All 3.5 of You

To my loyal readers...

As you know, I've created a family website. I will be blogging there now, so be sure to check out:

http://web.mac.com/katrina_willis

Because Someone Has Done It...

I don't normally take pictures of shopping carts, but this made me laugh out loud.

Lazy and Lazier

Norman Rockwell, Here We Come

Yesterday was Christmas-Tree-Picking-Out-Day. It began in a very normal Willis/Norman Rockwell picturesque way with George flinging himself to the floor in tears because I told him that his hat from last year (which was precariously perched on his head like a beanie with his ears completely exposed to the elements) was too small. Once we got into the car, the chorus of "he's touching me" and "she's kicking my seat" and "why do we have to listen to 80's music" began. Big Daddy became increasingly annoyed (by the children and the 80's music)--Led Zeppelin was the only thing that would calm him down.

The Christmas tree farm was uber-crowded and instead of driving through the scenic display of evergreens with idyllic smiles on our faces, Chris was grumbling, "this is why I hate this place." I promptly snapped, "then let's just go to Marsh and buy our tree there. That will be memorable for the kids."

Picking out the tree was actually pretty fun and somewhat simple. Then we went to see the reindeer that smelled like a dirty guinea pig cage times one gazillion.

Mary Claire cried in the train store because I wouldn't buy her a unicorn for her fairy castle.

Chris set the tree up and hung the lights when we arrived home. After all the kids completed their arguments about which ornament belonged to whom, and I threatened to call Santa and tattle on their sorry asses multiple times during the tree decorating process, we all decided to watch "The Polar Express" together. Chris would like it noted for the record that to complete the day of Christmas memories, I promptly fell asleep after the snappy "Hot Chocolate" number and snored loudly throughout the remainder of the movie.

We're ALL ABOUT making memories at the Willis house.

Not in Bed Yet

"Other customers who bought this item also bought this, this, and that."

It's the Amazon Swirling Vortex of Death. How in the world can I not look at EVERY OTHER ITEM EVERY OTHER CUSTOMER JUST LIKE ME PURCHASED?!

God help me.

Obsession

Online Christmas shopping. Is it convenience? Or the work of the devil? Because I'm sitting in my chair at 12:30 AM, my eyes are about to fall out of my head, the dogs are farting and snoring at my feet, I have the faint beginnings of an explosive headache, I have to get up for work at 5:00 AM, and yet...

I CAN'T STOP.

And the saddest part? I haven't even whipped out the plastic yet. I'm simply creating the lists. I know. I have a problem.

I'm forcing myself to go to bed. NOW.

Peppermint Peril

Andi called me yesterday from the CVS parking lot in a bit of a quandry. Truman has the Final Ear Infection Before Tubes and she was waiting for his antibiotic. We talked a bit about ENTs because Mary Claire has gone through the whole 2 sets of tubes, tonsillectomy, and adenoidectomy rigamarole. I recommended Dr. Ball to her, who incidentally, is the identical twin sister of my OB/GYN, Dr. Ball. No kidding. They look exactly alike. They talk exactly alike. Their mannerisms are exactly the same. When I took Mary Claire to her pre-op appointment, I looked for the stirrups for my feet. That's how much alike they are. But I digress...

Anyway, Truman is screaming inconsolably because his eardrums feel like they're being poked with a sharp, fiery cattle prod, but Andi and I have a much more urgent concern.

All the local Starbucks have run out of peppermint syrup.

What?! It's not even December, and there's no peppermint syrup?

How in the hell am I supposed to add to my waistline while soothing my need for caffeine with a steaming hot Peppermint Mocha when THERE'S NO PEPPERMINT SYRUP IN MY DISTRICT?!?! Hey, Starbucks!! This happened last year! Remember? I'm no java expert, but it seems to me like there's a run on peppermint during the holiday season. Could we stock up? I mean, really--it shouldn't be as hard to find a Peppermint Mocha as it is to find a Wii! Isn't there enough stress during the holidays without having to settle for a white chocolate mocha? It's. just. not. the. same.

The day after Thanksgiving, we had a brand new Starbucks open in town. Andi decided to try her luck there today. The conversation went something like this:

Andi: Dude, I've been told there are no bottles of peppermint syrup in the district. Is it true?

Barista from Fancy Brand Spanking New Starbucks: It is true. But because we're new, I have a secret stash. All the local managers have been trying to get me to give it up, but I'm hoarding it.

Andi: No way!

Barista from Fancy Brand Spanking New Starbucks: Yes, way! I had a district manager actually take three bottles from me to divvy up, but I'm not letting any more of them go.

Andi: It's like Peppermint Prohibition.

Peppermint Prohibition. And thus begins the Christmas Journey 2007.

Thankful For...

1. My beautiful kiddos even when they're screaming at each other on Thanksgiving
2. My renaissance man who's done all the cooking and Thanksgiving day prep
3. Two dumb, lovable dogs--even the one who keeps peeing all over the carpet
4. A good, strong dose of Vicodin for my old-woman back
5. Cabernet sauvignon (not necessarily mixed with Vicodin)
6. My best buds (you know who you are)
7. Homemade crescent rolls
8. Direct deposit
9. Pam's pumpkin bread
10. Good jobs, good health, good lives

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

A New Entry for Webster

Chris and I agree wholeheartedly that sometimes there's just no substitute for the word "fuck". When you're really angry, nothing quite compares. When you're hackles are up, nothing says it more eloquently. Now, don't get me wrong. We NEVER say it in front of my mom. Sis does not abide. There are two words in this world that she cannot tolerate: fuck and piss. Piss, I can live without. In fact, I find it rather crude. But, fuck...well, that's another story.

