next time, I will bring my own Lysol

Once I came out of my Benadryl haze today, I realized that I hadn't written anything about how Henry is doing in school and how happy he is and how happy WE are and how much we love his teacher and how she got him to touch a slice of orange to his tongue last week and what a great place this is for all of us. And honestly I was going to do it this afternoon.

But then I decided that it would be fun to stop at the bookstore on the way home from school and play for a while. We were there for forty five minutes. We made THREE trips to the restroom (which, by the way, is NOT CLEAN, not even the women's room, which is why I'm not naming the bookstore). First Henry has to go potty. So we plod off to the bathroom and he tries to poop. No luck. Back to the children's section and the train. Then he announces that he thinks he might have had an accident but he isn't sure and will I check? And I say NOT HERE, so we go BACK to the third-world women's room (no accident, but he is all whacked out from his allergies and not eating lunch at school. Oh, and waking up at 4:30 this morning to ask me to play with him. Stuff like that). He sits on the potty while Charlie touches EVERYTHING. We wash our hands (a whole production in itself) and return to the kids section. We collect some Halloween books and sit down to read, and sure enough, Charlie has a poopy diaper. Which he tris to blame on another child playing nearby. A complete stranger, even! So we go BACK to the the hazmat restroom and change the diaper (which is a nightmare as Charlie is WAAAAAYYYY too big for the plastic changing table and whines the ENTIRE time about how much his back hurts. Boo hoo, learn to use the potty, boy! And stop whining). While I was changing him, I insisted that Henry try AGAIN to use the potty. Which he did (try, that is). And we washed up AGAIN and headed back out.

And no sooner had we settled down to read than Henry said, 'Oh no! I think I need to go poop.'

That was it. I'd had it. I couldn't bring myself to go BACK in that bathroom, and I was at all out of Kind Patient Mommy Voice. We came home. The boys are watching TV and I am cursing myself for having eaten all the Poppycock. Although I think that what I really need is a martini.

But school is going just great!

Christopher Plummer called it 'The Sound of Mucous'

I hate The Sound of Music.

There, I've said it, I feel better now. Ahhh.

Charlie has been asking to watch it, and you know that I would rather put the kids in front of TV than actually have to PLAY with them, so I've been obliging (no, not really, but by 5:00 I am all preschoolered out, and it's a good excuse to eat more Poppycock) and we have been revelling in the lovely tones of Julie Andrews and those kids. Ugh, THOSE KIDS. I hear those voices and I want to throw up (which, by the way, Julie Andrews DID, a couple of times, filming that opening scene, the one where she spins around on the mountain. Too much spinning, too much helicopter-mounted camera, too much Rodgers and Hammerstein).

I used to loooooove this movie; the singing, the dancing, the costumes, the beautiful views of Austria. But now it just irritates the holy hell out of me. We have probably seen it a thousand times in the last three years, I kid you not.* My children know every song and every step of choreography. Henry can recite most of the dialogue. And the other night, Wade was pointing out that every outdoor scene in the first half of the film is framed to include a mountain. Watch for it--it's there. Then we started talking about what the mountain might represent (the Captain's Austrian nationalism? Maria's Catholicism? everyone's thinly-veiled horniness?) and Henry shushed us. 'I can't hear them talking!' he lamented. Sigh.

Henry had an intense Sound of Music obssession when he was three. He liked to pretend that he was Maria, which included dressing up; he would bring me a receiving blanket and a binder clip and ask me to make him a 'blankie dress' (we actually had to make a rule that the 'blankie dress' was for home ONLY; he wanted to wear it everywhere, which freaked Wade out. I was just annoyed because the binder clip fell off every ten seconds and had to be put back on again, which was too much work for me). Once he was 'dressed,' he would spin around in our family room until he fell down. Or he would renact the 'I Have Confidence' song (which was written for the film and is a crime against the original score). He would insist that I be Liesl and Wade be the Mother Superior. We were glad when he outgrew that phase.

Charlie is a more conventional movie viewer; he sits on the sofa with his binkit and sucks his thumb and snuggles and eats Poppycock and says things like, 'Look, Mommy, a FOUNTAIN! Do you see it?' It would be so cute if we were watching ANYTHING ELSE. But this movie drives me batty.

Why? you ask. The implausibility! I don't mean the musical convention of everyone bursting into song and dance at the slightest provocation; I mean things like Maria's shock that Captain Von Trapp and his first wife had seven children. Come on, this is the 30s! They're Catholic! OF COURSE they had seven children (I think, in real life, they had more like nine; then the Captain and Maria went on to have three or six or ten more. Something like that). Or that we never see Maria do a single educational thing with those kids. That's what governesses did--taught. Yes, I know, it messes up the flow of the musical. Whatever.

But my real complaint is this: I have a difficult time finding things that will occupy both my three-year-old and my five-year-old. But Maria is able to engage everyone from five-year-old Gretel to 16-year-old Liesl (who is one rainstorm away from being either a single mother or an Aryan Youth recruit, by the way) with this singing thing? I don't buy it. And it annoys me to no end.

My favorite character, these days, is the Baroness Schraeder (the sexy one, who ALMOST marries the Captain), if only because she utters what has become one of my favorite movie lines ever: 'Haven't you ever heard of a little thing called boarding school?' Ahhh, the old days. So wonderful.


*The boys have actually only seen the first half of the movie, up to the point where Maria runs away to the Abby because she's hot for the Captain. I just can't face explaining the Nazis to my kids, not yet. Wade has shown them the last minute or so, when they are crossing the Alps, and every once in a while the boys ask to see the Von Trapps 'go hiking.' Like they were out for a picnic and not running for their lives. And you think they would have put some long pants on Kurt and Friedrich when they fled the Nazis, wouldn't you? But no. Just one more thing that annoys me.

this post should come with some kind of Geek Alert tag

I was trying to think of something other than my children to write about today, and hooray! Educat, knowing what a book nerd I am, has tagged me with this fun reading meme (meme meme meme--it's like some kind of chanting mantra). Remember when I kept threatening a lecture on the History of the English Novel? Well here it is!

1. Number of books I have owned: Fewer than there are stars in the sky (but only by a few dozen, I think).

2. Last book I bought: Quirky Kids, by Perri Klass and Eileen Costello.

3. Last book I completed: Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, for about the 3,000 time. This summer I've been reading around in lots of books about ADHD and autistic spectrum disorders; those are not books I really 'finish' so much as look into and consider and return to and consider and . . . you see what I mean. But Elizabeth and Darcy always keep me going to the final page.

