Yule

The tree is up and ornamented, stockings have been de-boxed and are waiting to be draped over the fireplace the Children drew on a cardboard box (it's quite a good fireplace actually and certainly did the trick on St Nicholas's day). An enormous number of almonds have been blanched, skinned, toasted and candied and a reasonable number have even survived the inevitable nibbling so they can be given away. There are possibly some Christmas crackers stashed somewhere for pulling on The Day so the entire family can be suitably adorned with an ill-fitting paper crown (until they tear/crumple/fall off which is also traditional). Shopping is complete - but then I said that several days ago and I have been to at least one store every day since.

It is the last day of work, the last day of school before the holiday really begins. Time for a deep breath; time for the fuss and bother to subside.

This year we will be staying home on Christmas day. Children 1 and 3 are going to a winter encampment starting on the 26th and Child 2 has a house-sitting job that will cover the same time frame so there will be a fair amount of packing and scrambling but hopefully also a lot of peace and simple quiet.

Christmas Eve will be spent at the Grandparent's house. Their neighborhood is a major attraction on that particular night because each house lines its walkways and drives with dozens of luminarias. We spend the afternoon setting out the brown paper bags and dropping a single candle into each one. Just at dusk the Children go out with long candles and lighters and carefully set about lighting. The trick is to light the candle and seat it firmly in its sand bed without scorching yourself or setting the paper bag on fire. The Children are always eager for the challenge.

Already the streets will be lined with slow-moving cars; it's impossible to get in or out of a driveway until midnight. Inevitably several of the tourists will take pictures of the flickering lights using their flash cameras. I always wonder what they think when they get home to admire their beautiful photos of rows of brown paper bags.

Some of the neighbors will bring out portable fire pits and groups of people walking the streets will gather around for a few minutes to warm their hands and talk. Many of the homes will be hosting parties and the doors will open now and then and let out bursts of laughter and the enticing smell of posole or tamales. The Children will run in and out of the various houses: Child 1 dragged next door by two young admirers, Child 2 disappearing with its friend and the friend's beguiling puppies, Child 3 buzzing indiscriminately from one to the other to see which offers the most entertainment at the moment.

At some point my mother will bring out the small leather strap of sleigh bells and round up as many bodies as possible to walk the crowded streets. As the Children have grown the attraction of the tour has changed: the simple pleasure of thousands of warm candle lights with each child having stop at every bag and peer down at the candle inside, the delight in finding bags that had caught fire and were burnt down to their sand base, the fun of shouting the first verse of any number of carols only to subside to a mumble as soon as the second, unfamiliar verse is reached. Now, full circle, they are old enough to love the charm of the lights themselves again.

Finally after too many cookies and too much cocoa, when the candles in the bags are guttering out one by one we will drag Child 2 away from its friend and round up the scattered coats and gloves and hats. The streets will still be half full of cars as we make our way back home and the Children will be chattering and laughing half the time, then lapsing into silence unexpectedly. At home the stockings will be artistically arranged, then rearranged and probably bolstered with notes or clever drawings. Child 1 will head maturely to its bed, Child 3 will pester Child 2, throw cushions, erupt into sudden and inexplicable noise and will finally be stuffed firmly into its room and have the door shut on its exuberance. Finally peace will descend.

Happy Holidays all.

Artifacts

What do you keep when you lose someone? We're still figuring that out.

When we moved a month after Kirk went missing it was so chaotic, so horrible, that I was hardly thinking straight. Anything belonging to the kids that they really wanted to keep we kept; absolutely everything of Kirk's was carefully packed up. My own things didn't matter. Furniture was given or thrown away. Twelve boxes of books were simply donated to the library en masse. They were, after all, only things.

Gradually, and it took ages, I was willing and able to begin to sort through Kirk's possessions. Many of his clothes were given to family members, and it's been wonderful to see my father wearing Kirk's sweater or our son using his coat every day. There are many other things though that we still have, things that are tangible pieces of story. A few of them are in our tiny house - the Venetian masks he brought back from Italy, the division coin he was given in Germany - but most of them are packed away in boxes.

Every now and then though I come across one unexpectedly and still the memories are so immediate, so strong. The other day I saw this in the garage lying next to the tool box:

And immediately I was back when we were dating. Kirk was a dedicated hiker and camper and this knife went with him on every trip. I think he bought it after he came home from Thailand because if you look closely at the blade:

You can see where he inscribed it with several lines of Thai script. It's an icon really of who Kirk was at that moment twenty years ago. Some day it will be handed on - to the Male Child perhaps, or even some day to a grandchild.