I haven't always been a potty mouth, but I discover that the older I get, the less refined my speech becomes. I'm not sure why, but I definitely fill in the gaps with profanity more often than not. Charming, I know.

The great thing about the word "fuck" is that it can be used in such a variety of ways. As a verb, as a noun, as an adjective... (Look it up--"fucky" is in the dictionary. Next to the word, you'll see a picture of Mary Claire when she's told she can't play Webkinz. The picture label will read "fucky girly girl who doesn't get her way".) The one disappointing thing about the word is that there's no adverb form. So Chris and I decided to pioneer one. Next time you see him, tell him he's looking rather fuckly. He'll be glad you did.

Do I Really Seem That Old?

Mary Claire asked me today if there were grocery stores when I was a little girl or if I had to hunt for my food.

Hamster Alert

Jack is MIA. Someone left his cage open and he's been gone for over a week now. I think we're on a Search and Recovery mission versus a Search and Rescue. Mary Claire asked me this morning if we could put some water out for him, and I gently explained that Jack probably wasn't alive anymore. She bawled hysterically and was inconsolable. What the hell kind of mother am I?! Couldn't I have just put the damn water bottle out?!

R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A.

Sam turned 11 yesterday. Here's how our conversation went:

Me: Aren't you excited about being double-digits?!
Sam: I was double digits last year.
Me (in a lame attempt to think on my feet): Yes, but now you're double-same digits.
Sam (walking away, shaking his head): Mom, sometimes I worry about you.

Me too, Sam. Me, too.

We took Sam to see his rock idol, John Mellencamp, at Conseco fieldhouse Saturday night. I actually joined the Cherry Bomb Club to get presale tickets. With my official Cherry Bomb Club membership, I was also eligible to enter a contest to win band "Meet and Greet" passes. Believe it or not, I won! So, Sam and I were sitting in the stands waiting for the Meet and Greet to start while Chris and Amber sipped lattes in the nearest Starbucks and waited for us. These rocker gals walked up to us and offered us backstage passes (apparently because Sam was so cute and I said it was his birthday). Before I continue this story, did I mention that I am madly in love with John Mellencamp? He's on My List. You know, the same list John Mayer and Dave Mattews are on. The List of men I would leave my beloved husband for if they came knocking. It could happen. But I digress...

So, we sprinted to the backstage party room (well, I did the sprinting and Sam was merely dragged along behind me). When they let us in, we were surrounded by very darkly tanned men with very diamond-clad necklaces and women who had bigger collagen-enhanced lips than my ass. Seriously. We sat down and tried to act cool. Before I knew it, Elaine Irwin Mellencamp had sidled over beside me. Okay, so she doesn't actually sidle. She glides on air. She is the most beautiful, graceful, stunning, head-turning human being I've ever laid eyes on. And her ass is as big as my big toe. No, it's as big as my middle toe--no bigger. I pointed her out to Sam (discreetly, of course) and told him to drink her in. Assured him that he'd never again have this opportunity. Then we saw John. He stood outside the party room door and I was afraid to breathe because I didn't want to scare him away. Long story short, he never came in. But he came close. Within 20 feet. And if I'd had a few drinks, I might have thrown myself at him. But instead, I just stared. At him. And at his wife.

Did I mention that she's on My List now, too?

Everybody Wants You

(This is the one who will miss me most when I'm gone.)

Okay, maybe my life isn't quite a Billy Squier song (as much as my husband would like to say it is), but I did get multiple interviews and two job offers this week. After much nail-biting and hand-wringing, we decided that it was in our best financial interest for me to go back to work full-time now that the kids are all in school. But I decided that I would only do it if I could go back to doing what I love most. Yup--writing. So, after submitting numerous resumes all over the big city of Indy, I ended up with two job offers for corporate writing/editing positions. I accepted a contract position with a young, entrepreneurial company versus a Steady Eddie position with a large, conservative bank. The culture of the company I'm going to work for is young, exciting, vibrant, and creative. I like that. (Did I mention "young"? I think I might be trying to reclaim some of the lost days of my own youth by osmosis or something.) The other offer was a great one, but very predictable and corporate. I'm hoping the contract position turns into something permanent, but if it doesn't, I'm sure something even better is waiting out there for me.

The last week has been a crazy exercise in finding before and after school childcare for the Munchkins. Everything fell into place WAY too easily, so I believe the Big Guy is assuring me that this was the right decision. I start on Monday. Hooray! Yikes! It's been ten years since I've worked full-time. I feel like Sam must have felt starting middle school this year. He wasn't worried about the work--just about getting his locker open. I'm primarily concerned with getting into a parking garage downtown without driving the wrong way down a one-way street. The writing part is easy; it's the elevator that challenges me.

