Someone brought a gun to my kid's school, but I'm not really upset about it.

When Zachary came home from school Friday, we immediately went into "hurry up" mode like we often do in order to make it to his 4pm tae kwon do class, which is several miles away.  I did the hurried "How was your day?" bit in the car, but the rush rush rush of moving from one place to another - always somewhere to go, somewhere to be, it seems, kept me from delving too deeply below the surface of general "What color did you get to? (on the behavior chart)" and "What did you have for lunch?" kinds of questions.

It wasn't until later that night - much later, in fact, that I started digging through his backpack, past all the random scraps of paper, broken pencils and other unidentifiable things to see if there was anything I needed to sign or send back that I saw the letter.

It read:

"We want to make you aware of a situation that occurred today at SCHOOL'S NAME.
A lower primary student brought a small BB gun to school in a backpack.  The BB gun was not functional and there were no pellets/BBs.  A student reported the incident to his/her teacher at the end of the day and in order to control unnecessary rumors we wanted to make parents aware of what happened.
No threats were made and no students or staff were in any danger at any time.  As a precaution, the situation is under investigation by school staff and proper authorities.
As always, our primary concern is the safety of our students and staff. " 

I read it a couple times before it really registered with me what it was saying.

Someone had a gun at my kid's school.

I felt that weird hotness across my face and the heaviness of my legs that accompanies sudden fear, and I had to sit down.

I'm not one to overreact in most situations, but still.  A gun.  My kid's school.

Scary stuff.

I wanted to be angry.  I wanted to lash out.  I wanted to blame someone.  I wanted to call and email and march and demand answers, but I couldn't.  After the initial shock passed, I couldn't really muster up more that a vague feeling of unease.

It had happened.  It had been dealt with.  No real harm was done.

I called Zachary to me and we talked some more about his day at school.  When I asked him if anything out of the ordinary had happened, he talked of a nosebleed a classmate had had on the bus and something new that had been served in the cafeteria.

This thing - this thing that could have been so massive - wasn't even a blip on his screen.

This was last week, and I've thought about it a lot since then, but not with the anger I first imagined I would feel.

Even if I were angry, I didn't really have anyone in particular to be angry at.

I can't be angry at the school or the teachers or the principal.  By all accounts it was handled swiftly and appropriately.

I couldn't really be angry at the kid.  Even though he or she was the one who brought this BB gun to school, I know all too easily how this could happen.  Last year, unknown to me, Zachary sneaked some Pokemon cards into his backpack and took them to school, which he knew wasn't allowed.  They were confiscated by the eagle-eyed bus driver and returned at the end of the week with a note saying next time she would keep them.  Fine by me.  Zack knew he wasn't supposed to take them to school in the first place, but he did anyway and it totally slipped under my radar.  It was easy enough for him to do with Pokemon cards, and a "small BB gun" is probably easy enough to hide in the same way.

I could be angry with the kid's parents, I guess.  I really could.  But I don't know their story.  I don't know what they have going on in their lives.  What I do know is that in the area in which I choose to live, guns of all types and sizes are common.  Very common.  I live five miles from a major military base, which means guns galore.  It's also a rural area, and hunting is just... understood.  Where I live, kids grow up knowing how to handle firearms.  Kids go hunting.  And yes, kids play with BB guns.  Despite any feelings I may or may not have about it, it just IS.  I understand that is not the norm everywhere, but here it is.  Maybe it was lax of the parents to have this BB gun in a place where the kid could get to it without supervision.  Maybe not.  Maybe the kid broke through 15 locks to get it.  I don't know the whole story, and I never will.

Guns are as common as Pokemon cards here.  As much as I WANT to be angry,  I completely understand how it could have happened.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about it since last week, so I think I understand the significance of what did and did not happen, but at the same time, mostly I'm just relieved that it didn't turn out to be a bigger deal than it was.

Everybody is safe.  Nothing terrible happened, except in the overactive imaginations of a few teachers and parents.  Everyone is fine.

And it's hard to be angry about that.

 

Overheard.

I spend a lot of my time sitting on hard plastic chairs, waiting for my kids to be done with things.

Last Monday was no exception.  Well, for me anyway.  Even though it was Presidents' Day, school was in session and Cooper had his regular Monday morning thing at the local library.

I dropped him off at the classroom door and found a seat in the corner.  Not long after I was joined by not one, but two dads that I didn't recognize.  However, since they both came attached to two little girls I DID recognize, I assumed they had the day off work or some such and had brought their kids in. 

I'm smart like that.

Both these guys were salt of the earth, good old boy types who looked like twins in their Levi's, flannel shirts, work boots and gimme caps* and it became apparent almost immediately that they knew each other from somewhere. 

After a brief awkward nod/notquitesmile greeting I studiously avoided eye contact because Pleasedon'tmakesmalltalkwithmePleasedon'tmakesmalltalkwithmePleasedon'tmakesmalltalkwithme, but I shouldn't have worried.  These guys had plenty to talk about with each other.

I sat there, not really paying much attention to what was going on around me, lost in my own thoughts as I often am and pretending to read a magazine that I had no real interest in, when I caught a few of the words that were being exchanged between these men.  Instead of discussing sports, or hunting, or cars, or whatever else I imagined these two good old boys might have in common, they were discussing... dresses?

"Well, her dress for that pageant was pank," said Guy One, "But not like baby pank.  It was more like a bright pank.  And it had that ruffly bidness all up under it so it looked twirly all the time." he went on.

Guy Two nodded seriously.  "We thought about pank," he said.  "We ended up going with kinda a green color one.  She wore it once already, last year at Little Miss Happy Sunshine  (I totally made that part up because I can't remember where she wore it before) but she really likes it because it's got all them sparkly thangs all down the front of it.  Ya know?  Whatsit called? SEE-KWENTS? "

Hmmm.

What I had before me was apparently the rare species of Redneck Pageant Daddies.  Who knew such a thing even existed in the world?

By the time I worked out what they were talking about, they had moved from pank dresses with the ruffly bidness on to their opinions on pageant hair, pageant makeup for little girls (they are both opposed, by the way, but both defer to their "women" in these matters) and pageant judges.

"Sometimes I think it ain't how ya look or how ya do, I think it's about who ya know and who your granddaddy is," Guy One said with a little more force than was necessary, but Guy Two heartily agreed, citing at least two examples of winners who probably shouldn't have won, but who happened to know suchandsuch or soandso and that's probably why.

By this time I was listening intently to everything these two guys were saying to one another while studiously trying to appear that I wasn't listening in because it was such a fascinating juxtaposition to hear these quite manly men having such an intense and earnest conversation about their little girls in beauty pageants.

The talked the whole hour about their little girls, proudly discussing wins and solemnly excusing losses.  They covered the entire gamut of pageant intricacies, then covered it again, their attention and conversation never straying from this thing that was so clearly important to their four year old girls and so by extension, to them.

