either do not understand, one that they ignore or purposefully mispronounce. (Did you say furry? Who's furry? Have you seen my stuffed rabbit? You know that he's furry. This one time.... MOOOOOM, he's looking at me!")

At the time they were ages 6, 4, and 2. One was headed to first grade while the others participated in a mother's morning out program at a local church. We were late, I was a bit frazzled and not quite in my right mind just because, well, I had small children.

We were headed out the door and I was doing the final once over. Coordinated outfits - check. Monogrammed backpacks- check. Clean faces, teeth, hands - check. Coats - check, kind of. I looked at Mary Mac and found that she was not wearing the pink corduroy coat that matched her sweet pink corduroy dress that matched her pink shoes which matched her pink bow. (If you are throwing items at your computer screen right now I completely understand. I have now evolved into a seasoned, worn out, priority driven parent so I accept, welcome and deserve your ridicule.)

Mary Mac, aged 2, had decided that she didn't want to wear the coat purchased at a friend's trunk show for a kajillion dollars, but instead, had chosen the church coat of her 4 year old brother. It was a hounds tooth, double breasted coat that swallowed her whole. Her pudgy little hands were hidden by the long, wool sleeves, and the bottom of the coat touched the top of her buckled shoes.

Because we were very late, and my nerves were close to being very shot, I decided it was just not a big deal. In that split second I determined it was not worth the potential monkey fit that would be thrown in the driveway that always caused our three dogs to howl and urinate unnecessarily. I allowed the unusual outer garment to pass the mommy inspection, reasoning that in the big scheme of things, it really was not worth the hassle.

Pasting on my "very calm face that nothing can shatter, shock or shame" I placed Mary Mac and all of her bulk into her car seat with much difficulty, and we headed to glorious school. I successfully dropped off my first grader and then proceeded to the church with my preschoolers.

I arrived at MMO and proudly walked my children inside, holding my head high as I escorted my pillsbury dough girl to her two year old class. Again I was sporting the "very calm face that nothing can shatter, shock or shame" so others would know I was well aware of my daughter's attire and it was fine, I was fine, we were all fine.

As I handed my two year old over the half-door that prevents toddlers from escaping, my stoic resolve broke down somewhat as I began stammering an excuse/explanation for the cumbersome coat my child was wearing. Sweet, blue-haired Mrs. Lucille, with grandchildren of her own, nodded understandably as she took my child from me, and unbuttoned the coat that threatened to drown Mary Mac in gingham-patterned wool.

Instantaneously, our eyes focused on the exact same spot. I began to blink my eyes rapidly, thinking that my household of little people had finally caused hallucinations. No such luck. Around the neck of my angel-faced, blond-headed beauty, like a prized, prominent necklace, was a pair of my

U.N.D.E.R.W.E.A.R.

Not just any underwear. But ratty, elastically challenged, pretend you don't own 'em underwear. The maternity kind left over from the days of pregnancy that you just can't let go of because they are so stinkin' comfortable. Husbands hate them and try to hide them from you but somehow they always make it safely back, beckoned like love sick lingerie to the anxiously awaiting underwear drawer.

With a joyful,wide smile on her face, Mrs. Lucille removed my undergarments from my child's neck, handed them to me and said, "I love the accessories you've chosen for your child's outfit. Should we expect similar adornments tomorrow?"

"No ma'am", I muttered, and quickly walked away with the offending ball of stretched-out cotton overflowing through my fingers, and a shattered, shocked and shamed look upon my face.

I belly laughed all the way home.

A Worn Out Welcome and Witness

Sometimes an ordinary outing becomes the extraordinary, one that upon reflection, could not have possibly occurred, but being of mostly sound mind you know that it did.

I took the children to the McDonalds indoor playground.

It was a school holiday, my clan had energy to burn, and I had lesson plans to complete. A win-win for all involved. However, the circumstances that evolved over the next 49 minutes would prove that there would be no winners that day, that it would take some time for the McD's establishment to forget our faces long enough to allow us to ever place an order again.

I have broken down our memorable visit with the following detailed timetable:

1:00-1:05 - I order everyone's food. We find a table in the corner of the very crowded playground area and I spread out my books, my notes and my annoying syllabus.

1:06-1:07 - The children scarf down their saturated fat-filled concoctions, while never taking their eyes off the playground that tempts them like an unopened, unclaimed, Happy Meal toy.