Sanford and Son

I was preparing to pick Mary Claire up from Brownies on Monday when George came running excitedly into the house. "Come see what we found!" he shouted. I was expecting a frog or a turtle or a really cool spider by the sound of his voice. Instead, what I found was a large pile of trash in my garage.

"We went dumpster diving," Gus explained.

Dumpster diving?! What?!

After a series of questions, I determined that Gus and George had revved up the old John Deere Hot Wheels tractor, hooked up the trailer, and proceeded to drive from house to house looking through all our neighbor's recycling bins. I was mortified (and more than a little grossed out).

"Where, exactly, did you go?" I questioned.

"Just to the Christianson's," Gus admitted sheepishly sensing my displeasure. "And to their neighbors. And to their neighbors."

"Gus..." I began, but he interrupted me.

"What?! George pulled me in! I couldn't help it!"

I then proceeded to explain to the boys that going through our neighbors' trash was:
A. Unacceptable
B. Gross
C. An Invasion of Privacy
D. A Punishable Offense
E. Gross

"But we found some pizza coupons," George argued as he dug out the Papa John's flyer.

"Put it all in the trash," I instructed. "And wash your hands. Twice."

I had clearly dashed their dreams of finding treasure in our neighbors' waste, but I was embarrassed and appalled. Imagine who saw them rummaging through recycling bins and throwing empy milk jugs into the back of the tractor! I called Chris to tell him what happened while the boys were cleaning up their mess. He was laughing so hard, I could barely finish telling him the story.

"Can you imagine them?!" he snorted. Then he proceeded to make Hot Wheels tractor noises. "Hey, Gus, let's have a look here. Oh! It's an empty baked bean can! We can use that for something." More Hot Wheels tractor noises followed by a squeaking brake noise. "Doesn't look like there's much here. Let's move on." More tractor noises. You get the idea.

I could tell by now that he had tears running down his face he was laughing so hard. Then he began to sing the "Sanford and Son" theme song. For those of you who remember the song and know how loud my husband is, you can imagine hearing this through the phone line. For those of you who need a refresher, visit this site: http://www.tvland.com/theme_songs/. I know there aren't any lyrics. Chris doesn't need lyrics. Just fill in the sound with "waana, waana." Loudly.

"Don't you dare let them know that you think this is funny," I warned.

"Oh, come on, Kat, you have to admit that's pretty ingenious! Did Gus really say that George 'pulled him in'?! HA! Which one should we call Fred and which one Lamont?!"

These boys (biggest one included) are going to do me in.

"You hear that, Elizabeth? I'm coming to join you, honey!"

A Sick Boy and a Dead Hamster

That pretty much sums up my day. George has been running a fever for three days. We went to the town Street Dance Saturday night and about two hours into the evening, I found George laying down on the brick street. He was white as a ghost, and we made a quick exit (much to the dismay of the rest of the Willis Tribe). We're doing the Tylenol/Motrin dance and he's sleeping a lot. No other symptoms, so we haven't made the trek to Greenfield yet.

Mary Claire noticed at breakfast this morning that Diane, the hamster, wasn't moving. After much prodding and poking by the rest of the kids, we determined that she had, indeed, passed away in the night. George is convinced that she ran too fast on her wheel and flew off, thus hitting her head on the glass aquarium. It's a viable hypothesis. Nobody seems to be in deep mourning. Of course, they didn't hold or play with Diane much. She was The Jumper. Jack is a much more compatible playmate. Well, I guess we won't be having hamster babies any time soon. My dear husband's reply was, "one down, one to go." He's not much of a pet rodent fan.

On another note, Chris was recently named High School Principal. It was a long, grueling month of interviews and unknowns, and I managed to gain 10 pounds. Blech. But, life is looking up. We don't have to sell our worldly possessions and move to Africa (that was Plan B). After resigning from my job four months ago, I finally completed my last day last week. Chris is so passionately excited about his new position, and I'm equally as excited about staying home with the kids and writing the Great American Novel. And so we venture into the next phase of our lives...

The Purge...aka the Shit Shift

My mom has recently been subjected (by my step-dad) to a home remodel that she wasn't all that interested in. Now, in my step-dad's defense, the house needed a pick-me-up. And my mom needed to purge. But she's overwhelmed by the process and the large amount of crap in her garage. So, yesterday, I hired my sweet cousin, Caroline, to babysit the kids and went to Mom's house to help her sort and purge.

The house looks really nice. Mom and Bob knocked out a wall separating two bedrooms and make a large master bedroom instead. The entire house has been painted, the driveway has been resurfaced, and the landscaping has been touched up. When I arrived yesterday, there were dishes and various and sundry knick-knacks littering the kitchen table and the sunroom table, but overall, the house looked bright, clean, and fairly well organized. The new bedroom is beautiful, and the closets were full of nicely organized clothes.

Then I saw the garage.

The two-car garage is filled to nearly overflowing with boxes, boxes, and more boxes. Apparently, when the remodel began, Mom just boxed everything up, took it outside, and decided she'd go through it when she unpacked. I, being a organizational junkie, agreed to help her sort through what was left. The first problem I noticed, though, was that the house already seemed reasonably full. There was no room for anything in the garage to come back in.