Sometimes people can still surprise me, and sometimes I get a fabulous and swift lesson not to judge a book by its cover, or a good ole boy by his gimme cap.

And sometimes, if I listen really carefully to the people around me I can learn really important lessons, like about how people really care about what their kids are doing, or how awesome random daddies who are spending their Monday mornings sitting in hard plastic chairs can be, or the difference between baby pank and bright pank.

And sometimes, if I really listen, it's pretty darn awesome.

* A gimme cap is a baseball style cap, also known as a trucker's hat, that sports the logo of a feed store, a car dealership, a brand of dog food or the details of an event like, say, a mud pull or a rodeo.  They are called this, I assume, because they are given out for free as advertisement.  Seriously, look it up.  It's a real thing. 

Overwhelmed.

Our heating and air conditioning system is slowly going out.  Someone is supposed to come Monday at 10 - or is it Tuesday? - to give us a quote on a new one.  The dashboard light keeps coming on in the car, but then it goes off so I'm not sure what to do about it.  We have an appointment next week that overlaps with something else.  I need to figure that out.  I was planning to make spaghetti for dinner, but I really need to run to the grocery for some salad to go with it.  I really need to move that load of laundry from the washer to the dryer.  I have to get all Cooper's paperwork together to get him registered for kindergarten next month.  Zack hasn't finished his homework for tonight - I need to check on that.  Oh man!  I forgot to pick up lightbulbs when I was out earlier, and I think we are low on paper towels.  R's birthday is coming up - I have no idea what to get him.  

These thoughts and a million more just like them swirl through my head every day.  Some days, just the basic logistics of life seem like too much to manage.  Go here, do this, take care of that, deal with this, then just when you think you have a plan in place - BAM!  Life throws you a curveball in the form of an unexpected this or a broken that.

Sometimes it all just seems like too much.

Sometimes it IS too much, and I feel so overwhelmed by it all that I don't know how to manage.

Some days I don't manage, choosing instead to procrastinate or ignore it all or hide my head in the sand and hope it all just goes away.

It never does, though.

Then I'm left standing there, dripping wet sand on the rug and still needing to find a plumber, schedule an appointment, make dinner, whatever.

I think I used to be better at this sort of thing.  For more than a decade I managed a big bookstore, complete with scheduling and ordering and repairing and customer servicing and hiring and dealing with all other manners of chaos, and I was pretty good at it.  

Now all I have to manage is my house and the logistics of my little family of four, and I feel like I can't even deal with it sometimes.  

I used to have a staff of forty people, all with different personalities and strengths and weaknesses and quirks and I was able to deal with it just fine.  Now the two children that I have birthed and raised myself seem like too many to handle.

I used to walk my 20,000 square foot bookstore with an eagle eye, picking out every single book out of place, empty spot and area in need of housekeeping, but now my little 1,900 square foot house is constantly dusty, dirty, messy, piled with things.

I used to be responsible for ordering thousands of dollars worth of merchandise and supplies, always keeping the top titles in stock without running out.  Now I struggle to keep enough milk, or bread, or eggs, or whatever in my house to feed the four of us.

I used to be better at dealing with things, I think.  Maybe it was out of necessity.  Or maybe I've just used up all those abilities.  Whatever the reason, I just seem to be having a hard time getting things done lately.

My to-do lists grow, only to be ignored.  Other times I can't even seem to be bothered to write down the things I know I won't do, or to list the things I probably won't go out to buy.

Sometimes I feel so inundated with the stuff that needs my attention all I can do it ignore it all.

The problem though, is that the longer it's ignored, the more urgent it becomes, then I find myself scrambling, always scrambling.  It's a feeling I hate more than anything, but somehow lately I keep putting myself in that position by my inability to just GET STUFF DONE.

But all of it - the stuff that needs to be taken care of - waits for me still.

My eyes! My eyes!

Share one of your "did that really just happen to me" life moments.

This is a really long post.  Sorry.  In my defense though, it's also a really long story. So there's that. 

In the midst of the craziness that is Christmas morning with two little boys, my husband pulled a single gift bag out from under the tree.

"I only got you one thing this year," he said, almost apologetically.  "And it's for your birthday, too."

Since my birthday is just a few weeks after Christmas, this is not unheard of, nor is it something to apologize for, necessarily.  

When I took the bag, I thought for just a moment that it was empty, but upon opening it I realized that it contained a single piece of paper.

It was a gift certificate for LASIK surgery.

I was ecstatic.

I've worn glasses since I was a kid.  They're not an option.  They're not a fashion accessory.  I could never wear them on the days I felt like "sassy librarian" and take them off when I needed to do things like run or swim or go outside in the rain.  My eyesight has always been quite terrible, and except for a couple years as a teenager I've never been able to wear contacts, because my eyes are chronically dry.  (This is foreshadowing, people.  Pay attention here.) 

I've been tied to my glasses for the better part of 30 years, and my desire to get rid of them has been around almost that long.  It's not a cosmetic thing.  It's never been a vanity issue.  Seriously, I'm one of the least vain people I know.  I never minded how I look in them, but they're thick and heavy and my nose sports a permanent bump where they've rested for decades.  My desire for LASIK has increased dramatically since having my two very active, very daredevil-like little boys.  I want to be able to keep up with them.  I want to ride all the rides and run into the ocean and play in the rain and go down the BIGGEST water slides without fear of losing my glasses - or worse, without them on and without being able to see what's happening to me.

It's scary not being able to see.  

Everything with my surgery happened quickly.  I was seen quickly for a consultation and all my preliminary test results showed that I was a prime candidate.  I asked a LOT of questions.  A LOT.  Some of them I asked over and over, so I guess my anxiety was evident.  Finally one kind woman smiled, sighed, placed her hand on my shoulder and said, "You don'r need to worry.  I'll be there with you every step of the way and most people are seeing at LEAST 20/30 by the next morning.  This is going to be fine.  JUST FINE." (Insert ominous foreshadowing music here.) 

Except it wasn't.

I thought this would be the last picture of me in my glasses.  Also, I realized on the way out that I was in the men's room.  Oops.  I TOLD you I was nervous.

When I arrived at the surgical center, I was a nervous wreck.  I don't do doctors much.  I prefer the martyr route whenever possible, and elective surgery is so far out of my comfort zone it all seemed surreal in my mind.  But I have promised myself to practice more self-care this year, and this surgery was completely in keeping with that.  

I was taken back to the surgical waiting room the get prepped, and when the intake nurse asked me if I wanted the "nerve pill" before surgery I laughed hysterically for just a minute then said in all seriousness, "Can I have two?"

I had read lots and lots and lots about what to expect (and the "nerve pill" calmed me down dramatically) so I was cool as a stir fried cucumber when I laid down on the table.  The doctor started the procedure on the right eye and even in my totally blind, nerve pill induced state of floating I could tell by the tone of his voice that everything was not necessarily going according to plan.  