For now it will go back into the storage box but the memories, refreshed and strengthened, will stay.

Losing My Mind One Sequin at a Time

So.

I did confess at one point that I do make things. It is not a pretty thing, mind, and not something I'm proud of because by and large the things I make are not things I actually would want to own. Furthermore, when I do make things it is for one of two reasons: a) I get some wild idea and decide to see if I can make it work b) I need to give something or do something and for some reason figure that hand-making some incredibly time-consuming project is a brilliant and wise choice.

Here is an example of option b.

A friend of our family has a small daughter who is half-German. She goes to German lessons on weekends, visits her German grandparents whenever possible and yes, she is thus aware of St. Nicholas's day. So my delightful children voiced the opinion that we should send C something for St. Nich's. All well and good until... I figure that naturally we should pack a stocking [note, for accuracy it should have been a shoe, but I wasn't going to go all cobbler even for this charming child] and heck it should definitely be hand-made. Right. This is about ten days before the 6th.

Keep in mind that this photo was taken when the stocking was still half-finished. It still needed lining, a bit of detailing, and finishing at the edges with blanket-stitch.



I told you I was nuts.

Hung by the Chimney With Care

In a comment down below somewhere I promised (sort of) a craft-related post. Well... the picture I need for said post is still inaccessible at the moment so this is the interim craft related post which is really a total cheat because any actual crafting took place long, long ago.

Anyway...

My mother made stockings for my sister and me when we were kids. They were knitted, mine of pink wool with yellow designs, my sister's of yellow with pink. They brilliant thing about knitted stockings is that they stretch beautifully. We helped this process by taking them down from the mantle and wearing them around the house a lot.

When I married Kirk she knitted another stocking for him out of odds and ends of yarn so its all done in stripes. When my sister married she went all out and designed a themed stocking for the new Superior Uncle. Uncle is a research chemist so the stocking had a test tube... knitted in an interestingly peachy-brown colored wool so that Uncle took one look at it and spluttered "What is THAT??" I believe a certain amount of discussion might happen each year now over who gets to have the penis stocking. (Isn't that fun? I got to use "penis stocking" in a Christmas post and now my Google search results are going to be veeeeery interesting!)

For the first couple of years with children we didn't fuss much about stockings. Kirk and I didn't bother putting them up for ourselves, and Child 1 could make do with my old one for a little bit at least. For some reason though when the Children were around 5, 3 and 2 I decided we needed real stockings, and since three small children, two parents in full-time work and school AND the upcoming holiday weren't enough I naturally had to make them myself.

I made three quite different designs which naturally meant that the two girls endlessly squabbled over who got the "best" stocking and who was stuck with the inferior one that year. Unfortunately the "best" stocking was in a box that was sent through the mail recently and, along with an interesting assortment of other items* it was lost. However, here are the remaining two:



Terrible picture - and this is post-Photoshop but...

I didn't use a pattern because they are so simple. The cuff on the pink stocking is linen trimmed with beads, the dark red one (honestly, it's a lovely dark red in real life) is velvet with silver snowflakes free-hand embroidered on it.

The missing stocking was cream satin with an embroidered garland across it (sage green with ribbon-roses - I had recently read a ribbon-embroidery book as I remember)

Fascinating, wasn't it? But wait! As soon as I rescue the missing picture... yup, just keeps getting better.

*Interesting other items include: 1 scale-mail doublet, 1 home-made trebuchet (disassembled) and 1 pair fuzzy blue slippers. I would love to know what the lost-and-found post office people are making of that. It's possible that they confiscated the package under homeland security believing we were planning a medieval invasion of some sort (some sort meaning "with very warm if slightly Muppettish toes").

O Tannenbaum

Yesterday I (finally) managed to purchase our tree. However! Procrastination was clearly necessary to the whole process because:

1. There was only one tree of the kind I wanted left in the store (yes, it is fake, yes I will use it for years, yes it cost about the same as a real one, YES it comes with the lights already on it praises be!)

