Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping...into the future

Adam laid happily on his blanket last night, grabbing my toes. I didn't really pay attention until he pinched my toe - really hard!

I looked down to see that he had inserted my big toe in his mouth and his two lower pirahna teeth were shredding it. And this from the boy who will have nothing to do with holding his own bottle.

Things like that gross Ismael out to the fullest. Our conversation was riveting:

Isma: "Did you wash your toes?"

Me: "Yes, in that driving hailstorm I just went out in to move the car to the carport. You could have done that for me you know."

Isma: "Wash the boy's mouth out."

And so goes another exciting evening in our home.

But lately, I've looked at my ever-changing, almost eight month old son, and I have the growing sense that infancy as we have known it is over. He can roll over now, but he won't cuddle into sleep on my chest any more. He can sit up, but he can't wear those darling little baby clothes. He can eat some more substantial food, but he can't fit into his infant carrier seat.

He's my baby, but he's not an infant.

Of course, I want him to grow up, but I think I want a few more months of infancy first.

Help Wanted: A Personal Censor

I have been through a lot as a teacher. I have managed to do most of it without cussing. Until today.

Now by a lot, I mean I have led 40 or more 14 year olds through the nation's capital in all kinds of weather, through countless security screens, and across the lawn of Mount Vernon in the course of 100 straight hours of field trip bliss. If your child's teacher so much as takes your kid's class to an apple orchard, go buy her a gift. Right now. A trip is a lot of work.

So yes, the list would go on and on and on of what I have encountered during thirteen years of teaching.

It should be no surprise that I was in "work" Wal-Mart this morning at 6:30 AM buying file folders and document frames for tomorrow's graduation service.

As I rounded the corner at Men's clothing to head for the check out, I heard an unfortunately familiar sound:

KKKSssssshhhh...ting, ting, ting...

It sounded like a thousand fairies laughing. at. me.

I would like to have a moment of silence for the two document frames who gave their lives due to the reckless abandon with which I steer a cart. Did I mention it was not even seven AM yet?

I cleaned up the chunky parts of my mess, careful not to add "stitches" to my story of how my morning could have been better. There was no way I was coming back later, so I went back and picked up two more frames, nestling them deeper in the cart to prevent further leaps to death.

Let me tell you.... Trish at the check out was real glad to see me this morning as I explained why I was holding two empty frames and a bunch of broken glass. I'll bet she was thinking, "all this before 7 AM? Aren't I one lucky woman?"

Later, on the way to graduation practice in the front row of an un-airconditioned school bus with 47 eighth graders, my partner teacher, and my principal, I related the early morning's events.

My partner teacher asked, "So do you need to go back and get more frames?"

I practically shouted an emphatic, "Ooooh HELL NO."

Oh now that's nice.

My partner teacher pretended I didn't say anything inappropriate while internally praising God that it wasn't WORSE than that because heaven knows, I like a good curse word.

My principal smiled faintly, likely due to the horrified look on my face.

I wondered where the filter between my brain and mouth went? Perhaps on summer vacation a few days early? I apparently need my own personal censor to follow me around with an air horn to bleep out my inappropriate remarks.

God only knows what I might say at graduation tomorrow night, in the church, on the microphone, and in front of the parents and priest....

It's Alive

"If I actually watered my lone rose, it might bloom," I told a friend the other night. After doing all that work, you would think that I would remember to water the ONE plant I allowed to live in my field of mulch.

You would think so, anyway.

Good thing it rained last night.

Future Girl Chaser

I thought today's biggest accomplishment was going to be Adam's ability to see his own eyebrows. He has begun looking straight up while groaning and grunting. I thought he sounded like a character from Star Wars. Or like he was being possessed by demons, in which case, tomorrow's baptism can't get here soon enough.

In the midst of the carrying on, he also has learned to launch a mouthful of dinner at me with the same sound as a Nerf gun. Something like, "ploooofff," as the entire wad lands on me, on him, on the tray, wherever.

My boy has skills.

But as I was making dinner for the grown up residents in the house, I returned to the living room to find him like this:

Now, he wasn't like that when I left him. He had been lying on his activity mat. He finally has rolled over from his back to his tummy on his own.

Maybe he was inspired by the 10 month old girl he met at my Godson's open house. She is almost walking. He sat in the grass, immobile, smiling and cooing at her. She moved on to bigger game. She has her sights set on bipedal boys.

I guess he figured he'd better get on the stick about this crawling thing.

Bravo, Big Chief, Bravo!

Patio Accomplished

Adam laid down for his morning nap and I laid in wait. The minute he was asleep, I shot out the door, leaving baby and daddy asleep in their beds.