He started the left eye and just a minute into the surgery I heard him say, "I'm not going to be able to complete the procedure on this eye." 

WH-WH-WHAT?

This was definitely not going according to plan.

They got me upright and into a room to "rest for a few minutes" and the doctor finally came in and talked to me about what went wrong.  I apparently have a condition called Epithelial Basement Membrane Dystrophy which, long story short, means that when they were doing the surgery, my corneas, which should have remained attached, were possibly floating around the OR until someone could catch them and shove them back into my eyes.  It's a genetic condition, usually asymptomatic (except for dry eyes, oops) and is usually never detected or diagnosed unless there is trauma to the eye.

You know, trauma like, say, LASIK.

Follow up appointments were made (SO. MANY. APPOINTMENTS.) and I was told that my vision would most definitely not be improving by tomorrow.  Or by next week.  As a matter of fact, it could be months before we got all this sorted out.

The entire time, I'm sitting there thinking "Seriously?  This is happening?  REALLY?!?!?  I'm going to be functionally blind for MONTHS?!?!?!!?"

It's possible I may have had a slight meltdown in which it's possible I may have shrieked "You blinded me! And I paid you to do it!" and it's possible I may have received a, um, refund.  I guess blinding is free.  But whatever.

The next week was possibly one of my least favorite in memory.  I couldn't see to read.  I couldn't see to watch tv.  I couldn't see to do normal household/life functions like preparing meals, or doing laundry, or plucking those chin hairs that spring up overnight.  I couldn't see.   My computer just looked like a big gray blob.  My kids were just blurs of color and noise.   I did listen to a couple audio books and I could see to use my iPhone if I held it exactly 4.5 inches from my left eye and closed my right one.  I took full advantage of that by taking about a million pics of myself in various states of eye wear.  See?

At one of my (many) follow-up appointments, right after my doc told me with something akin to awe and glee that he's been doing this for decades and mine was BY FAR the worst case that he's ever seen of this particular condition, then started quibbling with me about when I needed to come back for my next follow-up appointment, I may have (mis)quoted some Blanche DuBois ("I am currently dependent on the kindness of strangers to get me places!!!") and it's possible that he thought that was extremely funny and it's possible that now I just get to show up whenever I feel like it with the promise that he will see me immediately.  

In any event, what was supposed to be a really quick thing that changed my quality of life for the better has - so far - not been.  I'm two weeks past surgery now, and my vision is slowly improving in my right eye, and slowly getting back to it's former (horrible) vision in my left eye.  The biggest problem I have at the moment is that my eyes don'r work well together because of the huge difference in vision that I have in each one.

Fun times all around.  

It has occurred to me that this is sort of a recurring theme in my life.  I usually eventually get to where I want to be, but it's NEVER a straight shot from point A to point B.  That would be too easy, and I apparently don't do easy. 

But even though I know that, I'm still sitting here, functionally blind in one eye and unable to see out of the other, wondering, "What the HELL just happened?"

He feels silly, oh so silly.

8 things you said to your kids this week that maybe other parents did not say to their kids.

1.  Zachary, why is your hair all... blue?

2.  So what you're telling me is that you had the ball of the blue silly putty in your hand, then you decided to lay down with your head propped on your hand but you neglected to put the silly putty down before that?  Is that what you're saying?  Really? 

3.  Seriously?  That's silly putty in your hair?  SERIOUSLY?!!?!?!

4.  Oh for the love go upstairs and get in the shower while I Google "what will get silly putty out of hair."

5.  Hey Zack, how would you feel about some WD-40 in your hair? I'm guessing it will burn.  It might eat some skin off too.

6.  Ok, fine.  No WD-40.  Let me see what else the internet has to say.

7.  Zack, we don't have any baby oil, which the internet says might work, but I have this really old foot massage oil.  Let's give this a try.

8.  Wow!  It actually worked! I'm sorry you smell like feet and old people, but at least your hair isn't blue anymore.

P.S. I could not make this stuff up if I tried.  And the really old foot massage oil did work like a charm.  

Sometimes I forget I have a brother.

I'm the youngest child of four.

My sisters and brother are 12, 10 and 8 years older than me.

My sisters and I talk regularly, see each other often, share life events, spend holidays together and generally act like siblings do.

My brother and I... do not.

There's no animosity really.  There was no big family implosion (or explosion)  that caused a rift between us.

We simply don't - and never have had - anything at all in common.

It's really strange when I stop and think about it.  He is, after all, my brother.  We grew up in the same house with all the same family, both nuclear and extended, but for reasons I've never really been able to pinpoint we had very different experiences growing up.

Maybe it's the eight year age difference.  Maybe it's the fact that he was the only boy.  Maybe it was just the luck of the genetic draw that we turned out so differently.  In any event, we've never been close.  Once proximity kept us in touch, but as adults we just... drifted away from each other.

When people ask me if I have siblings I usually answer, "Yes, I have two sisters.  Oh, and a brother," like he's an afterthought, a postscript to my family.

We still live fairly close to each other, though, and a couple times over the past decade we have run into each other at the mall, the bookstore, wherever.  When it has happened, we have stopped and chatted for a couple minutes, never very long, though.  It's awkward and rushed, like it would be with someone you maybe knew as a kid.  Like someone from your third grade class whose name you can't quite remember.  

Really, he's a stranger to me, tied to me only by shared genes and a common upbringing.

But then one day last week I was driving.  Driving, always driving, it seems.  I met a car I didn't know and got a split-second glimpse of the driver.

I immediately recognized my brother.

It's been years since I saw him last,  but it only took a fraction of a second to recognize him.  To recognize my brother.  In passing, he's as familiar to me as my own face in the mirror.

He's the most familiar stranger I've ever known.

A sense of direction.

I've always prided myself on having a good sense of direction.

Like the birds in winter, I never have any trouble telling which way south is.

North, east and west are easy enough to figure out, too.  You know, based on where south is, of course.

One might think that this means I can drive to new locations with ease, never worrying about getting lost.

One would be, horribly, terribly wrong about that, by the way.

I get lost ALL. THE. TIME.

It may have something to do with my aversion to making left turns.  But whatever.  I go my own way.

So the other night I was invited to a party.  Not like a PAR-TAY, no.  This was one of those parties that middle-aged ladies all go to so they can buy stuff from each other.  It's ok.  The food was delicious.

Anyway, I got there just fine thankyouverymuch since it was in a neighborhood I was vaguely familiar with (and by "vaguely familiar with" I mean Zachary's former babysitter lived one street over which means I have been in this neighborhood approximately 2,000 times in my life) but when I left it was dark.

Dark.  And raining.

It was a dark and stormy night... 

So I pull out of the driveway and I was IMMEDIATELY lost.

Oops.

I drove in circles and passed my friend's house twice before realizing I was back on the same street.

Finally I managed to make my way off the street and I found another cross street that I THOUGHT I recognized.