4. Five books that mean a lot to me: Oh, THIS I can do. But you may want to get yourself a drink before I get started.

Michael Ondaatje's The English Patient. Easily the most beautiful novel I have ever read. I wept the first two (yes, TWO) times I read it--once on an airplane, how embarassing--because the language is so poetic and moving. And unlike the film, which is all about sex (not that that is a BAD thing, especially when Ralph Fiennes is involved), the novel is about identity and race and class and the post-colonial sense of Self. It is just a beautiful beautiful novel.

Jane Austen's Persuasion. This was the first Austen novel I read (although it was the last novel Austen wrote). I read it in college and again in graduate school, and over and over since then. Austen's technique is remarkable, and the characters are complex and engaging. I wrote my first successful grad school essay on this novel, for a class in literary theory, which I was certain would be my downfall; instead, it was the beginning of my complicated relationship with genre studies and reader-response theory (yeah, whatever lady, get back to the novels).

Samuel Richardson's Clarissa, Or The History of a Young Lady. Published in seven individual volumes between 1747 and 1748, this is the longest novel ever written in English. The Penguin paperback edition is 1534 pages long. The basic plot is this: Clarissa Harlowe, the daughter of a rising middle-class family, is engaged to Robert Lovelace, a rake with good connections. Her family choose him for her husband, but then learn that he is of questionable character and break off the engagement, all without consulting Clarissa. Clarissa, meanwhile, has fallen in love with Lovelace and is persuaded to run away with him (or is kidnapped by him, depending on how you read the scene). And that's just the first few pages! The rest of the novel follows Clarissa's fruitless efforts to reconcile with her family, Lovelace's plots to seduce her, and, eventually, their deaths. Doesn't it sound like FUN? Okay, so why do I love this novel so much . . . because it is the Mt. Everest of English novels, because what Richardson does in this particular novel is essential to The Novel as we know it today, because it was the cornerstone of the Dissertation I Never Finished. And because really, it IS a fun read, if you happen to be a complete freak of an eighteenth-century studies geek. Like me! Whoo hoo.

Francis Sheridan's Memoirs of Miss Sydney Biddulph, which is unfortunately our of print (sigh of relief from readers). This is like a little tiny version of Clarissa, really; Sydney is also engaged to the wrong man, also has no choice in the matter, also falls in love with him--but marries someone else, out of duty, and arranges for her true love to marry the mother of his illegitimate baby. Years later, the two cross paths again, and, thinking that they are both at liberty (her husband is dead, he thinks he has killed his wife--don't ask), they are married. But then, oops, turns out his wife isn't dead and . . . so on and so on. This was the novel I wrote my LAST successful paper on in grad school; it was the first chapter of the dissertation. And I riled a bunch of people up at a conference one time with a paper about sex and duty in the early English novel, using this novel. Again, great fun was had by all!

D. B. Johnson's Henry Works. Any book that teaches my children that the mundane is the stuff of great literature is important in this house.

5. Five bloggers I am passing this on to: I will be surprised if five people are still READING at this point. Or if five people will ever return to this site again. But please, feel free to tag yourselves--I KNOW for a fact that some of you (you know who you are) are big readers. And let us know that you are sharing, so we can all see what you read.

And then go get yourselves a copy of Clarissa! Did I mention that it's an epistolary novel? Told all in letters. Yep. Sounds even better now, doesn't it?

Friday randomness

Henry: I can't go to school today.

Me: Yeah, I think you can.

Henry: No, I have to go ride my motorcycle.*

Me: Riiiiiggghhhtt. Put your shoes on.



Charlie: Henry, look! I have some superhero action figures.

Henry: I know.

Charlie: Someday can I get some Barbie action figures?

Henry: Some what?

Charlie: Barbie action figures!

Henry: (laughing) CHARLIE!

Charlie: What? WHAT???



Me: Charlie, can I have a sweet kiss?

Charlie: Okay. (Kisses me) There's your sweet kiss.

Me: I like you.

Charlie: I know.



Henry: (out of bed well after the final tucking-in) Mommy, can you come help me be peaceful?


*For some inexplicable reason, my sons have a motorcycle fetish these days. We do not own a motorcycle; we are the LAST people in the universe who would EVER own a motorcycle. But if you ask the boys what they are going to be when they grow up, one or both often answer, 'A motorcycle rider!' Henry always adds, 'But we're going to be GOOD motorcycle riders' (good as opposed to evil, not as opposed to unskilled). And the other day at the bookstore, when I suggested we swing by the magazine section on our way to the trains, Charlie picked out a motorcycle magazine for me. 'Here you go, Mommy!' he said proudly. I really wanted something a little more along the lines of InStyle.

there might be some cake in it for you

Edited to add: There will be NO new posts until ALL the lurkers out themselves. Say hello! I know you are out there. And I love you, see? And I'm all out of thing to write about. So share your ideas! Audience participation! Help me, please!

I have cake! Lots of cake . . .

Okay, I've got nothing today. The kids and I are exhausted; we picked Henry up at school, had lunch, and all fell asleep. Henry is up now but poor Charlie, apparently worn out from all the pottying, is still sleeping. Or maybe his crazy hat just made him tired.

Anyway, thanks for all the good potty advice. I think Misfit will certainly be getting some cake for the Big Bribe Plan. And she gets to be Charlie's Potty Godmother. Isn't that nice?

I was excited, though, about how the mention of Charlie using the potty brought so many folks out of the woodwork! Like Katie, who has a very funny blog of her own. So today is Friday Playdate's Delurking Day! Offer parenting tips! Make fun of my son's hat! Just say hello!

There might be cake . . .

because I just can't let well enough alone

So the boy survived his first day at school; the afternoon teacher patiently informed me that 'we're working on listening.' It took everything in me not to say, 'Well, DUH.' At least I don't THINK that's what I said. Jesus, I hope not.

Henry said he had a great day and he met new friends but he did not eat his lunch. And he couldn't remember what he did. Hey, just like last year! But less expensive! And with lunch!

Seriously, everything went well. He was tired, but that's fine; it just means he will go to sleep early and easily tonight. I had a little stress moment when I asked him what he did today and he said, 'I'll tell you at home. ' Which was what he did all last year, because HE CAN'T REMEMBER, see, because he has ADHD or because he is hungry or because George Bush is President. We don't know, but it's something we're supposed to keep tabs on, this not remembering. But then we sat down to have a snack and I got more information about what he did at school today than I got ALL YEAR last year. He colored a picture! Of a crayon! In his favorite color! Which is green! And he cut out leaves! With scissors! And he had goldfish and strawberries for snack! But he only ate the fish crackers! Ta da! And that was Henry's day. God I love that kid.

