A New Year's Resolution For the Dogs

Ahh, the new year. Everybody is busy coming up with how they will better themselves. I'm going to eat better! No more junk food for me! I'm going to exercise every day! I'm going to meditate so that I can be more at peace with myself! I'm going to spend more time with the kids doing fun things! I'm going to be more efficient at work! I'm going to have a cleaner house!

Okay, so every single one of those statements has gone through my mind. And, yes, it would be great if I could do all those things. Heck, it'd be great if I could do ONE of those things! But I have made a decision. I'm going to make ONE resolution, and hopefully all else will fall into place.

My New Year's Resolution? Be Astro. In all things, ask myself, what would Astro do?

Don't worry, my dear readers, I have not joined some crazy cult or begun to worship a Cosmic God I found on the internet. No. Astro is my friend's dog. However, he's not just any dog. Astro is a therapy dog who works with victims of sexual molestation and assault. Pretty impressive, right? And, he is often featured on my friend's FB page, so--though he lives many states away--I feel as though I know him well. I definitely feel like I get his life philosophies. And that's what I'm after. So, what does Astro think?

If yoga's not your thing, don't do it.

Find an exercise you love, and do it well.
(For Astro, this happens to be digging a hole
on the beach, just because.)

Nature is always good for you.

When a nap calls, answer it affirmatively.

Sometimes you have to look goofy for the kids. It's worth it.

Spread the joy!

Haters gonna hate. Who cares?

When at work, give it your all.

When work is done, PLAY!

Surround yourself with good friends.

Astro's philosophy: live life to its fullest in any moment, and don't let stuff get you down. I've been down a lot in 2016. Who hasn't (well, besides Astro)? Reviewing all these photos of Astro makes me feel like, honestly, I just take myself waaaaaay too seriously. Not when I'm dancing on tables or making a "Phillip Johnny Bob the Elephant" voice when I read, but pretty much the rest of the time. I know I'm making a difference with kids at work, I know I'm raising my kids right, I know I'm married to the greatest man in the world, I know I'm pretty much eating okay. I just need to accept that I'm doing those things as well as I can, and run down the figurative beach of life. My friend hasn't posted ANY pictures of Astro regretting that he didn't comfort someone the right way, or put his toys aways properly, or tone his glutes. He's just always... being Astro.

And so, my kids are calling me. They're watching Elf for the 7,000th time, and I have to join them. The Astrofication process has begun.

I Believe in Santa Claus

Ever since I started teaching "second graders" years ago, someone comes into the classroom around mid-December and announces, "You know, Santa's not real, right?" Gone are the good old days of teaching first graders, who whole-heartedly believe and wait with bated breath while I recite T'was the Night Before Christmas. In fact, one year my school secretary (the world's BEST school secretary, but that's another story) busted into my first grade classroom wearing oven mitts and bearing an ice-encrusted scroll tied with a red ribbon. "It's from SANTA!" one kid exclaimed, and they all jumped into my lap (smaller class sizes back then) as I unrolled it and read the curly red words to them about how they'd done a wonderful job on their Christmas program the night before. "I KNEW it was the real Santa!" they all chimed. Awww... I miss those days.

No, now I always have one little stinker who just really insists that we're all idiots and we need to come over to the dark side. I have come up with an excellent response, I think, which is that I believe, and, well, if Santa hears you saying that, he just doesn't bother coming to your house. Other kids say, "You believe in Santa, Mrs. Hall," and I always reply, "Of course I do. Don't you? I certainly wouldn't want word getting back to the big guy that I didn't!"

The thing is, I always actually have believed. When we put our tree up, in my own adult house, with my own children, and we hang our stockings, and we lay out little messages for Santa, I really do wait up to hear the sounds of hooves on the roof. I feel that magic. I was so completely sold as a kid, I don't think it's something I've ever let go. And, really, when you look around, when you see people who are stingy being generous, when you see adults who are naughty being nice, don't you believe, too?

My son, Ben, is almost 8 and, eventually, we're probably going to have to have a conversation. If you follow my posts, you know he is CRAZY about Christmas and Santa and the Elves. Yes, for those of you wondering, he STILL gets me up each night to search for the elves. Ahhh... it brings me such hope for the world he'll create some day. But, sometime, someone is going to REALLY get to him, and he's probably going to ask. He'll sit next to me on the couch, he'll put his not-so-little-anymore hand inside mine, and he'll say, "Mom, is Santa real?" and I've got just the response for him.

Yes, Benjamin, there is a Santa Claus. I've met him, in fact. His name was Farris Howrani and he was my middle and high school Sunday School teacher. He told us he prayed in the shower every day to wash away his guilt. He told beautiful stories of his four children, and sometimes even cried because he was so proud of them. One time, my dad complimented his tie, and he gave it to him, because that's the custom in his native culture. (My dad said, "Then I really like your wife!" Ha.) He oozed kindness and generosity and with all of our eye-rolling teenageness, we loved the man dearly.

You've met him, too, Ben. His name is JB, and he's our adopted grandfather/neighbor to the cabin. He is quiet and calm and kindhearted. He does things for us before we even think to need them done. He gives away everything he has, and says things like, "Take it; take it!" when your Poppy is pondering the last beer. When I'm with him, I feel safe and calm, too, and I know that, somehow, everything will work out, just because JB's there. And he calls Becca "Rebecca", like he's known her since before even we did.

Sissy and I knew him, his name was Tim Vigneau, but he liked to be called "Da" or "Doodah". Five minutes after you met him, you felt like he'd known you your whole life. He would do anything for anybody, and often did. He was my friends' dad, but he seemed ageless to me; maybe it was the Hawaiian shirts and the Jimmy Buffet and the way his laugh would fill a whole room. Maybe it was the crinkle of his eyes when he smiled. I always felt like one of HIS kids, which is how Santa would make everyone feel, don't you think?

I've met Mrs. Claus, too, Ben-Ben. She was my Grandma Hendricks, in fact! She was feisty and funny and full of passion for everyone she loved. And she loved just about everybody! Especially kids, Benny. She only had two sons, and just a few grandkids, but she would gather kids to her and take care of them like they were her family. She would laugh until she cried and play cards all night long. And she made books for us out of magazine clippings that made her think of us. Just another way she let us know she was thinking of us. I think Mrs. Claus thinks about the kids all year, just like Santa.

Then there was the Mrs. Claus whose name was Marion and she was the sister of some friends. She was funny and sweet and laughed a laugh that filled the room. Her smile took up her whole face, and made you feel like you'd just had a big, long drink of hot cocoa. She's gone to heaven, now, and I suppose they had to post for her position, but the good news is that our cousin Jackie is still available, and she fits the bill, too. She works with people who are sick, and makes them feel cared for and safe and happy. She loves babies and children and buys too many presents and gives hugs that you feel all the way down to your toes. Her eyes twinkle like starlight, and you know she's just got joy in her heart that's so full, it has to shine out through her eyes. 

As long as there were and are and continue to be people like this, Benjamin--and we both know there always will be--then, yes, there is a Santa Claus. His magic lives on in all the people around us, and, maybe, if we're lucky, someday through us, too.

The Luck of Lily

Some good things just drop in your lap. One day during my prep time at school, I was minding my own business, probably standing in the middle of my classroom trying to remember what I was about to do, and a co-worker came in. "Would your dad be interested in a Springer Spaniel? I know he bird hunts and such."

My parents had two dogs at the time, and absolutely no interest in a Springer Spaniel. "Nope," I said, not really giving the idea much thought at all. "My parents inherited my grandpa's dog last summer, so they're pretty much full on the dog front. And, even though we lost a dog last summer, I don't think I could convince my husband to take in a Springer."