2. It was ON SALE (a lot. A really lot. So I got the one I liked and not the one that looked like it had been attacked by rabid squirrels)

3. Did I parenthetically mention it has the lights already on it??

4. It fit in my rather small car! (after a few tense moments and a very worried check-out guy)

5. It fit in my rather small house!

6. It was (just) possible for me to wrestle the box into the house on my own.

7. The male child was exactly the right height to put the top section on AND fluff the branches (although fortunately its more perfectionisty sibling is not tall enough to evaluate the fluffing job)

So we had a happy evening of tree-decorating. When Kirk and I married we decided to buy an ornament each year, a special ornament that would be memorable for every Christmas. We didn't think about the fact that we would have a very, very bare tree for the first... oh... twenty years or so if we only did one, but we filled in nicely with lesser ornaments. However, it's the special yearly ones that I still love, and that we take out carefully and hang up with stories about where we bought them and how we all remember them.

There is the fishing pole that I bought when Kirk first caught salmon fever in Alaska, along with the beautiful wooden fish. There is the painted egg my sister gave us when we were expecting Child 1 and the stacking St. Nicholas we found in a Wienacht market in Frankfurt that Child 2, our Germany child, always gets to hang on the tree. From California we have a white heron with a bobbing head - a particular favorite of mine, and a set of glass octopi with goggly eyes that aren't really ornaments but get perched on branches anyway because we love them.

We have a collection of moose ornaments as well, a legacy of Alaska really, but I still add to it when I find one I love (found one at Target this year - the only one on the rack). One is a garish painted thing with the moose wearing sneakers; it's not something I would ever have bought myself but when we were leaving Alaska a group of my friends gave it to me at a going-away party and I love it because I think of them. The most treasured moose is a little metal ornament with moose heads arranged in a circle - it looks like a snowflake from a distance until you look closely and realize it's antlers and beautifully modeled moose noses.

This year's ornament is actually being used as a tree-topper. We've had several over the years. In Germany we bought a box of dark green glass ornaments that included a glass spire for the very top. Kirk loved it; I did not. To counter it I flung together an angel (sort of - no wings) from a porcelain doll's head and hands, an antique pillowcase and a strip of dark red fabric. I quite liked the effect; Kirk did not. Finally a few years ago we compromised on a multi-pointed gold star which we both could bear but neither really felt strongly about one way or another. But as I was choosing the tree, I turned around and found the perfect topper. It's certainly not traditional, but it looks whimsical and beautiful and somehow right with our moose and our fish, our birds and globes and hand-made popsicle-stick trees. This year our tree is presided over by an owl.

I think we can all use a little wisdom.

Snow Day

I wish.

No, really, I truly do wish. I stopped a colleague in the mail room and asked it if was wrong to still hope for snow days if you're not in school any more. That particular colleague seemed to think it was, but then confessed that she was looking blissfully down 5 weeks off and wasn't entitled to comment. I've since done a poll and the result is that 11 out of 12 adults still watch the weather with half an eye on the snow-day potential (NOTE: we do get snow days at my work place, usually linked to the city or the local schools).

Yesterday we had rain all afternoon - solid, meaningful, REAL rain that did more than just dribble out of the clouds - and by the time I scooped Child 3 out of the Apple store it was slushing-not-raining. Things looked good for a snow day. We even stood in the living room and did the snow-day chant (okay, we had a half-hearted chorus of "we buhLEAVE" which might or might not have involved sub-vocal "jeez moUHM").

And today? Not a sausage.

No, I lie. No snow on the ground when I dragged out of bed in the dark, no snow when I peered hopefully out at the cloudy morning, but when I had reluctantly cleaned, brushed and dressed and was heading out the door? SNOW! Pelting down - as though it had gotten up late and was desperately trying to make up for lost time.

Too little, too late.

Stupid snow.

Wish List

Attention: Jolly Old St Nick,
The one who's trying hard to pick
The perfect present just for me
To tuck beneath our Christmas Tree
I thought I'd send a little list
Reminding you of what you missed
From last year's visit (you remember
The one you made just last December).
I'm not complaining, by the way,
I know it's hard to pack a sleigh
With all the the things the world's demanding
(you know, like peace and understanding).
But if you're puzzled, Mr. Claus
As to what I wanted was,
Here is what I need the most
A modern wish list blogger post:

Patience first (it's hard to find
But the elastic is worn out on mine).

Children who pick up their clothes,
I wouldn't mind a few of those
But if it means the ones I've got
Must disappear then better not.

