Little Hooligans

I’ve noticed since moving to our new little town that the local police force is very active. I think they mostly pull people over for speeding on the major thoroughfare a street up from us, but perhaps they are active for reasons I’m happily oblivious to. For, apparently, there are a few future troublemakers here in our own neighborhood.

I’m not actually sure where these three kids live, but I think it’s the street running perpendicular to ours. I first saw them running or riding their bikes up and down our street, shouting at each other. Next I noticed them investigating the house across the street that was vacant and for sale. There are a few houses on our street for sale, none of them in great condition and at least two of them vacant. For some reason, though, this one was particularly attractive to these little kids (somewhere around the ages of 8 or 10) for they were all over that house trying to find a way in and, in the innocency of childhood, certainly not keeping that fact a secret. You could hear the little boy all over the neighborhood proclaiming he was going to find a way into that house and make it his clubhouse or die trying. No amount of lecture from neighboring adults sidetracked them from their purpose. I think they were even warned by a local cop to keep off the property, but I guess you’ve got to give the kids kudos for persistence although they completely fail in obedience to authorities.

They’re also not shy. A month or two ago, the little boy knocked on my door and proceeded to say, “We’re kids and we’re looking for odd jobs to do to earn money. Have you got anything we could do?” I told him I didn’t and then laughed as he stepped off the porch and the youngest girl flatly told him,  “You didn’t have to tell her we were kids. That’s obvious.” That little girl certainly isn’t afraid to say anything. Last week as they wandered to the no longer vacant house across the street yet again, the little boy was saying something about blowing the house up. The little girl’s response, “And then where would you be?”

The house is no longer vacant. On this venture, the kids met the new owner – a nice black woman but one I wouldn’t mess with. She was pretty firm in telling them not to be wandering about the place anymore but they were welcome to come over and jump on the trampoline once it was set up. I’m not sure what the kids thought as their hopes and dreams of a clubhouse (or possible sight for arson) were dashed to pieces, but I laughed as they rode off on their bikes and the little girl called back, “It was nice to meet you!”

I suppose even little hooligans can be polite.

This Week - My Excuse

I’ve been meaning to blog all week. Really. I’ve been thinking about what I’d write. What’s new. What’s old. What’s blue. I just haven’t had the time. Really.

This week has been really busy. Sometimes I can’t figure out where all my time goes. Sitting with Emry on the potty? Putting suntan lotion on my kids so we can go for a run? Preparing meals, doing laundry, picking up stray toys. Certainly not sleeping. Yeah, I know. Sometimes I wonder what my life has come to.

I think this week felt busier because of projects sitting on my burners. I volunteered for a project at church. A project right up my alley, full of spreadsheets, and data, and merges. I had never thought of a church directory as being time consuming before. But when you’re trying to rename columns in a spreadsheet in between loads of laundry and running a toddler to the potty…well, it’s rather exhausting.

Then there’s PennDot. Before I even quite working, I told my boss I’d come back to recertify the PennDot rate. Why? Because it’s extremely frustrating and difficult to accomplish on account of PennDot not only being a government entity but also being a Pennsylvania government entity. Which means it makes little sense, takes a dozen times to get right and uses a web browser dated 1990. Since I’ve done it twice now, I thought it would just be easier to keep the headache to myself rather than give it to my replacement and make some much needed extra money. In all honesty, I enjoy the challenge. It’s just a bit more challenging between getting dinner on and mixing cereal for Ethan.

Speaking of Ethan, he’s become a much more pleasant little man to have around – “telling stories” and laughing at funny faces or tickles. However, sleeping through what we define as “the night” remains a concept he refuses to grasp. In order to fill his little belly (for such a tiny guy, he sure eats a lot!) we’ve pulled out the baby cereal and even added a bit of applesauce or smashed banana. This does allow for longer times of sleeping, but he resists the idea of a late night “fill-up feeding”. If I feed him at seven, give him some cereal at 8:30 put him in bed at nine, he will sleep quite happily till four in the morning and fall asleep again until eight or 8:30. If I wake him up at eleven to feed him again in hopes that he’ll then sleep till six or seven, he will still wake up at four half starved and then, more than likely, again at seven. I have decided this is a battle I’m simply not going to fight. Since I’m going to be up at four either way, I may as well skip the “fill-up feeding” and get more sleep – a priceless commodity as late.

For I need the energy to chase around my bundle of energy during the day. Truly Emry is an easy child. She’ll happily play by herself, run about outside with her stuffed monkeys, or play “ice cream shop” for hours with her Little People. But if she figures out one more way to relapse on this potty training process, I think I will scream.