I got a little choked up, as the dog we had lost that summer had been Belle, my English Setter, my first baby, who'd been through it all with me. She'd slept on my bed in the crook of my legs with her head resting over my back. She'd barked at strange noises in the night when I was single and scared them away. She'd stood in the middle of my driveway after Emma was born and wouldn't let a single person drive in, for fear they'd touch "her baby". She'd lived in seven different homes with me, made me laugh, made me so mad I wanted to strangle her and, when she got suddenly ill and passed away at the vet before we had to make the decision to put her down, made me cry. She was a great dog, and I missed her. But, I knew a "toddler" Springer Spaniel was not going to replace that Belle-sized hole in my heart.

"Yeah," my co-worker said, "I'm in a similar situation. This was my dad's dog, I really didn't want to take it, but it would've broken his heart... I've got this other dog, too, and it's just a lot for me..." She started to walk out into the hallway and walk away, but Fate brought her back in. "What about a Golden Retriever?"

Now, a Golden Retriever was a completely different story. My college roommate's family had a Golden, Casey, who I would pet until he fell asleep every time we went to her house. I adored that dog. Belle had a best friend, Annie, who was a Golden from Obedience and Agility Class. When we watched dog shows and obedience trials, I always favored the Goldens. Just a great breed of dog.

"Welllll," I said, picturing Eric and his inaffection for 'big dogs'. "I may be able to talk my husband into a Golden. Your other dog is a Golden?"

The co-worker explained how a mutual friend had rescued the other dog, then moved to another town with her other four dogs and needed someone to keep this dog.

"I really wanted just a little dog that would sleep on my bed and lie in my lap while I watch TV," she said, "Not two energetic dogs."

My heart skipped a beat as I thought of throwing a ball to Casey, giving him Milkbone biscuits, petting him until I was covered in fur. "I'll talk to Eric tonight, okay? I would be completely on board--I love Goldens--but it would have to be okay with him, too."

Later that day, about twenty minutes after school let out, a smallish, orange whir ran through my room. It circled the tables, sniffed my feet, and ran for the door. All I could make out was a tail spinning at the speed of a hummingbird's wing. My co-worker came tearing in, leash in hand, and said, "She's super sweet! Seriously!"

I got down and pet her fur; she was a wagging shag-carpet of love. I really wanted to just put her in my car and go home. I looked up at my co-worker. "Seriously, you don't have to talk me into this.  I was in love before you even brought her in here. But, I cannot just bring a dog home. I have to talk to Eric." So, my dream dog and her wrangler went out to their car and went home.

That night, with Emma's six-year-old ears waaaaaay out of range,  I asked Eric what he would think of a getting a Golden Retriever. "That was random--unless it wasn't," he said, a suspicious eyebrow up. I explained my co-worker's story.

"Yeah, but aren't they, like, really big dogs?" he asked.

"They come in different sizes. She's actually small for a Golden. Smaller than Belle was; well, shorter anyway."

"I dunno..." Eric went upstairs while I stayed downstairs, and I really thought the issue was dead. About two minutes later, Eric came down with a water for him, a water for me, and a crazy answer.

"Okay, who am I to say you shouldn't have a big dog in your life? How 'bout this--we try her out for a night or two and see what we think."

"Like, this weekend?"

"No, right now. Go get her and we'll see what happens. She'd have to be fine while we were at work, too."

So, I hopped in my car, drove out to the co-worker's house, and wrestled the rambunctious Lily into the car. Picture a gerbil the size of a wolf. She sniffed my neck, the seats, and the "way back"; she licked each window, rubbed her nose across the dashboard, then sat like a lady in the passenger seat. She looked at me with a smile as if to say, "So, where're we going now?"

The great news for Lily was that we had an invisible fence from Belle, so she could run around in the yard without a leash, and we didn't have to worry she'd run away. She knew her name, but certainly didn't come to it. Lily had lived with one family as a puppy, another woman for two months, my co-worker for three months, and now had come to us. I really believe that, at that point in her life, Lily didn't know what home meant. Even though she had found it.

When we got back to the house, Lily ran around the family room downstairs, smelling the smells and seeing the sights. Eventually, she settled down on the floor next to Eric's recliner, where he proceeded to pet her for over an hour. As his arm stroked, Eric turned to me and said, "Okay, I give. Barring any unforeseen craziness tomorrow, this dog can stay. She is super sweet." Maybe I was the one who asked for Lily and brought her to the house, but she was Eric's dog from day one.

That night, she slept by Eric's side of the bed, her head hiding under the bed, his own personal guardian. When we awoke in the morning, Lily ran circles around us, the tail a now-hazardous propeller which could strike at any moment. We strapped the underground fence collar around her neck and let her loose on the yard. Eric stood on the porch as she zipped and flew around the yard, greeting every blade of grass, tree trunk, flower stem, "Hey, hi! I'm Lily!" When Eric called her to come in, though, she gave him a happy glance, and kept on sniffing. It was clear she wasn't coming until she was good and ready.

When we came home from work that day, I fully expected a torn-down house. Belle had been...interesting. She ate metal. Like, one time, she consumed and later threw up 87 cents. She chewed glasses, metal teacher pins, hinges. She also peed anywhere she damn well pleased. If you didn't catch her (this was well past "potty training," folks) right when she wanted to go out, she'd just go. I kept her in a kennel ("She won't pee where she sleeps and eats") and she peed right on her bed. Thus, Eric's words "unforeseen craziness" kept ringing in my head throughout the day. I kept imagining what wreckage that energetic little whirlwind was bestowing upon our house. As I stepped into the house from the garage I found... nothing. There she was, tail just a-going, happy to see me. I searched the house and then bent down to hug Lily around the neck. "Nice work, lady," I said into her smiling eyes, "You've made it!"

So, Lily was ours. Over the next few days, we realized the collar was crucial, because she ran like crazy around the yard. She did not come when you called, but rather had to be corralled back into the house. "Okay," I thought to myself, "we'll have to work on that." I had been through lots of obedience classes with my dad's dogs and with Belle. I figured she was just young and untrained. We'd figure it out together.

In the house, you couldn't ask for a better dog. She was happy to see you when you came in at the end of the day. Shoot, she was happy to see you when you came in from another room. "Hi," her eyes always said, "Let's play!" She would tirelessly chase a tossed ball or Carolina's soft BlueDog across the room and bring it back. She was never quite sure she wanted to give it up, but she'd acquiesce because she really did want to chase it, and then let go. She cuddled with me, Emma, Eric, and tried to cuddle Carolina and the cat. She turned her adolescent head sideways when you talked to her, smelled your face, sighed contentedly. She was a great dog.

I took her into the yard to go potty and saw a stick under a tree. Thinking of our fetch games in the house, I picked it up and raised it above my head, "Lil," I yelled, "go get it!" Lily lay down immediately on her belly and covered her face with her paws. She didn't move.

You sons of bitches, I thought. We didn't know much about Lily's past, just that her original owners had tied her with a short rope to a tree outside their home, and had fed her too much. We didn't know any more reason than that about why my co-worker's friend had rescued her. Based on the stick, I was pretty sure we didn't want to know.

"It's okay, baby," I said. I set the stick down, sat down next to Lily, and put her head in my lap. We cuddled, Lily and I, out in the yard, and pondered life's dark spaces. "Lily, we will never hurt you," I told her chocolate eyes, and I think she believed me.

However, she was still a runner. Four days after Lily came to live with us, we had a babysitter. When we came home after the rare date night, the poor girl was just distraught. "I didn't put the collar on!" she said through tears. Lily had darted out the front door, and taken off down the road. She and Emma had called and called, but Lily hadn't come back. After about an hour, they'd started knocking on neighbors' doors, and found Lily next door. They attached a collar and leash, and got her home. That was literally the last time we had a sitter for Emma. And we realized just how much Lily needed that invisible fence collar.