So I turned right.  As you do.

Now remember.  It's dark.  It's raining.

And I was completely and utterly lost, less than four miles from my house.

Cue circus music.

So I continue to drive, seeing things that may or may not be vaguely familiar and seeing street names that look for all the world like street names that I recognize from my decade of living here.

But somehow I manage to get further and further away from home.

I finally realized that I was totally, utterly and completely lost when I started seeing signs that said "Welcome to Ft. Knox."

Well hell.

That was NOT where I wanted to go.

For those of you who are not familiar, when you enter a military base there are large gates, guards posted, confusing rules that no one understands, occasional car searches and the possibility of being detained.  You know, if you might be a terrorist.

I dug around in my purse and pulled my driver's license out to hand to the soldier at the gate.  I waved it around frantically at him and said "Oh my goodness, officer, I'm so lost!  Oh, wait, you're not an officer, are you?  What should I call you?  Soldier? Sir? Hottie in a uniform? Oh it doesn't really matter what I call you, now does it? See, I mean you no harm HAHAHAHAHA! I'm totally innocent.  I'm just lost. I was at a party - ON NOT THAT KIND OF PARTY - an old ladies' party HAHA! - and it's raining - oh, I guess you know it's raining since you're standing out here in it, don't you? - but I got all mixed up and I did not want to come here but I didn't see a way to turn around and maybe that should be a THING, don't you think? A way to turn around once you get started up in here?  Wouldn't that make your life so much easier?  I'm guessing this kind of thing happens all the time, doesn't it? HAHAHA!"  I may occasionally laugh inappropriately when I'm nervous.  Or lost.  Officer Solider Whatshisname looked at my driver's license, then back at me, then back at my license, then back at me and answered, "No ma'am, you're my first."

Oh.  Well then.

He then quite kindly (like you would for your grandma, or any other crazy old person who was out in questionable circumstances) LED my car (while on foot) to the exit gate and gave me slow, deliberate, clear instructions about how to get home.  Well, home-ish.

I felt slightly mollified, since there was clearly a procedure in place for when semi-hysterical middle aged women show up on the Army base on a rainy night in need of assistance.

I might have been HIS first, but I'm guessing I'm not THE first, ya know?

I'm proud to report that I made it home relatively quickly from there.  Officer Soldier Whatshisname provided excellent directions, and I was able remember most of them.

And I never left my house again.

The end.

Black (Bag) Friday.

For 18 holiday seasons, I worked as a bookstore manager. 

That means that for 18 Black Fridays in a row, I was at work in a bookstore, trying to maintain my patience and sanity with the whole affair.  I didn't always succeed, by the way.   

The first year after I quit working, I spent Black Friday sitting on my couch in my pajamas, feeling for all the world like I was forgetting to do something really important.

It felt like bookseller PTSD.

Anyway, I've had a couple more years since then to get used to the idea that I really don't have to go to work any more, but I can say with absolute certainty that there is nothing - NOTHING - that would make me go shopping on Black Friday.  Or pretty much any other day between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  I shop online, I shop early, and other than an occasional trip to the grocery store, I stay home between Thanksgiving and oh, say, January 15.

I really hate crowds and traffic, so my particular brand of crazy just demands it.

But this year as my Twitter and Facebook feeds and my e-mail box began to fill ups with DEALS!  LOW PRICES! and as my friends and family planned strategies for where to go stand in line for the ABSOLUTE ROCK BOTTOM PRICES OF THE YEAR!  (Well, until tomorrow, anyway!) I felt like doing something.  

But I couldn't leave my house. (See: crazy.)

I could have shopped online, I guess, but my shopping is largely done, and it would have just been for the sake of shopping, and I didn't want to do that, either.

So I created my own new tradition.

I shall call it...

(cue music)

DUHN! DUHN! DUHN!

BLACK BAG FRIDAY!

I spent the entire day cleaning out closets, organizing drawers, and collecting bags full of things to donate.  

My kids kind of hated me just a little.  Ok, maybe it was a lot.

But I held strong and kept going.

By the end of the day, I had filled FIVE large garbage bags with things to donate.  Clothes, toys, household items, books... nothing was safe from the black bag of sudden death.

By day's end, I had also taken out two large bags of things destined for the trash pile, and I had taken one bag of Zachary's old clothes to the basement to save for Cooper to grow into.

It always makes me feel slightly less crazy to clear out and declutter my house.  This time it felt even better than usual, because I felt like I was getting my house ready for the influx of STUFF that is part of Christmas.

So, yeah.  Black Bag Friday.

It just became my new tradition.

And I can't wait for next year.

Identity confirmed.

Pretty much everything I do is on the computer now.

I shop online.

I bank online.

I get all my information online.

It's fabulous.

But of course as with every fabulous thing, there's usually one major drawback, and in this particular instance, it's the dreaded username/password/security question trifecta of evil.

I'm a "member" of roughly 5.8 million internet sites, all of which have different requirements.

I can barely remember where I left my car keys (In the car. In the ignition. In the garage, in case you wondered) so remembering the usernames and passwords for a million obscure internet sites is laughable at best.

I assume I'm not the only one. Can I get a "hell yeah?" So some brilliant website designer or another (or maybe a whole TEAM of designers - or maybe a whole CONVENTION of designers) came up with the idea of security questions. They way when you forget your password (which you will, what with its uppercase/lowercase/number/special character/goat hair/blood sacrifice combination) you can simple answer one of the previously chosen security questions that of course you will always know the answers to.

Ahem. Then there's this site I ran across the other day.  In addition to the normal "grandma's name" questions, there were some other doozies on the list.  For example, What's your least favorite food?  I'm not entirely sure how to answer that.  The short answer is "seafood", but that's a pretty broad category.  So maybe I would answer "fish" or "crab" or "shrimp" or whatever, depending on my mood that day.

What was the name of your first stuffed animal? was another question that threw my for a loop.  Uh, Bear, maybe?  I have no freaking clue, and I'd be amazed if many other people did either.

How old were you when you got your first computer? What? I don't know.  Does a word processor count as a computer?  And do you mean a computer-computer, and do you mean MY VERY OWN, or a shared one?  I need more information if you expect me to answer these questions.

What was your first gaming console?  Really?  It had Pac-Man on it.  That's all I know.  I'd also like to take this opportunity to point out that this was not a gaming related site, so that question just seems... odd at best.

What's your lucky number?  Hmmm... whatever number I need to pick to win the lottery will be my lucky number.  I'm taking suggestions.

What's your favorite activity?  Oh, reading of course!  Or maybe running.  Or possibly writing.  Wait!  Is sleeping considered an activity, even though you're not actually active?

Where did you go on your first holiday?  Well, I was born in the middle of January, so my first holiday was Valentine's Day, and I don't think I went anywhere.  Oh wait.  Do you mean holiday like vacation?  Like I'm British or something?  Oh, well then, I've never gone on a British holiday.  See how hard this is?