Instead please from your magic bag
Pull out a more effective nag,
One that makes them think before
They strew their socks across the floor
Or walk away from unwashed pans,
Sticky counters, full trash-cans.

Next a bridle and some reins
Fitted for my tongue and brains
It would be nice to sometimes manage
To think before I do the damage.

Finally a little quiet
I've heard of it, I'd like to try it.

That's it, that's all I'm asking but

... I won't say no to chocolate.

DISCLAIMER: written entirely in my head while walking to work from my car. It was very, very early in the morning and I have no shame. That is all.

Gratitude

Yesterday I smiled:

In delight at the sound of a fat baby chuckle coming at high speed towards me

In sympathy as the basket rounded the corner and I learned the mother was sprinting as fast as possible towards the bathroom because the laughing delighted little boy in the cart had plunged both hands into his dirty diaper and was happily trying to wipe the result on her chest

In sheer joy as I contemplated the fact that my Children have now all been toilet trained for over 13 years

How Cost Plus Saved the Holidays

1. They not only had chocolate coins, they had four different kinds so I could choose the currency.

2. They had tons of German Christmas stuff I remember so well (although I never buy it, I just like to LOOK at it)

3. They had cans of light coconut milk! Hooray! Curry for dinner (yes, not terribly festive but very yummy)

4. The basket-filling bins were stuffed with the cutest, weensiest, most dimpled little bottles of things like dipping fudge and maple syrup I've ever seen. Made me completely ignore the fact that no one in their right mind wants a TINY jar of dipping fudge.

5. There were not only large bottles of flavored syrup, there was an enormous selection of sugar-free flavored syrup (What? Italian sodas are VERY holiday-ish. Darn, just realized the Children will see this and now I will have to share)

So, Cost Plus, because the Children woke up to genuine South African gelt this morning, because there is still a lovely lunch-sized bowl of green curry in my fridge, because I got to try to smell pfefferneusse through the cellophane, I am willing to forgive you for the three versions of "Little Drummer Boy" you played in the 1/2 hour I was in the store (even the one where the singer kept saying "perrrRUMPaPUMPpum" in a whiny nasal voice).

Now I just need to find a use for these miniature bottles of basil oil...

'Tis the Season Darn It

I'm normally a quite Christmassy person. I appalled my father when he realized our family tradition was to put up the tree the day after Thanksgiving. I have to stop myself from pulling out the Christmas CD's throughout the year, realizing that not everyone will be interested in Wassailing in the Bleak Mid-Summer (note, in my defense our Christmas albums are mostly Robert Shaw Festival collections and are really, truly beautiful and worth listening to year round). I love ginger and spices; I have a favorite Gingerbread recipe (we make gingerbread moose cookies - doesn't everyone?) and a favorite spiced nut recipe and I firmly believe that hot chocolate should include a drop or two of peppermint every single time.

But this year? Not so much. Maybe it was that there were Santa clauses and humorous penguins facing off against the morose plastic jack 'o lanterns three weeks before Halloween at Target this year. I know, it's nit picking, but I've always felt that October was just a little early to start pushing the Hooray! It's the Spendiest Time of the Spenderiffic Year Folks! stuff.

We don't have a tree up yet - we don't have a tree at all honestly. The box of decorations and ornaments is still sitting in the storage room unopened and unloved. We have no lights up, no cookies have been baked and don't even ask about Christmas cards because honestly? Not going to happen this year.

In an effort to inspire some stirrings of holiday cheer Child 1 has played Christmas music all this week, two nights ago Children 1 and 2 watched The Nightmare Before Christmas (because NOTHING says Christmas like a podgy villain filled with creepy-crawlies) and last night they all watched one of the two family must-see's for the season: Boris Karloff narrating The Grinch (don't even mention Jim Carrey, thou shalt not blaspheme my Seuss). Me, I'm still not feeling it.

However, we do have our Germany Child and so tonight we will, ready or not, be putting out shoes for St Nickolaus. Some traditions, after all, are non-negotiable. One of those is that into each shoe must be placed a bag of gelt - chocolate coins. In pursuit of these I went to Target the other day. Seven aisles of Christmas and not one sniff of chocolate coins. Two days later I finally found them - in the dollar section. There was a choice: Spongebob Squarepants or Dora the Explorer.

I might just have to break up with Target.

But only for the holidays.

Missing Britons

There is news about five British men who were kidnapped in Iraq in May. A video of the men dated November 18th was broadcast on Al-Arabiya television.