Unfortunately for me, she couldn't wear the collar in the car. About a week after Lily moved in, I was loading Emma into the car to take her to Girl Scouts. I was going to make a stop at the McDonald's gas station in town, get some gas and get dinner for Emma, and then come home. Lily stood at the door as we put on our jackets, tail swinging, eyes sparkling. "Do you want to go, Sweetie?" I asked. Lily nudged my keys with her nose. "Okay, c'mon!" With the garage door closed, I opened the minivan door and Lily hopped in.

Her nose sniffed happily and dribbled nose-drool down the side of the window. "Watch the tail," I laughed to Emma as I watched in the rear view mirror. Emma giggled and leaned toward her side of the car, nearly avoiding decapitation.

"Geez, Mom, she sure is happy," Em said and I agreed. Lily was the sweetest dog. Really gentle and cuddly, and glad to meet everybody.

I pulled the van up, got gas, and then parked on the side. "Okay, Em," I said, "let's get you some dinner before Scouts. Watch out for Lily." Before the words even left my mouth, Lily was out.

Now, I need to mention, this gas station is on what we in the small town of Indian River (with our two stoplights) refer to as "M-68". Like, a "highway" of sorts. Definitely one of the busiest roads in our town. In addition, the freeway, I-75, is right there. Like, less than a block east. So, I did the only thing I could do. I completely freaked out.

"Liiiiiii-llllllllly!" I screeched. Lily ran past me, through the other parked vehicles, and down the front of the building. Of course this was one of those rare days that I actually wore a dress and girl shoes to work. I hobbled after her, trying to hike up my ankle length skirt and swing for the dog at the same time. When she reached the end of the building, Lily turned--toward the road--and then ran back the other way, zipping through the cars getting gas. "Grab that dog!" I yelled at the people pumping gas, who just stood there agape as if they'd never seen a dog taking off from its owner at a super busy gas station in the middle of town. "Lil! C'mon, Lily!" I yelled desperately. Lily gave me the shiny grin, then zoomed behind the building.

There's a fence, and behind that is the Sturgeon River. Lily streaked up and down the river bank, smelling, greeting, laughing, loving life. I stumbled, grabbed trees and mud, and tried to snatch her. At one point, she whizzed past me, "Hi, Mom! Isn't this the best?" and ran along the river to the edge of the fence.

Emma stood on the pavement, watching and calling, but she was six. She really couldn't help much. As I struggled in the mud, Lily came back up on the pavement and ran down the empty drive-thru lane. I pushed past the fence and tore after her, skirt flapping in the wind. I seriously hoped they didn't have a camera on the drive-thru.

Finally, finally, by the grace of God, Lily got tired. And when she did, she ran over to me and let me grab her collar. Emma was crying by then--she felt like it was all her fault--and didn't want to go to Scouts anymore. I was sobbing by then--I could just picture this lovely creature we'd brought into our home being killed by a car in front of my six-year-old--and exhausted. We went home, where Lily was happy to curl up next to Eric's chair.

Two weeks in, we had to take Lily to the vet to get spayed. This time I attached the leash before I left the garage. I pulled Lily into the office, the same vet office that had told my co-worker's friend about Lily and inspired her to go talk the original owner into giving her up. Lily's tail thumped against the reception desk as I signed her in, and she willingly went into the back room with the attendant. "I'll be back tomorrow, Sweetie Girl," I called to Lily, but she didn't seem to hear.

The next day, when I came to pick Lily up, the receptionist commented on what a gentle dog Lily was. "A real sweetheart," she said. "We have really enjoyed her."

"Oh, I know," I said, "we're super lucky to have her." At the sound of my voice, Lily started going bonkers in the cage in the adjacent room. She began whining and turning around in the cage, tail beating the sides.

"Well, she sure knows her mom," the receptionist smiled, "we haven't heard one peep out of her since she got here."

I pictured the great chase in the McDonald's and laughed. "Well, I hope she will. We haven't had her very long. She still doesn't come when called or anything yet."

At that moment, the attendant brought Lily in where she could see me. Lily bolted, pulled her leash out of the attendant's hands, and slammed her head into my legs, almost knocking me off my feet. She whined, and rubbed her face on my legs, and wagged her happy tail, and attacked me with love.

"She may not come to her name, but she knows her family," the receptionist laughed, as my butt hit the floor.

Lily's eyes looked deep into mine. I hugged her around the neck. We were lucky to have her. She was lucky to have us. Lily had finally found home.

The French Translation of "Easy Set" is "Le Pain En L'Ass"

Remember Michael Phelps? He's actually back in the news, now that the summer olympics are here again. Now, I don't think he is the world's greatest role model or anything, but I do specifically remember the story his mother told. Michael had such "bad" ADHD, that his mother got him into swimming. He swam every day before school, and it really helped with his hyperactivity. When I heard that story, Ben was 3 1/2 and we were really starting to think about dealing with his... energy level. That summer we changed his diet, and I tucked that little swimming fact into my brain.

So, we've now done about 80 different things for Ben, including various medications. This winter, we decided that one way to help Ben was to always have activities for him--not sitting around on a Saturday with "nothin' to do". I remembered the Phelps fact and said we should sign up Ben for swim lessons in Gaylord, about half an hour from our home. To our delight, Ben took like a fish to swim lessons (as did Becca), and Eric was able to get all our grocery shopping for the week done while I watched the kids swim. It didn't necessarily slow Ben down during Saturdays, but at least it gave him something to do.

This summer, then, we continued with swim lessons. Ben began swimming a little under water, doing forward float (face in the water) and a float on his back. Recently, he has even begun to doggy paddle. Knowing that he's been making this great progress in swim class, and that he will have "nothing to do all day" every day of the summer, I made a proposal to Eric: "Hey, let's get a pool!"

You must understand: we live in an association. In The Association, there are certain rules. Above ground pools are specifically against the rules. We do have a few items on our property which may or may not follow said rules. Thus, when I first brought 'the pool' up to Eric, it was a pretty quick conversation.
      "Hon, I think we should get a pool."
      "Nope, we can't. Rules."

But I wouldn't let it go. I'd seen Facebook posts of my friend's pool the summer before, and I was just sure this was the thing for us. So, I pulled up Amazon reviews and photos of the pool, and bugged Eric like crazy.

It was called an "Easy Set" pool, and it was soft sided. It was a "blow up" pool, essentially. How could The Association ban a blow up pool? Eric brought it up at a meeting of The Association, and they actually agreed! In fact, all those sweet, retired people thought our kids DESERVED a pool. Suddenly, Eric was reading the reviews, and we were actually discussing this pool.

The Sign came at work one day, when I received an email about getting paid for being a mentor teacher this year. "I just paid for the pool!" I texted Eric with glee. I told my teaching partner that she had just paid for Ben Hall to have a pool all summer. We got on Amazon that night and, it was on the way... Our glorious pool!

We were so naive. Okay, me. I was so naive. See, when I talked to Eric about it, I had to convince him. I had to promise him that if there was a teeny pinhole, or a rip in the side, or it exploded, I would deal with it. Because, well, I don't have a great track record. Read my last post, you'll totally get it. But, I promised. I was so completely, positively, over-the-moon in love with this pool idea (picture Ben and Becca splashing and playing all day, me reading a book in the beautiful sunshine, Emma floating on a ring in the middle, Eric having peace and quiet in his office...) that I didn't even listen when Eric made me promise. I blindly agreed that all hassle would be solved by me, WonderMom.