FREEDOM.

Whatever would I do with the whole 35 minutes in which I would be reasonably sure that Adam would be asleep?

Buy mulch and continue working on my heinous patio project. My main goal being to transform that patio from heinous to not heinous. My goals are not lofty, but they are my own.

As I set to work outside, I found this:

What is that a door for? Seriously? I live in a major metropolitan area and I thought we claimed this land from the animals long ago. I imagined something from Where the Wild Things Are jumping up to greet me.

Whatever it is, I hope it has a back door, because I flattened this one, then laid layers of newspaper and about ten pounds of mulch on top of it.

Adam was a great deal of help after his nap. The Prince doesn't garden much:

The end result of today's efforts, forty five minutes and $21 of mulch later:

Better Homes and Gardens it ain't, but it meets my original goals:

1. Create a space which convinces the upstairs apartment neighbors that they do not live above a cesspool.

2. Get rid of the weeds that would grow to heights higher than the fence.

3. And as previously stated, move from heinous to not heinous.

Mission accomplished. I might even hang a banner.

Field Day - An Adult Survivors Guide

Ahhh.... to be in middle school again.

Okay, no, I didn't like field day even then.

Most of my students though seem to look forward to it. It's an opportunity to show off athletic prowess in a variety of events, all of which take place outside, which is definitely better than inside.

Alternatively, it is an opportunity to lie in the grass and socialize with your friends without being interrupted by a yapping adult who has the nerve to interrupt YOU by trying to teach you something.

To survive field day, this is the list that every adult must have.

1. Ibuprofen. Take in great quantities upon waking so that your body will have absorbed them before you begin standing on concrete all day. I considered breaking out the Percocet for this endeavor, but determined this is not quite as severe as a severed limb. Plus, I would probably be asleep on my desk by the time field day started and/or babbling incoherently like Paula Abdoul at an Idol try out. Again, middle schoolers are self-absorbed creatures, but this they would notice.

2. Sunglasses. To shade from the sun or hide tears of exhaustion. Take your pick.

3. Sunscreen. Apply liberally. Otherwise when you swat that bee from your neck at 2:00 PM you're going to feel a sting anyway.

4. Athletic Shoes. Although will not be participating in any events, you WILL be standing. All day long. Those cute shoes that show your recent pedicure are useless.

5. Clipboard and Pencil. You will have to record your students' amazing feats and endure them mobbing you after each and every event. A clip board allows you to throw the scores to the middle of the pack and then take a safe step backward.

6. Diet Coke. Drink during break; use sparingly. Field day has no restrooms. Water is overrated.

7. Your husband's debit card. When this is all over, you are going to need a different kind of drink, and you have misplaced your own debit card. Okay, yeah, so this is probably more a recommendation for me than for anyone else. (Hellloooooooooo? St. Anthony?)

Field Day, 2009. Bring it. I'm ready.

Speaking Blue

A friend's Facebook status once read, "Blue is NOT hearing Pink." My response, "Really? We speak purple around here." Maybe it should have been lavender.

Anyway, men and women do not speak the same language, that is true. The roughly 842,000 different books in print devoted to that very premise can't be wrong.

For instance, last night I came home from work to Grandma playing with Adam. Fun stuff. I go to the fridge to get the hamburger I am sure I have in order to make my mother the culinary delight that is grilled hamburgers in appreciation for her afternoon of babysitting. There is no hamburger. Not fun stuff.

Ismael walked in shortly afterward and I greeted him with "Please, go to the store and buy hamburger. I already have buns. I just need hamburger."

He harumphed a few times because all he really wanted to do was check his Powerball numbers to see if we could have hamburgers ordered in for the rest of our lives. (We cannot).

After he left, I spoke these prophetic words to my mother, "He will come back with the wrong things, you wait and see." I've only been married a few years, BUT I've learned a thing or two in that time.

I knew when he left that he a.) hadn't really been listening to me and b.) would have been extremely irritated if I had issued the simple statement "We need hamburger," even one more time.

So I shut up and waited. And waited. And waited. Seriously, the store is 1 mile away, how long does it take?

He threw two very full bags on the counter. Two packages of WHOLE WHEAT HAMBURGER BUNS, one package of HOT DOG BUNS, and lemonade.

For God's sake.

How many hamburgers were three people going to eat? Sixteen? That is if I had hamburger.

We don't even have any hot dogs.

And I'm sure glad he got lemonade. It will make a fabulous dinner by itself.

My mother declared that if that was what we were having for dinner, she'd just go on home, thank you very much.

