As most of you know, we moved this week, and we're now in our new home. We don't have a stove, microwave, or heat, but we're in, and that makes us happy.
Last night, Sugar joined us on our second night here. We made the decision about five years ago that if we ever moved, Sugar would become an outside dog. She rolls in mud and then comes in our house and lays on our couch. We love her dearly, but we love our new living room set more. So sue us. This house is beautiful and we want to keep it that way.
Last night, due to an abundance of french doors along the back patio and a lack of curtains, we were treated to beseeching eyes begging to be let in and an adorable pink tongue that would be better suited to a fluffy puppy than our 80 pound half black lab/half pony. Feeling guilty, but sticking to our guns, we moved "her" couch to the sunroom, which was surprisingly warm, so she wouldn't freeze to death under her piles of blubber. Then we gave her a blanket, tucked her in, and called it good.
She didn't.
We woke up to accusing eyes at the bedroom french doors. I'm wondering if we're going to be trapped in the house by Cujo now. She looks affronted.
Ainsley let the other dogs out to do their business, and that's when the rodeo began. I heard a shriek by the front door and looked to see Ains hanging on to Sugar by the neck, clinging like a tick to her back. Sugar zigged and Ainsley listed to the side, sliding under her. I dodged couches and jumped over boxes to get to them before Sugar could become free and dirtify my beautiful new home with her presence.
"I've been injured!" Ainsley shrieked when Sugar trampled over her on her bolt to freedom. She'd fought the good fight, and now it was my turn to take over.
I caught Sugar as she galloped through the kitchen - no furniture there, just sharp knives - and tried to tackle her. She tried her zig zag routine with me, but HA! I'm not a 50 pound ankle biter. I won. She was push/pull/dragged out the back door, where we faced each other through the glass and she gave me her best hairy eyeball look and I stuck my tongue out at her.
Human trumps dog.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Dog Life
My children have reached the age - finally - where they no longer follow me from room to room all day long. Instead, they have passed that torch on to the dogs. Now I'm followed from the moment I wake up in the morning by the click click of little nails on the floor as we walk about the house.
Are you going to the potty, Mama? Not by yourself, surely? Do you want me to keep you company?
As I shut the door in the sad puppy's face, I have a moment of guilt before I'm flood with a sense of freedom. It only lasts until I open the door again to be faced with not only the one rebuffed dog, but the rest of his tribe as well. Three pairs of eyes stare reproachfully at me. How dare I do my business without them? Such selfishness.
Are you going to sit on this couch, Mama? I call shotgun!
No, I called shotgun first!
No, me!
Nuh uh! Stupid! I'll bite your face off, you rat-face!
Weiner dog!
Maybe I should have just kept have kids? It's really not any different.
Are you going to the potty, Mama? Not by yourself, surely? Do you want me to keep you company?
As I shut the door in the sad puppy's face, I have a moment of guilt before I'm flood with a sense of freedom. It only lasts until I open the door again to be faced with not only the one rebuffed dog, but the rest of his tribe as well. Three pairs of eyes stare reproachfully at me. How dare I do my business without them? Such selfishness.
Are you going to sit on this couch, Mama? I call shotgun!
No, I called shotgun first!
No, me!
Nuh uh! Stupid! I'll bite your face off, you rat-face!
Weiner dog!
Maybe I should have just kept have kids? It's really not any different.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
My Day
I'm going to tell you alllll about my day. You can thank me later.
First, some insights: I don't like this packing business. Nope, not at all. And I've come to the conclusion that we have too much STUFF. Mostly Peter has too much stuff. My stuff is cool. He called me a book whore earlier today, but after packing four boxes of HIS books, let the record show I think the pot is calling the kettle black.
I maybe over=scheduled my day just a bit. I was a little high on my Supermom skills and forgot to figure in stupid drivers. I had a dr's appt for Scotlyn in Covington, followed by a cross country meet in Hammond for Pierson at the exact same time that I was supposed to drop Ainsley off for dance in Franklinton, which is 40 miles away. Then we had Awanas, also in Franklinton. I was rescued by my friend Lori, who kept Ainsley for the afternoon (vacay from Ainie!!!) and took her to dance, so that freed me for everything else.