Hoooo, doggie. I had no clue. First, we needed a level area. Eric and I work very hard so we can pay people who know what they're doing to work on our home, so neither of us know much of anything about home construction, repair, etc. I never really thought a lot about how level the area would have to be. We have a cement pad outside our garage, which I had assumed was level. Like, level level. So, I unpacked the giant pool (fifteen feet across!), laid out the tarp, covered it with the pool, smoothed the bottom, and started filling that sucker up. Just one teeny problem... All the water kept going to the one side. All the water. I stopped filling for a bit, when the water was several inches deep on one side and nonexistent on the other side. (I need to insert here that this is the moment our 5-year-old decided to have a MAJOR MELTDOWN, because we wouldn't let her swim in the pool. Which had no water. We're the meany-est parents EVER!) I took out our level (I'm not sure why we have one, but we do!) and tried it on the cement. By lifting it less than half an inch, it was level. So, seriously, how bad could that be? Plenty level. I filled up the pool.

Unfortunately, it was not plenty level. Not even close. Turns out, less than half an inch in the span of our level's length ends up being many inches across fifteen feet. By the time one side of the pool was full, the other side had not even filled up to the spots where the pump was supposed to connect. Plus, the full side was bulging in a bad way. Shit. So, I had to drain the pool. Which meant I had to open the drain plug. Which was housed inside the pool. Which meant I had to get into the pool. Remember the beautiful picture earlier in the blog? Add ice and the slowest drain on the planet (and me feeling like an idiot because I had begged to buy this stupid thing) and you'd see the actual day I spent. Ben, Becca, and I bounced around in the pool, which was awfully cold, and tried to make the best of it. I prayed that the bulging side would not rip out while we were in there. The pool dripped out at a rate of about 1/4 cup an hour, until I figured out that putting two rake handles on either side of the drain (it was lying on the cement) and propped the drain open (which, yes, meant submerging my head a few more times in the fresh-from-the-hose water). By the next afternoon, I had most of the water out, and I could start again.

This is really the point where I should have just wiped the thing out and put it back in the box. But, man, those things are HUGE, and I had no idea how to ship it back. True story. I googled wedges and other junk that I could use to fix the angle. There's a lot of cool stuff out there--leveling sand for one--that would just plain not work. At some point, I had a moment of clarity: foam squares. Yes, foam squares! My students sit on foam squares in my classroom on the carpet. I have 24, plus more from previous years. I made layer upon layer of slowly descending foam squares, which would prop up the lower half of the pool. I pulled the pool floor over the makeshift wedge, and started again.

And, we were filling. The water was building on the one side, but not nearly as much as the last time. This was going to work! I gleefully sat outside and watched water pour into the pool, visions of fun times dancing in my head.

Until it didn't work. Once again, the one side of the pool filled to the brim, and the other side could not even reach the outlets for the pump. I believe Eric measured it at one point and there was an eight-and-a-half inch discrepancy. One side was bulging hideously and the other side was flopped over, floating on the top of the water. It. Just. Sucked.

I am not proud of my next actions. I knew I had to get back into the damn pool to pull the plug again. And, seriously, hose-fresh water is really, really cold. But, after I got the plug pulled out, I couldn't unscrew the drain cap on the outside of the pool (it was buried under the bulging side). I got Eric to help me--I held up the edge of the pool with the rake handles and Eric ripped the flesh off his hands unscrewing the cap. So, I should have been nice to him, right? Well, I wasn't. Not even close. In fact, I told him to go away and snarled about how I understand it must be hard living with someone who has so many idiotic ideas when you're "perfect". Or something to that effect. Something clearly unwarranted and nasty, because I was pissed at myself for ordering a pool that wouldn't even fill up. This time the dumb thing wouldn't drain, either, because--as I said--the drain was buried under the pool. I had to keep readjusting the handles, trying to get the water out. I ended up using an old fish tank vacuum we had, which actually poured the water out much more quickly (after I screamed and swore and spit and kicked the pool a few hundred times). By morning, I was at least able to pull the
squares out and kind of fold the thing up. I was done. No more pool. Screw it.

But, I'm not sure how well you know me. Maybe you just randomly read blogs. You may not know that I am, um, persistent. Stubborn. When I get something in my head, I don't let it go. Pretty sure I got it from my Grandma Hendricks, one of the most generous, wonderful, bull-headed people on the earth. This being the case, I could not just give up on the pool. In the morning, I looked at that slimy, piece of crap and thought, "There must be a way."

Around this time, Eric went to pick up our nephew and nieces halfway between North Carolina and Michigan. This left me alone with my crazy thoughts. I went all around the yard, using that idiotic level, trying to find one stinking spot that would hold the pool. I found ONE--a spot in our lawn right in front of the house--that seemed like maybe it was level. ONE. In three plus acres of land, ONE spot. I got a tarp from the garage and laid it out in a fifteen-by-fifteen square. I rolled up the edges to hold water in and sprayed the hose in one corner, in another corner, in the middle, on the sides, every single spot. The water...pooled. Get it? It literally POOLED. Like, it didn't even all flow to one side! I wanted to jump in the air--remember those old Toyota commercials?--but I really couldn't even summon the optimism for a true smile. I hesitantly planned to move the pool.

Since Eric was gone, I got Ben to move the pool with me. Bug-filled, leafy, water sloshed back and forth, spilling out and splashing us as we lugged the rolled up tarp and pool combo from the garage to the front of the house. For a seven-year-old, he was quite helpful. "Mom, can we fill it up today? Hey, Mom, I think I could hold my breath for five 'bobs' if we filled it up today. Mom, Mom? Mom, I know what we can do. We can get boards, Mom, and that would do it. Do you think so, Mom? I think so. I think it would work. Hey, Mom, want to play catch after? I found your mitt, so we can play catch just like me and Dad play..." Suffice it to say, I waited for Eric to come home before I tried to fill it again.

Fill it, we did. We put about two inches of water in, and then we measured each side. One side was about 1/16 of an inch off. We hemmed and hawed and put more water in. We measured again on each side. About the same. We kept filling a little, measuring, filling, measuring, and--I'll be damed!--it worked. When it was all said and done, I think we were about an inch off one side to another. NO bulging side, and we could actually attach the hoses. It was amazing! I read the directions for the filter and pump, hooked that puppy up, and we were in BUSINESS!

Ben, Becca and I loved the pool. Emma came home from work, and loved the pool. I took videos of Becca and Emma giggling together... I apologized to the pool on Facebook for all the horrid words I said about it. We got one of those floaty chlorine thingies and enjoyed the pool for a few days.

Then, there was a pinhole. Literally, a PIN hole. Right in the side of the pool. Eric drove in to town and bought some vinyl repair patches which I squeegeed onto the side of the pool. So far, so good.

"The pool's deflated," was all it took for me to freak right out. The translation was, "The ring around the top of the pool deflated."

"Crap," I thought, "I swear, this pool is going to be the death of me." I re-inflated the ring after discovering that the chlorine floaty thing that I had secured to the air cap of the ring pulled the plug. Aaaand, back in business.

The next day, deflated AGAIN. The new way I had secured it pulled the plug AGAIN. This time I attached it to the ladder.

We began to swim and play and enjoy this giant pain in my behind. Our dark days, it seemed, were behind us.

But this week, there seemed to be some kind of filter issue. Like, I don't think it was pumping water. There was a tiny leak on one of the outlet tubes. Tiny. A drip, really. So, first I wiggled that hose. Which, sort of lead to wiggling all the hoses. Which, sort of lead to realizing all the little black rubber band things that went around the hose ends to keep water from passing through were all slightly askew. So, some wiggling of those guys. Then, the water got a little much. I may have had to get a flat head screw driver to try to shove the black rubber bands back into place, while water sprayed all over the freaking place. Since I was already drenched from removing each hose and fixing it, and the filter was still not working, I got the booklet and read that maybe I needed to clean the filter.