So I'm sure you are waiting for the thrilling description of How I Celebrated the First Day of School, as I have been moaning about it SINCE JUNE. Did I shop? Read the New York Times? Drink Long Island Iced Teas by the pool? No, even better! I started trying to get Charlie to use the potty! For real! Because apparently I am an idiot. No sooner do I get one kid out of the house and out of my hair than I start pestering the other one about peeing in the potty.

But really, people, it's time. The boy can tell you all about how pirates are 'sea robbers' and that a pyramid is a tomb and that your bones make up your skeleton (stupid Magic Treehouse books and their stupid interesting information about stuff) but he hides when he has a poopy diaper. Or tries to blame it on someone else. But since he's the only one, except Jake, who lives at Leslie's house, who is NOT potty trained, that doesn't really work. And because I am insane, I figured we should just go for broke with the potty.

So whatever advice you have is welcome! Really, anything! I've got nothing when it comes to strategies, beyond asking him to sit on the potty ALL THE TIME, which he hates, and telling him that until he can use the potty he cannot go anyplace without a changing table. So no more hanging out at Starbucks. See, I HAVE lost my mind!

But at least the summer is over and I'm not in rehab. Yet.

it's 12:07 and the school hasn't called me yet!

As we were heading out the door this morning, I said to Henry, 'Let me take your picture. Say something happy.'

He thought for a second and then said, 'HOORAY! IT'S MY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!'

And I swear to you that this was the resulting picture:
God I love that kid so much.

and I still have nothing to wear tonight!

Busy Mom asked for the full report of what everyone was wearing at the preschool open house. Peasant skirts. With sparkly things. And big faux ethnic jewelery.

Of course, I am wearing jeans and a t-shirt. And I don't own a peasant skirt because every single one I've ever tried on has made me look like a Winnebago. With sparkly things.

The thing is that today, all the mommies still had their little darlings with them, so they were dressed like, well, mommies toting little darlings. TOMORROW, on the other hand, they will all DROP the little darlings and go off to be kid-free. And I am sure they will break out the capris and kitten heels. I'll let you know. I will, of course, be wearing--something kid-friendly. And probably not kitten heels.

Henry's classroom is lovely, his teacher is lovely, the other children are lovely--I am feeling much better about the whole thing, frankly. At lunch, in the middle of a conversation about something totally unrelated to school or food, Henry said, 'If they offer me something to eat at school that I don't like, I can just say, No, thank you! I don't have to eat it. And I can have a snack later.' I think his daddy has been coaching him. God I love my husband.

And I love you, too, Internet, for all the support and kind words you have flung my way lately. I'm going to bake you a cake. Come on over and have a slice. Would you like some ice cream with that? Or maybe a cup of coffee?

Now I want you all to cross your fingers and hope that Mrs. M doesn't call me for AT LEAST a week. Please.

a whole post! about absolutely nothing!

Today is going to be a big day at Friday Playdate. This afternoon we're going to the open house at Henry's new school, and tonight I'm going to an Arbonne party with Leslie. And of course, I have NO IDEA what to wear to either of these events.

I'm a little nervous about the school open house. I've met Henry's teacher, at the parent orientation, and I really liked her, although I'm sure she thinks I'm a nut case as I spent most of the meeting trying not to hyperventillated once I learned that Henry COULD NOT bring his own lunch to school. Oh, and that the pre-K classes go on field trips! My child, who CAN NOT remember not to run, will be out and about in OKC! Where is my paper bag???

Anyway, I am looking forward to a close e-mail relationship with Mrs. M, but I'm still struggling with what exactly to tell her about Henry. We're really trying to steer clear of the lables (can you imagine anything more horrific than the parent who announces, 'My son has ADHD! And he's not on ANY medication! And he acts a little like a child with Asperger's syndrome! Which is a form of autism! And he may--or may not--have some sensory integration issues! Let's keep in touch!') and just describe the most salient behavior: Henry is easily distracted. He is very energetic. He is most successful when he has substantial positive reinforcement. Okay, so, have a nice year! And can we plan to talk, oh, once a week or so? PLEASE?

I'm thinking of just putting one of the following t-shirts on him, as an ice breaker:

I Do All My Own Stunts

My Mom Is Glad I'm Not Twins

I Am A Complicated Child

No, not really, but how funny would that be?

And then there is this Arbonne party. My friend M asked, 'Is this a cult?' I am tempted to say yes, as I always suspect anything that is spread by word of party to be on the cultish side of things, but I think it is really more like Avon was when we were kids (remember the Avon Lady?). In any case, I won't be coming home with a whole new line of skin care, mostly because I like what I have, and also because my friend Caroline is ALSO an Arbonne 'consultant' (I think that's the proper title) and if I'm going to buy, I'd better buy from her. No, I'm going to this party tonight solely to see Leslie's friend's house. Is that shallow?

Compensating for my shallowness (or maybe just deepening it, I'm not sure anymore) is the fact that the hostess, Leslie's friend, is in a completely different social class from me, and is TOTALLY HOTT. Like supermodel hot. She always looks like she just walked away from her Vogue cover shoot, I swear to you, even when she's schlepping her beautiful and perfectly behaved children around town. And despite the fact that I know you are waiting for me to say that I don't like her, I really do. Because she's so nice! I mean really really NICE. And beautiful. And well dressed. Damn it.

So now I have to go stand in front of my closet and figure out what the hell I'm going to wear today. I think I need a drink. (I just said that for effect, you know. Mostly. I mean, it's really a little too early to start drinking, isn't it? Yes, it is. Damn it.)

now I'm down to counting the HOURS until school starts

Today is the last unscheduled day of summer; Henry has his school orientation tomorrow, and on Wednesday I will drop him in the carpool line and be home free for six hours! Or as home free as I can be with Charlie in tow all day. And with the worry about Henry not eating and not listening and jumping off the furniture and . . . but you know what I mean.

I wanted to do something special with the boys today, to mark this last day and to celebrate that WE SURVIVED THE SUMMER, but instead we will be lingering at home this morning, waiting for the plumber who is coming to fix the hot water in the boys' bathroom. And in some freak of nature, it is still raining, so we will be lingering IN THE HOUSE waiting for the plumber. Would it be in bad form to watch a movie first thing in the morning?

Because the hot water hasn't been working in their bathroom, the boys had showers this weekend in the big shower in our room. They LOVED it. Charlie made what can only be described as happy dinosaur noises the entire time he was in the water; Henry got out and announced, 'Mommy, I am NEVER taking a bath AGAIN.' And then yesterday, when I reminded everyone as cheerfully as I could, as though it were an adventure and not the total inconvienience it really is, that the plumber was coming today, Henry said, 'He doesn't need to come, we're going to take showers.' Which is fine until we have house guests and THEY also have to use my shower.