After the dr appt in which I was told there is no cure for having a teenager, we headed to Hammond on I12. I12 is a bad bad place, in case you ain't from these here parts. It has Louisiana drivers on it. We passed a wreck that had already happened. It was cleared off the road, and traffic was flowing through. We were completely clear of it by several hundred yards, when the idgit two cars in front must have gotten a wild hair to rubber neck around and take a lookie-loo. He/she/it came to a full and complete stop from 60 mph. Car two missed them by inches, and I (car three) missed car two by a foot. I didn't realize how bad it could have been until I saw cars four and five slide past me - sideways - in the median. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw three more cars skidded at various angles behind me. I've been hankering for a new VW Jetta, but this is not the way I want to get it. And this crazy person in the blue car number one was still sitting there, completely stopped. If only I'd had a gun...
At the cross country meet, Pierson's coach heard me saying that he'd fun a 28 minute 5k. I'm not sure how she overheard me, except maybe how I told everyone. She gave him the hairy eyeball and then a little peptalk about how if he can run three miles in 28 minutes, he can run his one mile quicker than 8 minutes. For crying out loud, he lopes through the race like a giraffe out for a Sunday stroll. When it came time for his race, he was told to run the first 1/2 mile at normal pace, then really give it his all in the second half. She actually expected him to break into a sweat today.
Well, my boy beat his own personal record by 47 seconds and won a medal. And then he came *this close* to puking himself. Now he knows what it means to leave it all on the field, and I don't think he's impressed. *singing* My boy has a medal, my boy has a medal....
Left the race and headed to church. Construction. Dead stand still on the interstate. My life bites. Finally it started moving again and my life quit biting as much. I made it to church, dragged myself up the stairs, yelled at kids to say their verses on patience and fruits of the spirit, picked Ainie up from dance, got milk, came home.
Good night.
First, some insights: I don't like this packing business. Nope, not at all. And I've come to the conclusion that we have too much STUFF. Mostly Peter has too much stuff. My stuff is cool. He called me a book whore earlier today, but after packing four boxes of HIS books, let the record show I think the pot is calling the kettle black.
I maybe over=scheduled my day just a bit. I was a little high on my Supermom skills and forgot to figure in stupid drivers. I had a dr's appt for Scotlyn in Covington, followed by a cross country meet in Hammond for Pierson at the exact same time that I was supposed to drop Ainsley off for dance in Franklinton, which is 40 miles away. Then we had Awanas, also in Franklinton. I was rescued by my friend Lori, who kept Ainsley for the afternoon (vacay from Ainie!!!) and took her to dance, so that freed me for everything else.
After the dr appt in which I was told there is no cure for having a teenager, we headed to Hammond on I12. I12 is a bad bad place, in case you ain't from these here parts. It has Louisiana drivers on it. We passed a wreck that had already happened. It was cleared off the road, and traffic was flowing through. We were completely clear of it by several hundred yards, when the idgit two cars in front must have gotten a wild hair to rubber neck around and take a lookie-loo. He/she/it came to a full and complete stop from 60 mph. Car two missed them by inches, and I (car three) missed car two by a foot. I didn't realize how bad it could have been until I saw cars four and five slide past me - sideways - in the median. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw three more cars skidded at various angles behind me. I've been hankering for a new VW Jetta, but this is not the way I want to get it. And this crazy person in the blue car number one was still sitting there, completely stopped. If only I'd had a gun...
At the cross country meet, Pierson's coach heard me saying that he'd fun a 28 minute 5k. I'm not sure how she overheard me, except maybe how I told everyone. She gave him the hairy eyeball and then a little peptalk about how if he can run three miles in 28 minutes, he can run his one mile quicker than 8 minutes. For crying out loud, he lopes through the race like a giraffe out for a Sunday stroll. When it came time for his race, he was told to run the first 1/2 mile at normal pace, then really give it his all in the second half. She actually expected him to break into a sweat today.
Well, my boy beat his own personal record by 47 seconds and won a medal. And then he came *this close* to puking himself. Now he knows what it means to leave it all on the field, and I don't think he's impressed. *singing* My boy has a medal, my boy has a medal....
Left the race and headed to church. Construction. Dead stand still on the interstate. My life bites. Finally it started moving again and my life quit biting as much. I made it to church, dragged myself up the stairs, yelled at kids to say their verses on patience and fruits of the spirit, picked Ainie up from dance, got milk, came home.
Good night.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Diva's Diatribe
Mama says I have to write a report on yesterday's field trip. I don't know why. I think it's STUpid. I mean, like, really, it's not like I need to learn anything. I'm pedigreed. If I wanted to know anything, I'd just make one of the grade horses look it up. They're my minions.
