How Bout Them Cubs?

I'm cold. I don't like being cold. I admit, this winter has been mild for those of us who regularly endure weather straight from the ice age, but I am still cold.

Which is why I did what I did. I had twenty free seconds the other day, and decided to put an end to all the coldness. I walked into TJ Maxx and bought the biggest, warmest sweatshirt I saw. Since I only had twenty seconds to look around, it also happened to be the first sweatshirt I saw. It was thick and soft. That was enough, so I bought it. As I stood in line I noticed it was a men's large, but it didn't really matter because I only planned on wearing the thing at home in my own privacy. There was a large C and the word "Cubs" in the middle. I am not opposed to the Cubs, so I walked away from the store happy.

When I put it on and felt its warmy goodness, I immediately warned my family to get used to seeing it because I loved it more than ice cream. In fact, I warned them that I might wear it straight through to spring. Which is how I ended up wearing it in all sorts of public. Like running to the store, going through the drive through, shopping at the hardware store, and attending conferences. I haven't worn it to church. But I might.

The thing that happens, though, when you wear a sweatshirt that advertises a team on the front, is that fans of that team approach you and randomly being talking in code. They say things like, "Been a fan since '72." Or, "Next year is our year."

I put on my clothes very early in the morning, and I usually don't think about them again. So, I have regularly spent the entire day shouting, "GO CUBS," to the world while I have, in fact, forgotten that I am wearing such a statement on my sweatshirt. Not being a sports connoisseur, when people I don't recognize approach me and say such things, I assume they are spies and want to pick up some stolen package from me. I feel as if I should respond with something like, "The fat man walks alone," or, "The eagle has landed." Not being a spy though, nothing comes to mind. So I just stare at them. This usually ends the conversation.

In retrospect, I believe I should have researched the team before wearing it out in the sight of people. Then I might catch on to their lingo.

Oh well.

Aww

My three fifteen year old son keeps life exciting. He always has. He learned to crawl in one day and learned to walk the next. Those were some of the worst days of my life. You see your adorable, round-headed little tyke on his knees rocking back and forth and grab the camera in a fit of excitement. You tell your friends and neighbors that exciting things are taking place.

But, he did it a bit differently. The grin on his face as he rocked back and forth soon turned into a frustrated grimace, which soon turned into a growl, which soon turned into a howl. And howl is what that little guy did from 8 AM until 11 PM when he finally got it and crawled around the room until his knees bled. Sighing with relief, we put him to bed and cried ourselves to sleep as we let the stress flow away from us.

But, relief is not what we got. Because he had conquered crawling. He was bored of it. As soon as he got his nine-month-old, chubby, squishy body out of the crib the next morning, he tackled walking in the exact same manner as the day before. By howl.

He is a very independent fella.

This boy got sent home from second grade one day when the teacher realized his temperature was 104.
"I felt sick as soon as you woke me up, and I felt worse when I ate breakfast," he told me.
"Why didn't you tell me? You didn't have to go to school feeling sick."
"Well, I just thought that I would feel better if I took a nap during recess."
"Did you take a nap during recess?"
"Yeah. I laid in the grass in the sun and it felt great."
"But you still didn't feel better?"
"I felt okay, but my friend felt my arm and said I was really hot, and he told the teacher that I was sick."
"I need to give that boy a cupcake."

Last month I took Josiah to the doctor for a physical and discovered he had strep throat and a broken finger. He had neglected to mention these details to me.

Yesterday he told me that he forgot to sign up for the bus for the band trip this weekend. That means I will now get the honor of driving him one hour to play his snare drum for one song and then drive him one hour back home.

Last night he walked in the front door and stood there.
"Mom!" he called. "Can you come here?"
"What is it?" I asked, noting the strange way he was holding something behind his back.
"You know how I always forget to tell you important stuff and you end up doing so much stuff for me like driving me around, waiting for me, washing clothes at bedtime, and dropping stuff off at school?"
"Yes," I said slowly and suspiciously as I began to imagine the gravity of the event that might have been forgotten to make this boy take note of such details.
"Well, I want you to know that I really appreciate it." And then he pulled a lovely bouquet of flowers from behind his back and gave them to me. And it wasn't my birthday.