My niece, Amber, and I decided that the best approach would be to start in the kitchen and help Mom sort through her overstuffed cabinets and hutches to make room for the things in the garage that she wanted to keep. Mom was not thrilled with this approach. "That was not on my to-do list," she argued. We had to strong arm her a bit to convince her that nothing else could come in from the garage until there was more room in the house.

As Amber and I began the cleaning out process, we quickly realized we were in over our heads. We had Mom sit in a chair. She had three choices for every item we presented to her: keep, give away, or put in the "maybe" pile. After about ten minutes, we had moved everything from the cabinets into the "maybe" pile. It was not a purge; it was simply a shift.

Mom's response to everything we held up to her was, "...but don't you think that's pretty? That was given to me by (fill in the name of the friend, relative, co-worker of your choice). I got it for my (fill in the appropriate holiday, birthday, etc.)." We finally had to remind her that we weren't making judgment calls; we simply needed one of the three given responses. Inevitably, she'd look nervous and say, "maybe."

Here are a few of the more enjoyable finds of the day...

1. An unopened, unused food chopper. It had to have been in her cupboard for at least ten years; it was all the way in the dusty back corner under some cobwebs. She reasoned, however, that because it was brand new (10 years ago), she couldn't possibly give it away.

2. Five calculators. They all worked. We told her to pick one. She couldn't understand why she shouldn't keep all five if they were in good working order. I pointed out that one of them went through college with me. She argued that it had to be a fine calculator if it was still working.

3. Fourteen decks of cards; eight complete sets. We let her keep all the sets of 52. It wasn't worth the fight.

4. An unused basket with a microwaveable pouch to keep rolls warm. Again, she argued that she needed it because it was brand new. I argued that she didn't need it because she doesn't even know how to work the microwave.

For two hours, it went on and on and on. Finally, she broke for a cigarette, and we never resumed the battle. I threw as many things into the "give away" pile as I could while she wasn't looking. She promptly took 3/4 of it back out.

God love her.

Living the Dream

Well, I've officially resigned from my job. It's been a long time coming, and the loss of income is a very scary prospect. But it was time. After much soul-searching, I feel like I've made the right decision... even though we might be on the cusp of financial ruin. Okay, that's probably a bit dramatic, but still, we're going to take a financial hit.

When I first began this job two years ago, I thought that nothing about it could possibly be bad. We raised money for the schools, funded programs for the teachers, had fun events to help line our coffers. But soon enough, the bad reared its ugly head. I work with some of the most amazing volunteers. They're dedicated, humble, hard-working, committed to the cause of public education. But then, I have the other side of volunteerism. I have women who have more money than they'll ever know what to do with, who have never had to work a day in their lives, who live with a constant sense of entitlement. They're the tough ones. It's a situation in which there are way too many Chiefs and not enough Indians. The battles over napkin colors grew tedious. I even had one board member say that she was not thanked nearly enough for her efforts. And to top that off, many of them are very critical of what I do (or what they think I don't do). In sixteen hours a week, I'm supposed to be all things to all people. I am responsible for running the organization, raising money, serving as a liason to all educators, answering to my 15 board members, thanking all my donors, developing a vision for the organization, etc., etc., etc. It is a part-time job with more than full-time responsibilities. Although I strongly believe in the organization and what it does, I can no longer sacrifice myself and my family to its success. It was a wrenching decision, but one that I feel is right for The Willis Tribe.

People are lining up at my office door to submit their names for my position. I'm sure they think the same thing I did when I first took the job. What could possibly go wrong? Seeing them so eager to sit in my chair makes me doubt my decision and question my common sense, but then I remember how eager I was to sit in that chair two years ago. I suppose the grass is always greener.

I've painted a small closet (with a window) in my bedroom and have moved a desk into it. We've lovingly dubbed it the Closet Office. My plan is to write, write, write. I'd like to line up some freelance writing and editing gigs to help pay the bills and to work on the Great American Novel in the interim. It's a scary prospect, but it's my dream. My sweet assistant, Lynn, says I need to "feel the fear and do it anyway." Words of wisdom. My thirty-seven year old brain has been through four pregnancies and births and the Old Girl just isn't what she used to be. I'll probably take some classes; sharpen my skills; start remembering how to see the world through a different lens. I have to tighten up my grammar, boost my vocabulary, knock some of those synapses back into action.

Childhood dream, here I come...

I'll Look After You

The song by "The Fray" has been playing again and again in my head today. The line "you've begun to feel like home..." resonates in my heart and in my soul. Jody is moving to Chicago next week. I haven't cried until today. Today, I can't stop crying. I had a dream about lost friendship last night that has settled deeply into me today. I know it was just a dream, but the feeling it left behind is real. It is an empty, aching feeling, and all my girls are too far away today. Stacy is in Mexico, Jody is in Chicago, Andi is in New York. Sometimes I take my friends for granted, but I know that if I ever lost them, I would be lost. When they are away, my world is not right. Chris doesn't understand--and I don't expect him to. There is something between women that I don't think men necessarily share. I love my girls like I love no one else. I need them like I need no one else. It doesn't lessen or negate my love for my children, my husband, my family. It is a different kind of love. No one knows my soul like they do. No one understands my needs and my neuroses like they do.

