The Lament of the Cleaners

My kids are basically good kids.  We have no major behavioral issues.  We have no pathological lying, no stealing, no tantrums.  We are blessed not to have anger issues.  We have four children who truly get along and enjoy each other's company.
So why, for the love of little green apples. would something as simple as cleaning a room cause so much strife and anguish.
Sure, the twins haven't actually hung up clean clothes for the last week.  Yes, it sits in a corner of the closet, next to a Santa hat and a lone shin guard.  Sure, Conner stacks all of his clothes on the lower hang bar and if there is no more room for more, he simply throws it over the bar.  Of course his toy box is empty but there is a stack of toys on top of it.
Yes, my boys are a bit of slobs.  I think that is some what expected.  Boys don't really care what they look like.  I do have one son with a love of clip on ties.  And boy, will he wear them with anything!  But no one really expects boys to be neat freaks.  It is well documented that (with a few exceptions) most males of the species aren't fully house trained until marriage.
So this brings us to the un-named member of this blog.  That would be my daughter, also known as Miss Chif.  When she comes down the stairs, she is in matching clothes, accessorized to within an inch.
She has a stable of hats, belts, earrings and other items that match and highlight her outfits, hair and eyes.
So imagine my complete shock when I went into her room to drop off towels.  The bed was tossed, there were at least seven outfits on the floor (am I to guess rejects?), there was dirty laundry under the bed, a half eaten cookie and shoes.  Dear Lord, there were shoes everywhere!
How does she come out of that room looking so good?  Haz Mat should be called in before the whole room reaches critical mass and goes super nova!
So I gingerly put the towels in her bathroom (another frightening zone) and tip toed around her room.  I peaked into her closet.  I am sorry to say that I will likely need therapy for post traumatic stress.
I gathered all, and I mean all of her discarded clothes and made a giant pile on her bed.  I disposed of the Valentines candy (note, it is in March now).
Then I left a supply of laundry baskets, trash bags and bathroom cleaners and I walked out.
I do believe we have reached the point where I am not needed to step in and do the work.  We are beyond the point where I am needed to sit and point out one item after another that needs put away.
Caitlyn came how to my wrath.  I explained the mess, my disappointment and then I offered her the final straw.
"If you fail to keep your room and clothing neat, there will be no spring clothes.  No summer clothes. You will spend summer in cut off jeans and boy t-shirts."
She turned green.  Tears welled into her eyes.  She stammered several excuses that bounced off my new armor and fell away.  I pointed to the mountain of clothes and walked out of the room.
I went downstairs to fold more laundry.  I could here sniffling, crying and a frustrated monologue.  I felt a great deal of satisfaction.  I had pierced the tween facade of maturity,  I had proven that I could stick by a plan and mean it.
I folded the laundry and then pulled out a sale catalog from Landsend.  Man, they have the cutest girl summer clothes.

And how was your day?

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If the shoe fits......