Mama decided that because the weather was "so lovely!" (gag) that we were going for a trail ride. She didn't even bother to ask me how I felt about it, like she didn't think my opinion counted. Rude. And, as usual, she invited some strange person to ride with us. At least this time she didn't make the strange person - in this case, Hannah - ride me. I got stuck with Evil Blonde Girl (Scotlyn). Scotti isn't all bad; she feeds me a lot, but personally, I don't think that gives her the right to just throw a saddle on me whenever she feels like it. I have rights. You know why Mama never rides me? Because she has to ride her "sweet boy" (blech, right?) Blitz. He thinks he's so perfect, and he's not even registered. Can you imagine? And Mama just thinks he's sooo wonderful. Pffft, not even!
I got last pick on the saddles too, like I'm the least important horse or something. I got stuck with Daddy's ugly, heavy, roping saddle. I hate that thing! It doesn't fit right and slides around, and it rubs my lovely high whithers. I told Mama I didn't like it when she saddled me, but she just slapped my neck and told me to suck it up buttercup. She didn't even blink when I tried to bite her. Hannah was impressed, at least. She thinks I'm mean. I laid my ears back at her just for fun, and she almost fell backwards trying to get away from me. That was fun.
When it was time to get in the trailer, Mama said Blitz got to go in first. Probably because Blitz is perfect. What am I, chopped liver? Moonshine, the village idiot, got to stand next to him in the front.
"Yay!" She whinnied. "I get to stick my head over the top and my nose go all ..." and she flappled her nostrils like a kite. Like I said, village idiot.
Blitz just stood there without a word, like the king of the horse trailer. Like he deserved to be at the front of the trailer. Like he was king of the stinking trailer.
Next Mama loaded me, right behind him. Great. Blitz does his business in the trailer, like, a lot. Always a pleasant experience. Jane always gets loaded last. Mama says it's because Jane has EDA rights. That's Equines With Disabilities Acts, in case you didn't know. She had a sarcoma on her eye, so instead of paying boatload of money trying to save the eye, Mama and Daddy decided to feed the kids and pay the mortgage instead and *pop* out came the eye. Now we call Jane "Cyclops", but only when Mama doesn't hear us. She's all about being PC.
"Diva Louisa, move your red butt over," Mama said. I didn't like her tone, so I moved my butt over all right. I moved it more to the middle. She stood right behind me (brave or dumb? - you decide) and shoved me the other way. I don't put up with that, fer sure. I lifted my foot and cocked it to let her know she better behave herself or else. "Put your donkey foot down, afore I shove it somewhere unpleasant," she said, giving me another shove.
Oh no she didn't! Did she just call me a donkey?! She did, didn't she? I'm a registered Half Arabian/Half Saddlebred! I am no donkey, I tell you what! I am a National Show Horse, worth like a gajillion dollars. I was so mad at her that I stomped my foot and bit Blitz on the butt. That'll show her. Blitz woke up from his slumber and passed gas right up my nose, and all mama did was shove me again. She didn't even apologize. I will not put up with this treatment. You just wait, she'll get hers.
Once we got out on the trail, things went okay for a while. I like getting away from the house so much that it's worth putting up with people, at least once in a while. And Scotlyn was riding me, and she ain't near as uhhh, hefty...as Mama. That woman nearly makes me swaybacked.
I had to admit it was a pretty day. It would have been perfect, if not for Ainsley sobbing hysterically behind us that she wanted to go back and Mama yelling even louder that nothing was going to happen so shut up already. At least Mama talks to everyone like that, and it's not just me. Except Blitz - she never talks to Blitz like that. He can do no wrong in her eyes. I hate him.
We'd been riding about half an hour when Ainsley's wounded-moose wails took on a shrill quality of the breaking glass type. We all turned to look and saw Jane flop to the ground with Ainsley still on her back, mind you.
"Just step out of the stirrups, Ainie," Mama said. "No sense making a big fuss." She turned to Jane, who was desparately trying to rid herself of the saddle by rolling from side to side and said, "This is really getting old. You're a horse, for crying out loud. A beast of burden. Get up and walk."
"Carry me," Jane whined. "I'm can't go any further. My legs hurt. My back hurts. I have a headache."
And they call me a drama queen?