I'm having surgery on Wednesday. It's not a major surgery, but I still have to have general anesthesia. My underlying and unspoken fear, however unfounded, is not waking up. What a sadness it would be to miss out on what life has left to offer. Stacy, Andi, and I often joke about outliving our husbands and moving to Boca Raton as old, sassy, crochety women together. We know that we'll bicker and fight and probably have too many cats, but we'll love each other with a ferocity that outweighs anything else. My dear friends, "you've begun to feel like home."

What (Not) Blogging Has Taught Me

I've blogged ten times since I began blogging. In the beginning, I had ambitions of blogging once a day. Ha! Here's what this experience has taught me: it's hard to write. The actual writing part isn't hard for me--it's the sitting down to write part that gets me every time. Once I'm here, I love to spew all my thoughts, ideas, and opinions. I think all the time about what I'd like to write. I just can't seem to get to my desk to do it. With four kids and all their activities, a husband who is working on his doctorate and who works all the time, a dog, two hamsters, a fish (named John), a house, never-ending laundry, and a part time job with full time hours, it seems that writing often ends up on the back burner. When the kids go to bed at 8:30, I have a choice to make. Should I start some laundry? Should I read a novel? Should I organize the paperwork that's taking over my kitchen? Should I read a book about improving my writing style? Should I scrapbook a few pages? Should I organize my scrapbooking area? Should I write some overdue thank you notes? Should I eat Oreos and watch mindless TV? Should I blog? Should I work on my own novel? Should I curl up in my bed and find some glorious shut eye? Too often, the Oreos and sleep win the debate. That's why I'm overweight and under-published. My life is not really suited to writing, but my soul needs to write like my body needs water. It's definitely a conundrum. I'd like to write about it more, but I need to go paint my daughter's newly refurbished vanity. And I need to hang her border. And I need to start some laundry...

Kindergarten Round-Up

I've been remiss in blogging lately. So remiss that I forgot my username. That's pretty remiss. Lots of things going on in our lives lately. The end of the school year is always a busy time. The big event of the last week was registering George for kindergarten. He's the last of the four to attend kindergarten round-up. People ask me if I'm sad. Am I a bad mother to say no? How can I be sad when he's SO excited about starting this phase of his life? Wouldn't being sad in that case make me a bit selfish?

Well, back to kindergarten round-up. George is four right now. He won't turn five until May 22. I have talked to WAY too many parents lately who are "red shirting" their preschoolers until next year so their kids can have an "advantage" or so that their kids can "be a child for a little bit longer." When did sending a child to kindergarten result in the end of childhood? And why is my kid going to be a full year younger than many in his class because other parents want an "advantage" for their child. Somehow, this doesn't seem quite right. Mary Claire (who is in first grade) won't turn 7 until July 17. Does that put her at a "disadvantage?" When did we start holding kids back from school until they were almost old enough to drive themselves there?!

Spring Break

We returned from our spring break trek to the North Carolina side of the Smoky Mountains on Friday. What a great time we had! Vacationing with our best friends, hiking in the Smokies, river rafting, horseback riding, marshmallow roasting, train riding, ice cream eating, drinking and talking into the wee hours of the morning... it was a fabulous vacation from beginning to end. So, I nearly had a nervous breakdown driving to the top of the Smokies, and Stacy and Jody nearly lost their cool when wasps invaded their rooms... it was still a great time. Jody sold her house the first day it went on the market. Luckily, Century 21 in Bryson City was able to handle the paperwork for them. We got sentimental, a little weepy, engaged in dirty talk, had many laughs. It was a vacation to remember.

When we returned home, we discovered that our very-nervous-in-our-absence Maggie had pooped all over Sam's bedroom and the basement. There was a large conglomeration of ants in the laundry room, and a cockroach in my purse. EEEWW. After steam cleaning, ant spraying, and thorough checking of every article of clothing and food product that came home with us, we're finally getting unpacked and settled back into the routine.

All the kids except George go back to school this morning. George will go to work with me for a week--that's always a productive and stressless venture. (Please read the sarcasm into the former sentence.) Jody is packing her PODS and getting ready to move into an apartment until school's out. Stacy is planning a couple of work trips; I'm going to San Francisco for a conference. Life marches on.

Barbra said it best: "Memories light the corners of my mind. Misty, water-color memories of the way we were." Sappy, yes. But true.

Emotional Rescue

Wasn't that the title of some sappy, semi-sexy bad 70's song? I've been feeling lately that I need someone to come to my emotional rescue. Someone other than Eli Lilly and his wonder drug, Prozac.

The big news this week is that I made it to my 37th year! When I was a child, I always dreamed that I would die when I was 36. I know, it's more than a little bit morbid and neurotic, but I really believed that 36 was as good as it was going to get for me. I believed it so much that in the last few days before my 37th birthday, I avoided any unnecessary trips in the car believing that a Mack truck was waiting for me in the wings. It's good to be 37. I feel a bit relieved of the burden of impending doom. Went out for dinner with my girlfriends, engaged in nasty and inappropriate talk, drank too much plum wine, and had a great time.