That's it. Aside from the rain and the plumber and the fact that in 49 hours I will drop Henry for his first day of school, I've got nothin'. Fortunately, if you are really looking for something to read, the New York Times has this, about school supplies and backpacks. Henry picked out a $30.00 backpack at Target the other day, the kind with wheels and a telescoping handle. I made him put it back; I figured for preschool, we didn't really need anything that heavy duty. I hope I'm right.

I heart Oklahoma

Hey, remember a while back when I insulted Mike, the REALLY REALLY NICE guy at OkieDokie? (Let me say again how sorry I am about that. Honestly.) Well how's this for a happy ending? This site has been nominated for an Okie Blog Award for Best Family Blog, and I suspect it's by one of the wonderful people who found me through Mike's blog. Isn't that fun? Whoever you are, thank you--I'm so very flattered.

Whew--now I'm feeling the pressure to write something fabulous about my family. And maybe to stop swearing so much. And to stop talking about my drinking. This is hard.

Now go away and let me think.

clip, clip, buzz, buzz

We had haircuts today (well, not me, I already had mine and you've already seen the pictures). Henry giggled the whole way through his buzz cut, which was cute until he couldn't hold still long enough for the poor lady to trim around his ears with the clippers. She had to break out the scissors, which scared the bejesus out of me as he was whipping his head from side to side in a frenzy of laughter. It was only 8:15 in the morning and I needed a drink. Fortunately no eyes were poked out and his hair is soft and velvety. I like to rub his head and call him the Velveteen Boy. He objects, for some reason.

Tragically, there are no cute pictures of Charlie getting his hair cut; he insisted on sitting in Wade's lap and hid his head in Wade's chest for most of the cut. Wade was a good sport and donned a lovely child-size plastic cape with lions and tigers on it (sadly, he has threatened to divorce me if I publish pictures of it). I was glad that he was there, as I was done in from holding Henry's head still for the trimming part of his cut.Once Charlie got to Starbucks and had some cow milk and a scone, he was much happier and agreed to show of his new 'do. It was a full morning.

And the craziest part? We were all done by 9:30. AM. With the whole day left to fill. So we did some other really exciting things, like take my car for an oil change and shop for school supplies. And nap. But at least we all have good hair now!

How was YOUR Saturday?

and the kids have had enough of me, too!

When Wade comes home from work, the boys like to hide in the bathroom and jump out at him. He makes a big deal of pretending not to know where they are and of acting scared when they pop out yelling 'BOO!'. Every. Single. Night. It's very very cute.

Henry just said to Charlie, 'Let's go hide in the bathroom and wait for Daddy to come home!'

It is 2:52 pm. Wade won't be home for another three hours.

School needs to start NOW.

the real problem is that I don't have Wonder Woman's boobs

I am having a hell of a time gettting dressed these days. Not so much because of the extra ass I grew this summer (although that is slowing me down some), but because I have no idea what mommies wear.

I've never known what to wear to this job. There is no dress code; there are no good rules beyond EVERYTHING MUST BE MACHINE WASHABLE. And even that doesn't always apply. I wind up choosing my clothes by what the weather is like, or what park we are going to, or what is clean (and you do it, too, admit it). I want to wear grown-up clothes every once in a while! Or I would if I had any. That fit. And were practical. See the problem?

Really, what do you wear when you're the Mommy?

I think I'm actually having an identity crisis. The other day Leslie was telling me that she and another friend had been talking about how smart I am (yes, me--just go with it) and I said, 'Have you started drinking during your playdates?' Because frankly, I'm not feeling all that smart these days. I'm feeling like I'm all ass and no brain. Really.

And I find myself doing crazy things like buying a pair of pants solely because a mommy I know only from the park and Starbucks but who seems very cool and fun has a pair just like them (forgetting, as I am buying them, that she is both younger and taller than I am, which probably contributes to her aura of hip and fun). Because maybe the right pair of pants will make me a cool mommy, instead of the dud mommy I feel like now.

I'm sure most of this is caused by the final slog toward the first day of school (when I will NO LONGER be outnumbered in my own home all day) and is compounded by the fact that most of my clothes don't fit so I'm wearing the same thing over and over and over.

The other day Charlie was talking about what he wants to be when he grows up. His short list on this day included firefighter, astronaut, and knight. 'Mommy, what do you want to be when YOU grow up?' he asked me.

'I am grown up,' I told him. 'And I'm the mommy, remember?'

'And before that you were a teacher!' he said happily. Then he thought for a moment and said, 'Maybe next you could be a superhero!'

Yes, but what would I wear?

Buddha wept

Charlie is in the bath; I am sitting on the teeny tiny step stool, supervising him.

Charlie: I won't cry when I get out of the tub tonight.

Me: Oh, good. Do you cry sometimes when you get out of the tub?*

Charlie: Yes.

Me: Why do you cry?

Charlie: (thinking) I cry because . . . I am sad. (Laughs like the villain in a James Bond film)

Me: What makes you sad?

Charlie: (without hesitating) Pottery Barn.

Me: Really?

Charlie: Yes. Pottery Barn makes me sad.

Me: Okaaaay . . . why does Pottery Barn make you sad?

Charlie: Because they have too much STUFF.

When Wade heard this, he said, 'Just like his mama.'


*He cries virtually every night, either because he's mad that the bath is over or because the wrong person is drying him off or because his superhero toys are still in the tub or because George Bush is the President or because . . . well, apparently because Pottery Barn has too much stuff. Who knew?

it's official: I have spent too much time with my children this summer

At some point yesterday, I reached my Child Tolerance Threshold. I don't know when it happened, precisely, but last night when I left the house to go to the orientation at Henry's new school, I kissed my husband (with whom I was having some very witty grown-up banter about nothing), got in my car and drove away. Halfway to Leslie's house, I realized that I had never said goodbye or goodnight to the boys. Ha ha ha! Because I've had it with them.
We've had a great summer, don't get me wrong, and I'm not sorry that I chose to do it this way, but I'm worn out from all the talking. I've said it before, but my kids talk ALL THE DAMN TIME. Henry starts to talk as soon as he wakes up and he doesn't stop until he falls asleep at night. Fortunately, most of the time he's not actually talking to me, but the noise is there ALL DAY LONG. Charlie talks all the time, too, but he expects you--or, more specifically, ME--to listen. And respond. Appropriately. ALL THE TIME. Between the two of them, there is not a single quiet moment from the time they wake up until they go to sleep. Wade will come home and start to tell me about his day, and I am forced to say, 'Unless you got fired, I don't want to hear about it.'