Basketball.  Just the name conjures the image of large shouldered men running with squeaky shoes.  Fade to black and cut to reality.....first and second graders (and Conner, yes I lied just a teensy bit to get him on the team) and uniforms too large and lots of traveling.
My boys are playing basketball for the first time since preschool.  They love it and I love to go to the games.  It is almost like a playdate for mommies.  I see most of my friends and it is great to catch up on people!  The kids play a slightly different version of the game.  It has some different rules that help them learn and let them develop skills, all in all, a whole lot of fun.
Then I looked closely at my boys.  William was doing fine, except for not wanting to be overly aggressive and hurt anyone, which is almost a shame considering his size!
Then there is James, and as I watched him run down the court, I thought, why do his feet remind me of clowns?  I hate clowns.  They are evil and only exist to eat your brains when you are asleep.
Slap, slap, slap.  That was the sound he made as he ran.  It dawned on me, his shoes are way to big.  He is funny that way, and apparently he had latched onto a pair of sneakers from his large footed cousin.
Then I looked over at Conner (as he had a blond moment and forgot where to watch).  He was wearing mock hiking boots.  With mismatched socks. 
Really?
Really.
So, the game ends in victory ( and at one point the boys were making shots and catching the rebounds and tossing and the ball got stuck between the hoop and the backboard.  Dad got it on video, I'll post it later! Classic!) and the boys coming running over the throw themselves at me with incredible effort.  I staggered under the weight of Conner.  Dang, what does that boy eat?
"We need to go and buy some shoes."
Or as my husband says, "Dear Lord, just take them and get them shoes!"
So, we head to Walmart.  To buy shoes.  With a six year old and eight year old.  Who hate to shop.
When we get in, and they make the obligatory check on the Coinstar machine, we head into a very crowded Walmart.  I guess, being right before Valentine's day, there were last minute shoppers.  Whatever, move over love birds, we are on a mission.
We go into the shoe aisle and start.  They both insist on no laces, Velcro only.  Damn, kids today have it rough.  We head to the clearance rack because I am cheap! Let's face it, by next week, these shoes won't fit, why on earth would I spend 30 to 40 on shoes when I can go clearance for 7 to 10? Hello?
So we start pulling out various sizes.  I honestly didn't know what size they were.  I mean really, I am a Mom of four.  I aim for clean underwear, homework complete and a correct headcount at bedtime.  I have a vague idea of sizes, but they have reached an age where they have to be with me!
Conner starts bugging James by handing him pink Barbie Fairy shoes.  James throws a pair of ballet flats at Conner.  I grab ears and haul them to wear I see some sporty non lace sneakers.  On sale, thank you very much.
Apparently I have been entirely neglectful in my mothering duties (come on, really, who hasn't been there!).  Conner is now convinced that if it isn't a size too small, it is too big.  I hunt him down some size 12.  All sizes are there, but 12.  As I start to paw through the racks, the smell hits me.
James is trying on shoes.  Fine.  But OH MY STARRY HEAVENS!!  The smell is pungent and redolent of sweat and that peculiar funk known only to boys.
The clerk that is stocking is swallowing convulsively.  My eyes are watering.
"James, you a size 4?"  "yes" "great, here are your new shoes, but the old ones BACK ON."
I have to admit that last one came out as a loud hiss.
Conner starts to sing the "you have stinky feet" song and James throws some sparkly mary janes at him. I pull James aside and send him on a mission to find one more pair of size four clearance shoes.
I turn aside to Conner and drag him from the light up shoes.  I am NOT paying an extra ten dollars so that my son can wear out an LED shoe light by jumping up in down in a closet!
Conner pulls off his shoes and I swear the world lurched to a halt, gagged and the continued.
The clerk stocking was suddenly incredibly helpful to find us shoes to fit Conner.  She searched several aisles in rapid succession and produced two pairs of discount shoes in a size 12.  I think we seared out her nasal passages.
I grabbed the boys, old shoes in place, new shoes in hand.
We went to the check out and I braved the self check line.  As it turns out, Conner had fallen in love with the only other pair of size 12 shoes.  They were light up.  While I won't pay an extra 10 for light ups, it turns out I will pay an extra 5.  So sue me.
I think the shoe lady was seriously happy to see the back of us. 
I am also certain she brought out an industrial strength air freshener.
Little does she know, I have Haz Mat gear to clean their closets.


And how was your day?

On this Day....

Oh, Lord, on this day:

Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers,
but to be Fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain,
but for the Heart to conquer it.
Let me not look for allies in life's battlefields,
but to my own Strength.
Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved,
but hope for the Patience to win my freedom.
Grant that I am not be a coward in Your Mercy in my success alone,
but let me find the grasp of Your hand in my failure.
--Tagore

Kiddie Decor

I have been sick.  Yes, I have gotten colds and been a lovely cranky mess.  Yes, I have had a tummy bug and yakked five pounds out.  But this has really beaten me down.  An acute sinus infection that set up shop in my ears, throat and eye orbits.  I was told the built up mucus was distorting my eyeball.  And here I thought random blurry vision was due to the boy gas that is rampant in my house.
Now that I am feeling human, and can swallow without feeling as if I took up sword swallowing, I noticed ....my house is a wreck!
Granted, when Mama is sick things grind to a screeching halt and survival is at a premium.  But I look past the basics of "mommy no feel good".  Yes, towels on the floors and toothpaste art in the sinks.
There is a certain look to my house.  A look that other moms must recognize.
You see, at any given time, no matter how "clean" (and I use that term to mean disinfected) my house is, there is no doubt that kids live here.  When I clean, I don't look to eradicate the kid evidence, just keep Haz Mat at bay.
But it dawned on me as my troop of noise buckets took off for school (God bless a carpool), that there was every evidence that not only did children live in this house, happy children live in this house.  It is all in the kiddie decor.
The laundry room has the usual clutter, including a ball pump and an incubator with chicken and duck eggs.  The latter being a 4-H project my daughter has embarked on. (guess who gets to help)
Going into the kitchen, the evidence of my juvenile decorating is even more pronounced.  Matchbox cars on the table.  Child art everywhere. (I feel like such a schmuck if I throw any away!).  A corner of the kitchen is designated "art land" and it overflows with ribbon and crayons in a trail of creativity.  The latest basketball schedule is on the counted, along with graded papers that have to oohed and awed over.
Soccer pictures, school candids and more artwork is on the fridge, along with a postcard of Hogwarts Castle, as Conner still thinks he might get a letter when he turns eleven.
On the counter are a handful of oranges that someone didn't eat in their lunch.  Stray socks clutter a corner of the family room, where a dvd case is flipped halfway through.  Obviously a child flipped through their collection and somehow forgot (really?) to put them back.
A tangle of blankets on the couch shows were we snuggled last night to watch American Pickers.  A cluster of light sabers and plastic rifles shows the lookout post that kept watch, protecting me from rogue clone warriors.
The little bits are everywhere.  Even if I had no pictures of my children (snort snort, laugh laugh) it would be obvious that not only do children live here, children are loved here.