Work has been all but doing me in lately. I don't want this blog to be about my career, but in my position, I deal with a lot of interesting personalities. The most interesting one that I'm dealing with currently is a classic case of narcissism. This woman truly is a piece of work. It's difficult for me to wrap my arms around the notion that someone can really believe the universe revolves around him/her, but this individual indeed believes that. She cannot be thanked enough, cannot be coddled enough, cannot throw enough people under the bus enough to make herself look better. She is a study in human psychology... and she often brings me to my knees. For those of you that know me well, you understand that I don't deal well with conflict. In fact, I avoid it at all costs. This woman can smile at you while she's turning the knife in your back. My outlook on life is, "can't we all just get along?" She's teaching me a lot of lessons.

I received a birthday card from my dad inviting me to dinner. Again, those of you who know me well know what kind of relationship (or lack thereof) that I have with my biological father. This invitation has "conflict" written all over it. It makes me queasy even thinking about it. Nevertheless, my dad, my sister, and I are meeting on April Fool's Day to hash out the last 37 years of frustration, neglect, anger, and resentment. THAT should make for an interesting follow-up blog!

God and Thank You Notes

I feel as if I'm failing my children in two significant areas of life. First and foremost, I feel they are missing out on the gift of a religious upbringing--something that both Chris and I were blessed with. It's not that I don't have a strong belief in God myself, it's just that Chris and I can't seem to find a place where we both feel comfortable. And we can't seem to drag our asses out of bed on a Sunday morning, either. The combination is proving morally lethal for our kids. When George first began preschool at the local Methodist church, his teacher asked each of the children what they would give Jesus as a birthday present. The other religiously well-fed children said things such as "a lamb, a warm blanket, a winter coat." George, however, informed his teacher that the perfect gift for Jesus would be a "Bowling For Soup" CD. Why wouldn't he enjoy hearing "1985?" We sang it all the time. Heck, we even went to the "Bowling For Soup" concert at the House of Blues when we were in Myrtle Beach. Apparently, George didn't want Jesus to miss out on some serious rocking.

So, my first concern is that my kids don't really know much about God, Jesus, the Bible, and all things associated. We're good people at heart; we live (as much as possible) by the Golden Rule, but my kids couldn't tell you what the Golden Rule is. I am a firm believer in the Ten Commandments, but my kids think that the Ten Commandments begin with "Thou Shalt Brush Thy Teeth Twice Every Day." One of the greatest gifts my Mom gave me as a child was a Catholic school education. Growing up without a father wasn't easy, but growing up without God would have been much harder. I talk to my kids about God, but I know they don't quite "get it." He's right there with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. Maybe a few steps ahead of the St. Patrick's Day leprechaun that also passes for the Lucky Charms mascot. I definitely need to step up to the plate. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. It's been over a year since I took my kids to church on a Sunday other than Easter or Christmas. Four Hail Mary's isn't going to save them now.

My other misgiving is in my inability to teach my kids the proper thank-you note writing etiquette. When I was growing up, not writing a timely and thoughtful thank-you note was akin to committing a mortal sin. (See the previous paragraphs for the Catholic school reference.) I used to LOVE writing thank you notes. I could schmooze with the best of them, and I adored describing in full detail how perfect my Easy Bake Oven really was. Once I had four kids in five years, I couldn't even remember how to spell "thank you." I was so sleep-deprived and reeking constantly of spit-up that a trip to the Hallmark Store for a box of notecards was as elusive as an all-expense paid trip to Hawaii. So, I gradually stopped being grateful on paper, and my kids have never learned the art of thank-you writing themselves. Now that they're older and can bathe and wipe themselves (well, at least most of them can), I've realized with horror that this essential lifeskill is an unknown entity to my kids. I'm sure my mom is ashamed. I know my aunts and uncles are appalled. No one is as embarrassed as I am, though.

We're going to sit down as a family tomorrow and pray to God to help us learn to write a proper thank you.

Spring Fever

It's 60 degrees in Indiana today. I've been cleaning out closets, washing winter coats, and looking at new cars. It will probably snow tomorrow and bring me back to reality, but for now, I'm enjoying the spring teaser that March always brings!

We attended the Flower and Patio Show today--all six of us. I always have this idyllic view of what a great family bonding experience it will be. Ha. That lasted all of three minutes. Then Gus was STARVING, Mary Claire's feet hurt, and George was all but backstroking in the hot tub displays. They're playing outside at home now and are much happier.

Yesterday, George had the Mother of All Tantrums. He had pajama day at school (which he was very excited about), and I picked him up early to go visit Stacy, Jody, Ethan, and Jackson. When we got to Stacy's house, he decided he wanted to go home and change his clothes first. I told him that wasn't an option, but that I was sure Stacy would loan him an outfit of Ethan's to wear. That sent him into a complete and total breakdown. He sat in the back of the Suburban we were test-driving for the night and screamed like a banshee. I left him in the car, took the keys, and told him to come into Stacy's when he was done throwing his fit. Jody, however, was very concerned about him being in the car by himself. (Not necessarily for George's safety, but for the well-being of the $50,000 vehicle that we didn't yet own.) She went out to persuade him to come in and ended up forcefully removing him from the car.

Now, let me explain that George isn't a small 4-year-old. He outweighs his 6-year-old sister and is as solid as a brick. Jody, on the other hand, is a wiry little redhead who was clearly overpowered by my demonic, screaming son. Stacy and I stood at the window with glasses of wine and laughed as she dragged him inside to continue his tantrum in the safety of Stacy's office. If I hadn't laughed, I'm sure I would have spanked the daylights out of him. It was not one of his (or my) better moments.