He made it into the will.

Come On Now

Moving is disorienting. All your patterns change and you feel like a stranger to your own life. I've had to find new grocery stores, new ATM machines, and program new phone numbers in my phone. How is a person to keep track of it all? Which is why things got a bit whack last week.

"Mom," Makenna said, "You need to look up my new school's phone number and call to tell them I have mono." It is always fun when your kids come down with a major illness just at the worst possible time.
"Got it!" I assured her confidently. So I went and googled her new school, programed the new number into my phone, tucked the poor, sweet girl back into bed, and headed out to attack my day.
"Good morning," I said to the school secretary. "My daughter has mono and will be missing some school in the next couple weeks."
"Makenna?" She asked. "That doesn't sound familiar."
"Probably because she has only been a student for a week," I told her.
So I got patched through to the nurse and discussed this medical situation in full detail. Feeling pretty good, I hung up and patted myself on the back for completing this task in such a thorough manner.

Then, a couple hours later I received a call from the school informing me that my daughter was not at school. I told them I had already called her in sick, and the caller hung up in a flustered and confused manner.

Two days later the same thing happened.

"I think Makenna's new school is really unorganized," I said at dinner. "I've called her in sick twice, and both times they didn't get it recorded properly. And they didn't remember me calling about her transcripts or taking care of her fees."
"And I talked to the nurse and she didn't seem to know I had mono," Makenna added.
"Your nurse is a man," I corrected.
"I talked to a woman."
"Maybe there are two," I suggested.
"Or maybe I talked to a sub," Makenna added.
"Well, they should communicate with each other. That seems a little disorganized."
"Not a good first impression," Mike piped up.
"Yeah, and did you know that they are called the Warriors, but when they answer the phone they say Home of the Bears? Whats up with that?"

After supper, Makenna went to look up her grades on the computer and began laughing hysterically. Her grades usually aren't hilarious, so I was confused.

"Mom, is this the phone number you have been calling?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered after checking my contact information.
"That is a school in Connecticut!"
"What?"
Sure enough, it was the wrong school. By a long shot.
"Didn't the different area code make you think this was the wrong school?"
"Well, I noticed it, but we are moving from Des Moines to Norwalk. I thought maybe Norwalk was in a different area code." It makes sense.
"But nothing else in Norwalk is a different area code. Didn't that seem odd?"
"Don't sass me."

So, I called a school in Connecticut several times to discuss my daughter's illness, attendance, and transcripts.

Moving is disorienting.

It is a good excuse, and I'm sticking with it.

Lucky

When you get a great deal on a house because it has gone through foreclosure and is beat up pretty badly, you feel so lucky. Then you stand in your kitchen attempting to cook solely with a microwave wearing your pajamas because that is the only clothing you can find. You can't let the kids go to sleep until you find the box containing their blankets, and you stand in line to brush your teeth at the kitchen sink because that is the only working sink in the house. Then, instead of feeling lucky, your eyes glaze over and you remember the better times of last month when you knew where your socks were.

I now understand why moving is listed as one of the top five stress inducing experiences. Half of everything I own is in the garage packed in a box, and the other half is not the half I need. I can't unpack because we took on a "fixer upper" and it is kicking our butts.

I confess that there have been plenty of times that I have thought about returning the house to the bank like you would a pair of shoes to the mall. But then I saw Emery standing in the space that was to be her room. I was outside and saw her through a window. Her "room" was currently an old formal entertaining room, but we told her we would build her walls and closets. Then, like only an artist can, she stood, stared, and dreamed. It took her a mighty long time and a lot of eye squinting. I have no idea what ideas she tossed around, but when she was done she told us she had a plan that involved paining a tree across the wall above her bed. She wanted a platform bed with no headboard, and the tree was to be purple. Then she sat down and drew it out.