1:08-1:10 - Pure kiddie playground joy. Climb way up, squeal way down. I turn focus to my lesson plans, hoping that I can somehow come across as smarter than my collegiate audience. Insecurities temporarily overcome me, until I remember their incessant need to include "like" with every sentence and the overuse of the word "amazing". Much better now.

1:11 - My six year old announces he has to use the bathroom. There is a designated, single bathroom for the play area so I watch (and cringe) as he walks to the door and enters into the breeding bastion of bacteria that universally terrifies all Lysol packing moms. I am praying that he only has to stand to conduct his business and that he remembers not to touch anything. I soon find out that I am hopeful, and overly optimistic in my thinking.

1:11 - Because I am about 25 yards away, Chandler apparently thinks he needs to use his biggest, loudest "outside voice" and yells, "MOOOOMMMMMM, I"M GONNA NEED A LITTLE HELP IN HERE! I HAVE THE DIAAARRRHHHEEEAAAAAAA!"

1:12 - Time stops. I close my eyes and pray for the return of Jesus.

1:13-1:14 - The coming of Christ does not occur, so I make my way to the bathroom we have now just polluted for all playground preschoolers, feeling the horrified eyes of the other capable moms of children with healthy gastrointestinal tracts. I discover that Chandler is not sick, but that his sensitive little stomach has reacted adversely to his meat stick addiction. (I will spare you the details of how I know this to be true. You will just have to trust my acute deductive reasoning, my keen investigative skills along with the shocking discovery of the canned evidence found earlier in the trash can at home.)

1:15 - I return Chandler to a state of cleanliness. He resumes climbing way up, and squealing way down.

1:16 - I sit down, pen in hand, and begin my attempt again, to implement something remotely academic onto the blank piece of paper that mocks my intelligence.

1:17 - I hear a distinct, familiar scream that I immediately identify as belonging to the offspring of yours truly. I jump up, knock all my papers and a small Sprite to the floor and race to the multi-colored, now multi-menacing, playground equipment. I climb into a tunnel meant for someone two feet shorter and sixty pounds lighter, and assess the situation. There I find my eight year old with his right arm entrapped through ill-placed bars that will not release him. My formal training is in education, not engineering, and I am momentarily dumbfounded as how to proceed. Lecturing skills will be of no benefit.

1:18- 1:28 - I tug, I pry, I push, I begin to panic.

1:29-1:39 - A sympathetic mom joins our effort and we tug, we pry, we push, and she panics. Various staff members make their way into our tunnel of terror and they tug, they pry, they push, and everyone panics.

1:40-1:41 - Just when I think I am going to have call the paramedics, the encased arm pops free. Everyone exhales a huge sigh of relief, and the kind McDonald workers walk away as I exclaim to their uniformed backs, "Thanks so much! You deserve a break today......at McDonalds!" No one thinks I am funny. (Old school, vintage McDonald fans would at least offer a supportive chuckle.)

1:42-1:45 - The helpful mom introduces herself. She is relatively new to town and we strike up an amicable conversation. I find out that she is looking for a church and I begin to tell her about mine. I give her way more details and information than she solicits because I am excessively grateful that our family antics of the past half hour have not yet affected her opinion of me. My words spill over one another, very much like the waterfall of carbonation I caused earlier, as I simultaneously wonder if Chandler's condition has now effected my mouth. Shut up, Joni.

1:46 - I offer to meet Jane and her husband outside of our Sunday school class to be a familiar face in an atmosphere where the unfamiliar can be overwhelming.

1:47 - Suddenly, we are both stunned by a howl so high-pitched it is almost unrecognizable by ear-pierced ears. Neighborhood canines come to immediate attention. My poor Chandler, in his own words, has been "bitten on the bone" by the child of my new friend Jane, and is hollering in protest as only a child, or a 37 year old mom, can do. A hunk is missing from his shoulder and he has no intention of letting up vocally anytime soon. Jane is mortified, apologetic and looking to escape and my new, short-lived friendship comes to a halt when she grabs her brood and hauls tail out the door. I consider chasing her down to offer reassurance but conclude that it may be received as borderline creepy.

1:48 - Once again, concerned staff of the golden arches race to the playground area to determine that a massacre has not occurred. They can not hide their disappointment, or disdain, when they discover it is just me and my motley crew , complete with an upset stomach, a vampire bite, and an arm pulled out of joint. My left eye involuntarily begins to twitch just to fit in.