I am also out of fun things to do. In the past ten weeks, we have been to every park in Oklahoma City. We have been to the pool and the zoo. We have played in the backyard. We have painted and drawn and colored. We have made an entire continent's worth of animals out of PlayDoh. We have played 10,000 games of Chutes and Ladders. We have built airplanes and towers and barns out of cardboard boxes. We have read every book in our house twice. Sometimes on the same day!

All I can think of anymore is, 'Here's the remote! See what's on TV! There are probably naked people using swear words on cable! Or a movie with guns and bombs! Knock yourselves out!' But my kids are on a TV strike. Henry will say, oh so politely, 'No thank you, I think I would like to read. I'll get a book and you can read it! How about the pirate book? We haven't read that since before breakfast!' Charlie just turns the TV off and announces, 'We are NOT watching TV!' I can't imagine how my head hasn't exploded.

Henry starts school one week from today. That is not soon enough. And Charlie? His school doesn't start until September 8. What's with the Episcopalians and the long LONG break? Don't they know that Jesus wants me to have some time to myself???

my son the feminist

The other day, at the park, Henry picked up a very cute little girl named Grace and invited her to come and play Knight's Castle. Grace was a little skeptical. 'I can't be a knight,' she said, 'I'm a girl.'

Henry didn't miss a beat. 'Girls can be knights. My daddy and I saw a picture of two women knights fighting a dragon, on the Internet.'*

Grace was still not sure she wanted to be a knight. I suggested that she could be a princess, which is usually what the boys insist I be when I play knights with them. 'Okay,' Grace said. 'But what does the princess do?'

Henry thought. 'Well, you need a sword,' he said, handing her a plastic shovel. 'You can help protect the castle. In case a dragon attacks the castle. Because you never know about dragons.'

'Okay!' Grace said. And that was that.


*When I told Wade about this, he said, 'Yeah, you should have SEEN those knights.'

'What do you mean?' He gestures in front of his chest. 'Big hoo-hoos on those girls?'

'OH yeah.'

in the interest of fairness

My goodness, you people are full of good suggestions! And, in the interest of fairness and full disclosure, here are my answers, too.

1. My favorite personal care product: Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Dry Touch Sunblock SPF 45(for summer) and Clinique City Block SPF 25 (for winter)--that Intuition razor is a close second, though.

2. What I am serving for dinner--tonight, tomorrow, whenever!: I was holding out for take-out, but in the end I made chicken fajitas. AND I cooked last night and it nearly did me in (grilled pork chops, oven-roasted new potatos, and a nice green salad). Tomorrow: Macaroni Grill!

3. My favorite drink recipie: I likes me a good Long Island Iced Tea, although who actually has all that booze on hand at any given time? Tonight I broke down and had a couple of glasses of white wine (I know I said no booze until I got back into The Pants, but have you met MY CHILDREN? And did you spend the DAY WITH THEM? I didn't think so).

4. A really yummy dip mix: salsa from a jar? (See why I needed your help, Internet?)

5. How to potty train a three-year-old boy who has no interest in the potty: Aaaannnndd, I'm out. I've got nothin'. And frankly, I'm not all that worried--I mean, the kid won't go to college in diapers. Or even kindergarden. I hope. Right? RIGHT???

I'm full of good ideas today

SO Not Martha says she has nothing to write about, so here are some suggestions.

1. Your favorite personal care product.

2. What you are serving for dinner--tonight, tomorrow, whenever!

3. Your favorite drink recipie.

4. A really yummy dip mix.

5. How to potty train a three-year-old boy who has no interest in the potty.

Okay, that's just off the top of my head. Entertain me! All of you--not just SNMartha! And feel free to psychoanalize my list. That's half the fun!

the odds are finally in my favor

My mother turned 65 this year (she would NOT appreciate me telling the Internet that) and this week she is on a girls getaway at the shore with her high school friends. How fun is that!

So my dad is here for the weekend, which means we have an adult-to-child ratio of 3/2, which is what it should always be. The boys love their papa and have been fighting over who gets to hold his hand, sit next to him, amuse him with long pointless stories about knights and superheros, and generally love and maul him as much as is humanly possible. And he is revelling in it, as am I.

I will leave you with this nice picture of my sons playing together peacefully. In a public place, even! And one with books! And I will check in as I can, in between elaborate outings to the zoo and the pool (all the places that would be SO MUCH EASIER if I just had some HELP--you know).

and now, back to what's really important: my ass!

Last winter, I got tired of always looking like I had just rolled out of bed (even though, most of the time, I had), so I traded in my sweatpants for two lovely pairs of wool trousers, which I wore ALL THE TIME. They are fabulous; one pair is grey and the other is a lovely chocolate brown, and they are, honestly, as comfortable as the sweats. And now that my children are big enough to not spit up or wipe their hands on me all the time, wool trousers are actually possible in my daily wardrobe. And those shoes I bought last weekend? I've been imagining wearing them with the lovely pants. And recently, on the clearance rack at Old Navy, I found this sash, to go on the brown pants, and this one, to go on the grey pants. Imagine how stylish I will be when the cold weather rolls in!

Fortunately, that won't be any time soon. Last night I decided that I should, perhaps, try the pants on, because I was feeling bloated and PMS-ish and really needed to torture myself. And, to my horror, I discovered that I have somehow managed to gain just enough weight this summer that NEITHER PAIR OF PANTS FITS. Damn it. How on earth, in a season when I have been putting on a bathing suit every other day to go to a pool where everyone else has either a boob job or a personal trainer, did I GAIN weight?

Damn it.

I'm blaming the kids. I don't know why; I just am. Although I should probably be blaming things like the butter toffee popcorn I had for lunch, and the booze. Definitely the booze. No more booze. And no more popcorn (although as I ate it all at lunch time, that's not such a big deal. But no booze! No no!).

The sad part is this: I lost weight in the first place because I was so overwhelmed and stressed out by my life and the daily goings-on at my house, so gaining some weight is a sign that my life is back to it's healthy even keel and my home is a happy place to be. Which is good. And the funny part is this: when I weighed less and was, apparently, smaller, at least in the hip-and-thigh area, I didn't feel smaller. Or even small. I just felt like me. But now that I am just enough bigger that I can't button my pants, I feel huge. I feel like huge me! Which is not fun. Add to that my whole everyday sense that my ass is enormous and hey! It's a party. But without any booze. Or popcorn.

It's not like I didn't realize this was coming--in fact, I wrote, right here, just the other day, about how I had to get out my bigger jeans. But still! I didn't think THE PANTS wouldn't fit! Damn it.