What is your favorite cousin's first name?  I have a blue million cousins.  What are the chances one of them might see my answer and wonder why he/she isn't the favorite?  Better skip that one.

What color was your first pet?  Um, is "imaginary" considered a color?

How old were you when you got your first gaming console? Enough with the gaming console business already! Does anyone ever remember stuff like that?

What's your dream job? Ok, here's one I can answer!  My dream job is making up ridiculous security questions for internet sites.  I'm going right now to fill out an application.

Off duty.

As I write this, it has been approximately 1,181 days since my last day off.

Mostly, that's ok.  I knew the job was dangerous when I took it.  It's the best, hardest, easiest, most challenging, most rewarding thing I've ever done.  There are many, many, many good days where I relish in the role of being a full time stay at home Mama, and many more days than that when I relish in it at least most of the day.

Then there was yesterday.

Yesterday was neither of those things.

Yesterday handed me insomnia the night before, a to-do list that wouldn't quit, a four year old with inexplicable stomach issues, a seven year old who suddenly overnight became a surly teenager, and an overall sense of failure, discord and diarrhea.

Yesterday sucked.

So when bedtime finally rolled around, I had really had enough.  Enough of everything.  Enough of the small people who live in my house and eat my food and vomit on my recently mopped hardwood floors and who talk ALL. THE. TIME about everything and anything and especially nothing, and I was just done.

I gathered them close to me, sort of like an hug and sort of like a vice grip, then I leaned down and used my quietest, scariest, whisper voice so they would have to strain to hear and to pay attention.

"Listen to Mama, boys.  Listen very closely.  It is bedtime.  It is sleeping time.  It is time for you both to go into your rooms and shut the door and to stay there until morning.  I need to be very, very clear with you.  Mama is now off duty.  Mama will be back on duty tomorrow morning at 6am, but for now, Mama is off duty.  If you need a drink of water, help yourself, because Mama is off duty.  If your blankets get all bunched up around your feet like you hate, fix them yourselves or just deal with it, because Mama is off duty.  If you're cold, I suggest burrowing down under the blankets and waiting it out, but don't yell for Mama.  Mama is off duty.  If you get too hot, you can strip down and sleep naked for all I care, because Mama is off duty now.  If you think of an amusing story that you just HAVE to tell me, or if you have an earth shattering question about pirates or dinosaurs, save it until morning, because right now Mama is off duty.  If the monsters that live under your bed are particularly aggressive tonight as they are sometimes prone to be, I recommend turning on the light in your room and possibly taking a baseball bat to bed, because Mama cannot save you.  Mama is off duty.  There is really no reason that I can think of that you would possibly need to disturb Mama tonight, unless you are actively dying and/or being abducted out the window, and even then I would suggest trying Daddy first because Mama is off duty.  Now, are there any questions?"

I looked from one to the other of them, slowly moving my head back and forth to make sure I was getting through to them, and their eyes were wide and they were watching me carefully and trying not to make any sudden movements, like you do with a wild animal that you are not totally sure about, and they were completely, totally, utterly silent.

I nodded briskly and before their senses and innumerable questions came back to them, I said "Well, good.  No questions.  I love you and off to bed now.  Both of you."  Then I squeezed them just a little too tightly and patted them both on their confused little heads and put them to bed.

Then I fell into bed myself and slept the soundest,  quietest, most restful ten hours that I've slept in years.

And aside from the trauma I'm certain I inflicted on the boys, I'm thinking this "off duty" thing just might have to become a part of our regular routine.

After all, they're going to need something to talk to their therapists about someday.

Packin' up

So the J family was getting ready to go on vacation last week, like we do, and just like always, it was my job to get the family packed and ready to go.

I pack, R does most of the driving, nobody dies on the interstate, there's plenty of underwear for everyone, and everybody wins. 

Since overpacking is one of my superpowers, there really isn't any need for anyone else to get involved in that part of the process.  We've done this bunches and bunches of times by this point, and my typical timeline involves cleaning my house from top to bottom the week before we leave, followed by packing too much stuff, then unpacking it to make sure I didn't miss anything, then repacking it all and adding in a sweater, three more outfits and a stash of Doritos, then having all the suitcases ready and sitting by the door at LEAST 36 hours before our departure time.

This leaves me about three days to sit on the couch and worry whether or not I remembered everything, and provides ample opportunity to run through all possible worst-case scenarios in my head and to plan accordingly.  Should we take the pitchfork?  Don't mind if I do.

A couple weeks before we were getting ready to leave, I had all my to-do lists in place, which is a really crazy and elaborate system of my to do list iPhone app, some legal pads, a selection of different color post it notes, and some stuff written on the back of my hand in what I have since learned is permanent marker.  I had it planned to the day - NO! THE HOUR! - what I would need to accomplish every day in order to get ready to go.

And then...

Nothing.

I had a serious bout of what I refer to as "The Ennui," which for me only comes around once a year or so.  It's a combination of listlessness, general dissatisfaction at everything, lack of motivation and a desire to sit on the couch for long stretches while staring at my nook and ignoring everything in my house.  Usually it passes quickly, but this time, not so much.

Suddenly it was a week before we were to leave, and I hadn't done anything to prepare.

Then it was three days before we were to leave, and I hadn't done anything to prepare.

And then it was the day before we were to leave, and OH MY GOD I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING TO PREPARE.

Full blown panic set in, and I calmed myself a little by reminding myself that this is probably how "normal people" pack for vacation.  "But you're not a normal person," whined the little voice in my head.  "Shut the hell up!" screamed the other, more reasonable voice.  "We have work to do!"

Random things thrown into a suitcase in a totally nonsensical order. 

 At least we were clothed. 

So I dragged out a couple suitcases and threw some stuff in them randomly, set them by the door and waited for R to get home from work so we could pack up the car.  When he saw the pile of stuff, which was quite literally 1/3 the size it usually is for a week away from home, he looked just slightly worried, then said "Well, this will be a breeze to pack and unpack."

What?!?!?  You mean my crazy really affects others?!?!  That's just insane.

But really, we got there, we had a good time, and not once did I long for the selection of winter clothes, small kitchen appliances or family keepsakes that I had left behind this time.

And unpacking and repacking when we were ready to go really was a breeze.

I'm sure there's a lesson that I should learn from all of this.

Like next year, I will start packing THREE WEEKS in advance!  

Questions I have answered and/or dodged this week

The average kid asks approximately 4,348,482 questions before the age of eight.

Actually, I just totally made that number up, but it sounds about right.

However, my kids?

WAY above average.

Here are a few of the questions I have fielded just this past week.

Zachary:  "Mama, what happens when there's trash on the ground and it rains?"  Um, it gets wet?

Cooper: "MAMA! Are people MEAT?"  Yep, kid.  You're mid-level food chain material, at best.