So Ainsley refused to get back on Jane (go figure) and rode double with Mama on Blitz, while Mama sang his praises about what a good horse he was all the way back to the trailer. Like he was the first horse in the history of the world to ever be ridden double, seriously? Ugh.
This is what I have to put up with. I should be living in an air conditioned stable, attended to by grooms and stable hands, fed a special brand of mash, and have my mane braided daily. Instead, I'm thrown in the pasture with prehistoric horses of limited intelligence and we all have to share one stall, which Blitz gets dibs on. Our feed buckets hang on a fence and we get a scoop of Stock and Stable 12 thrown in it. If I maybe happen to spill it, I'm expected to eat it off the ground. The ground! But ...I get kisses on the nose and scratches behind my ears. Mama usually calls me "pretty girl" when no one is looking.
I guess it's all good.
Mama decided that because the weather was "so lovely!" (gag) that we were going for a trail ride. She didn't even bother to ask me how I felt about it, like she didn't think my opinion counted. Rude. And, as usual, she invited some strange person to ride with us. At least this time she didn't make the strange person - in this case, Hannah - ride me. I got stuck with Evil Blonde Girl (Scotlyn). Scotti isn't all bad; she feeds me a lot, but personally, I don't think that gives her the right to just throw a saddle on me whenever she feels like it. I have rights. You know why Mama never rides me? Because she has to ride her "sweet boy" (blech, right?) Blitz. He thinks he's so perfect, and he's not even registered. Can you imagine? And Mama just thinks he's sooo wonderful. Pffft, not even!
I got last pick on the saddles too, like I'm the least important horse or something. I got stuck with Daddy's ugly, heavy, roping saddle. I hate that thing! It doesn't fit right and slides around, and it rubs my lovely high whithers. I told Mama I didn't like it when she saddled me, but she just slapped my neck and told me to suck it up buttercup. She didn't even blink when I tried to bite her. Hannah was impressed, at least. She thinks I'm mean. I laid my ears back at her just for fun, and she almost fell backwards trying to get away from me. That was fun.
When it was time to get in the trailer, Mama said Blitz got to go in first. Probably because Blitz is perfect. What am I, chopped liver? Moonshine, the village idiot, got to stand next to him in the front.
"Yay!" She whinnied. "I get to stick my head over the top and my nose go all ..." and she flappled her nostrils like a kite. Like I said, village idiot.
Blitz just stood there without a word, like the king of the horse trailer. Like he deserved to be at the front of the trailer. Like he was king of the stinking trailer.
Next Mama loaded me, right behind him. Great. Blitz does his business in the trailer, like, a lot. Always a pleasant experience. Jane always gets loaded last. Mama says it's because Jane has EDA rights. That's Equines With Disabilities Acts, in case you didn't know. She had a sarcoma on her eye, so instead of paying boatload of money trying to save the eye, Mama and Daddy decided to feed the kids and pay the mortgage instead and *pop* out came the eye. Now we call Jane "Cyclops", but only when Mama doesn't hear us. She's all about being PC.
"Diva Louisa, move your red butt over," Mama said. I didn't like her tone, so I moved my butt over all right. I moved it more to the middle. She stood right behind me (brave or dumb? - you decide) and shoved me the other way. I don't put up with that, fer sure. I lifted my foot and cocked it to let her know she better behave herself or else. "Put your donkey foot down, afore I shove it somewhere unpleasant," she said, giving me another shove.
Oh no she didn't! Did she just call me a donkey?! She did, didn't she? I'm a registered Half Arabian/Half Saddlebred! I am no donkey, I tell you what! I am a National Show Horse, worth like a gajillion dollars. I was so mad at her that I stomped my foot and bit Blitz on the butt. That'll show her. Blitz woke up from his slumber and passed gas right up my nose, and all mama did was shove me again. She didn't even apologize. I will not put up with this treatment. You just wait, she'll get hers.
Once we got out on the trail, things went okay for a while. I like getting away from the house so much that it's worth putting up with people, at least once in a while. And Scotlyn was riding me, and she ain't near as uhhh, hefty...as Mama. That woman nearly makes me swaybacked.
I had to admit it was a pretty day. It would have been perfect, if not for Ainsley sobbing hysterically behind us that she wanted to go back and Mama yelling even louder that nothing was going to happen so shut up already. At least Mama talks to everyone like that, and it's not just me. Except Blitz - she never talks to Blitz like that. He can do no wrong in her eyes. I hate him.