So now, inspired by my on-line girlfriends and their stellar weight-loss successes, I am going to get back into those pants IF IT KILLS ME. I have a while, after all, as it will be hot as hell here well into September (or possibly October). Although of course my two favorite pairs of fall pants are ALSO too tight. As is, most likely, EVERYTHING else I bought last winter. Damn it.

I blame the kids.

okay, here's my lesbian hair

Photographing yourself is hard. I don't know how Heather Armstrong takes all those great pictures of herself, although it probably helps that she looks like a model AND has a really great camera. I made Charlie do a whole comedy routine while I was taking these, to distract me from the embarassment of TAKING MY OWN PICTURE. Anyway, here is my hair.

Side view . . .

It's short! And messy! Whoo hoo! And those are my favorite earrings, too. They came from a great place in Albuquerque called the Utility Shack.

Front view (just in case you've been reading here and you THOUGHT you MIGHT know me, hello! Here I am! Drop me a line and let me know you're reading!)
This is my favorite picture. Isn't that sad? My favorite picture is of THE BACK OF MY HEAD. Geeze. But I was really happy with the color, and this is the only picture where you can see it. If you care. Which I'm sure you DON'T. So I'll stop now.
Okay, you've seen the shoes, you've seen the hair--now stop pestering me! And come back soon!

attack of the run-on sentence; or, what happens when I don't get enough sleep

So, it's Monday again! Oh my. Henry woke up at 5:30 (yes, AM) sneezing; he got up to get a tissue and turned all the lights on in the bathroom, which woke Wade up, so Wade took him a box of kleenex, which made Henry cry, so I got up and put the kleenex away and put Henry back to bed (because Wade had wandered out to the kitchen or the garage or I don' t know where but not where he could hear Henry saying, 'Daddy! DADDY! I don't WANT the kleenex!'). I got back in bed and tried to go back to sleep, but Henry talked to himself until 6:30, and then I just gave up and got in the shower and started my day. And then later we had a playdate and when we arrived, my friend's five-year-old was locked in the bathroom screaming and the not-quite-two-year-old was drinking coffee (okay, at first she was drinking milk, but later she drank coffee. Real coffee. Out of a tiny pink cup. And when she finished she said, 'Mo coffee, pees!') and it was wonderful to see my friend but a little overwhelming, what with waking up at 5:30 and all. And now everyone is asleep and I would take a picture of my hair but it's all fucked up from lying down with BOTH kids at nap time as they seem to be on some kind of sleep strike and I am just really really desperate for some peace and quiet.

Or a martini.

So how was your weekend?

I don't know what all we did this weekend. My hair cut was fabulous; Estrella said, 'What are we doing today?' and I said, 'I want the cut Anne Heche had when she was still a lesbian,' and she said, 'I know EXACTLY what you want,' and she did! Although she left the back a little long and I realized when I got home that in a week or so I would have a really scary mullet thing going on, so I went BACK to the salon later in the day and had her cut it more. And she was so nice about it! And now I love it. Pictures soon, really. And I had a nice chat with Estrella about how much cuter Anne Heche was as a lesbian. It was a good salon day.

And there was shoe shopping as well! TWO pairs of shoes, even! This first pair are my favorites; please notice the little flower on the front (have I ever mentioned how much I dislike shoes with backs on them? Virtually everything I own is either a mule or a slingback. Or flip flops). When I showed these to Wade, he said, 'They're your Stacey shoes.' Maybe he's been watching a little too much What Not To Wear with me, yes?*














But it gets better (in a really utilitarian way)! Stein Mart was having a buy-one- get-one-for-50%-off deal, so I also picked up some new driving mocs for $14.99! Oh, sure, I have two other pairs of black driving mocs, but I wear them ALL THE TIME, and besides the one pair is getting a little tired looking and the other is patent leather which just isn't as versatile. And these are SO COMFORTABLE. Although I had to buy a nine and a half, which was a little depressing. Particularly when the sales clerk POINTED IT OUT, in a very loud voice, to the whole shoe section. But hey, for $14.99, I can take a little humiliation.














I really really wanted pretty shoes like SO Not Martha found, but there were none to be had, so I opted for useful. And honestly, these will go with everything I own, which is good. And those little flowers make me so happy. Almost happy enough to forget that I've been awake since 5:30!

I need some coffee.

*I really prefer the original What Not To Wear, if only because Trinny Woodall is so bloody flat chested and yet still so very sexy and chic, but we don't get BBC America on our basic cable, so I'm stuck with Clinton and Stacey, who remind me a little too much of people I went to high school with. But they really DO know how to dress.

overheard

In the shoe store
50-ish woman on her cell phone: 'Oh, you know, something sleek and sexy that fits like a tennis shoe.'

At the salon
20-something stylist, talking about a dress she is wearing to a wedding: 'They're from Iran, and they're pretty conservative. And I'm worried, because you can see ALL my tattoos.'

Finally, in my own house
Henry and Charlie are at the computer, looking at pictures of seaplanes that I found through a Google search. Henry is navingating around with the mouse, clicking on the pictures as directed by Charlie. I am in the bathroom, brushing my teeth.

Wade: Wow, those are some great pictures. How did you find those?

Henry: Mommy is helping us. But she's not here right now.

clarifications

Before we head off for our exciting weekend (okay, we're doing nothing), I just wanted to clear up a few things.

1. Wade is certain that Croaky the frog does NOT have two daddies, but rather a daddy and an uncle (but no mommy). He is probably right, but I like my version better. And since I am frightened of clowns (yes, even these clowns), I cannot watch the show closely enough to really find out what's going on.
2. I will NOT be posting pictures of Gay Bruce's partner, Lance. Those little knight toys are driving me berserk; every time I turn around, an overly-muscled head or leg or arm has to be reattached, and Charlie is still asking me to glue the sword back together. I am hoping that they will both be mauled by a plastic Brachiosaurus this weeked.
3. I believe in stem cell research. Mr. President, are you listening?
4. I called my friend, I begged off dinner, she was lovely--but I still get the feeling she doesn't realize that Henry is changing schools. And I don't really care any more.
5. I need me some new shoes. And I blame you. You know why.