I caught him getting his new bike out to go for a quick pre-lemonade dinner ride and dispatched him back to the store.

He returned with two packages of pre-formed hamburgers (ahhh....what a delight) and a package of hamburger (to prevent future problems).

As we finally ate our fantastic dinner, I reflected on how "blue doesn't always hear pink." (even though pink was PERFECTLY clear in what she was saying)

My husband's version of blue gets tangled up in the translation from thinking in French to speaking in English and in between all the details get left out. I dig details out of him like I'm mining for coal in Appalachia. It's time consuming, difficult, dirty work.

If I want him to hear me correctly, I will have to leave out details like I have bread already and just shout, "Hamburger, hamburger, hamburger," in his ear. I thought leaving out the detail that I wanted the sirloin versus the cheap 73/27 meat was sufficient. I was wrong.

While Ismael did the post dinner dishes (because he is a good, good, good, hearing impaired husband), I did some of my nightly blog surfing and found http://www.dadcentric.com/ which is a site that compiles entries from different daddy bloggers.

What? Daddy bloggers? Yes, it's true.

I found that daddy blogs are quite a bit different from mommy blogs in that they curse a lot more, are highly sarcastic, and are content to refer to their children as Thing 1 and Thing 2 in order to protect their privacy (I can only assume no wife allowed their children to actually be named that. Twice, anyway)

The posts I enjoyed the most were:

I Sit in the Darkness and Say the Law

Po-tate-oe, Po-tat-o

Richard Dreyfuss Would Have Stood His Ground

The second and third ones, in particular, require you to read all the way to the end for the punch-line but they are well worth the wait for the laugh.

I don't think Ismael will start a daddy blog any time soon, but if he did, I sure wonder what his entry from tonight would be?

He Speaks! Or Rather Texts....

My husband Ismael is not the most verbose person in the world... in fact, he might be the least.

I called him during lunch today to make a pitch for going out to dinner at a Lebanese restaurant, whose brochure he has been leaving in conspicuous places around the house.

I didn't think it would be a hard sell.

I didn't get him, and by the time he returned the call I had class. Being technologically savvy, I crafted a well thought out, perfectly spelled, concise text message: "Baby: I have class now. I will be at school until 4. Can we go out to dinner at that Lebanese place?"

His immediate reply: "Where are you? Can you talk? I love you!"

Several thoughts came to mind:

1. I am at WORK...where else would I be at 11:30 AM?

2. If I could talk, I would have answered the phone.

3. Of course you love me, I'm fabulous.

4. That seems like an oddly long text message from my husband.

Then I remembered that these phones have some pre-entered text as short cuts. He just picked a few of those when he didn't reach me, strung them together, and sent them off.

Thank heaven the maker of his cell phone included "I love you" or he might not think to add that!

Then I knew he HAD received my text when I received this reply from him, "Ok."

Now that's my husband talking.

Memorial Day at Wal Mart

Memorial Day is the day set aside to honor those who have served our country. We do so by standing in line at Wal Mart.

Seriously, I had to have formula. I don't know what the other 8,000 people were doing there.

There are four Wal-Marts within about 20 minutes of our apartment. There is "work" WalMart, 'mom" WalMart, "on my way to somewhere else" WalMart, and "ghetto" WalMart all named for what they are closest to. Unfortunately, ghetto WalMart is the closest to our place.

About two months ago Ismael was going to leave to buy formula (our never ending quest) at our WalMart. He came in the living room and announced, "I can't go." Sensing some man plot to get out of this necessary task, I questioned him further. "There's been a shooting in the parking lot," he said. Surely now he was really lying. Turning on the television proved it. The police had arranged a drug deal in the parking lot that had gone bad, resulting in a police action shooting. At 2:30 PM. Can't they save that stuff for 2:30 AM??

I visit each of them with some regularity, but not enough to remember where things are. Yesterday at on my way to somewhere else (and more fun) Wal Mart, I had four things on my mind: formula, eggs, bread, and pictures. Really, I had five things, but still can't remember the fifth. I nixed the eggs because you see, I was on my where somewhere else. That WalMart is just not in a good location for me to purchase perishables.

I searched every aisle for bread, only to find it in the back of the store, in the corner, where the infant section used to be. Okay, great. Where is the infant section? I found it next to electronics. Now that makes perfect sense. After I purchase their store brand formula for $11 a can, I'll surely have enough left over to buy that Ipod Touch I've been wanting. Whatever.

Also, in the move they placed the aisles even closer together. You can barely pass another cart. If your child doesn't keep their arms and legs inside the ride at all times it could definitely be severed right there in the diaper section.