You can read the BBC article here.

Pods

When I was a kid we would walk to the grocery store and along the way we would pass a particular tree. It was far enough away that I wasn't able to get there on my own so it was a special occasion when I saw it. It was, I was convinced, the coolest tree in the world because it produced these amazing seed pods: purplish-brown, long, flat and twisty.

There was always the issue of how many seed pods I would be allowed to trundle home. Forty, I felt, was a good number - two was my mother's limit.

We would walk home to the steady buzz of my maraca pod - the dried seeds rattling rhythmically in their cases. The sheer joy of noise-making could last for over an hour, but finally I would have to give in to temptation and break the pod apart. There were ten or so seeds inside - beautifully smooth and hard enough to make a satisfying "tock" when they knocked against each other in my pocket. They were gold doubloons, the rajah's jewels, desperately needed medicine that would cure all ills.

The house next door to us has one of these trees, and for the last several weeks it has been shedding thousands of these foot-long pods onto the driveway and into the narrow space beside the house. They are too heavy to sweep properly, too flat to rake easily. Every time I drive up to the house I can hear the pods cracking and shredding beneath the tires, grinding into the pavement so they have to be painstakingly picked off by hand. I glared up at that darn tree the other day and realized it had only shed about half of its load despite the heavy winds we have had; I just know it's waiting until I have everything all tidied away to release the rest. I have thought some dark and horrible things about that tree.

On Friday afternoon I saw the neighbor's kid outside. He had two pods stuck into a scarf he had tied around his head, another one acting as a tail and several more clutched in his hands. He was careening around the yard, a wobbly, loopy dance done to a steady rattle. Dizzy, he fell over on the prickly, dried grass and shrieked with laughter, still shaking his hands wildly.

Everyone should have a tree like that.

The Forgotten

When Kirk was in the military there was a great deal I never thought about. I really never considered the support systems that were in place for family when a military member is sent on an unaccompanied tour - mostly because I never really had to use them. When Kirk was in the army it was our friend's unit that was called up to the first Gulf War, not Kirk's. In the Air Force he had only one longish tour (in Italy during the Kosovo engagement) and that was unexpected. Certainly I never felt that I had to use any of the resources that were out there. I was always aware, however, that they were there.

When Kirk went missing as a contractor I became excruciatingly aware of how different it is as a civilian. There was no base counseling, no chain of command to assign someone to help us out. There was no reliable plan of action, no one to assure me that they had done this before, that everyone knew what should happen. When things were difficult for us there was no one to call; when our claims in Kirk's name were ignored there was no established precedence to refer to. He and thousands of other contractors were serving, but the government hadn't even done the little that was required of them.

How much worse, how much more horrific is it then for the contractors who are not American - for the Iraqis who are daily serving our military, daily risking their lives? They are not only in danger from the violence in their country, they are at constant risk simply because they are associating with the occupying forces.

Dan Hardie, a British blogger, has written about three Iraqi contractors who worked extensively with the British military and are now trying desperately to get asylum. Read... please.

Learning the Important Stuff

The effort goes on to properly introduce my children to the really vital things they need to be aware of. I've mentioned before that they were taught quite early how to quote from prominent philosophers like M. Python and B. Bunny (esq) but I realize this is hardly enough. A few months ago we were reading a multiple choice survival quiz, and one option (for the "what would you do if your plane crashed in the high and snowy mountains" question) was "MacGyver a set of telemark skis." My children - MY Children - looked at me in dewy innocence and actually asked "What is a MacGyver?"

I know.

But! Netflix! Thank goodness for Netflix. So for the past two weeks we have been working our way through season one. So far we have learned the following:

1. Duct tape. Nuff said.
2. A man can be extremely intelligent and resourceful and yet constantly find himself surprised when the Blonde De Jour suddenly lip-locks him during the last five minutes of the Count Down To Doom.
3. A handy metal cutting device can be made from rust and a bicycle. If the bicycle is magnesium that is. (confirmed by my very own father!)
4. Never hand top secret information to a sandy-haired man in a leather jacket. Death is sure to follow.
5. Bad guys wear very evil looking shoes. Also they usually have facial hair.
6. Never discuss your escape plans - the ants are listening.
7. There is, so far, still no legitimate use for the little toothpick thingy on a Swiss Army Knife.
8. Candlesticks make a handy and tasteful defibrillator.
9. Cringeworthy acting was not invented by CSI.
10. Richard Dean Anderson crosses generations surprisingly well (judged "cute" by two out of three Children); the rest of the 80's does not.