1:49 - I gather my books, my children and my wits and we head home.

A worn out welcome and witness in McDonalds all in the span of forty-nine minutes. I'm not Lovin' It.

Busted

I previously posted about the below freezing weather we have experienced. Upon hearing our local forecast, I, like everyone else in town, hightailed it to Kroger to buy supplies. My husband maintains that buying milk and bread is the manner in which Southerners combat cold temperatures, and proves especially effective against the evil "black ice".

Anyway, I had just placed my first few items in my cart when a somewhat familiar face (that means I didn't know her name) made a comment to me as our buggies passed one another in the aisle. She looked at my selections and said, "Stocking up in case of an emergency?" I looked at my items - soy sauce, coffee filters, and, oh no,......vienna sausages. I just nodded my head and smiled and kept walking. BUSTED.



Why the shame, you might ask? See, vienna sausages aren't an emergency staple in our household; they are actually a source of protein for my 6 year old, Chandler. (Please take your finger off of the dial of your telephone and let me explain. Call Department of Family and Children Services later if you still feel it is necessary.)

I've told you that the child really only likes sugar, but we can sometimes get him to swallow a few vegetables and even a few grapes. But there is no food item that brings him greater joy than his BELOVED meat sticks. (Yeah, we call them meat sticks. It sounds better, and we can momentarily trick ourselves into thinking it is actual meat.) Chandler would eat them every day at every meal if allowed but we have to limit his cat intake to once a week. My husband IS a doctor and we do have some sense.

The cat comment made me nervous so I checked the back of the can to review the actual ingredients.Here is what I found:



DID YOU SEE THAT?!

Below the Nutritional Facts it says "Mechanically separated chicken, beef and pork". That means that every time an animal is mechanically separated - as in , HIT BY A CAR - the remains are sent to a factory and vienna (who is that?) sausages are created. Are you kidding me?! Never mind what I said about calling the Department of Family and Children Services. Dial away.

The Best Christmas Lights are Tail Lights

I'm really kidding - kind of. We are back in Georgia, after a seven year absence, and have just completed our first round of Extended Family Christmas Togetherness since our move home from South Carolina. Since that time my side of the family has expanded: 3 spouses and 5 children have been added, including a newly pregnant sister-in-law. We eagerly anticipated hostessing our first Christmas together as a family, but the scheduling and re-scheduling of such event was beyond anything we could have reasonably imagined. I have 3 married siblings, with in-laws, each with their own set of traditions and nuances surrounding the big day. Penciling in a time for all of us to eat together seemed a simple enough task, but the herculean effort it would take to actually come to fruition would leave anyone crosseyed.

In South Carolina, John and I were members of two seperate supper clubs and throwing a dinner party for 30 was commonplace. You hosted, you set the time, your guests arrived. With family it is much different. You host, you set the time, and then the negotiating begins. With a total of 17 members involved this year, the time changed several times, several days before Christmas, with much concern about who was actually going to make it at all. Keeping up with who could come at what time and could eat or not eat became a Rubik's cube of place settings that would have made Martha Stewart cry.Or cancel.

What John and I realized is that where family is concerned expectations and compromises are always going to be stretched at holiday time. Whereas a dinner guest would decline an invitation if the time didn't suit, family members will all but re-arrange the clock, or implore God to momentarily suspend time, just to insure that everyone can be together. So, our Christams dinner turned into a Christmas Open House - family members arriving at 2:30, some leaving soon thereafter, and some arriving soon after that . We had dinner at 5:30, minus just a few, and closed the door behind the last family member at 9:30 pm. (Maybe because my husband said to me, "Come on Joni, let's go on to bed so these good people can go home.")

So, was it worth all of the maneuvering that proceeded Christmas Day? Yes. Was it worth all the planning of the meal and the setting and re-setting of tables? Of course. How about the frantic cleaning of the house after the chaos of Christmas morning? Absolutely. So you would do it all again next year, right? Nope. Next year's a breather. We'll be joyfully celebrating on some ski slope somewhere cold, while the rest of my family members play musical chairs with their dinner plates.

To all extended family members:you KNOW I love you! You keep me on my toes.