Then I felt lucky again, but for a completely different reason.





Oh yeah - and then I remembered that this is my backyard.



Lucky.

Dog Days

My dog loves the snow. He loves it more than anybody should love snow. He eats it, throws it into the air to catch it, rolls in it, snuggles down and takes naps in it. It's not right.

Since my husband plows snow as a side job, he thought Arrow would love to ride along in the truck and enjoy the cold weather like only a Husky can. Apparently a Husky can do a great many things while riding along in a truck.

The chaos started even before they left. Mike opened the truck door and called to Arrow, which usually compels him to hurdle himself like a bolt of lightening from the house and into the passenger seat. However, this time he ran to the garage. Why the garage? There is no explanation on earth to explain that course of action. He ran into the garage. The problem was that moments before Arrow chose this destination, Mike pushed the button on the remote to shut the garage door. And, because we are barbaric, we do not have those sensors that stop the door from closing if something is in the way. Yes, the dog became trapped under the door. And, instead of pushing the button on the remote another time and causing the door to open again, Mike went into full fledged THE-DOG-I-LOVE-IS-IN-DANGER panic. He yelled, the dog screamed, Mike ran around, the dog whined. It was entertaining. Don't tell my husband I said that.

After that got worked out things went okay until Mike thought Arrow needed a bit of air. He rolled the window down just enough for Arrow to stick his head out, which Arrow did. He closed his eyes and let his ears blow in the twelve degree wind. He loved it. It was obvious by the way his tongue was hanging out the side of his mouth and flapping in the breeze. In an effort to partake in even more freezing wind activity, Arrow placed his massive puppy paw on the arm rest and stretched his body. But his paw landed on the window controls and turned the window into a bottom sided guillotine. Mike tried to use his control to roll the window back down, but Arrow had first dibs on it and the window continued its attack. That was not enjoyable for the dog. He yelped and screamed until Mike pulled over and righted the situation. And this activity was repeated several times as the day wore on.

When his salt supply was low, Mike ran into the store to purchase more and left Arrow in the car with the heater running. Because he was alone and didn't like that, Arrow did a puppy protest dance all over the cab. During the dance, he happened to step on the auto lock and locked himself inside the running truck. It is almost impossible, no matter how long a person does charades in the parking lot of a hardware store, to entice a dog to step on the auto unlock.

Then he ate a clipboard.

I'm pretty sure Mike has a new plowing buddy.

Without My Daughter

My daughter turned 16 today, and it made me think. Her birth was traumatizing and painful. We were both near death and spent over a week in intensive care. But ever since day one that little girl has been a fireball that crashed into my existence, and a little thing like a life-threatening disease in her lungs wasn't about to get the best of her, even if she was only a helpless, newborn baby. She fought like the dickens, and nobody ever told her to stop.

She doesn't like to be told what to do or think, but she does plenty of doing and thinking. She is the kind of person who stands up for kids who have no friends, gives all of her pennies to a homeless man so he can buy jeans without holes, realizes what she said is ridiculous after she already has the attention of everyone in the room, dyes her hair and then regrets it, begs to go to a concert and then begs to get out of it, and when someone expects her to behave in a certain manner, she will do the opposite.

Her birth alone cost a fortune, but since then she has cost me and her dad several more fortunes. One time she ruined our carpet by spreading vaseline all over it. She dyed all of her clothes a deep shade of red by dumping packages of cherry kool-aid into the kiddie pool and emptying her drawers into the red concoction. She put a large gash in the side of her dad's truck by scraping it along a stop sign. She has never met a tire she can't pop, she ironed - and melted - the carpet in her bedroom, and spilled nail polish on every blanket and comforter we own.

Without my daughter I'd probably have a nice dent-free car, lovely unripped furniture, and a table without the finish removed by acetone. I wouldn't feel the need to buy every new shampoo that hits the market or a closet full of self-tanning lotions. I wouldn't invest in every new gadget that seems sleeker than the six month old version. I wouldn't eat out so often, and I wouldn't go to as many movies.