I scoured the aisles for formula, which I didn't find, and was momentarily distracted by the cute baby boy clothes that my 7 month old should still fit into, instead of the 12-18 month clothing he is in.

Distraction = downfall.

I couldn't find the formula. I scanned my brain trying to remember. Ghetto WalMart has it in the baby section, on lockdown. You always have to get an associate to open it. Mom WalMart has it in checkout 22, next to cigarettes. Work WalMart has it on a shelf in the infant section, no lock. Guess there are no thieves or drug dealers who want the powder to cut the strength of cocaine or heroin. I work in a place better than I live.

But, I digress.

I could NOT remember where this WalMart kept it.

Adam and I headed to the front of the store, walked the checkout line several times, no result.

Back to the infant section where we found it, next to those beautiful baby clothes that so blinded me on our first visit back to the department.

As I was heading BACK to the front of the store, I pulled the pacie from Adam's mouth, hoping for some sound of encouragement from the young son.

"Hey, kitty kitty, da da da da" he replied. Now, I know that his "words" are words in the same way that we see clouds in the summer sky and see clowns, birds, or Jesus in their forms. It's all in the eye of the beholder. Surely he knows already that the words kitty and da da do NOT go in the same sentence.

We are now stocked up with enough English Muffins and baby formula to get through the week. I don't know which WalMart I'll be at next week, but I know I'll be there...looking for baby formula.

We Interrupt this Race, for a Moment of Grace...

I literally was placing the cooler in the trunk when my phone beeped with a text, "The race starts at one. Come at 2:30."

The Indianapolis 500 causes traffic around the Speedway to seize in every direction for hours. There is a very small window while the race is actually going on that movement is possible. If you stay out too long, like I did last year, you find your highway exits blocked. We could see our apartment and could have abandoned the car and walked there. But drive there? No way. We spent two hours trying to get home.

So with more time before we left than I expected, I came in and flipped Adam on his tummy. Seems an odd thing to do with extra time, but this boy needs the practice. I settled in with a magazine. As my butt hit the chair, he promptly threw up on his activity mat and then laid his freshly washed head in it and cried.

Plan B. A quick wash, cuddle time, and a nap.

I have a rule that there are to be no babies in our bed with us. EVER. Ismael conveniently ignores my proclamation from time to time despite my dire warnings to do him great harm if he continues. I know too many people who thought a baby sleeping in their bed with them was harmless. Fast forward five years and they are trying to pry the pre-kindergartner out of their king size bed and into his or her own. No thank you.

I have to admit, there is something alluring about cuddling up with your son, if you can get past the initial thrashing, poking, pulling, and kicking. He laid there looking lovingly at me as he pulled on my lips, stuck his finger up my nose, cut my lip with his death grasp, and pulled my hair. He then turned himself and kicked the you know what out of my arm while screeching with sheer delight.

If this is what he does to Bear at night, I think Bear is a fool for not going on strike long ago.

I laid there reading my magazine and getting angry about one of the newer mommy books. To be fair, I have not read the book or much about it, but there is something in the title that is meant to be funny I am sure: "Occasional moments of grace."

I looked over at my son who had closed his eyes, settled down and fallen asleep while keeping his outstretched hand on my arm.

A moment of grace.

I would have missed it if I had come in and gone about my chores that surely could use some extra attention.

I was reminded of my original argument when I started this blog. Motherhood (and life for that matter) is a continuous collection of God's Smallest Graces, IF we only recognize them.

A nap always makes everything better.

Mother in Law Motel - No Vacancy

Staying with your relatives is not always easy.

Lorie is here with her family from Michigan. They always stay with her mother in law which means sleeping on an air mattress in a spare room with no air conditioning. Despite the fact that it was 85 degrees today, she has not and will not turn the a/c on tonight.

I would just die in those conditions.

Lorie is soldiering through it despite my pointing out various hotels near her in-law's house. Holiday Inn, Days Inn, Hampton Inn, Wingate Inn - all more comfortable accommodations than the Inn-Laws.

I suggested she "talk" in her sleep tonight. Things like:

"zzzzzzzzzzHolidayInnzzzzzzzzzzz"

"zzzzzFreeHBOinEveryRoomzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

"zzzzzzzzzzzzFreeBreakfastzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

"zzzzzzzzzzKingSizeBedzzzzzzzzzzz"

Of course it is race weekend in Indianapolis, so even those not so subtle hints probably wouldn't work. If they left to go look for a hotel, they'd all be full, and her MIL could have their room rented to travelers by the time they returned. It's a put up and shut up kind of weekend.

