But I Can Dance a Jig

I picked an excellent time to give up soda. 

Oh, dear.  See, I depend on the caffeinated, bubbly, sugary devil-in-a-can to get me through any given situation.  But it has also gotten me into pants that are two sizes bigger than what I'd like to be wearing.  I am probably also well on my way to making myself a diabetic.  Add in the wonderful example I'm setting for my kids, and there are the fantastic triple-crown reasons (I was going to use "trifecta" but it didn't seem right, and yet, I can't get away from the horse-racing lingo) why I ought to let go of my very naughty habit.

And now here we are, heading towards a move.  A move!  I need a Dr. Pepper. 

No!  I don't need a Dr. Pepper!  I must tell myself this over and over and over.  I need boxes, that's what I need.  And a professional organizer.  Also, a dumpster.  And some caffeine!

No.  No to the caffeine.  Get a grip!

Do you ever talk to yourself?  Are you wondering right now if I'm speaking to you, reader of this blog, or to myself, since I actually do talk to myself, even in public forums? 

Since I never promised coherent or well-thought out posts (did I?  I don't think I did.) then I'm just going to babble.  I need to fold laundry.  Is anyone surprised about that?  I should think not.  I also need to do the dishes.  My dear, sweet daughter Michaela emptied the dishwasher this morning, and I think I owe it to her to load it up tonight.  Not just so she'll have something to do when she wakes up, but also to honor her for all of her hard work. 

I cleaned out my car tonight because I volunteered to take the boys to karate.  Right after I said I would do the driving, I realized you couldn't walk through to the back of the van.  AT ALL.  It was a sight to behold.  We had done some running around the days before our trip to Virginia, and eaten in the car a bit.  Apparently we also did some disrobing in there, since I not only filled up one garbage bag with actual trash (gross!), but another with clothes of various kinds...including socks, a hoodie, coats, and some khaki pants. 

Those boys were so loud that when we got to the dojo, I couldn't even get their attention to say,"Get out."  I hollered back to where they were wrestling,"I AM NOT DRIVING YOU GUYS AGAIN!"  I may have added,"If you scream like that," but I can't remember.  I was busy trying to keep my head from spontaneously combusting.  I was already exasperated because we couldn't find Christian's jacket for his gi (the uniform) or his belt.  What I really don't understand is my memory of washing and folding the thing, along with his pants, which I did find in a laundry basket at the foot of my bed.  Augggh!! 

My best guess is that part of his uniform ended up in a crazy place because the last time he had karate was the night that I went to a special dinner for a friend, and Mike had a Bible study.  Mike picked Christian up and went to drop the kids off with a friend for the evening, and the truck died.  I went to pick them up, Mike dropped me off at my dinner, and then took the kids with him to his Bible study (at someone's house).  I'm hoping that the missing pieces are at this lady's home.  Maybe along with my sanity? 

I doubt it.  My sanity is long gone.  But what I lack in mental stability I make up for with some really sweet dance moves.  Those Riverdancers got nothin' on me.  Just ask my mom.

The Unthinkable

I am adamantly, resolutely, unwaveringly opposed to baths.  I think they are gross.  Putting my dirty body into a small pool of warm water, sitting there for a while, even soaping up (and how do you rinse?)...this makes no sense to me whatsoever.  I suppose people take baths for the relaxation of it, but it just adds stress to my life.  Maybe you shower after you bathe?  That's too much work.  I feel exhausted after a shower sometimes, especially if I shave. 

Baths.  I don't like them.

But what happens when you have someone like me but also children like mine, who do like baths?  There is much discord.  Much weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Much screaming and stomping and flailing.  My older kids can take showers, so it's not such a big deal for them (although they do still like to take baths when it is possible, which isn't often).  Eliana is a different story.  Eliana doesn't like showers and she doesn't like standing in the tub while I wash her and then rinse her off.  I try to be quick and I know she's a little cold, but her bottom isn't going to sit in our tub.  I just never feel like it's clean enough.  (The tub, not her bottom, although...)

Something strange happened on our trip, though.  I can't explain it.  I can only show you.

She was totally happy.  No screaming.  No crying.  No flailing.

She loves the bubbles.

I just washed her really well as they drained out.  I'm hoping that the tub in our new house is bathworthy.  Because the screaming?  It's not nearly as much fun as floufing bubbles. 

The Declaration of Independence Is Much Shorter Than This Post

We have returned from a trip to Virginia for Thanksgiving, and now I'm going to share all about it.  So much will be said that it's kind of like when you sit down to eat Thanksgiving dinner and there is too much food so you have to undo the button on your pants so you can have some more.

Unless you're smart and you wore elastic pants.

See if you can make sense of that analogy. 

After a typical (unfortunately) departure experience, we arrived in Richmond in one piece (or five pieces, really, but each one of us intact) and headed for Chick-Fil-A, because it had been a full 48 hours or so since I the kids had had some of my their favorite food.  We took our lunch to the park and let the kids stretch their legs a bit.  Wait.  What are they doing?  Sitting squished together looking at a tiny screen?  What is wrong with these children?  Don't they know they have hundreds of acres in which to run free?