Without my daughter, my bank account would probably reach into the millions, and in my heart I would feel utterly destitute. All my nice possessions would be as important to me as dust. She has colored my life with limitless love, endless surprise, spontaneity, laughter, and meaning.

Without my daughter, I'd be the poorest millionaire on earth.

Happy Birthday Makenna. Your birth is a miracle that is still happening.

Darn Gypsies

I don't know the proper definition of moving, but I define it in this way - Moving: moo-ve-ing: Purposefully misplacing every possession you own for an indefinite period of time.

By choice, we have loaded everything we use, need, or want into boxes. Then we apparently gave those boxes to gypsies who traipsed across the nation with them. That is why I crack eggs into an empty yogurt container, stir them with a toothpick, and serve them to my son on a napkin. Then I write a note to the teacher asking her to please accept Drake's homework even though it is written on the back of an envelope that came in the mail that morning. The college-ruled paper is with the gypsies.

The past three weeks have been stuffed to the brim with transforming the house we bought into something humans would live in. Because I was in shock that we were spontaneously moving, I didn't take enough before pictures, but, let me tell you, the place needed work. It was a vacant foreclosure, so you can imagine the condition we found it in. I don't know who would buy a place like that.

The hard wood floor was installed by three guys who can nail wood to a floor as fast as a woodpecker. They utterly transformed my house in two days.  When standing in the loft taking this picture, I noticed what a disaster the kitchen had become, and I wondered again why we had decided to do this crazy thing.







Then I went home and slept it off. When I returned the next day, my floors looked shiny and perfect and all was right in the world.

Still, I wonder if the gypsies would take me with them.

Yep

Everyone has those days. The kind of day that leaves you tired beyond all reason.

I had worked at the house we are soon moving into, and I discovered a job I hate worse than painting ceilings, which has reigned supreme as my most dreaded job for years. Sanding ceilings. It. Is. The. Worst. Unfortunately the house which will soon be our home is covered in the dreaded ceiling substance known as "popcorn." It's that ugly, bumpy stuff people used to love to spread across the ceiling and HGTV has declared that it will devalue your house, haunt your guests, burn your eyes, and frighten small children. Clearly it must go.

So, after my dear dad and loving son scraped most of the bumps away, I got onto a ladder and sanded that surface until not a bump or gouge remained. When one is sanding a ceiling's entire surface, many things happen. One is that dust has no place to fall but into your eyes. This is not only painful, but inconvenient when trying to see. Another thing that happens is that you breathe dust, eat dust, and become so plastered in white dust that you basically turn yourself into a piece of chalk. And then, when the job is finished, you realize that you may never again be able to move your arms.

So, I drove myself home, showered for an eternity, and put on the softest clothes I could find. And also the clothes that were closest to me, thereby eliminating any need for arm movement. I noticed it had begun to snow and the temperature had plummeted, and I congratulated myself on the warm, cozy evening ahead of me. Then my son told me he needed a ride to a friends house.

A more responsible citizen might have sucked it up and changed into appropriate public attire. But I had spent the day breathing dust. I just took myself clad in my husband's XL sweatshirt, sweatpants (cuz I love them and don't care who knows), pink and black striped fuzzy socks (Again - love them), and fuzzy slippers into the car and sweetly drove my son, who I adore.

When I pulled into the driveway it hit me that I would have to walk to the front door and discuss play date details with, likely, a responsible mother who probably doesn't wear fuzzy clothing when speaking to other parents. So, I decided that if  kept my conversation brief enough she might not see me. I spoke lightening quick and made my get away.

Unfortunately my get away included stairs. Five of them. In fuzzy slippers. In a snowstorm.

My feet left the earth, and my lower back met each step as I bounced ungracefully down the steps and landed in a snow drift. Apparently the bouncing was quite violent because my warm, fuzzy slippers were propelled into the driveway, and my keys landed in the bushes. The beet color of the bruise I have makes me believe that I might expect full recovery about this time next year.

But I still love my fuzzy clothes.