We'd been riding about half an hour when Ainsley's wounded-moose wails took on a shrill quality of the breaking glass type. We all turned to look and saw Jane flop to the ground with Ainsley still on her back, mind you.
"Just step out of the stirrups, Ainie," Mama said. "No sense making a big fuss." She turned to Jane, who was desparately trying to rid herself of the saddle by rolling from side to side and said, "This is really getting old. You're a horse, for crying out loud. A beast of burden. Get up and walk."
"Carry me," Jane whined. "I'm can't go any further. My legs hurt. My back hurts. I have a headache."
And they call me a drama queen?
So Ainsley refused to get back on Jane (go figure) and rode double with Mama on Blitz, while Mama sang his praises about what a good horse he was all the way back to the trailer. Like he was the first horse in the history of the world to ever be ridden double, seriously? Ugh.
This is what I have to put up with. I should be living in an air conditioned stable, attended to by grooms and stable hands, fed a special brand of mash, and have my mane braided daily. Instead, I'm thrown in the pasture with prehistoric horses of limited intelligence and we all have to share one stall, which Blitz gets dibs on. Our feed buckets hang on a fence and we get a scoop of Stock and Stable 12 thrown in it. If I maybe happen to spill it, I'm expected to eat it off the ground. The ground! But ...I get kisses on the nose and scratches behind my ears. Mama usually calls me "pretty girl" when no one is looking.
I guess it's all good.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Homeschoolers Unite!
Yesterday I took the birthday girl shopping for an outfit. I've learned never to buy her anything without her present since her responses tend to range from comments like "You think I'm going to wear that?" to sticking her finger down her throat and making a lovely impression of puking her intestines out.
We found ourselves in Old Navy at noonish time. I walked around a rack with my head turned backward, yelling at one of my spawn (as per usual) when I tripped over some kid. A kid! In Old Navy! During school hours. Hunh. The kid, a cute little youngin of about five with her hair in ponytails and matching clothes - clean, even - darted away before I could stomp on her, and an older boy about 11 grabbed her arm and they scurried away like mice. I was intrigued. What are kids doing in Old Navy during school hours, I wanted to know. Never you mind that three of mine were climbing the walls and hanging from the light fixtures; that's irrelevant to this story.
I found a woman that must have been the mother. I deduced this because the kids were huddled behind her as she searched through a rack of shirts muttering about how they never had anything in her size. Her children were both neatly dressed but she looked like she'd been run over by a street sweeper. It was like looking in a mirror, except my kids were not neatly dressed. They were street swept too.
"Are you a homeschooler?" I walked right up to her.
"Y-yes," she said. "My son had a doctor's appointment today, so I just thought it would be okay if we did some shopping while we were out. We're going to finish their work when we get home. They're on grade level in every subject, honest."
"What's your name? Where do you live? How long you been homeschooling? Will you be my friend?" I'm shy usually, so this was hard for me, but I didn't want her to feel like I was snobby or anything. I grabbed one of my urchins. "This kid -" I looked at the one I grabbed to see which one it was, "yeah, he's mine. He's about your kid's age. Maybe we can get them together for a playdate sometime. Does your son like karate?" I looked at the boy, shaking and sobbing in the corner. "Well, do you?" I turned to Pierson, "Pierson, go play with that boy, while I talk to my friend."
I have no idea why that woman grabbed her kids and ran out of the store. She must not have been from these parts.
We found ourselves in Old Navy at noonish time. I walked around a rack with my head turned backward, yelling at one of my spawn (as per usual) when I tripped over some kid. A kid! In Old Navy! During school hours. Hunh. The kid, a cute little youngin of about five with her hair in ponytails and matching clothes - clean, even - darted away before I could stomp on her, and an older boy about 11 grabbed her arm and they scurried away like mice. I was intrigued. What are kids doing in Old Navy during school hours, I wanted to know. Never you mind that three of mine were climbing the walls and hanging from the light fixtures; that's irrelevant to this story.
I found a woman that must have been the mother. I deduced this because the kids were huddled behind her as she searched through a rack of shirts muttering about how they never had anything in her size. Her children were both neatly dressed but she looked like she'd been run over by a street sweeper. It was like looking in a mirror, except my kids were not neatly dressed. They were street swept too.
"Are you a homeschooler?" I walked right up to her.