And how was your day?

Magic Fingers Dining

Typical Fridays start with :Get up, basketball practice.
Followed by Caitlyn: Can I stay at Oh-My's?
Me: call her
Caitlyn: She said yes and that the boys said they are going to clean out her barn today!
Oh, I had forgotten. No big deal. I bring the boys to Mom's after practice. Caitlyn is basking, being the center of grand parental attention. The boys don boots and, reluctantly, coats and stomp out to the barn with Pop-pop.
I am adamant that my parents not pay the children for their efforts. In the past, the kids have been paid well above what I thought they did. They completely work their grandparents, who melt and smile at them and hand over a fistful of bills.
Steve and I are trying to establish a new fact with the kids. You are part of a family, help out. So far there are mixed results, but as I figure it, I have three sons who are reaching the right age for me never to have to take out trash, rake a yard or mow grass ever again. We are still having some issues on the concept of "hang up your own laundry", but it is slowly taking effect.
Pop-pop and Oh-My (my parents) are generous to a fault with the kids. Pop-pop more than Oh-My. Pop-pop will let them do what ever they want, and they know it. Oh-My follows the basics of mother-instinct-safety guidelines and first level home ownership (what do you mean I can't walk around the house in barn boots?).
So the new agreement that my kids have managed to swindle out of their grandparents is very very elemental: Will work for food.
The first time the boys cleaned out the barn, it was ice cream all around. This seemed to fit. My parents have two retired horses that are more lawn ornaments than horses. They do the usual horse things, but there are only the two of them, so it isn't as if the boys are cleaning out a dairy (and living near many dairies, I can say, thanks, but no thanks.).
This time the boys were promised lunch. At Burger King. The barn crew trudged out and with the guidance of the work foreman (Pop-pop) the finished in record time. They also stank. I am used to horse smells. We have 2.5, so it isn't as if that is a foreign smell. There is just something about that particular barn that produces the sourest of smells.
This is why, when we got to Burger King, Oh-My and I had the seating with Caitlyn and Tom-tom (my grandfather) and the boys and their boss got a booth all to themselves.
The meal started with a selection of errors that generally only happen to me or Lucille Ball. The ketch up dispenser was busted (hello? Can you say: crisis?) and then, when I was getting the drinks filled up, I pushed the button for Sprite and it wouldn't stop. I pulled my cup and pushed the button again.
The frothy drink continued to gush. I called out to any employee, but that ketchup dispenser was really absorbing their attention. I gave it some half hearted slaps. Nope. A few other customers were now giving me a wide berth.
Finally, I squinted my eyes and treated it like a home appliance. I grabbed the box over the nozzle and wrenched it upwards forcefully. Silence. It stopped. I capped the cup and told the next person in line to avoid that Sprite fountain. They just looked at me a bit wide eyed....maybe I had done my ninja yell when I fixed it? Who knows.
Our meal was ready by now and I passed food out to the starving masses. After all, it had only been two hours since their last feeding, I was obviously withholding food from them. I finally sat down with mom, Caitlyn and Grandpa.
We put Caitlyn and Grandpa on one side, closer to the boy and their aroma, and Mom and I sat on the booth where the bench connected to the bench of the booth behind us.
Mistake
You see, behind mom and myself were three young ladies of about college age. They had heavily made up faces and hair. They were wearing the latest in animal print clothing and had finger nails that had never ever snaked a drain or scrubbed a floor. Their jewelry was sparkling and they painted the whole picture of young people who have nothing to do.
This didn't really bother me at first. Hey, I was young with no responsibility once. No problem. Then the shaking started.
I guess at first I noticed my drink in my hand vibrating, as if a T-rex had caused an impact tremor. Of course, there are no dinosaurs in Portales. But I looked around to be sure.
One of the young ladies was chatting away on a cell phone. I, personally, will not carry on a conversation on a phone in so public a setting. The entire world can hear you. I had mentally tuned this conversation out after the first high pitched, "NO WAY!". But there she sat, engaged in an animated conversation, with her legs crossed, rapidly bouncing the one leg, which then in turn transferred it's kinetic energy to the entire booth.
Mom and I exchanged glances. It was going to be one of those meals.
Mom and I are used to things like this. We both seem to be cosmic magnets for rude customers, out of control teens and malfunctioning equipment.
We continued to eat when the bench started moving again, vigorously. It was like trying to eat a meal while sprawled on one of those old hotel beds that had the "magic fingers massaging action". If I focused too closely, the edges of my food blurred with the vibrations.
Another shared glance.
Caitlyn, using a new found female radar, realized that there was communication she wasn't privy to. Her radar kicked into high gear when she caught another shared look.
"What?"
"I'll tell you later." She dared to give me a dirty look for putting her off and I informed her that every tween show that had children sassing to adults was now off the menu. We had a lively discussion of what she could watch. We ended up with most things on Discovery, TLC, History and the Food Network.
Now the bench began to actually jiggle. I missed when I went to take a sip from my straw. The movement had my aim off by inches. I am not sure what the girls were doing at this point, but I was starting to feel ever so slightly sea sick.
I hurried up Caitlyn (just how long can she make one ice cream cone last?) so that we could leave.
We ended up leaving first. The movement in the booth was likely to continue for the next unsuspecting customers. The girls were having an animated conversation and I am guessing that multiple hand gestures were part of their language, because the motion on the booth was intense.
Walking to the door, I hurried the boys to the car and thanked Mom profusely for my dinner cruise.