Eventually the call of the wild got to Christian and he couldn't stand it any longer...the sticks!  There were so many!  And they must be swung!

Eliana got a ride while Mike stretched his legs.

And even Grandma got a little workout. 

We headed back to my parents' house and the kids played outside some more, raking leaves and playing in them.  When I was growing up, this was the view from my house.  There are a few homes across the street, but beyond that, woods.  It's really lovely, especially this time of year.  I don't think I ever paid attention to that when I was younger; the scenery struck me this time as particularly beautiful.

I will never understand why they want to be buried in leaves, including the face!

Moving straight from fall into the middle of winter, we went inside, got everyone cleaned up, and celebrated Christmas with my mom and dad.  They wanted to give the kids their presents in person, and we won't see them in December, so...

Now, my mom collects things, and one of her collections is snowmen.  Her snowmen have quite the personalities.  This one here?  He has a bit of an attitude when things don't go his way.

And this guy?  He enjoys a cold one every now and then.

A Dr. Pepper!  Cherry flavored, preferably.

Fast-forward to the following afternoon, when we arrived in Williamsburg.  My parents had a suite and our family had a sweet, with an adjoining hall.  Eliana thought this table just as you walked in the door would serve well for a bed.

She actually really did say,"This is a bed."  We were able to convince her to try out the beds with mattresses, which she liked much better in the end.

Monday we had a slow start.  And by "slow start" I mean we made it to Colonial Williamsburg by 5pm.  It was a lovely time to visit, the weather was nice, and the sunset beautiful, but there wasn't much going on.  And when there isn't a whole lot going on, there is all kinds of trouble to be made.  When there is trouble made, there is the pillory...

I think they are missing the point.

Speaking of a point, I bet you wish there was a point to my post.  The point is, it's long.  So, put a pillow under your bottom and keep reading.

Our biennial trip to Williamsburg is fun because of the traditions that we have.  One venture that has now been dubbed a tradition is to ride the ferry near Jamestown across the river and eat lunch with some good friends of my parents, Jack and Gloria.  They bring bread for the kids to feed to the birds that follow the ferry over.

My mom took these pictures.  I was hiding under my seat in the car. 

I don't like birds, but I love perspective.

Michaela held up bites of bread for the birds to come and take from her hands (AACK!) while Christian just threw half-pieces of bread up to the birds to catch.

On the return trip, Eliana got brave, too.

Or crazy, whichever you prefer to call it.

We had had a wacky day, and had waffled on visiting Jamestown in the late afternoon or waiting until the following morning.  We decided to go ahead and go (Jamestown, the museum, not the actual site) since we were so close.  It was fun, as always. 

Mom doesn't seem like she takes the local authorities too seriously.  I think she better shape up.

Because a lot of our outings were late in the day, my pictures aren't that great.  Boo.

We finally made it back to Colonial Williamsburg for another traditional event:  Hot Chocolate at Raleigh Tavern's Bakery.  And it was hot, indeed.

The cookies were scrumptious.

Eliana declared (words not necessary) that this was a great tradition and one that must be longstanding.

We enjoyed walking through Colonial Williamsburg a bit, and then in the afternoon (again!) we made it over to Yorktown.  Our plan was to visit Yorktown and then pick up our Thanksgiving dinner.  That's right...from the grocery store!  A pre-cooked turkey, and some stuff to go along with it.  Don't judge.  We had a pretty stress-free Thanksgiving preparation.

So, we went to Yorktown Victory Center and meandered down a walkway which led to a museum with many artifacts (some original and some replications), pictures, and descriptions.  There was a gallery of sculptures with stories laid out below, and voice recordings telling the stories of the people who were represented.  While all of these were amazing, the one that was so heartbreaking for me was the story of John Chilton, surely the same story that many, many men had to tell from this time, who died while fighting and did not return home to his children.  His signature was shown, from one of his letters...

"I am your affectionate Papa  John Chilton"  It brought tears to my eyes...our kids call Mike "Papa" sometimes.  What a time to live through, whether man, woman, or child.

After we walked through the museum (and we weren't able to see everything, because of time...there was so much!) we went outside to visit the encampment.  Six soldiers would have shared one tent, of the small side-by-side tents there in the middle (and the bugs that lived there, too).

This gentleman told us about muskets, but I missed the end because Eliana knew it was going to be loud, and wanted to go away.

Now, here is a scene I could (sort of) relate to...I love this part:  "WITH SOAP"

Does that ever make me feel grateful for my machines!

We visited the medical tent, and this lovely lady explained the different procedures that were practiced, from removing bullets to pulling rotten teeth.  All without proper sanitation or pain relief.  Biting on a stick can only bring so much relief.  (I think of my toe!  Augh!)

Christian tried a coat on for size...he has some room to grow.

On our way out we ran into some miscreants.

That Insubordinate Guy...he looks like he's very sorry for his wrongdoings, now, doesn't he?  The other two?  Thoroughly enjoying their punishment.  And likely their crimes, too.