Zachary: "Mama, can airplanes get struck by lightening?" Uh, guess I'm never flying again.

Zachary: "Mama, who invented houses?" Smart people.  Now hush and eat your dinner.

Zachary: "Mama, is hippocampus a fancy word for brain?" Yes.  Now hush and eat your dinner.

Cooper:  "Mama, is you throat your neck?"  Um, kinda? Now hush and eat your dinner.

Zachary: "Mama, when I'm a grown-up, or maybe a teenager, will you go to college with me?" Hell no, kid.  HELL. NO. Plus?  I'm changing the locks as soon as you leave.

Zachary: "Mama, what year were you born?" 1974.  "And you're still alive now? WOW!" Brat.

Cooper: "Mama, what is an enemy?" It's someone you haven't learned to love yet? "Oh, like XXXXX?" Exactly.

Cooper: "Mama, what does this say?" It says "Made in China." "You mean Aunt Barbara went ALL THE WAY TO CHINA TO GET THIS FOR ME?"  Yeah sure, kid. Sure.

Zachary: "Mama, guess what?!?!  Did you know a table can fall JUST by standing on it?"  Uh, I guess I do now. 

Cooper: "Mama, what is "touche´?" Um, it's kinda like, you're acknowledging that someone said something that was right or funny.  "Well, what's 'acknowledging?'"  It's like to admit to something.  "Well, what's 'admit?'" I have no idea, kid.  No idea at all.  

Zachary: "Mama, what would you happen if you hit a bug with a rock?" You would squish it.  "Oh, that's bad then, isn't it?" Why exactly are you asking?  

Cooper: "Mama, do your teeth come out yet?"  Uh, no.  Do you know something I don't? 

Cooper: "Mama, can bears whistle?" Uh..... 

Zachary: "Mama, are meatballs the same as meatloaf?"  Uh, kinda?  They're just a different shape?  "I thought so because they both start with 'meat.'"

Cooper: "Mama, can robots poop?" Oh, definitely not.  "Do they get a tummy ache when they eat, then?"

Cooper: "Mama, can you guess what day it is?!?!?!?" No, what day is it?  "It's APRIL!"

Zachary: "Mama, what does 'exaggerate" mean?" It means to make something seem bigger and better than it really is.  "Oh, you mean like when you talk about how fun it is to clean up my room?"  Exactly that, kid.  Exactly that.

Cooper: "Mama, what do I say when people cough?" What do you mean, honey?  "When people sneeze I say bless you.  What do I say when they cough?"  Say "Please go cough on someone else." 

Cooper:  "Mama, what's a pupil?"  It's a student.  "You mean you have a STUDENT in your eye?"

Zachary: "Mama, when will I get to get some gold teeth?" Um, right before prison, most likely. 

Cooper: "Mama, what's the difference between frogs and toads?"  Uh...

Cooper: "Mama, do frogs have teeth?" No, I don't think so.  "Well, how about birds?"  Uh...

Zachary: "Mama, who will be president after Barack Obama?" I have no idea.  "Oh.  Can we go look it up on Google, then?  Google will know."  Uh...

All that glitters.

Cooper's at the age where he is getting into EVERYTHING, in a totally sneaky, I know I'm not supposed to touch this so I'll just hide over here and do it and you can't see me can you?  kind of way.

Some prime examples include doing SOMETHING to our cable that required a service visit (and believe me, if it has to do with wires and R can't fix it himself, it's bad.  Really bad.) and unplugging the fish tank filter, which resulted in the ultimate demise of Sunshine, our yellowest fish.

But I still have delusions that my boy, my baby, wouldn't do anything wrong - not on purpose anyway - so when he walked up to me quite nonchalantly the other day and I noticed he was sparkling from head to toe, my mind immediately went to the most reasonable explanation.

"OH MY GOD HE'S A VAMPIRE!  HE'S BEEN BITTEN BY ONE OF THOSE SPARKLY VAMPIRES!OH NO!  I HATE SPARKLY VAMPIRES! WHY COULDN'T IT BE ONE OF THE GOOD VAMPIRES, LIKE FROM TRUE BLOOD?AT LEAST THOSE VAMPIRES AREN'T ALL WEIRD AND EMO AND STUFF!?!?  ZACHARY!  ZACHARY, I NEED YOU!  BRING THE STAKE AND THE GARLIC!  WE'RE GOING TO HAVE TO KILL YOUR BROTHER!!  HURRY UP, HONEY!  IT'S BAD!  HE'S SPARKLY!"

Zachary, ever the voice of reason, or at least sanity, said "Ewww!  He's all covered in GLITTER!  And it's SQUISHY!"

"No, it's NOT glitter," I argued with my seven year old, who was completely correct.  "I never buy glitter.  I'm anti-glitter.  There is no glitter in this HOUSE!!!  Clearly, he is a vampire.  Where's that cross I had?  We used it just last week for that demon thing." 

"Well, there's glitter all over Cooper, so I guess there IS some in the house," Zachary said, again totally reasonable with his assessment.  "Plus, the floor is all shiny and squishy, too."

Cooper, meanwhile, continued to try to look innocent while simultaneously licking the glitter off his fingers.  Don't you look so innocent.  I've got your number, your little Edward Cullen wannabe.

Ok, fine.  I checked Cooper a little closer, risking life and limb (hey, everybody knows baby vampires are the hungriest and therefore the most likely to bite), and I determined he was indeed covered in squishy glitter.  Green squishy glitter.  You know, the kind that comes in those glittery squishy toy balls that I would never in a million years buy but my sister brings into my house by the truckload?  Yeah, those.  

Ok, no big deal.  I'll just throw the kid in the shower, vacuum up the glitter, and that will be that.

Oh wow.  Not so much.  

I washed the kid.  I vacuumed the floor.  Then I re-washed the kid and re-vacuumed the floor.  But every time the light shifted a certain way or the other, I would catch sight of some more, mocking me with its sparkling loveliness as it winked at me merrily from the depths of my carpet, my kid's ear...

And since what I like to refer to as the Near-Staking Incident of 2013, I have continued to find large patches of this infernal glitter in places I would have never imagined.  It's all over my kitchen, although to my knowledge Cooper was never near that room with the now defunct glitter ball.  It's in the bathroom, glimmering up at me from the deep, dark depths around my toilet, a place I typically do not dare to look.

It's mocks me shinily from in between the floorboards of my hardwood floors.  It winks merrily at me from my couch cushions.  One particularly insistent piece is so deeply embedded into my left eye I believe it's permanent.

My house is glittery, and it's here to stay.

I think a vampire really would have been easier to get rid of.

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What I found there.

True confessions time.

I'm not a great housekeeper.

Now, if you walk into my house and casually glance around, you might THINK I am.  My house usually looks tidy.  Everything looks neat.  There is nothing upon first glance that would make you think I'm anything other than little Suzy Homemaker.