Aaaahh, Spring.

Vegas, Baby!

Chris and I returned from Las Vegas on Monday, and I think I've finally recovered today. It was the first time for both of us--now we're no longer Vegas virgins. Stacy and Neil met us there, and we partied like rock stars. Okay, we partied like middle-aged rock stars, but we definitely stayed up later than we have in a long time.

While Chris and I were in the security line in the Indianapolis airport, I realized that my driver's license was not in my purse. Now, you must understand that I'm a nervous flyer, anyway. My head tells me that air travel is safe, but my heart tells me that we're going headfirst into the side of a mountain. To add the lost license to my fear of flying almost sent me straight to the St. Vincent's Stress Center. I did, however, have my Social Security card and my voter registration card. When I showed these to the security gal, she marked me as an "SSSS" and told me I'd have to go through additional security. All I could think of was a full body cavity search by a burly woman in a hidden concrete bunker. Luckily, that wasn't the case. After careful and intense examination of my cell phone and my digital camera, I was good to go.

Vegas is one of those places that everyone should visit at least once. I mean, really, where else can you see at least ten billboards full of boobs in every city block? From cigarette smoking seventy year old slot machine players to CFMP-wearing twenty-two year olds dressed in band-aids, there's no better place to people watch (which, incidentally, is one of my favorite pasttimes). Stacy and I spent a lot of time shopping, but I spent even more time gawking. What fun!

I lost my prescription sunglasses and a decent amount of money, but still managed to have a good time. The incident that put me over the edge was when we were denied admittance to a nightclub because I didn't have an ID. I'd been drinking a bit before we went (well, the drinks ARE free when you're gambling!), and when the bouncer said "no," I grabbed my boobs and shouted, "Come on! Do these look like the boobs of a twenty year old?! For God's sake, I'm a 36 year old housewife with 4 kids!" He wasn't impressed. Neither was Chris. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

911...What's Your Emergency?

So, I have to admit that I've never actually called 911. That doesn't mean, however, that I haven't made my fair share of speed-limit-exceeding driving trips to the ER. With 4 kids, I think I've actually achieved "frequent flyer" status and hope to someday have a wing (or at least a waiting room chair) named after me. Last night, we made the journey once again.

Sam's been running a fever for the past three days, but we've been able to control it with Motrin and Tylenol. (For those of you counting, YES, we let him go sledding. We definitely do not get the Parents of the Year nomination for that particular decision.) Anyway, I was putting away clothes in Mary Claire's room yesterday afternoon when he came staggering up the stairs declaring that he wasn't feeling very well, that he had a horrible headache, and that he was going to lie down in his bed. I hung up a couple more pairs of pants and went to check his temperature. It was 106 degrees. For those of you that know me well, you might guess what I immediately assumed. Yes, meningitis. In a somewhat controlled state of panic, I called Chris and told him to get home ASAP, and I loaded Sam up into the car.

When we got to the ER, we had to wait behind a teenager who had apparently choked on a piece of turkey three hours earlier. I thought a 106 degree fever trumped the three-hour-old choking incident, but no one asked my opinion. When the nurse took Sam back, she took his temperature and it was 101 degrees. This is the moment that presents a great conundrum for a mother. You certainly don't want your child to be sick, but you also don't want to look like a complete and total ass for bringing him into the ER with a 101 degree fever. (Damned inaccurate ear thermometers!) So, Sam was loaded up with some Motrin and Tylenol and had his throat swabbed, his urine checked, and his chest X-rayed. He ended up having strep throat and left with an antibiotic prescription, so it wasn't an entirely pointless visit.

The good news is that he's feeling a bit better today. The bad news is that he can't play in his basketball game tomorrow. His team is 0-7, and he's one of the better players. It's going to be a tough morning on the court. Did I mention that I'm his coach?

Granny's Fire

After sledding with the kids today, they begged for a fire to warm their toes. Chris loaded up the fireplace with wood, and we all enjoyed the serenity that only a fire can bring. Well, we enjoyed a few precious minutes of serenity before the "he's touching me!" arguments began. As I sit in front of the fireplace now, I'm transported back to my childhood and our weekend ventures to Granny's house.

My Granny (my Mom's Mother's Mom) was a 4 time world champion bowler in her youth. When I knew her, Sally Twyford was simply "Granny" to my sister, Carrie, and me. She lived in a cabin at the top of a hill on Clay Lick Road in Brown County, Indiana. She wore her white hair in long braids and killed rattlesnakes with her shotgun. She taught Carrie and me how to play poker and saved all of her spare change in a giant Mason jar for us to divide when we came to visit. We didn't have much as children; our Dad was MIA, and our Mom worked three jobs to keep food on the table. But we had our weekend trips to Granny's. Those were the highlight of our childhood. Granny wasn't a warm, loving, grandmotherly type. She cursed and drank with the best of them. She was fearless and wouldn't put up with sass from any of us--including my Mom. She had a crochety old dog, Rusty, that would bite us if we came too close. And we all knew that Granny loved Rusty more than any of the rest of us. But when I was at Granny's house, I felt safe. Granny didn't like everyone, but she liked us. I never questioned this gift; I just took it and held it tightly for fear I might someday lose it.