Finally, I have an appointment with the uber-cool Estrella tomorrow--goodbye, hair! For a few days after I made public my intentions to CUT IT ALL OFF, it was lovely; we came to a peaceful resolution and I started to think that maybe I could make this bob thing work after all. But no! This week we have had a parting of the ways (get it? GET IT???) and tomorrow it goes. I would say I'll post pictures, but I have recently learned that my PhD husband can't figure out my digital camera. Maybe Estrella can take some pictures . . .

it's Gay Pride Day at Friday Playdate

You remember Bruce the Gaybo Knight? He has a, how shall I put it, friend (who looks just like him but in gold armor, and with a shield and sword instead of a helmet and battle axe); let's call him Lance. We also have two smaller, less homosexual, more historically accurate knights. Today Henry announced that the smaller knights have two daddies! 'Really,' I said. 'Yes!' he said. 'My big knight and Charlie's big knight are the daddies, and the little knights are the buddies. They have two daddies, like Croaky, on Jo Jo's Circus.' (Aside: Croaky may or may not have two daddies; I am too freaked out by both clowns and Disney to watch the show carefully. But she DOES live with two men, and they ARE circus acrobats, so anything is possible. Also, I MAY have said, once or twice, in front of Henry, that Croaky had two daddies. In case you were wondering.)

But that's not all! Charlie, not to be outdone, spent the evening discussing my hair with me ('You have crazy hair!' he announced. 'It's crazy on the side! Can I brush your hair? Now it looks nice!') and cooking pretend food for me in his pink and blue kitchen. While wearing the tiara. Just before bed, he put on some ChapStick and asked, 'How do my lips look?'

I'm so very proud.

But the concussion! Oh, my. I took both boys to the doctor this week, for their three- and five-year-old Well Child appointments. Not at the same time, mind you--although that might SEEM practical, there is no way my children can hang out in an examining room for that long. On Monday night, Wade said, 'Does Charlie have to have any shots tomorrow?' and I said, 'I have no idea!' because I'm that terrible mommy who just shows up and does what the doctor tells me to do! And then can't remember what we did two hours later. It turned out that Charlie did have a shot, but he was a trooper; while the needle was in his arm, he said, 'OUCH OUCH OUCH IT HURTS' and then when the nurse said, 'You're all done!' he announced, 'Henry! I'm all done!' and that was it (although when Wade asked him about it that night he acted all offended and said, 'It hurt A LOT, Daddy').

Today I took Henry, who had to have THREE shots! How fun! You know how hard it is the first time you take the baby for shots? Wait until the baby is five years old and weighs 45 pounds! And you have misunderstood the nurse and told him he will have ONE shot! And he finds out he is really having THREE shots! In his arms!

But the concussion! During his exam, Henry got distracted by, I don't know, a floor tile or something and he wasn't listening to the doctor, who was asking him to stand in front of her so she could check his spine. I leaned over him to get his attention and he hopped up in the air--and crashed his head against mine. Very very hard. The pediatrician said, 'Oh no! That must have hurt!' Henry said, 'I'm okay.' And the doctor looked at me and said, 'Not him, you.' That's why I love her.

Of course, after we had waited nearly twenty minutes for the nurse to come with Henry's shots, I really thought I had sustained some sort of horrible head injury. But we went to Target on the way home and that made it all better. And Henry had all three of his shots and didn't cry or break the needle off in his arm! Like his daddy did when he was five! Hooray!

And that was our day.

the type of post that gives 'Mommy blogs' a bad name

We had a playdate the other afternoon with my friend Leslie. As all five of our children were running roughshod over her furniture, screaming at the top of their lungs, she looks at me and says, very seriously, 'What do you think about stem cell research?'

God I love her.

it's all about the shoes

A few things have redeemed my day and turned me back into my usual, chipper, smart-ass self. First there was the very smart advice from my very smart Internet girlfriends, who agree that I need to suck it up, call my friend back, and decline the dinner date. And so I will, first thing tomorrow. Promise.

Then there was the realization that THE ONLY ADULT CONVERSATION I had today (aside from my husband, who is home sick and not much for the conversation, what with the fever and the nausea and the 'I turned 40 and my whole body fell apart' whining) was with other Mommy bloggers. Without actually ever opening my mouth (except to say, 'Stop it! STOP it! STOP IT!' to my children) I talked about the post-baby jewelery gift, bleeding nipples, and what that homosexual knight toy's name might be. Such fun!

And then I stopped at Finslippy and Fussy and Suburban Bliss and read about their girly weekend together in California and how they shared a hotel room and drank and giggled and made fun of each other--and about how this was the first time they had ever met, aside from e-mails and reading each other's blogs. And I realized that the mommy blogs may save my sanity, and that I really REALLY need to get my hair cut (check out Alice's hair). So I called the salon and made an appointment.

And then SO Not Martha pointed these out, which may have cemented our on-line friendship forever. It is probably a good thing that she lives so far away from me. And that the J. Crew store here doesn't carry shoes.

Tomorrow, I will be funny again. I swear it. Maybe I'll write about my boobs--unless any of you have a better idea?

I thought you might like a visual on this one

This is the Knight, the one with the battle axe. Check out the muscles on this guy. And you should see his ass. But I'm not posting pictures of that. That would be wierd.

And what's with the armor that DOESN'T cover his arms? He looks like he's going to some sort of Gay Knights of the Round Table dance club. I mean, really.

Charlie came to me last night and said, very sweetly, in his little baby voice, 'Mama, can you fix him?' and handed me the decapitated knight. 'His head came off. He was fighting a dragon.'

Yep, that will happen.

file under: things I am still completely unprepared to hear my children say

Charlie: Mama, will you put the knight's visor back on? And then I'll put his battle axe on, because the battle axe is TOTALLY COOL!!!

princess for a day

All this wedding talk reminded me of something: when I was in grad school, I had an office mate who was a folklorist (is that a word? well, it is now). She did this thing where she went to elementary schools, told or read the kids famous fairy tales, and then had them re-tell the stories (I forget what the exact guidlines were, but I remember that one ended up being about a girl who played football, which I'm pretty sure was not in the original Grimms collection).

Anywhoo, one little girl retold the Cinderella story, and when she was done reading (or telling or whatever) her version, Donna (the officemate) asked her if she knew what the lesson was.

'Sure,' the little girl said. 'Marry rich and you don't have to clean house.'

Now why didn't I think of that?

where I was in 1994

SO not Martha wants to know where I was in 1994 . . . so here it is.

In the summer of 1994, I was 26 years old. I was in graduate school at Ohio State University; I had finished my master's degree in the spring and had started a PhD in English (eighteenth-century British literature). And Wade and I were getting married.

Because we were living in Ohio and getting married in New Mexico, we ceeded most of the planning to my mother. She chose the invitations, the flowers, the tablecloths, and the food. She also chose my headpiece (a simple wreath of white silk flowers), since I refused to do it myself. A woman in Oklahoma City made my dress; I had exactly two 'fittings', if you count the day we picked out fabric and patterns. I didn't try the dress on until it was FedExd to me in Columbus, two weeks before the wedding. I had nightmares about it arriving and being too small, but it was perfect.