And they say that television is a waste of time.

Panic Stations

At what point, as a parent, is one supposed to panic?

My mother was (is) a prime panicker with a toleration of about... nil. She was, poor woman, cursed with me as a daughter - inevitably late, consistently inconsiderate about little things like telephoning and asking for permission. It was a terrible combination as I would drag in an hour... or more... after curfew to find her, bathrobe clad and hand-wringing, pacing the halls. I was, she was always sure, dead somewhere in a ditch and the fact that I always turned up irritatingly healthy and (unfortunately) only moderately and temporarily repentant never seemed to ease her mind.

Now me, I'm not terribly good at the Doom Assumption thing which makes me feel vaguely that I'm not really doing the whole parenting thing right somehow.

Take yesterday for example.

One of the children phones from school and leaves a message starting with "Mom, Child is an idiot. You know this already, but [it] is" only later getting to the part where Child was currently in the nurse's office gushing impressive amounts of blood. Almost at once a second message arrives saying airily "No problem, we're going back to class now." Should I, at that point have leapt into the car to come to the rescue of my poor desanguinated baby? Or do I calmly phone the school nurse (who comes on saying "I know who this is! And my goodness, your child is so amusing..."), listen, resigned to the story that involved Child and a cut-down fence pole, and assure her that Child's tetanus shot is indeed up to date and should Child continue to bleed copiously I would get it seen somewhere. Guess, just guess what I did.

It's not that I don't love my Children - I do, deeply, truly and often madly (or angrily depending on the state of the kitchen) - but if I allow every nerve to hum with dread each time one of them bashes, breaks, or bleeds life will be intolerable. So I walk that careful line between protecting them and letting them learn, knowing that we will all frequently be hurt in the process, but believing (usually) that somehow we'll survive. And when I hear, yet again, that Child is bleeding somewhere I just sigh and reach for the bandages.

Absent

A whole week. A. Whole. Week. That's how long that darn cold lasted. Granted, I was only prone-and-incompetent for... what... about four days, but STILL. That was a lot of whining (wasn't it kids?)

BUT I'm much better now. The problem is that last time I was sick I still had internet access at home so, in between sniffles and bouts of unconsciousness, I could still check email and keep in touch with all the important things in life (ie the list of blogs I read, the Very Important Design forums I lurk in and... oh... well, now and then the news). Now we have a house with all sorts of lovely things about it (like water! and... um... lights!) but no internet. Which means that although I came in unbelievably early this morning so I could start catching up on the... lemme check a minute... ooooh, way too many emails in just ONE of the email accounts I have to peek carefully into, I now realize that I should have woken up at two or something (well, I did actually, I always wake up at 2, but I am not fool enough to GET up at 2) because whooo nelly no one else in the entire world took off a whole week.

Normally I really like having lots of lovely blog posts to read, but honestly people, I told you I was sick.

Stupid world still revolving without me.

Dode Mide Be, I'b Fide

I have a cold. Something has happened since we moved back here from California, something very strange in the cold department. First, I get them which I didn't used to do and second when I do get them things go a little pie-wise.

First (and I know all the internets is fascinated at the progress of my cold so yes, I am going to spell it all out for you. I've told you before - I'm a giver) I get itchy ears. Strangest thing really, my ears itch when I swallow. I have no idea what that means, so naturally I swallow a lot just to confirm that yes, my ears get all tickly inside every time.

Then there's the more traditional phase where the throat coats up so I spend half my time doing the nerve-grating hmmmmAHEMMMMggggmmmmhhhmmmmm thing because it doesn't seem to be enough to bother with a full effort cough. I'm sure the folks in my hallway are thrilled about this as I vary the program with a whole range of sniffs. Yes, I am terribly attractive it's true.

But the final phase which (as will become apparent) has just now hit is the most interesting because out of the blue with no warning whatever my brain suddenly and completely turns off. It simply isn't there. It goes all woolly and grey and when I try to access it there's some tinkly holding music and a gentle voice assuring me that the problem is being worked on.

The last time it happened fortunately I was at home and close to a reasonably soft surface. I did however spend a happy few minutes gazing earnestly at my alarm clock and trying to work out what a five was and whether it came before or after seven. I finally decided that since I didn't know what seven meant either it wasn't all that essential to figure it out right at that moment.

