January Blues

Well, the post-vacation euphoria has worn off, to be replaced by the winter sickness blues. We seem to have 2 versions of the plague moving (slowly) through our house. You know your weekend isn't going to go as planned when you're informed in the middle of your leisurely Saturday morning shower that someone has thrown up outside the bathroom door. I was able to duck that one by staying in the shower until Larry had cleaned up the mess (hey, I had conditioner in my hair, all right?); but I had to handle the next episode, because Larry was hiding in the basement again. On top of it all, the baby is teething; she may also be sick, but we can't tell, as she still doesn't know how to talk.

We're excited because the Verizon guys are coming tomorrow (once we take the QUARANTINE sign off our door and hide it) to install an Internet connection that is faster than, say, 2 horsepower per kilobit, or whatever it is that we have now over our phone line. Actually, these Verizon guys were here a month ago; but it turns out that they are the "inside" guys (as they patiently explained to us), and they can't do their work until the "outside" guys have shown up. Tiny little mix-up on Verizon's part, but I do think we would have gotten faster remedial action if Larry had followed my suggestion and held the inside guys hostage until the work was done. Nobody ever listens to me around here, however.

Larry's been having fun working out the yearly budget, and he's starting to get that wistful look in his eyes - you know, the one that says, "Why couldn't I have married someone with marketable skills instead of a baby factory?" Too late now, sweetie. It doesn't help that our gas bill doubled, and our electric bill increased by 50%. It also doesn't help that our kids insist on eating 3 square meals a day. Spoiled, I tell you.

Our local library is still letting us in, despite our embarrassing book habits. Everytime we go to check out, it turns into a 15-minute ordeal of being reminded of which books are still out, which are overdue, how many are on hold, and haven't we mentioned our 50-book limit on the library card, ma'am? This time I thought I had it well planned out - Theo and Anna both used their own cards, so as not to impinge on my 50-book allotment. We still went over the limit. Each week I walk in there, I expect to see a police officer standing by the circulation desk, handcuffs at the ready. It didn't help last week when I accidentally shushed a librarian who was speaking too loudly near my sleeping baby. I wonder how many people have ever had to tell a librarian to pipe down?

David and Theo have joined a chess club. Anna didn't want to join because you are not allowed to talk while you are playing. In her words, "What's the point?" We may have just hit on the primary reason that the world of chess grand masters is dominated by men. Anyway, David comes home and teaches Rachel (well, he tells her where to move - I don't think she's learning anything). She likes to capture his pieces so she can play with them. They make a nice sound when she jingles them together in the skirt of her dress. I'll bet that isn't allowed at chess tournaments either.

Well, I've rambled long enough - it's time to go see if Susie will let me put her down in her crib. Ah, to sleep, perchance to dream....

Larry and I are so glad to be home, in our own house. We're both sounding like George Bailey at the end of It's A Wonderful Life - Hello, drafty old house! Hello, falling down apple tree! All the kitchen chairs are breaking - isn't that terrific! You'd think we'd been away a year instead of a week. It just felt like a year. But we're back. We survived. Some highlights:

Rachel's potty-training progress has gone right down the toilet. I knew we were doomed the first day of our trip when I took her into a rest stop bathroom to go pee. She said, "It smells funny here. I'll pee at home." Good thing I brought some diapers.

We had to caravan, as we can't fit everyone into one vehicle. Even so, both cars were packed full of stuff. Unfortunately, I don't like doing the driving on long trips. My back starts hurting, my knees start hurting, my hips start hurting (no, I'm not done complaining). To top it off, I harbor the conviction that I am going to die of deep-vein thrombosis from sitting in one position too long. So Larry, in a foolish attempt to flatter me, congratulated me on driving all the way from Mass to Maine on the third day. Give me a break - what choice did I have? Refuse to go on and live at Westover Air Force Base the rest of my life? When I pointed this out to Larry, his face lit up and he said, "You're right - it's the deathground principle!" For those of you as uninformed as I am, he was referring to Chinese military strategy as discussed by Sun Tzu (apparently the East's answer to Clausewitz) - it seems Chinese generals would purposely place their troops in positions where they would have to either fight or die - no retreat possible. I don't know whether to feel flattered that I passed the test or annoyed that my husband deems it acceptable to manipulate me using battle tactics he learned at the War College.