But then if you start to look - I mean REALLY look - you'll see that when the light shines in a certain way, the floors really need to be mopped.  And there may be just a FINE layer of dust on... well, everything.  And since I'm short... so, so short, anything that's taller than my 5'1" line of sight is quite literally out of sight, out of mind.

And this makes Zachary's bunk bed  quite a challenge, in more ways than one.

It's a challenge to change the sheets because I can't really reach them, and it's a challenge to care because I can't really see it.

You see my dilemma, don't you?

So recently I walked into Zachary's room for something or another, and I realized it smelled a little musty?  Kinda like dirty feet and cheese?  A little research led me to the bed, and I decided it might be time to change his sheets and wash his blankets for the first time in months.

I climbed my fat ass up the ladder to strip the bed, and I was met with a most amazing sight.

His entire bed was full.

Absolutely, positively full of... stuff.

It was kind of a sight to behold, and truth be known, if it weren't for the funky smell, I would have been pretty impressed, because he had created a whole little world up there, away from my prying eyes.

As I started taking things down, I counted six books, countless comic books, a whole selection of action figures, FOUR complete pairs of pajamas and one extra pajama bottom, three socks, two empty water bottles, several straws, some candy wrappers (which, by the way, he knows is forbidden in the bedroom), a remote control that had been missing for quite some time, a couple pencils and several pages of schoolwork, at least 63 out of a 64 box of crayons, every blanket he owns, and various other assorted toys and totally unidentifiable pieces of plastic and paper.

I'm surprised there was any room for him, really.

I asked him about it later that day after he got home from school.  "Hey Zachary," I said, "I cleaned off your bed today.  What was all that stuff doing up there, anyway?"

He shrugged and looked totally unconcerned.  "Ah, it was all stuff I needed" he replied.

Uh oh.  The packrat gene is strong with this one.

After a stern talking-to to Zachary, I made a silent vow to myself to climb ALL THE WAY up the ladder to check his bed more often.

Well, at least once a month or so, anyway.

You may say I'm a dreamer.

For as far back as my memory takes me, I've always been the lucky recipient of fabulous, vivid dreams.

I dream in color.  I dream in black and white.  I dream of flying, of swimming, of floating, of dancing, and of all sorts of other fabulous adventures that I could and would never really do in a waking state.  Sometimes, when I'm really lucky, I'll have one of those dreams that I can control, just a little bit.  Those are super fun.

And I dream about people.

I dream about family and friends, both long gone and current.  Sometimes though, I dream about people I don't recognize.

I'll wake up and remember what I was dreaming about, and then as I start to piece it together in my sleep-foggy brain, I will realize that one or several characters from my dream are people I don't know.

And this freaks me the hell out.

Who do these strangers think they are, sneaking into my brain like that?  The nerve.  THE NERVE.

Get out of my brain!  STRANGER DANGER!!!

I mean, who are these people, really?  Are they people I've seen somewhere before, but maybe I just don't remember them?  Or is my brain busy creating all these people from scratch?  No wonder I can't remember where I left my keys.  My brain is too occupied with CREATING WHOLE PEOPLE.

Sometimes I walk around places (ok, it's Wal-mart, since that's virtually the only place I ever go), looking suspiciously at everyone I encounter.  Is that the person I dreamed about last night?  Is that the stranger who invaded my mind?

It never is, by the way, which tells me a) they really are people my mind totally created or b) I need to look somewhere besides Wal-Mart for my dream friends.

But in either case, it still concerns me that all these strangers have access to my mind.  What if they're all up in there, Inception-like, and at some point I won't be able to tell dreams from reality?  What kind of havoc are these unknowns wreaking in my not-too-stable-anyway mind?

Ah well, just one more thing to keep me up at night, I guess.

Which could be a plus.

If I'm awake, it will keep the interlopers away.

Betrayed by Half-Pint

The other day I was sitting in front of my computer, minding my own business, trying to do anything at all except the things I was supposed to be doing, and I happened across an article that caught my attention.

The headline read "Scarlet Fever Probably Didn't Blind Mary Ingalls."

Wha-wha-what?

So I clicked over and read more.

The article went on to use phrases like "creative liberties" and "changed during editing" and "used a more familiar ailment that readers had heard of."

But all I saw was "LAURA LIED!!!" and I felt an overwhelming sense of betrayal.

I can't remember how old I was the first time I read The Little House on the Prairieseries, maybe seven or so, but I remember that I read it over and over and over. I loved Laura with all my heart (ok, secretly I loved Mary just a little bit more. She was just so GOOD) and I fancied us to be friends. Best friends. And best friends don't lie to each other, do they?

Except apparently they do. Because Mary's blindness wasn't caused by scarlet fever. Further internet research confirmed this. Scarlet fever doesn't even cause blindness.

And it made me wonder what else Laura had been lying to me about all these years.

Maybe Jack was really a cat. A dog was used for "creative license."

Maybe Nellie Olsen was really a sweet, nice girl. But every story needs a villain, right?

Maybe Carrie was a boy.

Maybe Mr. Edwards and Pa were more than friends and that's why Ma didn't like him much.

I mean, WHO REALLY KNOWS?!? It's just AN EDITING THING, right!?!?!

I texted Natalie with my newfound knowledge. She is also a rabid, sort of insane Little House fan.

She refused to even entertain the thought that Laura had lied to us and I believe she used the word "conspiracy" more than a few times.  However, it did set us off on a two day texting marathon of interesting and obscure Laura Ingalls Wilder facts.

It also send me down the deep, dark Google-hole of facts about the Ingalls family - facts that weren't available to my internet-less seven year old self who learned to love Laura and her family based solely on the the words on the pages of her books.

I found out all kinds of interesting tidbits, like Pa was a town constable at one point, and Laura taught school before receiving her teaching certificate, which is not at all what the books say.  Also, many of the characters in the books are composites of many different people.  Oh, and it is widely accepted that Rose, Laura's daughter wrote all or at least some of the books.

After I read that last part, I shut my Macbook with a little more force than necessary and loaded the entire Little House seriesonto my nook.  I decided right then to re-read all the books, and to believe them for what they were, which are wonderful stories that take me back to my childhood when life was simple and you really could believe anything you read.

Oh, and I decided to forgive Laura.

Because that's what friends do.



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Soft kitty, dead kitty

Cooper and Figaro, in happier times.  

This is Figaro.

Figaro is Cooper's (imaginary) kitty.

Figaro is black and white and tiny and fluffy.

Cooper carries him around all day, playing with him, feeding him, petting him.  It's really sweet.

Except for the fact that yesterday, I killed poor Figaro no less than a dozen times.

It's totally not on purpose, by the way.

See, Cooper carries Figaro around, then as little boys are prone to do, he puts him down for a minute or three and goes on about his other little boy business.  And since Figaro's IMAGINARY, and therefore INVISIBLE, I can't really be blamed if I sit down on him, now can I?