As for me, I enjoyed my short visit with her this evening and so did Adam.

I also accomplished my most important task today:








This is apparently the ONLY 18 month old sized baptismal outfit in central Indiana. I spent my morning driving to two different stores, sure that I could exchange his 12 month outfit for a larger one there. The first store had NONE at all, the store they sent me to had none his size. This is the only one Penny's had at the third store. I am not at all crazy about the pants; I wanted shorts. But at least he won't have to go to his baptism in just a diaper or the "belly shirt" that his 12 month out fit turned out to be.


I'm going to go to bed now, content with the day's work and lulled to sleep by the whirr of my air conditioner. Good luck Lorie!

Uh Oh...

I found this in my inbox this morning from the public library.

"Library records show that your account balance has reached $25.00 or more in fines, fees, and/or overdue materials."

Uh oh.

I explained when Ismael got this card that I am a.) wanted dead or alive in several public and university libraries, because b.) I am genetically incapable of returning materials on time.

Today's Good News

It's not often I get good news from the utility company.

Since we moved to a larger apartment, I usually open my electric bill with some measure of trepidation. This winter brought particularly bad news to the tune of $200 for one month. Raging post pregnancy hormones drove me to wear two layers of clothes and a blanket in the house at all times. In an effort to thaw, I bumped the heat up on our decidedly un-energy star furnace a bit at a time until one night I realized I had it set on 78.

Farenheit.

I would have preferred Celsius.

Adam was sweating.

Ismael was in heaven.

Our electric meter was spinning out of control.

In fact, in those months the only time I remember being warm was when I woke up from gallbladder surgery. I was shaking uncontrollably in the recovery room. Rather than watch me vibrate off of the table, the nurses brought a machine called a "bear hugger" over and covered me with a paper sheet and a heavy blanket. She flipped a few switches and warm air blew through the paper sheet all over my body. I didn't care if she took me back to where Ismael was waiting. Ever. I had everything I could ever need right there.

Today, I logged on and saw that our bill is down to $100. A vast improvement.

I wish I understood what magical formula the company uses to calcuate my usage. I asked a school parent/utility employee once. Her explanation of how electricity was made and could be exported made my eyes glaze over and roll up in my head. I may have lost consciousness.

I chalk it up to magic like other things I don't really understand, namely how the Internet works. Someone tried to explain that to me once. Only once. I'm a reasonablly smart human being, but some things are simply beyond my understanding.

I'd like to think the savings comes from hanging my laundry outside to dry for the past five days. If so, by the end of the month the electric company is going to owe me money.

Wouldn't that be even better news?

Six Year Old Trash Talk

 

If you are wondering what six year olds talk about during soccer practice and games, I have your answer.

 

Apparently, it's underwear.

 

I chatted with Lorie tonight while she watched her six year old at soccer practice.  She asked, "Do you know they trash talk the whole time they are out there?"

 

Really, in kindergarten?  What trash talk could they have in their meager arsenals?

 

 Well, I'll tell you.  Insults like...

 

    "Your underwear is pink and has a pony on the front."

 

To which you can only answer...

 

    "Yeah?  Well, you're wearing your mama's underwear!"

 

Case closed.  What can you say when a six year old whips out a mama joke on you?

Perfect Spring Day

Chrissy's words were very tempting: "Come meet Jason and I at Einstein's this morning. We can pray before we eat and talk about God. It will be just like church." Except with bagels, sweet rolls, and Diet Coke.

I had two choices: hurry and get Adam ready to juggle him at mass by myself, or go enjoy some adult conversation with friends and time with Adam out. Most times I would go to mass, but this morning I needed a break from all obligation. No matter what it was.

We all enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, good fellowship, and one of us even got a little nap in.

Then it was on to part two of our Sunday.

Pork Fest 2009 at Misty's House:

Western pork ribs on sale for a mere 98 cents per pound
+ a hot, hot, hot gas grill
= happy, happy people.

Adam could have cared less and settled in for nap #2 for the day.

There is something about a lazy Sunday, good company, good grilled food, a sunny sky, green, green grass and swaying trees that combine for a perfect spring day after the long confines of winter. Today was probably the most relaxing, energizing day I've had in months. Everything about the blue sky, cool breeze, and bright sun fed my soul.

When we arrived home, I thought Adam would already be asleep, but as I walked around the back of the car, I saw this through the window:

I think he needed a lazy Sunday too.