To add to the fray, Ed’s work schedule has totally changed which is an adjustment all around, from the time he’s away to how much milk I have to buy. For a person who likes very set schedules, this has been a bit annoying. And then I somehow got a case of poison ivy this week. Except for a tiny spot of this plague one summer in North Carolina, I have never been susceptible. How I came by it this time, not to mention the location on my body it popped up, I have no clue (for I certainly haven’t touched it). And since I didn’t peg it for what it was to start with (I thought some bug had simply bitten me), it spread and I felt like I had to wash every single item I could have possibly come in contact with just to be safe. It’s healing, but it looks awful and now I’m almost afraid to go outside lest it should attack me again.

So, maybe this next week won’t be quite as busy. But I doubt it. For life is simply busy right now. And maybe that’s a good thing…

Historical...Fiction?

We weren’t one minute into the show when Ed turns to me and says, “I don’t think I’m going to like this. Where are the Redcoats British accents?”

Since I was exhausted and expected to fall asleep within fifteen minutes anyhow, I was more willing to give this series we had picked up at the library at least a five-minute chance…okay three minutes. Two? I probably should have just agreed with Ed and let it go at that.

I’m not a historian. I might qualify as a history buff since I like to read histories, bios and historical fiction. Since Ed doesn’t touch a book with a one-hundred-foot-pole, he’s probably not qualified as anything on the history scale. But even he, with his public school education, knows something about the American Revolution. And it doesn’t include the following:

1)   The Redcoats had American accents.

2)   Sam Adams was the 18^th Century equivalent of James Bond.

I had picked up the History Channel television series Sons of Liberty thinking it might be an interesting drama to watch about Boston as events led up to the Revolution. You know: the Boston Tea Party, Concord and Lexington, Bunker Hill.  All the history I miss about New England. Now I know I shouldn’t expect exact history when watching such things. Watching the Continental Congress would be equivalent to watching CNN. Some dramas you even know will stretch the truth (like the series Turn) simply because of their subject matter (spies). But I expected at least a little authenticity. An expectation which went out the door within two minutes of watching…and dropped further and further until I fell asleep, never turned the series on again and returned it to the library in scorn.

Why, you ask, was it so ridiculously horrendous? Well, you don’t have to be a historian to know that Sam Adams did not run through the streets of Boston, climbing up houses and dancing across steep colonial roofs in order to escape British Redcoats (with nary a British accent between them). Even if Sam Adams had been an extremely healthy 42 or 43 year old (which I sincerely doubt since any portrait I’ve seen of him has him slightly on the rotund side), it’s still doubtful the British chased him around the narrow Boston streets like he was James Bond. And anyone who has the simplest knowledge of the Adams family knows that Sam Adams was a good dozen years older than his distant cousin John Adams, while this series has that completely in reverse. And even though I’ve never read a ton about John Hancock, they portray him as a rather namby-pamby sort of snob. And while I can believe the snob part, I always thought him a bit more politically astute over namby-pamby.

So, if you’re looking for historical fiction (note the underlining) this would be the series for you. But if you’re looking for looking for history, pick up a book. Redeem your time – don’t waste it.

How Does She Do It?

If you think about it, there are very few human skills that can be marveled at – in the truest sense of the word “marvel”. For with a little time and a lot effort, just about anyone can learn anything. Take drawing, for instance. I say I can’t draw. The truth is, I don’t like drawing. I don’t see the world around me as something that can be drawn. And when I have a blank sheet of paper in front of me, I will fill it with words long before I doodle anything on it. But with lots of time and a whole lot of effort, I could be taught to draw. Not Michelangelo, perhaps, but at least my team might win a Pictionary competition.

But I do spend at least one moment every day marveling – truly marveling – at my mother:

When I’m throwing wet clothes in the laundry because, yet again, Emry was too busy playing ice cream shop to get up and go to the potty. How did my mother potty train eight of us?!?!?!

When it’s raining and Emry is stuck inside all day until she’s driving us both mad. How did my mother deal with eight of us on rainy days when we couldn’t do anything but get on each other’s nerves?!?!?!

When Ethan is up in the middle of the night for no particular reason since he just ate an hour ago. How did my mother live on practically no sleep for twenty or more years?!?!?!

When Ed falls asleep on the couch while I’m trying to feed Ethan, dishes need to be done, clothes need to be folded, Emry is being clingy because she’s tired and I just remember I never did get around to sweeping the floor or balancing the checkbook. My dad is the king of nappers, how did my mother not hit him over the head with a two-by-four for being oblivious to her needing a hand…or three?!?!?!

Going to the store, lugging Ethan out of the car, going around to get Emry and telling her many times to stand by me and not run off into the parking lot…all for a gallon of milk. How did my mother go anywhere with us as it must have taken a half hour to accomplish a five-minute task?!?!?!

This list could go on for eternity for thoughts like this come to my mind at least a half-a-dozen times a day. Thankfully, they are not thoughts of despair. For while I can never hope to be the marvel my mother is, I do know where I get my stubbornness. For as soon as I start asking “How did my mother…?” I think, “If she did it, I can too.”

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

Following Directions

In Kindergarten, I didn’t follow directions.