Anyway, I survived the drive; I'm sure a few years of therapy (psychological and chiropractic) will undo any damage that's been done.

Anna is apparently the only person in our family to feel inconvenienced by having to share a hotel room with 7 other people. I almost left her behind in Massachusetts.

McDonald's is everywhere, but it is extremely hard to find exactly the same McDonald's as last year - you know, the one with the best playland ever. We had to settle for the second-best playland, which made certain members of our family very sad. The restroom there was pretty good, however.

I spent most of my vacation driving and doing laundry (not at the same time, but wouldn't that be a good idea?). The best laundryroom was at the Air Force base in Massachusetts - 4 stackable washer/dryers in a row, so I could do all our laundry at once. I am definitely installing one of those stackables in our kitchen once all the kids grow up and leave. Then I would never again have to walk into our laundry/utility room/Larry's storage unit. It would be very good for our marriage. I found myself wondering what sort of laundryroom Mrs. Claus has. Does she have to wash all the elves' clothes too, or do their wives do that? Do elves have wives? Does Santa Claus frown on civil unions? These are the sort of questions that run through my mind when I spend most of my Christmas vacation doing laundry.

Uncle Frank is apparently getting more lenient in his dotage. He actually let the kids help decorate the tree this year. Up until now, he has never even let them touch the tree. Maybe it's because we make him watch the Grinch every year, and he's finally taking the hint.

A lot more happened, but I think I am trying to block it out. It's less painful that way. I know I've said this before, but there's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.

Christmas is Coming...

It's been a while since my last letter, but not much has happened around here of note. I have decided that perhaps it would be best if I took a little time to clean my oven more often than, say, once every few years. Nothing like a minor grease fire to make me reevaluate my housekeeping methods. The fire was a great learning opportunity, however - the kids got to see how effective baking soda really is on a kitchen conflagration. And I think the flames actually burnt off a lot of the greasy buildup. So it wasn't a total loss.

After faithfully exercising for the past 3 1/2 months at the Y, I've come to the inescapable conclusion that exercise makes me fat. Apparently, I am not the only one to think so. The other day, as I was bending over to wipe out the tub, Rachel happily said, "Mommy, you have a big bottom." That kid used to be cute; I don't know what happened. When I shared my scientific findings on exercise with Larry, he muttered something about the chocolate factor, whatever that means. Hey, is it my fault the Y is dumb enough to have a candy machine in the lobby?

Rachel woke up one morning recently and apparently decided that using the potty was a pretty good idea. I would like to note here that this happened at the exact same age that Anna learned to use the potty, which leads me to think that it really didn't matter what I did as far as toilet-training went. What I need is a set of identical twins to test this theory on.

In case Anna reads this, I would like to state as a disclaimer that of course Anna has always used the potty and would never dream of doing otherwise.

I suppose I should be writing a Christmas-type newsletter right now, sharing the year's highlights and all. Unfortunately, I don't remember a darn thing that happened before the baby was born in May. And since then...well, you've been kept up to date on all the excitement. I'm not truly in the Christmas spirit right now, as we have to drive up to Maine this Wednesday to celebrate with Larry's family. I don't see why we have to do that, as we have a perfectly good tree right here at home. His family's okay, but not worth a 12 hour drive with 6 kids in two vans. Larry, of course, does not share this opinion. If someone would like to steal our van late Tuesday night, I'll give you my keys. Just don't return it until the 26th.

Halloween, Etc.