"Y-yes," she said. "My son had a doctor's appointment today, so I just thought it would be okay if we did some shopping while we were out. We're going to finish their work when we get home. They're on grade level in every subject, honest."
"What's your name? Where do you live? How long you been homeschooling? Will you be my friend?" I'm shy usually, so this was hard for me, but I didn't want her to feel like I was snobby or anything. I grabbed one of my urchins. "This kid -" I looked at the one I grabbed to see which one it was, "yeah, he's mine. He's about your kid's age. Maybe we can get them together for a playdate sometime. Does your son like karate?" I looked at the boy, shaking and sobbing in the corner. "Well, do you?" I turned to Pierson, "Pierson, go play with that boy, while I talk to my friend."
I have no idea why that woman grabbed her kids and ran out of the store. She must not have been from these parts.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Bookends and Middles
I have two kinds of kids: Bookends and Middles. Clear as mud? Let me explain.
I have four children. Chad is the oldest and Ainsley is the youngest. They are my Bookends. I also have my fair-haired blondes Scotlyn and Pierson. Those two have eyes as blue as the sky. As neither Peter nor I have blue eyes, we really beat the odds there. All of my kids are unique (weird) individuals, but since the last one popped out we've noticed some striking parallels with the bookends/middles.
The middles did all the baby milestones at the same ages. They had the same sensitivities and a lot of the same psychotic hang ups. They were often mistaken for twins, despite the two year age difference. That's probably because Pierson is a hulk of a kid and Scotlyn was a dainty pixie child. Don't ask if they're twins now, though, because Scotlyn carries a knife. Fifteen of them actually, and she's been watching Swamp People a lot.
And then there are my bookends. They're like Siamese twins separated by nine years. These two are proof that God has a sense of humor and He's not afraid to use it. We had planned to stop with three kids and decided to have one more. I guess God decided to show us, huh? Not that we're complaining. Life would be awful boring without Itty Bitty Ainie.
When Chad was a baby I was a single mom. We lived in a tiny, adorable two bedroom house and as Chad walked through it, things would levitate around him and crash to the ground. We had plastic dinosaurs everywhere. There were some that I swear I had never seen before that just appeared out of thin air. And Hot Wheels. He didn't even have to touch them, and they would fall to the floor. And tantrums. Oh my goodness, the tantrums. And then he'd start and we'd both we wailing away. I was at my wit's end.
I read James Dobson's book The Strong Willed Child when Chad was 20 months and I thought, "Aha! Here's the answer! I must not let this terror control me. I will boss him around!"
So, the next time he threw a toy on the ground, I very calmly and lovingly (as Dr. Dobson urged) said, "Chad, pick up your toy and put it away." He laughed at me. Laughed!
Well! That was a swat with a wooden spoon, right there. By the time the weekend was over, we had spoons in every nook and cranny in that 800 square foot house, but he had picked up that toy. I. Had. Won. Thank you, Dr. Dobson! (I'd like to note here that I met Peter just a few months after this episode, so I had reinforcements from here on out.)
It must not have taken very well, though, because I distinctly remember a time when he was nine that he spent the weekend with Nana and Papa, and Peter and I filled three 30 gallon garbage bags of crap in his room. He came home and threw a hissy fit because "he was gonna clean if we'd given him a chance". Pffftttt.
So how are our bookends similar? I just cleaned the girls' room. I filled three garbage bags and two laundry baskets and not one thing was Scotlyn's. And I only cleared one corner of the room. As for the boys' room? I don't think there's a floor anymore, but my sweet Middle has all his clothes neatly put away and his books lined up on his bookshelf.
I have four children. Chad is the oldest and Ainsley is the youngest. They are my Bookends. I also have my fair-haired blondes Scotlyn and Pierson. Those two have eyes as blue as the sky. As neither Peter nor I have blue eyes, we really beat the odds there. All of my kids are unique (weird) individuals, but since the last one popped out we've noticed some striking parallels with the bookends/middles.
The middles did all the baby milestones at the same ages. They had the same sensitivities and a lot of the same psychotic hang ups. They were often mistaken for twins, despite the two year age difference. That's probably because Pierson is a hulk of a kid and Scotlyn was a dainty pixie child. Don't ask if they're twins now, though, because Scotlyn carries a knife. Fifteen of them actually, and she's been watching Swamp People a lot.