You might be thinking, “Okay. You were five or six. Every five or six year old doesn’t follow directions once or twice.” True, true.  And yet…

It was an arithmetic coloring page, one of those that you add the numbers together and then color-by-number according to the sum. Very simple. Except Ms. Cummings, the teacher, was telling us which color to use on which numbers. I don’t remember the number, but I do remember to color was yellow. And, looking back on it, I’m not 100% sure I didn’t follow the directions for there were five or six of us in the class that did not color that number yellow. As I know I wasn’t cheating off someone else’s page, either we all decided not to follow directions on that particular number or something was lacking in translation. Whatever it was, Ms. Cummings later used our lack of following directions as an object lesson for the whole class. I got a “NG” on the top of my paper and to this day I remember the feeling of horror, shame and disgrace I apparently still carry with me. It was so acute that a year later when Ms. Cummings came to our first grade class to watch us the last fifteen minutes of the day because Mrs. Steely had to leave early for some appointment, I was sure she must have told Mrs. Steely of my lapse in obedience and I was to be watched carefully lest it should happen again.

By now you might be saying I need to see a psychiatrist. That was 32 years ago. It’s time to get over it. After all, that “NG” grade did not go on your transcripts and ruin your chances of a decent college education. You were not the only one who didn’t follow the directions. Ms. Cummings probably had hundreds of students pass through her classroom who were guilty of larger misdemeanors than using the color yellow wrongly. And that isn’t your biggest sin, Melissa. Trust me, I know all of the above. And yet I remember that day as if it happened an hour ago.

I can tell you with the utmost honesty that moment in Kindergarten was not the only time in the many years of my education that I did not follow directions. But it made me acutely aware that directions are to be followed. After all, that is one of the first lessons any decent parent teaches their child. I demand such obedience from Emry, who is only two years old but perfectly capable of not only following one direction I give her but three at a time! Which is why I do not understand why there are so many adults who cannot follow directions.

Just recently I have come across two such occurrences. One is rather silly. I created a Google doc online to gather information for a new church directory. Depending on how many children the family has, it probably takes all of five minutes to fill out. And yet, looking through the responses, there are two glaring problems: phone numbers and birthdates. I made if very clear that phone numbers should look like this (xxx) xxx-xxxx and birthdates like this mm/dd. And yet 95% of the responses were not correct on one account or the other. While this is a very simple fix once I download the spreadsheet, that’s not really the point. These are grown adults, 99% of them over the age of 30, who cannot follow simple directions. Or, more likely, don’t even bother to read them.

The other occurrence is straightening out the final water and sewage bills at our old duplex. Our landlord failed to cover his part of the arrangement and so I am now getting billed for a whole month of usage we didn’t have. A simple phone call is all it would have taken, and I was trying to cover not only my bases with the cancellation but also his when I didn’t have the water simply turned off. Lesson learned yet again. If I want something done right, I should just do it myself.

I probably shouldn’t get up on a soapbox about this because I am sure my Heavenly Fathers sits in Heaven shaking His head at me and saying, “Melissa, really? I didn’t make it complicated. Do not covet. Three words. What are you not understanding?” Thankfully He doesn’t have pet peeves. He has grace, as should I. But sometimes that direction is a little hard to follow…

A Questions Requires an Answer - Right?

Emry is at the age when conversations go something like this:

Me: “Where are we going?”

Emry: “Where going?”

Me: “What color is that?”

Emry: “Color that?”

Me: “Do you want to help Mama?”

Emry: “Help Mama?”

As you can see, she doesn’t yet understand that a question requires an answer – not another question.

And yet sometimes she surprises me in the most hilarious ways. Last week I was telling her, “Tomorrow we get to go the library. You can play with the train, and we can get Biscuit books!”

She loves the library. She loves Biscuit books even more. And the train set is quite fun, too. A few moments after this conversation, she was doing something very silly and I jokingly asked her, “Where did we get you?”

She looks at me thoughtfully and then responds, “The library?”

3 Months!!!

Today Ethan is three months old! Life is so busy with two kids, it doesn’t seem like he’s been with us for three months…and yet it’s also sometimes hard to believe he hasn’t always been with us.

Ethan is not as easy a baby as Emry was. We didn’t expect him to be, of course. No one is that lucky. He’s fussier. He isn’t as content as Emry to simply lie on the floor and play by himself. And sleeping through the night is still hit-and-miss some nights. Yet this past week, he has mellowed out quite a bit. He’s on a better schedule of eating, playing, sleeping. He often wakes up smiling and enjoys laughing and “talking” with us. And he’s getting quite strong. Not only has he already rolled from his tummy to his back, if he had his way he would be sitting up and probably running about. For when I lay down and put my knees up laying him on them, he will jerk himself upright. I guess he’s trying to strengthen his abs while I’m trying to get mine back into shape!

Ethan’s peculiar smile.

The discovery of fingers is glorious!

Yea – 3 months!!!

Happy 1^st Birthday, Curtis!