JUMP

Yesterday the children and I decided to give the new trampoline a workout. We jumped and jumped.....and jumped. The first five minutes of my joyful bouncing I felt like a little kid. You can sky pretty high as an adult and at times, a little too high, your arms and legs flapping uncontrollably to keep you upright. I'm sure I was quite the spectacle for the neighborhood as I jumped using all of my Big Bird gracefulness.

The next five minutes, however, revealed my true age. For those of you over 30, especially birthing females, who may find yourselves near a trampoline, a word of caution is necessary. See, your legs may be what they used to, your stamina may be akin to someone younger, but let me assure you that your bladder function has changed for the worse. I told my children that I needed to run into our house for my camera, but really it was to retrieve dry undergarments. The pictures you see occurred after I was slapped with incontinence reality.

Don't let my story stop you from experiencing the thrill of momentary, zero-gravity joy. It's no big deal. Just ensure that your bladder is completely empty, your pride is in proper perspective, and you have a waiting excuse to escape the parameters quickly if an accident occurs.

Christmas Program and Party Chaos

The last 48 hours in our home have been a frenzied gift-wrapping, costume-creating, line-rehearsing, treat-making workshop as we headed into the final hours of what I like to call "CPPC", also known as "Christmas Program and Party Chaos". The whirlwind that invaded my house the last few days would make the Tazmanian household look comatose. I could see my holiday hyper reflected in the eyes of my children as they watched me frantically gathering all the holiday necessities I would send to their classrooms via their overstuffed backpacks.

Here's the thing - I knew it was coming. I have been fully aware of this date since the first day of school when school calendars are handed out to all of the families. In fact, Christmas has always been in December - hasn't it?So, what's the deal?

To make myself feel better I have done some self-examination as to try to understand why a known date has snuck up on me so, not to mention my confusion concerning my crazed reaction . Here is my conclusion: the fault lies with my husband and children.

Chaotic Case Point One: John is in a new practice and is unaccustomed to the gift giving policies of his office. Staff bonuses and gifts for his nurses were expected. Treat exchanges among the physicians were not. Last minute gifts always have a look of desperation and these certainly were no exception. I sent my husband to work with 6 gifts encased in crinkly bags that were covered with frolicking, happy blue snowmen. And they were each gathered with a large metallic blue bow. It will make me laugh the rest of the season imagining sweet John as he delivered each of his snowmen packages to his esteemed co-workers in white lab jackets. He said the snowmen didn't bother him nearly as much as the sound of the crinkly bags that followed him through the halls.

Chaotic Case Point Two: Chandler's 5K class decided last minute to put on the play," The Gingerbread Man." How cute, I thought, especially when I discovered that my little fellow was going to be the G-Man himself. (And a very handsome one, might I add) What I didn't take into consideration was that the star of the play was going to need a costume.

Made by me.

I don't sew and I've already made it clear my feelings about Martha Stewart and my approach to all things crafty. So, during an inspired moment at Michael's, I bought a glue gun and anything that looked remotely like gingerbread adornments and, $187 later (not really, but it does make for a better story), created what you see below. Keep in mind I had a temporary design mindset, and the suit could not have lasted one more minute than necessary, but Chandler thought it was the best, which of course was the point.

(Please notice the picture depicting the weakening of the hot glue. Also, Chase's delight in missing a spelling test for the Gingerbread play.)


Chaotic Case Point Three: Classroom treats. Why must they be a nightmare every year? I chose an easy treat that the children could help me with, and at the same time, fulfill the glorious picture in my head of emulating an apron-wearing, happy-faced June Cleaver. We were going to sing Christmas carols while we put together our goodies.

And tell the story of Baby Jesus.

And pray for the homeless.

And welcome daddy home with a mug of cocoa and shiny children with clean faces. (So I'm a little ambitious, but if you could have seen the picture in my head you would have wanted to channel June Cleaver too. Come to think of it, I think there was a fire roaring as well.)

None of this happened. The children ate more of the ingredients than they put together, producing a sugar delirium that showed up in crystallized form on their skin for days to come. Did I mention that everyone was bored after just a few treats were completed?Final products were put together by me, with the help of dad, upon recognizing the mania he saw beginning to emerge in his wife.

Chaotic Case Point Four: When you choose to birth multiple children, it is important to understand that there will be a classroom Christmas party for each of them.

On the same day. At the same hour.

And to throw in a neat , little twist, you may even have additional programs to attend of multiple children on the same day as multiple Christmas parties. In addition to the Gingerbread Man production, we also attended the Christmas Story put on by 23 three year olds.