Now, I swear, I read all the directions about removing and cleaning the filter. But, when I unplugged the filter and opened the cap of the pump, water literally began flowing out of the pump, like the fountain at the damn Detroit Zoo. I was flooding the lawn. I think the pool may have been floating on the water coming out of its own pump. Plug caps! I was supposed to use plug caps! I sploshed from the front lawn to the garage and grabbed the two plug caps. I capped the outlet valves. Old Faithful was still a'going! Then, I felt the inlet valve and--dammit!--it was somehow becoming an outlet! Again, I swam to the garage and grabbed a third plug cap. I capped that inlet valve and--DAMMIT!--the stupid fountain would NOT stop! At this moment in time, poor Eric decided to ask if I needed help. Let me paint the picture for you. I was wearing my Jimmy Fallon T-shirt, Detroit Tiger pajama pants, Elmo knee-high socks, and some seriously soaked Crock strap sandals. I'd had on my Philly sweatshirt, but the sleeves had gotten soaked when I shoved my arm in to remove the outtake valve covers and apply the caps. I was a wreck.

"Um, do you need any help?" He had been mowing.

"No! Go away! This is my own stupid decision!" I think I may have actually have heard my Grams say that once or twice.

So, Eric went away, as requested, and I was left to figure it out: Where was the damn water COMING from?

If you've stuck with me this far, you may actually be able to predict the outcome. I couldn't have imagined or written a better "next". One of the little plug caps had come off, and was now on the bottom of the pool. I peered over the edge of the pool, saw that litttle shit just sitting there, and I knew what I had to do.

I dropped my pajama pants and jumped in the pool. I had to dive under to get the plug cap. While I was there, I decided I might as well rescue the inlet cover, which I had dropped earlier. Then, soaking wet (still in my Elmo socks, I might add), I got out of the pool and reattached the plug cap. Pantless.

The water stopped. Silence. It was a beautiful sound. I wiped the pool water from my face and glanced up to see Eric just staring. Normally, and all during this entire pool saga, I get really screamy and angry when this stuff goes wrong (see snarky comments above when I couldn't empty the pool). This time, there was literally nothing to do but laugh.

"Please tell me this will at least be funny soon," Eric called across the lawn.

"No," I yelled, "It's funny NOW!"

Eventually Ben and Becca came in the front (I had chased them away), I got all the parts somehow

put back together, and the filter is working great. I did finally put my pants back on, though they stuck to me like Saran Wrap, because I was so wet. The Littles were both very concerned about my crying, as it's hard to explain to young children what tears of laughter really mean.


So, I'm trying to stay positive. I'm positive there will be more to this pool. More stories. More adventures. And, eventually, the side will just rip open and all the water will flow out. I get that. But, for now, I'll watch Ben do his 'bobs' and Becca almost swim as she's grasping for her noodle. Maybe I'll even get to read a book. I won't hold my breath.

Celiac Sucks

Yup, I said it. Celiac disease sucks. Again, I do NOT have a horridly debilitating disease. I don't have cancer or MS or lupus or COPD. But, still, I just want to whine for a while. Celiac disease sucks.

See, you really can't eat anything. If you have gluten sensitivity--which means you and gluten are not good friends--then you really shouldn't eat gluten. You should definitely not eat bread or pasta or cereal or crackers. You can't have regular pizza crust. But, if a crumb or two drop on your food, say, you'd still be okay. Maybe a bit "tooty" (my mom's word and I love it), but okay.

If you have celiac disease, well, you need to avoid gluten like it is poison. Actually, if you have celiac disease, gluten is poison to you. The problem is, there is not this recognized problem, like there is with other allergies, like peanuts. Honestly, peanuts and shellfish are the only allergies I know of that EVERYBODY knows about. If you say you have a nut allergy, people are super-duper careful about touching your food. I have friends whose children have dairy allergies the same way, and I feel so bad for them, first because they are kids and second because I don't think many people realize you can have a dairy ALLERGY. So, like not having MS, I don't have the kind of allergy where I will swell up and die immediately. And, that's nice.

However, celiac disease (and, therefore gluten) does kill you. It just takes its time. It wears my small colon down and creates holes where toxins leak into my system and makes my anti-bodies attack my own body parts. So, it would be nice if people took my food and disease as seriously as they do a peanut allergy. They just don't.

I get it. I mean, I don't know anything about sooooo many allergies, illnesses, and diseases. Until it comes to you, it's not something you need to know about. But, man, it's frustrating. For instance, did you know there's an allowable amount of gluten in foods that the FDA says, "Sure, go ahead and write 'Gluten Free' on there anyway!"? What kind of crap is that? The FDA would never let a "little bit" of shellfish be in something! And shellfish is not something that you'd add to a food. It doesn't hold stuff together or thicken it or act as an agent for distilling vinegar or Vitamin D.

Gluten, however, is in EVERYTHING. I'm serious. EVERYTHING. It's in ketchup, Simply Lemonade, gum, seasoning salt, cheese, lunch meat, prepared fruits (like apple slices), chips, candy, flavored beverages (thank God it's not in Pepsi), the list goes on.

And let's not forget the stuff that my body THINKS is gluten. Oh yeah, there's that, too. There's stuff called carrageenan, that we Celiacs call "gluten of the sea". It is actually a sea weed, and it's put in non-dairy things in lieu of gluten. You know, because most Celiacs also have a dairy intolerance of some kind (I do. It's not lactose, though, because lactose free stuff has the same effect on me as dairy with lactose. Dairy and I have regretfully had to end our relationship.) So, companies are trying to be sensitive to gluten problems when they make non-dairy items (like sour "cream", almond milk "ice cream", "cheese", coffee "creamers", Cool Whip), and they add carrageenan to hold everything together. Unfortunately, they may as well add a whole piece of bread, because my body thinks it's the same stuff. So, no non-dairy items, either. My body thinks the same of soy, MSG, and artificial sweeteners. "What?" my body says. "That's not gluten? Are you sure? I'm going to freak out and make you sick anyway." Sucks.


Then, there's the crumb issue. Again, I don't picture people dropping a little piece of shellfish on someone's salad or letting bits of peanuts be on the counter when they're cutting up someone's meal. No one would spread peanut oil on a grill and then serve someone that food saying, "Oh, a little bit won't hurt you." But, I get that all the time. ALL THE TIME. "Oh, a little bit won't hurt you, will it?" Yup.

The other day, I went to a very trusted restaurant with Eric. It's one of the few places in Northern Michigan I'm willing to go, and that's because they MAKE all of their own food. I've eaten this exact same meal a dozen times and not gotten sick. However, the other day, I ordered my meal, and they put seasoning on my french fries. They baked them (because if my fries are fried in oil that something with gluten--like chicken tenders or onion rings--have been friend in, I get sick), but then they put seasoning on them. Now, most places I don't even order fries, because the fries come to the restaurant frozen with a coating on them (yup, you guessed it--gluten). But, this place cuts their own fries and is willing to bake them for me, instead of frying them. So, like I said, they baked them, but, unfortunately, they must have thought they'd be tasteless, so they seasoned them. I didn't even eat one. I asked the waitress if the fries were seasoned. All those things did was sit on the plate with my pulled pork. I DIDN'T EVEN EAT ONE. I moved my pulled pork to a new plate, but it was too late. Half an hour after eating, I got sick at Meijer. So stupid.

