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.

And So It Was

My husband came home early a few months back and said, "Hey, I want to show you a house I looked at today." My husband looks at a lot of houses for his job, so I didn't immediately panic. Then he frightened me a lot by explaining that he thought I would really like it.

"You must have not heard me the last fifty-nine times I said I am not interested in moving," I calmly reminded him.
"I know, but at least look at it."

With a gentle huffing and puffing and a lot of pouting, I rode with him out to take a look. We walked in through the garage, through the kitchen, into the WALK IN PANTRY, looked out the back windows into the six acres of beauty and saw the two ponds in at the bottom of a gently sloping hill, and I said, "We need to make an offer on this right now."
"But you haven't even seen the whole place," he reminded me.
"I don't need to. This is home for us." My heart had told me so.

We called on the ride home to put in our offer and we mentally moved in. The next day the realtor called and said there were multiple offers and we probably weren't the highest. We didn't want to loose the house, but we didn't want to go bankrupt either, so we drowned our sorrow in a couple hot drinks at a coffee shop and mentally moved out. Three days later our realtor called and told us the house was ours.

So it happened.

Amen.

Burned Microwave For Supper

While making supper, my daughter burned something. The microwave. Literally.

She was trying to be helpful, bless her heart. Things have been a bit crazy and chaotic, so she wanted to help with supper. I really don't know what she was trying to make, but she got her Rachel Ray on and poured a bit of olive oil into a pan and set it on the stove to get warm. Then she diced some tomatoes and garlic. Then the problem occurred. She dropped the tomatoes into the hot olive oil. Instant fire erupted. 

At Makenna's scream of horror, I spun to see tall and mighty flames covering the stove top and engulfing the over-the-range microwave.

Panic ensued and we all did different things to put the fire out. Makenna screamed and danced at the fire, as if trying to scare it out of existence. Emery and my mom became hypnotized and gazed at the fire in a daze. I grabbed a pitcher but knew better than to pour water onto a grease fire, so I just ran at the fire with my empty pitcher. Seriously, I know you should throw flour on a grease fire, but when a raging fire is consuming your kitchen it really doesn't seem like a good time to drag the flour down from the top shelf of the pantry. I think the four will have a new home in our house from now on. I think it will live wherever Makenna happens to be. And I am also considering purchasing the world's largest fire extinguisher I can find on e-bay later today.

We got the fire out in spite of ourselves. Makenna refuses to cook ever again. Bless her heart.  

Friday the 13th

I love driving my youngest daughter to school. I love listening to her talk to her friend. I learn all kinds of things. Like which boy at school likes which girl, which teacher is the best, who the two of them are mad at, what color of nail polish is super cool. Sometimes their conversations crack me up and I can't wait for them to get out of the car so I can laugh without hurting their feelings.

Recently, they were talking about Friday the 13th. They were imagining what might happen on that spooky day. Emery said that maybe the sun would never rise and it would be dark all day. Her friend suggested that maybe zombies would roam the hallways at school and they would defeat the zombie hoard by throwing sharp pencils. Then Emery said, "Maybe the streets will be teeming with black cats." Teeming? Really? My daughter uses the word teeming in regular conversation?

I was very relieved when they stepped out of the car so I could let my laughter fly. However, in retrospect, it might not look good to the teachers that I drop off the girls and drive away laughing. I think I might be leaving the wrong impression.

Things get so complicated.

Gotta Chase A Dog

While the kids were all home enjoying a long winter break, I decided to bust out a puzzle. Puzzles are like wormholes in my family. They trap my kids and suck them in, utterly transporting them to the ice skating paradise in the picture on the box. They are helpless against the puzzle. They must finish it. So, I was surprised when Josiah left. I was surprised for many reasons. Surprised that he could be drawn away from the hypnotic grip of the puzzle, surprised because he silently and without explanation walked out the front door and vanished, but, mostly, surprised because he left the house barefoot and in his pajama shorts on a rather cold December day.

However, I was even more surprised when he returned thirty minutes later all dirty and bloody. 

"WHERE DID YOU GO? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY ANYTHING?" I asked, like only a caring, loving mother can scream at her child. 

"I had to chase a dog,"Josiah told me, like that should clear it all up.

"Whose dog?"

"A lost dog."

"Did the dog attack you?"

"No, I fell."

And, even though I tried my best to squeeze more details out of that boy, that was the entire story. 

Growing Up

It is hard, when raising kids, to know all the details you may need to explain to them. Like when Makenna was four and I asked her, "Why did you color all over your brother's head?" and she told me, "Because you never told me not to." Or when I was leaving the kids with a babysitter and I overheard Drake tell her, "I will never remember your name because I don't love you." Or when Josiah needed bigger shoes and asked me, "How do I upgrade these to the next level?" I guess some things just don't get addressed in the Here's How To Behave speech.

So, I wasn't surprised when it happened again, but it was a bit entertaining when Emery told me, "I think I am growing up and getting fat because lately sometimes when I put my jeans on or take them off I have to unbutton them." I didn't tell her that most Americans have to grease their bodies and jump into their jeans off of a roof. She will figure it out.