And how was your day?

A roll in the.. HEY! Knock That Off!

See the big problem with me is my heart.  No, I have no physical aliments, my ticker is strong.  It is my "heart" that is the problem.  Why couldn't I have a harder heart?  One that didn't have me melt at every furry or feathered creature that wandered my way.  Why couldn't I be one of those people that takes the family on vacation simply after having the mail held?
No, I have to line up an in house pet sitter that is up to speed on horses, birds and attention starved dogs. I have to make sure that feed is in, that the pet numbers are lined up and that my fuzzy babies understand that mummy is leaving for just a bit!
I work hard.  I make children's boutique clothing.  I save my money to buy feed.  Oh, sure, if I were not addicted to the fuzzy creatures of the earth, I could be spending money on myself.  You know, lots of clothes, flashy jewelry, the works.  But no, I buy at Goodwill and do without, so that my fuzzy and weathered babies can eat better and wear better.
So, after having a wonderful sale (I am not sure how that happened, I listed a steampunk outfit for 200 and it sold), I need hay.  I make the call to Hal's Haystack and make arrangements to meet Hal to pick up about 25 bales of quality alfalfa.
I drive over to my parents' house to borrow their truck.  When I get the keys, lo and behold, the truck battery is dead.  Nuts.  I need hay.  I have half a bale left.  I need hay!
I look at Zippy, my Dodge Caravan.  It has Stow N Go.  All the back and middle seats all fold easily into the van.  I get to work tugging the straps and folding seats down.  Soon, behind my seat is a veritable paradise of open space. 
One small problem.  The interior of my van is carpeted.  Hmmm, I really need HAY!  Okay, one large piece of painting tarp stretched along the back.
I expected to be able to load four bales of hay.  This would tide us over until Dad's truck could be given new juice!  However, I completely underestimated Hal's unique hay stacking abilities!  He managed to get eight bales of hay in.  So if you are ever asked, eight bales will fit in the back of one Dodge Grand Caravan.
Fast Forward:  Truck repaired, 17 more bales brought in.  Hay stacked neatly (mostly) in barn.
I go out to feed the horses breakfast feeling smug.  I am a provider.  I am cool on hay for at least several months.
I walk into the barn.....WHAT HAPPENED HERE!
The horses look at me innocently, their calm nickers proclaiming their hunger for breakfast.  But how, how on God's green earth could they be hungry after pulling down three bales of hay and eating one entire bale!
I give them ugly, ugly looks.  I heft a meager breakfast over the cattle panel that divides the hay from the horses.  It bows suspiciously toward the hay.  It strains against the hooks screwed into the barn walls.
My gelding, Shiloh merely looks at me, as if, really, did I expect anything less?
So, today, while the horses watched with disdain, I ran hot wire from the fence line down the wall and across the barn and along the barn divider. HA!
I tested it (using a screwdriver, I didn't touch it!) and it works.  I look forward to seeing if my naughty equines have managed to by pass the wire and filch hay.
Now, how to keep the ducks from chasing me....

and how was your day?