So, please, please don't be offended when I won't eat your food. Because maybe you didn't wash your hands well enough or maybe there was a crumb on the counter or maybe the knife you used had residual gluten from a previous meal that didn't quite get washed off in the dishwasher. I seriously have to be that careful. Don't be offended. Even my mother, bless her sweet heart, tries to get me to eat food that doesn't come from my house. Ummm, nope. Not doing it. Unless my husband made the food, I'm not eating it (we all know he's the excellent chef and I'm just, uh, so-so). I won't even eat fruit salad or cut up cucumber or chips. I'm just not eating your food. It's nothing personal. It's just that, well, Celiac sucks. And I'm not taking the risk anymore.

The Born Loser

I have been thinking about looking into making a reality TV show about our life, or my life, specifically. I think I would call it "The Born Loser." It would cover all the dumb decisions I make that flop, and then I wouldn't have to blog about them. Okay, yes, this is a bit of a pity party, but wait 'til you see the list.

1. The Honeymoon: Eric told me he could get married and attend a honeymoon during the span of one week in July in 2005 (he was taking on-line classes for his master's degree; it wasn't that he was being a jerk). So, I scheduled our tiny wedding and made the plans for our honeymoon. We are woodsy people, so I decided we would go even further "up north" (since we live in the place most people refer to as "up north"). This may seem hard to imagine now, but there wasn't a lot one could do on-line then. So, I used a yahoo search and found what I thought was an adorable cabin on a small lake, which would include the use of a rowboat, bicycles, kayaks, and provided breakfast. There was a lake view out what I thought was the front window, and it looked perfect. So, we drove to Munising, MI in the dark after our wedding... And found out that we were staying above someone's garage. And the "lake" (pond) view was out the side where the steps were coming up. And no person in his/her right mind would use the rowboat or the bicycles or the kayaks because the pond/lake was nasty and the black flies were so horrid they would have carried us away. Operation Honeymoon: fail.

2. The Dollhouse: For Christmas when Emma was in kindergarten, I decided we should get her an elaborate dollhouse. Again, I used the then-limited internet, and found a beautiful, three story, spiral staircased, gingerbread gabled dollhouse. On-line, it was exquisite. In real life, it had about forty parts. On Christmas Eve, Eric and I read and reread and reread the directions, and finally figured the bugger out. We covered it in paper and hid it in our bedroom, so we could slide it out as the finishing touch on a perfect Christmas. Later that day, we would go to Saginaw, where Eric's family had purchased furniture for the dollhouse as Emma's gifts. It would be perfect. So, we had opened stockings, eaten breakfast, opened all our gifts and then, finally, slid out the giant present. "Huuuuuuh," Emma gasped, "a shelf for my nutcrackers!" My stomach hit the dirt. When she opened it, bless her five-year-old heart, Em tried to feign interest. In reality, she never once liked that $150 thing. It clogged up a whole wall of her bedroom and then sat in our basement for years, collecting dust and hoping some child would come along who actually liked dolls. Sometimes Becca plays with it now, but it was never the fabulous, hours of enjoyment I'd hoped it would be. Operation dollhouse: fail.

3. The Swingset: Poor Emma has been the recipient of more than one of my own, personal childhood dreams (see "The Dollhouse"). When she turned six, we had recently purchased a new home with a huge yard, which had the world's greatest spot for a swingset. So, I begged and pleaded and pouted and we ordered the swingset. What should have taken a few hours took my dad, Eric and me several weekends to construct. When we were done, there was a gorgeous wooden swingset with a single swing, a slide, a double swing, a "fort" and a sandbox. It was wonderful. Emma hated it. Again, we have photos of her perched atop the slide with that same teeth-gritted "smile" that she wore when she unwrapped her dollhouse. She dutifully went in the swings two or three times, and then the poor thing slowly rotted as it waited for someone to come play. This time, it was about $500, and I still had not learned my lesson. The best laid plans of Laura Hall do not turn out. Operation Swingset: fail.

4. The Scy-Phone: This one was just dumb from the beginning. If you don't know about my cheapness, you don't know me. It is legendary. I will hunt for the deal, nevermind the "quality". If I think I can get it cheaper, look out. So, I wanted to be able to send photos and videos via text. But, I didn't want (and neither did Eric) to sign up for an iPhone. This was before everyone and their 11-year-old child had one. So, I started researching phones on Amazon with cameras that could film video. It wasn't before Amazon, but it was before every phone had a camera. I found this great deal. Seriously, I don't learn my lesson on stuff. It was called a Scy-Phone, and came from (please don't tell my grandmother, may she rest in peace) China. Yes, I said China. So, um, when it came...it was all in Chinese. And the games were like iPhone games, but Chinese (think of candy crush with sushi). And it worked for abooooooouuuuuut... three days. Okay, maybe three weeks. Then, it just... didn't. Believe it or not, I was genuinely shocked. I couldn't understand why a phone from China that cost one-fifteenth the price of a real iPhone might be a piece of crap. Operation Video Camera Phone: fail.

5. The Rock Speakers: This one was going to be great. I mean really, really great. Eric always thinks of fantastic presents that people don't even know they want until they open them. I always try to find something good, but usually end up with socks and underwear. But this time, this time, the present was going to be great. For only about $150, I ordered two outdoor, wireless, weatherproof speakers which would look like rocks. Eric could put them outside by the patio or near the deck, put his iPhone on the holder in the house, and enjoy music outside!! Yay! When he opened them, I think Eric actually was pleased. He read the materials, charged the speakers, put them outside, and looked forward to using them. Except, they sucked. They wouldn't hold a charge. And they would stop playing for no reason. And they weren't really weatherproof. Eric even contacted the company and had them send out new ones. Nope, they still sucked. So, now we have two fake rocks sitting on the desk in Eric's office. Almost like they're sticking their rock tongues out at me. Rock Speakers: fail.

6. The Lockers: By now, you're starting to think I'm making this stuff up, but it's real. Ask my family, they're here for all of it. Speaking of my family, number six was for them. Our house is huge and beautiful, but does not have a good area for boots and shoes and backpacks and coats and mittens and gloves... especially for five people, three of whom are CHILDREN. We tried hooks and baskets and other ideas in the house, but we really needed lockers. Every few months or so, I would rip a page out of a magazine and say to Eric, "What do you think of these?" He would nod, but I think he knew I know absolutely zippo about building, so he was not concerned. Well, one day, I jumped. My parents had taken the kids for the night (we were supposed to be spending a relaxing night at their cabin on the river) and I said, "Let's go buy those big locker things I saw at Lowe's." Eric and I spent the next Lord Knows How Many hours putting together these white laminate closets. We didn't put the doors on, and we installed rods in two spots. When we were done, there were four "lockers" in our garage. Yay, right? Wrong. The Littles couldn't use hangers, so they would just toss their coats on the ground in front of their lockers. Somehow, it was always too hard for everybody to put their shoes in their lockers, so the shoes would all end up in a pile in front of the steps (adjacent to the pile of coats). And the mice. Did I mention the lockers are in the garage? Yes, the garage. So, wild animals like mice and chipmunks greatly appreciate the toasty pockets and nesty shoe holes. We have all put on a pair of shoes or boots only to whip them off and pour out acorns, sunflower seeds, and tiny turds. Also, any type of fleece is seen as something to chew and then use as fluff in their nests, so my elegant, red Land's End coat now has a "rippled" bottom (half-chewed). Lockers: fail.

7. The Toys: I have tried many different strategies here, and have yet to not fail. When we first bought the house, we made a room downstairs the "playroom". Emma was afraid to go down and use it. Then, I used those cute fabric baskets to hold everyone's toys, with little labels on them. Nope. I took all the clothes out of the closet and put garage-type racks inside the closet with containers for each type of toy (Ninja Turtles, puzzles, babies, etc.). Nope. They never played with them. I put the dressers inside the closet and moved the toys/racks out into their bedrooms, so they could SEE all their toys. They just took everything out and never put it away. I installed wire racks in the closet and put all of their toys in clear bins so they could see what was inside the bins. They stack the bins outside the closet and don't put them on the shelves. I'm thinking trash bag is my next step. Organize Toys: fail.