When we visited Brown County, we hiked through the woods during the day. We tied red bandannas around our heads to keep the ticks out of our hair. Granny would bring her walking stick, and I knew there wasn't a rattlesnake that would dare show it's scaly face. We spent afternoons skipping stones at Zack's Lake, and in the evenings, we would sit on the floor while Granny played her guitar and sang, "Please, Mr. Conductor." She didn't have a particularly good singing voice, but I loved to hear her sing, anyway. She sang "Two Little Babes" which always made me cry.

After a round of poker in the evening, Carrie and I would settle downstairs in our sleeping bags in front of the fire. It would pop and crackle and dance in the darkness, and although I was always a little afraid in the basement, I loved that fire more than anything. Mom and Granny would stoke it throughout the night so it wouldn't burn out, and Carrie and I awoke in the mornings with that campfire smell in our clothes and our hair.

I was eight when Granny died. She was the first person I had ever known and loved who passed away. Cancer ravaged her body quickly and although her death came fast, it was laden with pain and suffering. I prayed for Granny with all my heart. I was afraid she wouldn't get into heaven because she drank, cursed, gambled, and wasn't always nice to our cousins. At her funeral, I couldn't stop touching her. Her body was so cold; her face so still. My cousin, Erin, and I were fascinated by the obvious fact that her nose hairs had been removed. We giggled about it in the funeral parlor, and I was sure that a mortal sin had stained my soul forever. What good Catholic girl laughed at her dead Grandmother's missing nose hairs? When we lost Granny, I lost a part of my childhood. Our weekends seemed long and lonely without our road trip in the blue Chevette. When I went to CYO camp down the street from Granny's house, it felt lonely and strange.

I sing Granny's songs to my children now, but I change the words so they're not quite so disturbing. The two little babes don't die in the woods in my rendition. The train conductor's young passenger's mother isn't dying either; she's simply waiting for her son to arrive for a visit. My watered-down versions of Granny's songs make my kids laugh and roll their eyes. They would have loved their Granny. They would have probably been a bit afraid of her, too. They would have laughed when she passed gas and didn't know it because her hearing was gone. They would have been scared to sleep in the basement, but they would have loved the fire. It is the one piece of Granny we can all share.

Snow Day

It doesn't get much better than a snow day with your Valentine! Although I'd like to paint the idyllic picture of us all sitting around the fireplace with hot cocoa, in reality, I'm blogging in the office, Chris is snow-blowing the driveway, Sam is down with a 102 degree fever, Gus is playing X-Box, and "the littles" (Mary Claire and George) are making a grand mess of the basement that I just organized yesterday. I woke up to the sounds of The All-American Rejects and my 4-year-old singing "Dirty Little Secret" at the top of his lungs. When Sam was 4, he sang Barney songs. Somehow, from the oldest to the youngest, I've lost some of my parenting prowess.

I had the Grand Idea last week to move everyone's toys from their bedrooms to the basement. I was tired of messes in the bedrooms, messes in the family room, and messes in the basement, so I decided to contain the mess on one floor. It took me an entire day to move everything from the third floor to the basement. (Can you say, "overindulged"?) I mean, really, we could rival a Matchbox factory with the number of toy cars that we own. So, yesterday, I spent the entire day organizing, purging, and dividing things into various and sundry toy bins and Rubbermaid containers. My best friend, Stacy, reminded me that I do this on an annual basis (at least). She assures me that by fall of 2007, I'll be moving everything back up into their bedrooms. It's that bit of OCD in me--I can't help it.

I received an e-mail yesterday about an open audition for a production of "Nunsense" at a local dinner theatre. I was up most of the night thinking about how I could make it work. I want so badly to audition, but how in the world can I be gone from my kids every night for a month? And then the production runs every weekend in April. I'd give my right arm to do the show, but at what cost to my family? I think we female products of the 80's were sold a bill of goods when we were told that we could "have it all." Eventually, something has to give. It could be a career, a family, a dream, an ambition, but there aren't enough hours in the day to "have it all." I'm trying to determine at this point in my life how I map out my future years to be able to experience some of the things that I've dreamed about doing. The problem is, by the time I'm able to do a dinner theatre show, I won't be able to dance because of arthritis, and my boobs will be hanging down to my knees. Who wants to cast a geriatric wanna-be as Maria? I won't be very convincing singing "Climb Every Mountain" from my wheelchair. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade my life for anything in the world--I just want to be able to add to it. Too many dreams, too little time.

I'd love to write more, but I just heard a little voice from upstairs yelling, "Mom, will you please wipe my butt?" Broadway, here I come!

Into the Great Wide Open

So, here I am. Posting. To my new blog. To say this is foreign to me is the understatement of the year. I have a stinky (but devoted) black lab sleeping at my feet, a snoring (but devoted) husband in the chair next to me, and 4 young children dreaming upstairs in their beds. Okay, Mary Claire is actually in bed with George, but at least she's not in my bed. We're all about baby steps here. Maybe by the time she goes to college, she'll be able to sleep in her own room. We have 12 more years to figure out the details...