Or maybe the semi-thumbs up was for the music on the long car ride. It occured to me that I am going to have to clean up my musical selections as I am not planning to raise a future rap star. At this rate, his first words are going to be about how T.I. is off to jail on weapons charges and will be back in a year or what an angry young woman Pink appears to be.

A Hot Date on Cool Saturday: Wal Mart and Me

On Saturdays, Ismael is either working, on his way to work, or sleeping so he can get up and go to work. Saturday night dates were a thing of our early, early marriage and have for now fallen casualty to the preference we have for paying our rent on time. I learned some time ago that sitting around feeling lonely was useless. I would have to make my own fun on the weekend nights. On Friday nights, I just relax and get some rest, but on Saturdays I'm anxious to do something. Now that Adam is here, I feel tethered to the apartment by 6 PM so that he can sleep in his own bed.

Around 8:30 tonight, I realized that with both boys soundly asleep, I could escape for a while.

Ismael and I like to go to the bookstore, have coffee, and read for free. So I thought I could go there and then on to Wal Mart to get the things I forgot earlier, but can't live without, namely diapers. For Adam, not me.

Barnes and Noble was uneventful. I picked up a book that promised you could keep your man if you feed him properly and do his laundry. I had to find out if the author included "emptying the silverware from dishwasher" and actually "folding the laundry" on his list. Fortunately, he was not so specific and I can rest easy that marriage is safe another day.

On to Wal-Mart. Now this is the THIRD grocery store I've been in today. Adam and I visited Wal Mart this morning to buy groceries. He got fussy and I remembered a school parent's advice to me from long ago, "when you have a baby, you have to be ready to leave every place you've ever been. At least twice." I headed for the check out mid-shop. He was asleep in his car seat before I hit the first stop light on the way home. I exteneded his car ride by doing some drive through errands and by the time I arrived at Marsh to finish the shopping he was awake. While Marsh can be reasonable on some grocery items, diapers are astronomical.

Thankfully, Wal Mart at 9:30 PM is substantially less crowded than earlier today. As I walked through the door, I turned to head to the restroom. A very necessary stop at this point in the night. Of course, it was closed.

The cleaning cart and some caution signs blocked the entrance to the women's side. I seriously contemplated banging my empty cart repeatedly into the maintenance cart in desperation or abandoning all pride and using the men's.

I heard "Mrs." plus my last name.

My last name is 9 letters long and African. People do not say it by accident.

This had to be a student of mine. Sure enough, I see him jumping up and down on the other side of the checkout. He and another student ran up carrying a video game system he had just purchased. I figure that the box in his hands was roughly equivalent to my monthly car payment. Things sure look different when you are 38 as opposed to 14.

I decided that either of my previously considered bathroom options would only feed the school rumor mill. I would shop and hope for the best instead.

To say that my memory is bad is an understatement. After I set the oven on fire, I went to the store for the sole purpose of buying oven cleaner. I bought forty dollars worth of stuff, none of which was oven cleaner. So next time you see a woman walking through the store muttering "diapers, diapers, diapers, clothes pins, diapers," say hello, because it's just me.

While waiting for check out, I engaged in some serious people watching. The toddler in the line next to me took off, pushing his parents' new broom, and had to be chased down by his father.

The Hispanic couple behind me chatted in rapid fire Spanish. I realized that some of this was directed at their young girl and mixed in the machine gun sound of a foreign language came "do you want this or not?" I think every parent, when thoroughly frustrated, wishes they could speak more than one language to further convey their feelings. The item in question was a small doll covered in red spots with various medical instruments. I mentally named the product "Molly Measles" and wondered how you say that in Spanish.

The cost for my latest store excursion was $45. Added to my earlier outings, I have spent $165 today on groceries and necessities. Aside from produce and perishables, I bought enough baby gear, canned goods, and cleaning supplies to last the next two weeks. I'll spend less next week, probably around $100, which averages to $6.30 per person, per day for the two weeks. If I look at it that way, I'm fairly impressed!

I stress about how expensive life can be, but I know I do my part. I do not buy non necessities, shop around for deals, and use coupons when I can. My biggest splurge is a case of Diet Coke and paper towels.

I have to trust God to provide for us and I had to leave this cost of living to Him a long time ago.

44 degrees outside, A/C running inside

My reward for a week well lived was crawling into bed at 7:30 PM last night. After I figured out how to get comfortable, without snatching my pillow from under Ismael's snoring mouth, I fell into an exhausted slumber. I slept through severe thunderstorms. I slept through tornado watches. I slept through Ismael's getting up to go to work, though apparently I had a lot to say about it. Evidently I have so much to say that I can't even be quiet when I sleep.