8. The Shoe Rack: At least this one was cheap. I got sick of the shoes, so I went out and bought a 9-tiered shoe rack. It was plastic. And cheap. But it was supposed to hold a ton of shoes! So, I put it together, put all the shoes on it, and smiled happily... for a week. Then, it began to come apart at the spots where one shelf slid into another with a tab. I used duck tape. Then, it started falling over when people put their shoes on it. I picked up all the shoes and put it against a wall. Finally, it completely (I am not making this up) bent in half. The top of the rack was on the floor. I gave up. Shoe Rack: fail.

9. The Pool: This is the most recent, and the real reason I am thinking about all of these. Seriously, I'm not sure why I try. I always get this Better Homes and Gardens dream-scene in my head and I honestly believe it will happen that way. I had seen my friend's kids playing in the "easy set" pool the summer before (via Facebook). I looked up every kind of easy set pool and read reviews. Eric got permission from our "association" to have a blow up pool on our property. I picked my dream pool, and then got an email from work that I was getting a check for being a mentor at work! Pool--paid for!! So, I ordered the dumb thing. My friend has her pool on her cement pad, so I thought, "Well, perfect! We'll put that puppy right outside our garage!" Except, our cement pad is not a patio--it is a driveway. It is not a flat surface for a picnic table or chairs--it is a slight incline for draining rainwater. Juuuuuuuuust enough of an incline that the pool would not even fill up past the filter hook-ups, and was all pushing against one side. So, I put some blankets under one side. Nope. Then I drained the whole damn thing and started over. I used the foam squares I use at school for students to sit on to build a little ramp going the opposite direction of the incline. Made a little difference. Enough of a difference that I filled the stupid thing up again. NOT enough of a difference that we could use the filter or not worry about the side ripping. So, I am draining again. Except this time, it was not enough of an incline to even drain it. Seriously, I can't win. Yesterday, I went all around our huge yard, looking for mostly level spots. We own close to four acres, have more than an acre of yard, I figured there had to be something. And there is! Right on top of a sprinkler head. Blow Up "Easy Set" Pool: fail.

So, I give. I'm done with projects. There won't be a number ten (though I'm sure I could have thought of one). Apparently, karma doesn't work with projects. Having the best intentions does not equal the best results. As Cathy the cartoon character would say, "Aack!"

Now I've gotta go figure out how to put a 15X48 pool back inside a box...

Meijer Incident, 2016

I suppose the first mistake was the chips. I was trying to think of a good bribe, and so I promised The Littles (Ben and Becca) that, if we could get through Meijer without fighting, they could each have one of the small bags of "Lays classic chips" (as Ben says) that I would buy in a package for Ben's lunches. Maybe you're one of those fantastic parents who is able to get through your life without bribery. If you are, please know that I hate you. I, on the other hand, rely on bribery in times of need, and this was definitely one of those times.

Eric and I had a great thing going. We'd decided in January that Ben needed something to DO on Saturdays, so we signed the Littles up for swim lessons in Gaylord. I would go to swim lessons with the kids, and Eric would go to Meijer to get the groceries. We'd create the list Friday night, laying out what we'd have for dinner each night, planning lunches, trying to get as many of the essentials as possible on the trip. It was particularly great, because Eric is a quick shopper. In contrast, I take fooooorrrreeeeever, because I have to compare the prices of the three different options of cumin: This one is .75oz for $2.59, but this one is .95oz for $3.15. Hhmmm. Yup, I'm that ridiculous. I get out my iPhone, calculate the cents per oz. Literally, the CENTS PER OUNCE. And that's just one stupid item. Thankfully, Eric looks at the list, reads "cumin," grabs a container of Meijer Naturals cumin, and moves along. So, not only do we get to kill two birds with one stone--wear out Ben, get the groceries--but it's done in a timely manner.

Unfortunately, two weeks ago, Eric had a meeting. And our cousins were coming to visit. And I was going to a Tiger game with "the girls" on Sunday. So, we neeeeeded groceries, and Eric couldn't do it. We really should have just bitten the bullet and had one of us go to our local grocery store. But, Ben has his food issues, I have my food issues, we're just not easy to shop for. So, after swim lessons, I headed to Meijer. With Ben. And Becca. Did I mention it was after swim lessons? And that Ben was with me? And Becca? Not my best choice.

So, I took an already swum-out, exhausted (because not only do Ben, Becca and I have food issues, but we all also have sleep issues--we're working on it) and starving (yup, lunchtime) Ben and Becca to Meijer with the promise that, if there was not any fighting, we would have chips.

We walked into the store with the best of intentions. I asked if they wanted to walk or ride. Ben wanted to walk, Becca wanted to ride. We saw one of those gigantic, semi-truck carts with the seat for big kids. So, Ben decided he'd sit next to Bec, and we were on our way. Within--literally--seconds, it began.

Ben laid his arm along the back of the seat. He was not even touching Becca, just relaxing his arm.

Becca: He has his aahhm on me! I don't want his aahhm on me!

Me: He's not touching you. His arm is on the back of the seat. Let it go, girl.

Becca: I don't wannnn his aahhm dere! Take it off, Ben! (began to shriek) Take it off! Take it off!

Me: (maintained calm) Bec, his arm is not touching you. At this point, YOU are causing a problem. You are yelling. You need to stop yelling. Take some breaths.

Becca: (ignored me and continued with the tirade) Take it off! You (scratched Ben's arm) get (scratch) your (scratch) arm (grab) OFF!

Well, I couldn't let the scratching and grabbing go. To his credit, Ben sat there with a shit-eating grin on his face, arm casually slung along the back of the seat, and watched Becca melt. I tried using the quiet, close-to-your-face, whisper-between-my-gritted-teeth voice to convince Becca to take some breaths (In your nose, out your mouth. Watch, like this!), but she was too far gone. So, I unbuckled her, stuck her in the middle of the grocery part of the cart, and continued on my merry way.

For the rest of the grocery trip, I am sad to report, Becca screamed. At the top of her freaking lungs. In a shrill tone. Without pausing for a breath. I want chips. I want chips. I want chips. Stupid chips.

As we shopped, I got several encouraging nods, thumbs-up signs,  a few "Good job, Momma"s, and even one hug from other moms, who had clearly "been there". I have done the same to other mothers as they have tried to make it through grocery stores, hoping to be unseen. I'm glad, now, that I have given these bits of encouragement because, I promise you, I certainly appreciated them that day. But, as we finally left the store, just before we reached the door, one man undermined every positive comment I got that day. As our cart passed this man's check-out lane, he stepped into our path, pointed his finger into my screaming daughter's face. and condescended, "Young lady, every single person in this store is happy that you are finally leaving. I hope you know that."

I'm not sure I have ever been more surprised or angry in my life. I did not know what to say. If the man had said something to me, the ADULT who was really responsible for dragging this child through the store, it would have been one thing. But to reprimand my daughter--a CHILD--that was something different all together. I continued my cart out of the store, loaded my groceries, strapped in my kids, and, finally, thought of what I should have said.

I should have stopped the cart, turned to the man, and said, "Yes, I bet you are happy. I know she's made a lot of noise, and probably made your shopping trip unpleasant. But she is FIVE, and clearly tired and hungry. You, on the other hand, are a GROWN ASS MAN, and you should know better."