I mean, hell, I never even know I've squished the poor thing until Cooper wails "MAMA! GET OFF FIGARO!!!  HE IS UNDER YOUR BUTT!!!"

Oops.

Sorry 'bout that, kitty.

Occasionally I step on him, too, but I think he's got a better than average shot of making it out of that with nothing more than a maimed tail or a broken leg or something.

My ass, however, is quite larger than my foot and the poor thing probably isn't going to survive that.

But I knew without a doubt that I had killed him and killed him good when I accidentally put him in the washing machine yesterday.

See, Cooper and I were walking downstairs toward the laundry room, me with laundry basket in hand, when Cooper said "Mama, Figaro needs to ride in the basket."  It SEEMED like an ok idea at the time, but then since he's INVISIBLE, I promptly forgot about him.

Oops again.

Well, I forgot about him until a few minutes later when Cooper began shrieking "FIGARO!!!!  WHERE'S FIGARO?!?!?  MAMA DID YOU PUT HIM IN THE WASHING MACHINE?!?!?!?"

Uh oh.

I immediately scooped up a bunch of air and handed it to Cooper.  "Oh no, baby, OF COURSE Mama didn't put Figaro in the the washer!  Here he is all safe and sound, see?"

Cooper looked at me suspiciously for a minute, then started petting and whispering to the empty air in his hand.  I'm not sure he totally believed me, but he went with it.

Which is a good thing, because I HAD totally put the imaginary cat in the washer.

Ummm, my bad?

At least he's powite.

I love, love, love Zachary's Tae Kwon do class.

The instructor is top-notch, Zachary's behavior in class is nothing short of miraculous, and it doesn't hurt that he seems to have a natural affinity for it. 

It makes him happy, it makes me happy, it makes R happy that we're happy...

However, it does not make Cooper terribly happy.

See, for the hour that class is going on, I have to try to make Cooper SIT STILL (GASP!) and BE QUIET (MOAN!) and at the ripe old age of three, he's not so terribly into either of those things.

I have resorted to bribing him with a pocket full of suckers on a few (ok, most) particularly... active days, and I usually take the iPad and some headphones, and if I'm lucky, that will keep him occupied for 6 non-concurrent minutes of the 60 we are there. 

It is the most stressful time of my day, trying to get him to sit still and be quiet for Zachary's class.  Which leads me to believe either a) I don't have a very stressful life or b) I don't have a very stressful life.

How we roll at big brother's class.

Anyway, the headphones/iPad combo works sometimes, with one major drawback.  When he has his headphones on, he's like a little old man who forgot to turn his hearing aides on and he TALKS IN A YELLING OUTSIDE LIKE SOMETHING IS ON FIRE AND HE NEEDS TO REPORT IT VOICE.  

So the other day we were sitting in class, and things were going pretty smoothly.  He was occupied with Star Wars Angry Birds an educational app, I was watching Zachary perform, and all was well.

Until Cooper had a little, um, stomach discomfort, that, um, caused him to, um, have a bit of gas.

Class was pretty crowded on that day, of course, but I was sitting right beside him and I barely heard it.

It would have been fine, JUST FINE, if he left it at that.  But no, oh no, instead of just ignoring it like 99.9% of the population would have, he yelled "OH!  PWEASE EXCUSE MY BUTT!" At the top of his lungs, then continued to play his game as if nothing had happened.

The laughter of all the waiting parents started near me, then I could hear it ripple down the row until every single person was laughing so hard WE were disrupting class.

Cooper, however, was totally oblivious to the mayhem he had caused, and seemed mainly confused as people approached him after class was over to tell him what "a funny little guy" he was and to inquire after his butt situation.

So now I'm wondering, does quiet trump polite?

I'm thinking it just might.

Overpacking.

According to R, one of my superpowers is the ability to see worst case scenarios and to prepare for them accordingly.

This comes in handy, oh, say, about 75% of the time.

My house is prepared for nearly any kind of emergency including zombie attacks, and I have a six three month supply of food and drink... you know, just in case.  

The problem really starts when I'm going to be AWAY from my house for any extended period of time.  Like for more than 45 minutes or so.  BECAUSE WHAT IF SOMEONE RIPS HIS PANTS AND I NEED A NEEDLE AND THREAD AND I NEED TO TAKE PLENTY OF TISSUES WITH ME AND SCISSORS ALWAYS COME IN HANDY AND SNACKS AND TAPE AND PLATES AND EXTRA SOCKS AND MAYBE A COUPLE MAGAZINES AND THIS HOUSEPLANT AND THIS EXTRA COAT I HAVEN'T WORN SINCE 1993.

Ahem.

Yeah.

This tendency of mine to over prepare is especially predominant when I'm going to be away from my house for more than a day.

Like I was last week.  

See, Zachary had a long weekend from school, and R had some vacation time to burn through, and the stars were aligned so we decided to take the boys to Great Wolf Lodge for a few days.  This place is a family favorite for us...  It's seriously one of the only places we can take the boys without one of us (the grown-ups, that is) having a full blown meltdown.  It's not that it's somewhere I would ever go without the kids, but in the grand scheme of kid-friendly places, this one is pretty awesome.  It's never that crowded, it's big enough to keep the boys occupied without being so big we can't fit everything in, there is plenty of liquor available, oh, and did I mention there's plenty of liquor available?  Anyway, every year for the past three years we have set aside a good chunk of our entertainment money to go, and it hasn't disappointed us yet.

But I'm getting off track, so back to me and my issues.

For weeks beforehand, I started narrowing down my "WHAT NOT TO FORGET!!!!" list.  Yes, I make a list.  This is not surprising, is it? 

When it was time to start packing to leave, I promised myself that I WOULD NOT overdo it this time.  I would scale way back on what had to be packed, loaded in the car, unpacked at the hotel, repacked, loaded back in the car, and unpacked and dealt with when we got back home.  Only necessities, I promised myself.  Bare bones packing.

This box?  Totally filled with necessities.

So I packed.  I had to talk myself down repeatedly a few times - "No, mj, you don't NEED to take the iron.  You haven't ironed anything since 1994," and a couple times I waffled, putting something in the suitcase, taking it back out, putting it back in, like some bizarre suitcase hokey pokey or something.  

And I think I did a pretty decent job, even though it stressed me out.  "But what if we need the mixer?" my inner voice whined?  "SHUT UP," my other, saner inner voice answered.  "You can go four days without mashed potatoes.  Plus, we're not bringing the potatoes this time."

This is all I took for four people for four days and three nights.  This is a November miracle.

And it was fine.  Of course, I forgot something we really did need (Zachary's special wand to play one of the games there), and when R asked me for the nail clippers I nearly had an aneurism, because that was one of the things I made myself leave at home, but mostly, it was just fine. 

Really.

And the next time we go out of town, I think maybe I can pare it down just a little more.

But I'm bringing the mixer next time.  

Four days without mashed potatoes is just too much to ask.