I decided to be a more vigilant parent tonight and check the weather before I go to sleep. My first reaction was one of delight. The low tonight is going to be 44 degrees. That is the kind of weather where I long to throw open the bedroom windows, turn the fan on, and snuggle under a pile of covers while ice forms on my nose. Perfect sleeping weather.

When I returned to reality, my delight evaporated as I realized several things:

1. We live in a downstairs apartment. An open window is like a neon sign blinking an invitation to burglars and rapists. Being opposed to both burglars and rapists, I have to leave the windows shut at night.

2. My husband is from Africa. He complains about the air conditioning and the fan. He climbs into bed next to me, sometimes fully clothed, pulls the covers over his head and complains he is freezing. Thirty seconds later, he is snoring. He can sleep in any condition. I once came home to find him dead asleep on our uncomfortable couch, the television BLARING, and the heat set on 80. It was my perfect version of how hot hell must be...especially if Wolf Blitzer is on the television.

3. I have a son now. That certainly complicates matters.

I wonder if letting the air conditioner run in cool weather is detrimental to the health and welfare of said household utility? I guess we will find out tomorrow.

I am a fan of....

 

I am a fan of Facebook.  It's true.  It has provided hours of mindless entertainment. I also have been able to keep in closer contact with my college girlfriends, colleagues, family, and former students.  

 

I love knowing that the children I have taught are growing into self sufficient adults.  Some of them have gone places I have only dreamed about, such as Kenya, South Africa, Ireland, and England, or had nightmares about, such as Siberia.  (I'm not sure why she is there, but I've seen the pictures of her bundled up in that frozen tundra. She's definitely there.) 

 

One former student recently wrote about taking the notoriously crowded train in London to his internship, "and after almost falling backward, I take my two square feet. I move my backpack to my front. I find a good stance to steady myself against the train’s jerky start. And then I realize my head (MY HEAD) is in the door’s way. With nowhere else to go, I rest my head against a woman’s back, in her blonde hair. That’s right: in. her. blonde. hair. I can’t imagine how awkward SHE felt."

 

I particularly like it when they become amusing self sufficent adults. 

 

Once you are a fan of Facebook, (the husband of one of my colleagues calls it divorcebook since she spends so much time on it), you learn that you can become a fan of other things with just the click of the mouse.  It's as simple as searching for what you love (grilling out, motherhood, God), finding the page, and clicking on "become a fan."  Facebook then adds the link to your info page and proclaims to everyone you know that you are a fan of (insert fan favorite here). 

 

There seems to be a page for everything.  A friend is a fan of Target, sarcasm, the beach, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, money, being lazy, sleeping, Hell's Kitchen, and summer.  My sister is a fan of Eric Clapton, Forest Gump, McDonald's, drinking around a bonfire, and cowbell.  Really, Judy?  Cowbell?

 

I am not a fan of many things on Facebook, but I think my list would look like this:

 

I am a fan of...

• patience.  Ismael has far more of it than I do.
• Diet Coke.  There really aren't words to describe the nearly life long love affair I have with this beverage. 
• tortillas.  I cannot think of a single food I wouldn't eat if it was served to me on a warm tortilla with some cheese and sour cream.  This must be how fish tacos found their way onto various menus.
• Jasmine rice.  If you have never tried this, go buy some tonight.  It is sweet, tender, and fragrant.  It is also off limits in our house as it decimates any control Ismael had over his blood sugar.
• pork.  Oh, yes.  Give me a good barbecue anyday.  Because of Ismael, I have grown to love chicken pizza, but I occasionally have clandestine meetings with this wonderful meat.
• going to bed early.  Apparently my son is too.  He hit they hay at 5:56 PM tonight.
• cooking.  When I'm not exhausted from school, I love to cook a good meal for Ismael. 
• Kraft Food and Family recipes and one pot/skillet meals of all kinds.  When I am exhausted, these will do.
• people in history who have undergone great struggle.  I think that's what drew me to concentrate on black history and civil rights during grad school.

While I was doing laundry, putting away groceries, cooking dinner, and cleaning the kitchen simultaneously, I began to think about the things I am NOT a fan of.  Namely all of the activities I was engaged in at that moment.  Facebook doesn't have the option for being against things.  Maybe I should drop that in their suggestion box.

 

I am NOT a fan of...

• folding laundry.  My cousin calls it the Devil's Chore.  How right she is.  There is a huge pile in the bedroom now that you would need a grappling hook and some rope to scale. I am conveniently ignoring it.