Today I have spent most of my time ferrying Children from one spot to another (Drop Child 1 off, return; pack up Child 3 and deliver it, return; start Child 2 on dressing etc leave again for Child 3; stuff Children 2 and 3 into car, launch Child 3 out while simultaneously acquiring Child 1; take Children 1 and 2 and shove in two different directions then collapse in front of computer for several deep breaths) and everything was going reasonably well, if increasingly slowly, right up until the moment when I opened the car door and found myself trying really, really hard to remember the difference between locked and unlocked.

So, if you don't mind I'm going to take my itchy eared, phlegm infested fuzzy head and I'm going to bed.

It's just safer that way.

Decibels

We've become a noisier house since Kirk went missing. It's not connected - at least not directly, although being a single parent isn't always the smoothest path. Having Children turn into Teenagers probably has a lot to do with it as well (and let's face it, we've never been exactly restrained when it comes to the laughing and the talking).

I'd like to blame it on the Male Child because... whoo boy is that one noisy piece of humanity. It's not just the usual male stupid-body-part-noises, it's the clap that he perfected (nearly capitalized that but realized that made it look like a disease... heck it almost is one!) where he cups his hands just right and... I shudder just thinking about it. Reactions have been increasingly negative though and he's starting to catch himself after just one explosive percussion.

However, I have to admit that at least some of the noise is me, and honestly? It's simply that there are moments when a little shoutiness is the fastest, easiest way to get something across.

For example:

I stroll one evening last week into the living room after an exhausting hour creating Very Important Digital Graphic Art. I have been giving loving guidance (also shouted, but because it's the only way to be heard above conversation mingled with Child 3's Atreyu CD) about dishes, homework, sweeping and decrumbing-counters because I'm a really involved and loving mother. I emerge though (blinking a little - dark room for to better see the screen; v bad for eyes I know) to find a. no Children in sight and b. the sort of scattered detritus that gives me facial tics. I could, of course, go into each respective bedroom and calmly alert each Child to its impending doom. Instead I stand in the middle of the whole mess and make a sort of AAAUUUGHHHHRRRRGGGGLLLLLEAUGH!!!!! noise at top voice.

There must have been a slightly sociopathic edge to it though because there was an instant scuttling out of bedrooms and some obsequious fawning around my dainty ankles as they gathered up socks (clean AND dirty just for variety), books, homework, dishes etc and hurriedly hustled them out of sight.

So, do I feel guilty for shouting at the Children in that sort of bestial way? Or do I note it down as an excellent technique, probably best used sparingly so as not to wear off the effectiveness? Personally I'm going for the latter.

I love you Children! But pick up your damn socks...

Off We Go...

The two ROTC Children (who are also the Civil Air Patrol Children) went flying on Sunday. No, really flying, in an airplane where the kind man with a pilot's license let them actually turn the turny thing and do things with flaps for an hour each. I know this technical stuff because Kirk was studying for a pilot's license and I helped so I can say things like Bernoulli Effect with a casual air of competence.

I am not a panicky type of mother so I not only agreed to let them go without a second thought I also did not spend the afternoon breathing deeply into a paper bag and imagining my offspring plummeting to earth in a fiery ball of destruction. It's okay though, I'm pretty sure my mother took care of that for me - she's very good with the Grim Imagination of Death stuff. I did meet the CAP instructor who was taking them up though and gave him a five minute interview to see if he was worthy of being entrusted with the safety of my prayshus babies. Based on this I decided that, although choosing to allow teenagers to take the controls of a plane he was in seems evidence to the contrary, he was an intelligent man.

When the Children returned last night this impression was confirmed.

One Child: ... and he said that we were naturals!

Other Child: Yes! And that I was the best!

First Child: He did not! He said we were equal. Exactly equal.

That, my friends, is a wise, wise man.

Pending Post

Sorry... thought I was going to be able to post something today but then my I-have-everything-under-control week was hit this morning with a didn't-I-tell-you-about-this-major-ad project that (why not) just happens to have had a deadline a week ago. But hey! They kindly extended the deadline waaaaaay out until tomorrow afternoon.

Oh, and the other stuff you already did that should relate to this project? Well, the size is totally different, and the content won't work and of course we don't have any high-res photos - what were you thinking?

No problem at all.

Maybe more tomorrow... if there is one.