I was a pretty laid-back bride (if by 'laid-back' you understand me to mean 'baffled by all the things I was supposed to worry about, like what color the napkins were and where everyone sat for lunch'). Wade and I realized, early on, that this wedding was only about us to a certain point (he still claims the wedding isn't about the bride and groom at all, but I disagree. I think about 13 minutes of the whole day belong to the couple, but that was enough for me). Initially, we wanted a family-only ceremony--the two of us, our parents and siblings and grandmothers, and our two closest friends. We told our parents they could have whatever kind of party they wanted afterward, but we wanted the actual Saying Of the Vows to be very small and intimate.

We were overruled. My mother insisted we include more family--aunts and uncles and cousins--and she had a point. I love my extended family, and there's no point in having a party without them. And, in the years since our wedding, my grandmother and my aunt Sue have both died and my cousin Jill has moved to Germany. I am glad they were all there that day. Negotiations with my mother-in-law were more difficult. She had spent years going to the weddings of her friends' children, and she felt that it was time her friends returned the favor. Her compromise was to invite people and then tell them they couldn't actually come to the wedding. No, I swear! It was horrifying (but we got through it and are very close now, really).

In the end, we had 75 people for a lovely garden ceremony in my parents' back yard. I had three friends stand up for me; because two were in graduate school and the third had just had her first baby, and because all of them were flying to New Mexico for five days, I didn't ask them to do the bridesmaid dress thing. On their own, they talked and discovered that they each owned a nice dress in the periwinkle blue/violet family; they looked perfect. My dress was white linen, which worried my mother to no end, but it was lovely and exactly what I wanted. We all stayed at my parents' next door neighbors house, my girlfriends and two of their husbands, and it was so much fun. I would do it again in a heartbeat.

The actual wedding was so very lovely; people on BOTH sides of our family still talk about how wonderful it was. I remember it as a very serene day, although I'm sure it wasn't. The weather was beautiful, my friends were beautiful, our families were (mostly) well behaved. I remember laughing a lot with girlfriends that I loved, and I remember not caring what we ate or what the invitations looked like--or even if my ass looked big in my dress (although I remember saying, 'Are you SURE my ass doesn't look huge?' about a thousand times before the ceremony started). It was a really happy day. And talk about funny--days later, I learned that Wade and his best man had left the reception (which went on untill all hours of the night) and gone to the hotel to take a two hour nap! And I hadn't even missed him! Ha ha ha! I think maybe I had a lot to drink. Yes, I think I did. In my beautiful white dress! How fun.

So that's where I was in 1994. Your turn, Misfit Hausfrau! And while we're at it, let's hear from the rest of you--where were YOU in 1994?

closet Zen (or should it be Zen closet?)

Yesterday morning, Henry and I were having some quiet time on the sofa before we started our day. I was feeling relaxed and happy; I'd had a full eight hours sleep (a rarity), Henry had stayed in bed until nearly 8:00 (also a rarity, which explains my typically poor sleep), and Wade and Charlie were still sleeping (fewer boy types to deal with all at once). Henry and I were looking at a book and chatting about this and that when he announced, 'You know, we haven't gotten any new toys recently.'

I said, 'Whaaaaaaa?' Henry's birthday was in June; Charlie just had a birthday. Additionally, we went on vacation, which involved new toys for the car trip AND new toys at Nana and Papa's house. And somewhere in there, my mother-in-law had taken them to the Dollar Store and bought them I don't know what all kind of, er, treasures. We are awash in new toys. I cannot walk through my house without tripping over a plastic dinosaur or stepping on a teeny tiny Playmobil pirate (or better yet, the pirate's even teenier sword!). The other day I stood up from the desk and stepped on a talking SpiderMan toy. Scared the beejesus out of me. There are currently two pairs of roller skates that everyone wanted and no one likes to use conking around in the trunk of my car. We have a new Wiggles DVD that WE HAVEN'T EVEN WATCHED YET. And yet here was my five-year-old telling me, 'We need new toys.'

But since we were having such a nice morning, I decided to stop my head from exploding (a truly marvellous feat) and embrace this Teachable Moment (a phrase I like almost as little as I like BLOG). 'You know,' I told Henry, 'when Mommy gets something new, I try to give TWO things away.'

'What do you mean?' he asked.

'Well, if I buy a new pair of pants, I give two pairs of pants away. Or if I buy a new shirt . . . '

'I get it!' he said happily, 'you give TWO shirts away.'

'That's right. So maybe this week we could go through your toys and see if there are any you want to give away.'

'That's a great idea . . . can I have some milk? And some french toast for breakfast?'

I was very proud of myself (I AM a good mommy! Hooray!) particularly since I really DO believe this, and I really do try to be thoughtful about the volume of things in my life. Recently, though, I've been a little less mindful and a little more acquisitive. I came back from my vacation with a whole pile of 'new' jewelery, things I 'found' in my mother's drawers, things she never wears. I didn't actually BUY anything, but, as Wade was pointing out, I did come back with two new wristwatches (both vintage, if anyone is interested in such things--but that is REALLY not the point, is it?). Add those to the two I acquired earlier in the summer from my paternal grandmother's belongings and, well, I have a lot of 'new' stuff. And stuff is stuff, isn't it? And while I had replaced the bands on two of the watches and have been wearing all four on a regular basis, I hadn't let anything go in their place, so my karma was, well, not good. And thanks to my smugness about my 'good mommy' moment, I didn't get away with it.

In the afternoon, the nice people from the Epilepsy Foundation called to remind us that they would be coming in the morning to pick up our donation. 'Do you have anything?' Wade asked. 'Yep!' I said proudly. But when I looked in the Stuff To Donate box, there wasn't much. And I started thinking about what I had told Henry. And I felt guilty. Stupid good mommy. Stupid bad karma.

So I got in my closet and started sorting. And I gave away three pairs of shoes and two bags and a bunch of blouses I haven't worn in years and a skirt that never fit right and some tee shirts I never wear and . . .

And then I packed away some things that I will wear when they fit again (in the big plastic box under Charlie's bed, the one marked WRONG SIZE--the one under Henry's bed says WRONG SEASON). And I dug out a pair of jeans that used to not fit but does now and fixed the little hole in them. And I organized the shelves of tee shirts and lined up my shoes and refolded my sweats. And I felt better.

I felt so much better, in fact, that I went to the J.Crew website and browsed a little . . . but I don't think I'm going to buy anything. I may just have to take one more look, though, to be certain. After all, there might be something that goes with my salvaged watches. Since they aren't NEW, after all.

(PS: My kids WILL be cleaning out their toys this week, and they will NOT be getting anything new.)