• Wolf Blitzer and the Situation Room.  Ismael watches all three hours of it, every day.  Fifteen hours of Wolf a week plus a few more on Sunday is way too much.  He’s like a rude houseguest who talks incessantly and just won't leave.

• emptying the silverware tray from the dishwasher.  I literally despise this.  I will often empty every other item from the appliance, but leave the silverware in for another go around, hoping Ismael will catch it next time.  I don't think he likes it either because sometimes I find that he hasn't sorted the clean stuff, just dumped it in the drawer.  Well, even I could stand to do that.

• taking out the trash.  I don't think I've done this since I started dating Ismael.  He thought he was being chivalrous; I considered it a job interview.

• being unappreciated.  Ismael has learned to say thank you periodically for my efforts.  I've been known to go on strike and after about three days of no meals, no clean dishes, etc. he figures out that a simple thank you goes a very long way.

• working.  I do like my job; but I desperately want to stay home with my son. 

• prejudice in all of its forms.  I've never had much tolerance for it.  After I married Ismael, my own father disowned me. Although I knew it would happen when he found out about my relationship, I couldn't let it rule my life.  I had to make my decisions independent of his beliefs.

And of course, I am a fan of my family.  They love me unconditionally even when I leave the trash and the silverware for someone else to do. :)

 

 

LOST

I lose so many things that I should have my own episode of Lost. I already have St. Anthony on speed dial, but half the time I can't find my phone to call him.

Such is the case tonight. I have misplaced my cell phone, a kicky little pink number, which replaced the clunky black one that I completely lost in January. It was with me in the car on the way home from the Carter's store. I haven't seen it since.

I lose my phone so often I have a protocol that I follow to recover it.

If Ismael is home, I simply get his phone, call mine and wander around until it can be heard.

Tonight is a little trickier - he's working and I'm home with just Adam. Given the fact that I firmly believe no child under driving age needs a cell phone, I have not purchased one for my 7 month old.

I whip out the computer, pull up sprint.com, and log into my account. They have a text messaging feature. I often text my phone and ask, "Where are you?" Sometimes it answers, sometimes not. If that fails, then I text Ismael and ask him to call me and continue my search.

Tonight, when I logged in, Sprint apologized for any inconvenience due to the fact their site was down and offered me a free ringtone. For the phone I can't find. Always helpful, that Sprint.

Not to be foiled in my attempts, I logged onto Facebook. Surely someone would be online whom I could persuade to call me. My choices ranged from my high school social studies teacher to the lady from Craigslist who adopted my cat, none of whom seemed appropriate choices to share my lunacy.

I don't know where my phone is, but I know when I will find it...at 4:00 AM when the alarm goes off. My husband insisted that was the time he wanted to get up this morning, and it looks like that is when I will be getting up tomorrow. Fabulous.

It Ain't Easy Being Green

Our art teacher is an avid, if not rabid, recycler.

At lunch, as we finish our bottles of water and containers of yogurt, she takes them from us, packs them up to take to her art classroom, washes them out, and places them in the appropriate recycling containers. She is thwarting our plot to singlehandedly wreck the earth for our forebears through wildly disposing of luncheon packaging.

I have seen the stories of men, who likely tired of their wives' nagging, and stopped taking out the trash. Just Google "kept trash for a year" and you will find a few stories, one of which made Time Magazine. It features a picture of Dave, sitting in his basement, along with six months' worth of trash.

Now, I like making a point as well as anyone, but I draw the line at living with trash. I throw so much away that my husband accuses me of manufacturing garbage. I take after my mother who when I was a teen responded, "busy hands are happy hands....oh bad, bad, bad hands" when I howled about some beloved, and undoubtedly useful, item of mine that she had thrown away.

I love that my friend recycles my lunch trash. While it's enjoyable to tease about her green tendencies, I feel like I should do something of my own. It's already like pioneer days around here: I've lost the remote control and we're out of Diet Coke. Two tragdies in their own right, but it won't save the planet. .

Given the fact that my dryer screeches a tune that alternates "I quit" with "Help me, I'm dying" to the melody of Yankee Doodle Dandy every time I run a full load, I thought that a good place to start. I have a small clothes line on our patio and a handful of clothes pins. Every day this week, I have washed and hung one load of clothes out there. I draw the line at hanging up socks and underwear. For one, I don't have that many clothes pins and for second, it's UNDERwear. It only leaves this house under something.

I'd love to come back in a month and report that my electric bill dropped thirty dollars or that my neighbors were so impressed by my outward display of conserving electricity that they all followed suit. I doubt that will happen, but I'm also glad that Skittles the clothes stealing cat doesn't live in my neighborhood.