Our three year old was assigned the part of a lamb. She claimed that she was only going to be a shepherd, but surpringly, superbly fulfilled her obligations to the livestock crew minus the baaaaaaad attitude. (Sorry, I couldn't resist)


I think my case is clear that the Christmas madness that surrounds me is not of my own creation. So shifting the blame has got to make me fell better, right?

Not really.

Because despite the labor and mental drain involved, there is nothing that can substitute for the joy you feel the moment when the little face that belongs to you searches for your own in the crowd. The smile when they spot you, ill-fitted, crazy-glued costume and all, stops all time and you beg God to help you remember. So, I'm a little tired. Aren't we all? But as myhusband puts it, "What's a little labor when you have the rest of eternity to rest?" Amen.

A letter to Santa....

Dear Santa,
I don't know if you are still taking requests but I have a few that I hope will make their way to the North Pole. The following are items that could really supplement my holiday joy. So, if you can, help a mother out.

1. I would like the magic potion that would allow my children to sleep past 7:00 am. I'm all for the early bird getting the worm, just somewhere else besides my house.
2. I love my husband, but could I also have a wife? One who washes clothes, packs lunches, remembers show and tell and all piano lessons, pays the bills and irons clothes properly (instead of willing the wrinkles out with the dryer). A gal who returns phone calls and emails in a timely manner, makes dinner representing all the food groups, and cares about dirty baseboards.
3. I would like for my children to grow verrrry slowwwwly. While I still want to sleep a little later, I want my little ones to stay little. It's all going by too fast and there's too much I want to remember. Can't you fly around the world super-duper fast and slow the world down? (It worked in the Superman movie)
4. I would like to use the bathroom alone. Enough said.
5. I would like a razor and a tweezer that produce year long results.
6. I would like a turkey I can cook for Christmas dinner minus the unnecessary guts found inside the cavity of every bird. What's that about?
7. I would like a SUV makeover so that when the door is opened in the carpool line NOTHING falls out of the door. Not one pencil or one old field trip permission slip; not one shoe or one croc; not one empty juice box or one Happy Meal french fry. Nothing. Denada.
8. I would like smooth, luxurious Clairol hair. The kind that withstands the humidity in the south rather than the current mane that turns into Bon Jovi concert hair at the slightest moisture in the air.
9. I would like to wake up Chistmas morning with everything magically "lifted", certain areas properly "tucked", and all cellulite abstracted.
10. I would like for Martha Stewart's show, magazine and products to be available only in the Netherlands. Reminders of my ineptness in napkin folding, candle creating, fresh juice squeezin', gravy makin' and pillow stitching is cruel and unnecessary. Just like the turkey innards.

Joni

PS - I could also use a new Santa hat. We had a little trouble with our other one.

Santa the Rock Star

Our family recently lunched in a place where Santa and Mrs. Claus were the honored, velvet-clad guests. The children squealed with joy (as did my husband, John) as Santa made his grand entrance, sporting his rock star shades. My oldest son, Chase, explained to cool Santa that he was inside and no longer needed sunglasses. Santa responded that he was correct, and sheepishly handed his glasses to a member of his entourage. Santa caught me laughing out loud and later promised my children a large horse, a motorcycle and a snake. Mean, spiteful Santa.

Santa's Hat

I have just created this blogspot without any clear picture of what I want to do with it . I just know that my head is full of words,my heart spills over withjoy and my day crowded with mishaps that I want to tell someone. I am 37, in a new town, and without the comfort that familiar relationships of girlfriends bring. Too many funny incidents occur each day not to share, not to mention that I have reached new heights of harassment through my suffocating emails to friends and family , so I thought the blogspot may create a place that is more voluntary on the behalf of the above mentioned group. Read if you want, click the mean, little red close box in the corner if bored. The stories are true, the actors are real, and the smiles are genuine.

So, here we go. True story #1.

The children have the stomach bug. In fact I just returned from taking my oldest son, Chase (8) to school (the other two, ages 6 and 3, are sick and riding along in their pajamas.) Mary Mac, the 3 year old, determines during the ride that she has to vomit. Luckily, because my car is a mess and I have random items everywhere, I was able to hand her a Santa hat (why this is in my passenger seat is beyond me) So, she threw up in Santa's hat.

Ho Ho Ho.