And then there are my bookends. They're like Siamese twins separated by nine years. These two are proof that God has a sense of humor and He's not afraid to use it. We had planned to stop with three kids and decided to have one more. I guess God decided to show us, huh? Not that we're complaining. Life would be awful boring without Itty Bitty Ainie.
When Chad was a baby I was a single mom. We lived in a tiny, adorable two bedroom house and as Chad walked through it, things would levitate around him and crash to the ground. We had plastic dinosaurs everywhere. There were some that I swear I had never seen before that just appeared out of thin air. And Hot Wheels. He didn't even have to touch them, and they would fall to the floor. And tantrums. Oh my goodness, the tantrums. And then he'd start and we'd both we wailing away. I was at my wit's end.
I read James Dobson's book The Strong Willed Child when Chad was 20 months and I thought, "Aha! Here's the answer! I must not let this terror control me. I will boss him around!"
So, the next time he threw a toy on the ground, I very calmly and lovingly (as Dr. Dobson urged) said, "Chad, pick up your toy and put it away." He laughed at me. Laughed!
Well! That was a swat with a wooden spoon, right there. By the time the weekend was over, we had spoons in every nook and cranny in that 800 square foot house, but he had picked up that toy. I. Had. Won. Thank you, Dr. Dobson! (I'd like to note here that I met Peter just a few months after this episode, so I had reinforcements from here on out.)
It must not have taken very well, though, because I distinctly remember a time when he was nine that he spent the weekend with Nana and Papa, and Peter and I filled three 30 gallon garbage bags of crap in his room. He came home and threw a hissy fit because "he was gonna clean if we'd given him a chance". Pffftttt.
So how are our bookends similar? I just cleaned the girls' room. I filled three garbage bags and two laundry baskets and not one thing was Scotlyn's. And I only cleared one corner of the room. As for the boys' room? I don't think there's a floor anymore, but my sweet Middle has all his clothes neatly put away and his books lined up on his bookshelf.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Suicide
I dedicate this to my precious cousin Joshua Oakes and my big brother Shawn Everett. I wish I could change things for you. I love you both so much.
I hate suicide. I think I hate it more than anything else. I want to take the one that did it and wake them up, shake them, and tell them to look around.
Look at your mother. Does she look better off without you? Look at her face. Look in her eyes, in her blank, expressionless eyes. There are no tears. Do you know why? Some pain is too deep to feel. Do you think you did her a favor? Her life will never be the same without you in it. Twenty years from now, she will still have moments when she gets that lost, faraway look as she wonders, "why did you choose the darkness? Why didn't you stay with me?" Did you doubt her love for you? Look at her now. Do you still doubt her love for you?
Look at your other family members, at your friends. Do you think even one of them is better off without you in this world? What about your children? Children need their father, even flawed fathers. Because a living, flawed father can get help and learn to be a better dad. A dead one is just...dead.
I understand wanting to end it all. I've thought about it before. I've even half-heartedly attempted it. I'm so glad I didn't succeed. God gave us this gift of life, and we are to use it for His glory. It's easier said than done, yes.
If you think no one will care if you end your life, I'm sure you're wrong. But let's just say that there is not one person in this world that cares, and maybe you're right. But there is One that would care very much, and shed many tears if you threw his precious gift away. And He matters most of all.
I hate suicide. I think I hate it more than anything else. I want to take the one that did it and wake them up, shake them, and tell them to look around.
Look at your mother. Does she look better off without you? Look at her face. Look in her eyes, in her blank, expressionless eyes. There are no tears. Do you know why? Some pain is too deep to feel. Do you think you did her a favor? Her life will never be the same without you in it. Twenty years from now, she will still have moments when she gets that lost, faraway look as she wonders, "why did you choose the darkness? Why didn't you stay with me?" Did you doubt her love for you? Look at her now. Do you still doubt her love for you?
Look at your other family members, at your friends. Do you think even one of them is better off without you in this world? What about your children? Children need their father, even flawed fathers. Because a living, flawed father can get help and learn to be a better dad. A dead one is just...dead.
I understand wanting to end it all. I've thought about it before. I've even half-heartedly attempted it. I'm so glad I didn't succeed. God gave us this gift of life, and we are to use it for His glory. It's easier said than done, yes.
If you think no one will care if you end your life, I'm sure you're wrong. But let's just say that there is not one person in this world that cares, and maybe you're right. But there is One that would care very much, and shed many tears if you threw his precious gift away. And He matters most of all.
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