Well, Halloween passed uneventfully. We had 2 pirates, 1 damsel, a dalmatian, a bat, and a pumpkin this year. Rachel (the dalmatian - and a very cute one, at that) almost backed out at the last minute, as the first trick-or-treater to show up at our door was a 9-year-old Grim Reaper. We had to unmask him in order to persuade Rachel to stop screaming and come out of the hall closet. Larry took all my candy and brought it to his office. When I asked him to bring back some of my chocolate, he said that two really fat women in his office had eaten all of it. I think he's trying to tell me something.

Anna is perennially annoyed at me now. This morning she was annoyed because I asked her to come back down and throw out the potato peels from the potatoes she had just peeled for me. Then she got more annoyed because I told her to change the garbage bag, since she had left the peels mounded so high the lid on the can wouldn't even close. I am so mean. Today is her day to do the dishes, too. I can't wait.

As if having a 12-year-old girl isn't bad enough, I have an 8-year-old boy who suddenly thinks that he shouldn't do anything he doesn't want to. But that's okay. It may be sadistic, but Larry and I will really enjoy, um, persuading David that, yes, he actually does want to do everything we ask of him, even the unreasonable requests such as not screaming at the table and being polite to his parents. In fact, I have reason to believe that shortly he will be downright eager to say "Yes, Ma'am" and "No, Sir" and to stop acting as though everyone closest to him is his worst enemy.

Do I sound fed up or what? I can't believe that kid is stupid enough to mess with me.

Okay, I'll stop. It's raining now, and rapidly turning colder, and we all know what that means. Well, maybe we don't. It means, tonight is the night the mice come in seeking shelter from the elements. We're ready for them this year, though - traps are set, waiting to be deployed. I don't need any extra creatures living in this house at this time, pooping all over the place and making a nuisance of themselves. We have enough of that type already. Meaning, yes, we have made absolutely no progress with Rachel's toileting habits. I think I'll just work on Susie; if she learns, perhaps Rachel will be shamed into it. Who would want to be outdone by a 6-month-old?

You know, reading over this scribble has me thinking that Larry and I really need to get away for a bit. Anyone want to come babysit? It'll be easy - really.

Another Fall Weekend - October 2005

Well, I've bowed to the inevitable -- the only way to teach Rachel to use the potty is to not put those diapers on her. Though maybe that's not correct - after all, can you learn to fly by going skydiving without a parachute? Whatever. Rachel's wearing those undies, so the past two days have been rather wet around here, and I seem to be doing 4 loads of laundry a day rather than the usual 3, and I don't think the nice people working at our local Barnes and Noble really want to see us again, ever. Otherwise, potty training is going just fine.

I think we've finally cleaned up the last of the apples from the apple tree. We sort of neglected the apple situation last week because of all the rain; but today our front porch was smelling strongly of fermenting apples and the bee population seemed to be multiplying, so I did what any responsible adult would do in that situation - I sent the kids out there to clean it all up. Yeah, they cried a little; but in the end, it made them stronger. And now maybe our neighbors will start talking to us again.

Larry worked all weekend (boy, this sounds familiar), so I kept us busy with trips to Michaels' (Rachel and Brian made very fine styrofoam/pipecleaner piggies there) and to the Farmers' Market at Lake Anne (we tried stopping in at one of the stores, too; but Rachel had another, uh, accident there) and then to the commissary to pick up 2 weeks' worth of groceries. That was just Saturday. Theo was away at a boy scout camporee, so Anna was pressed into service as oldest child present. This did not make her happy. She had quite the attitude until she suddenly seemed to sense that I was about to ground her for the rest of her life. Then she became amazingly cooperative. Sunday, I was going to take it easy; but I woke up and realized I still had 6 kids and no husband, so that plan went out the window. We made a double batch of apple crisp (we just can't stop) and walked to the bookstore and the bagel shop and came home and cleaned up the porch. By this time the children realized that if they would just leave me alone, I might not make them work anymore. So I didn't see any of them for a couple of hours. Good thing.

Larry has the day off tomorrow, so I have many exciting plans, such as sleeping as late as 7:30 and maybe even going to Target all by myself. I'm trying not to get my hopes up, but I can't help it. An incurable optimist, I am.