Actually, I should have known better. My kids were exhausted, and so was I. I never should have taken them to the grocery store that day. It was lunch time, and they were probably 'starving'. I probably should have at least tried to feed them first, not promise them food afterward. When we got home, and she had calmed down, I said to Becca, "You know, honey, you needed to take some breaths. Remember how we practiced?" and she said, "But, Momma, I couldn't." I believe her. If I had been thinking about my daughter, not my groceries, I would have realized that she was tired, hungry, five, and overstressed. I'm not saying I should have given her the chips. But, I do believe I should have pulled the cart over in the back, by the goldfish, taken her out, and cuddled her until she could calm down. I still shouldn't have let her have the chips, but I should have dealt with her tantrum, because she was beyond being able to deal with it herself.

Sixteen years into this parenting thing, decades of child development and education classes, I am still figuring it out as I go. Next time, I hope to do it better. That's all I can plan. Next time. I can definitely tell you this: I won't be promising anybody any chips any time soon.

Not Exactly Insomnia

It is true that, at times, I wake in the night. Now, if you're my Facebook friend, you know that, MANY NIGHTS, I am awakened by my youngest, who--for whatever reason--is fond of sleeping on our floor. Actually, she'd rather crawl back inside my womb and sleep THERE, or at least in my bed, but the most I'll tolerate is the floor. I've tried to break her of this habit, but I've resigned myself to just believe that she won't be 32-years-old, curled up in a ball on the carpet next to me. I hope. Anyway, I digress.

At times, I just plain WAKE UP. All on my own. Sometimes I've had a weird dream, sometimes I've had too much caffeine during the day, sometimes I think I've heard the kids or the dogs or a violent murderer in the garage. Whatever it is that wakes me isn't important. The point is, once I'm awake, my brain starts in.

Oh, this brain. It's great, really, it is. I mean, I'm fond of its sense of humor, I'm glad it has the talent of writing, it has some really great thoughts once in a while. But, geez, couldn't it take a little BREAK once in a while? Couldn't my brain actually REST?? Because, you see, once I'm awake, the brain starts thinking about things. About ALL the things. And worrying. And planning. And listing. And it just won't let me lie there. No, no. Nay, nay. I shall not be allowed the "turn over and go back to sleep." Nope, if it's not my kids or my dogs keeping me up, it is my very own brain. One night, way back in November, I wrote down on Notes on my phone all the things I thought about or did. I knew I wanted to blog about it sometime--because it happens a lot and is so incredibly ridiculous--but I was hoping that it wouldn't have to be THAT night. I was hoping just noting everything would make it acceptable for my brain to sleep a bit.

Now that I check my notes again, I see that, THIS TIME, I was awakened by the tiny, adorable, irresistible parasite who sleeps next to me. She needed water. So, I went to get her some water. When I left the bedroom, the dogs followed me out, because who doesn't enjoy a cold adventure at 2:00am? So, I let the dogs out.

As I watched them go down the steps, I saw that Carolina's nearly-15-year-old hip was still giving her trouble. She hesitated at the top step, waddled down that one, waddled down the next one, and I pictured her pointy face pinched in pain. I wondered what we could do to help her. Did she need a ramp? Should we give her pain medication? Would a trip to the vet help, or was this just the inevitable results of being hit by a car when she was four? Then, I thought about the blanket she'd been lying on in her cage. We'd had to start keeping her in a cage during the day, so she wouldn't pee in the kids' bedrooms (bless her sweet heart, she never pees in our room!).

I walked to her cage and bent to pull out the blanket and thought, "Man, my belly hurts!" I wondered what the heck it could be. I reviewed in my mind what I'd eaten that day. Nothing out of the ordinary. I hadn't eaten anything that wasn't from my house, so I didn't think I'd been "accidentally glutened". What could it be? When was my last period?

I checked the calendar. I couldn't find the LP with a circle on it from the month before. Great. So it could be a period, it could not be a period, who would know? Stinks being a grown woman, done with conceiving children, and still having the period of a fifteen-year-old. As I stood and stared at the calendar, I realized what day the Superhero Messy Church would be (Messy Church--kind of like youth group for your whole family--is always the first Sunday of the month). THE SAME DAY AS DANIEL'S BIRTHDAY PARTY. Great. So, the Messy Church that Ben would love and the birthday party of one of Ben's best friends were on the same day?! How would we deal with that?

I started to walk back to bed. But, as I went out of the kitchen, there was fluff (read: dog hair) in the corners in the kitchen. So gross. I bent down and picked it up. Ugh, Still belly pain. As I was throwing out the dog fur, I mean "fluff", I noticed the bag from the flax seed in the trash. Had I put flax seed on the shopping list? Over to the pen container I went, searched desperately for a pen, and settled for a highlighter (why we have a highlighter but no pens is beyond me). I wrote flax seed on a scrap of paper and stuck it to the fridge above the water dispenser. Water did sound good. I went to my bedroom--where both dogs and Becca were now sleeping soundly--and grabbed my glass. Got myself some water. Great, now I had to pee.

I went to the little bathroom in the laundry room. No toilet paper. Great. Went to wash my hands...no soap!

I went to our bathroom. For crying out sideways--we needed toilet paper in, like, EVERY bathroom! I went to the linen closet and grabbed several rolls of toilet paper. I put two in every bathroom upstairs (three of them) and two in the downstairs bathroom.  As long as I was supplying bathrooms, I'd better fill the soap. What had I done with the soap? I checked above the kitchen sink, below the laundry room sink, below the bathroom sink, in our bathroom linen closet... Finally found it with the laundry supplies. Belly pain. Ugh. Maybe I had too much Kombucha. Is that possible?

I filled the soap in three bathrooms and thought, "Hey, did we make Ben's lunch? We don't want to have to do that in the morning." As I checked the fridge for his lunch (yup!), I saw the cookies Eric had made me for conferences. Hhmmm. Maybe the belly pain was from the giant Pepsi and Reese's Peanut Butter Cup blossoms? Sure felt like a period.

Thinking of the period made me think of the calendar, which made me think of Emma's next counselor appointment. Had I written it on the calendar? I went to check. Nope. Hadn't written it down. I checked my phone for the date, and then thought, "I need to call Lisa tomorrow about Emma's neck." Speaking of Lisa, when was her birthday? Had I missed it? Wasn't it the END of November? We really should get together. Crap.I hadn't called Radiology either, which Lisa wanted me to do for ME.

I made some reminders on my phone. While making the reminders, I saw the "Find My iPhone" app. I thought, "I wonder if I can put the 'Find My Friends' app on my iPod touches at school? Oh, and I need to figure out how to get the charging port fixed on that one." More reminders on my phone. Oh, oh, oh, I feel like I'm going to have...

I ran to the bathroom. Good news, it was a period. Well, good to know. I got myself all settled and went to write it down on the calendar. Had I reordered my Dr. Nielsen meds? Better put THAT in a reminder on my phone.

Good Lord, it was 2:40 now. I might as well open a Gluten Free Doughnut Shop if I was going to be up at 2:40.

I went back to my bed to lie down. I snugglde into the covers, put my hand on Eric's shoulder, told my brain to knock it off. But then I thought, "I should check Emma's neck." (She had injured it during cheerleading.) No, no. Go. To. Sleep.

Suddenly, I heard a sneeze, and a light turned on. Ben was up, going to the bathroom. He sneezed again. I should really check his temperature. This is the time of year he always gets sick...

I checked his temp--99 degrees--tucked him in, and went to check on Em's neck. She was splayed across the bed like roadkill. I don't know how she sleeps like that. I nudged her, just to make sure she was responsive. She swatted at me and groaned. Good; no problems there.

Back to bed again. Snuggled into the covers again. Put my hand on Eric's shoulder again. 3:00. If I went to sleep right now I could get another two and a half hours. Ready, set...sleep! Had I written down the LP on the calendar?...

And that, my friends, is why I NEED coffee.