Thanksgiving Day brought a lot of food to our table, and then into our bellies.  My brother also came to town for the afternoon.  And I would like to know, why is the question ever raised,"Where do they get this from?" regarding my children and their behavior in front of a camera?

I believe the proof is in the pudding.

I just thought I'd end with something as strange as that which began this post.

Stay tuned for another post on what might have been the most amazing thing that happened during our entire stay!

The Long and Short of It

Even when Michaela was little she had long, beautiful, blonde hair.  I didn't take her to get a haircut until she was three years old.  I didn't want to even then, but it was starting to look a bit straggly in the back, and I hoped that the hairstylist that I took her to would merely trim off the ends, while managing to keep the general shape of her hair.  It had been growing out since she was born (duh) and it had some lovely natural layers.  The front was shorter than the back in a way that I often wanted my own hair to do!  It was so pretty.

When we got home from her first haircut I noticed that the back had a crooked curve to it.  It seemed longer on one side than the other...and rather than leaving well enough alone I took a pair of very sharp hairtrimming scissors and made an effort to even out the back of her hair.  I set the scissors down on a table that was in her room.  It was a small dining table that we had replaced with a larger dining table a few years before.  Now we used this smaller table as a desk.  (Mike used it, that is.  I didn't study at all at this point.  I was doing well just to get my teeth brushed each day and make sure the kids ate a vegetable with at least one meal and played outside some.)  I tucked her in bed, read, and turned out the light.

I suppose I got Christian to sleep, cleaned up in the kitchen, and maybe started a load of laundry.  Those were the normal things I did each evening.  A while later I went to check on her; as I entered her room I noticed she had her arm wrapped around something, much like some children hold a stuffed animal as they go to sleep.  When I stood next to the bed I could see that it was a red plastic drinking cup.  Odd.  Where did she get this cup?  I leaned in and gently took the cup from in front of her.  I saw that something was in it.

Oh!  The scissors that I had left on the table, along with a small ball, were in there!  My heart sank...I quickly turned on the lamp next to her bed and saw that the ball was made up of lovely blonde strands of hair.  I looked at her very carefully and saw that she had managed to cut her hair 1) without cutting her ears off or slicing her forehead, and 2) without changing the way it looked all that much.  I was very upset, but also a little impressed that she cut her hair at an angle at such a young age!  (I tried doing that in college and never got it right.)  In the light I could see small golden flecks all over her pillow and on the bed near the pillow.  I woke her up and told her never, never, never to cut her own hair again. 

I felt terrible for leaving the scissors there in the first place...what on earth possessed me to do that?  At that point it hadn't occured to me that she would take them up, in the dark!, and cut her own hair.  First-time-mom alert!  I put the scissors away properly, and had the "never cut your own hair" conversation with her several (hundred) times after that.  I was sure she got the message, after such consistent (obnoxious) repetition. 

Fast forward a few years.  Michaela is almost ten years old now.  She got bangs cut the summer before last, and loved them, but then (OF COURSE) wanted to grow them out.  (Okay, I admit, it was probably mostly my fault, since I never got them trimmed for her...they were annoying, in her eyes, and she just wanted to let them grow out again.)  So, a year and a half later her bangs were down to her chin, but not quite long enough to stay put behind her ears or in a ponytail.  Did I mention ANNOYING?  I took her to a haircutter and tried to have her hair blended a bit, so that her bangs weren't so very separate from the rest of her LONG LONG hair.  I understood her frustration...her bangs just ended, in a choppy kind of way, and then the rest of her hair hung down about eight inches. 

One day Mike (or was it Christian?  I don't remember.) said to me something like,"And did you know that Michaela cut her bangs?"  I was shocked!  After our many conversations!  She looked at me with guilty eyes and hung her shoulders forward and slumphed out of the room.  I didn't say anything since I could see that she felt bad about it already.

Then, a couple of night later, I was tucking her in and noticed some little golden flecks on her bed.  I also spotted, with a quick glance, a pair of kid scissors on her bedside table.  Just like Sherlock Holmes might have done, I asked,"Did you cut your hair again?"  She looked very disgruntled...I'm not sure if it was because she was remorseful for doing something that she was absolutely not supposed to do (twice!) or because she got caught.  I knew that since she was taking matters into her own hands that it was pretty serious, and I needed to take charge of this willy-nilly haircutting.  I sat down next to her and we had another conversation. I told her that if she kept cutting her bangs they would definitely not grow out.  I gave her a couple of options:  let her bangs grow as they were now, and it would be irritating, but eventually they would get longer; or cut her hair so that it was all one length and then let it grow back out all together.  Also, if it were long enough she could donate it.

She thought about it for around two seconds and said,"I want to cut my hair short!"  This surprised me since previously when I brought up the subject of even trimming two inches off of her hair she threw her hands up over her head protectively and cried out,"Never!  You will not cut my hair at all, not any, no haircuts!"  Or something like that.

I called my haircutter (hairstylist, whatever) and made an appointment, which I mentioned the other day had to get rescheduled.  Yesterday was the day of the new appointment.  As she sat down in the chair I told her she could change her mind, but she remained firm in her resolve to shorten her golden locks.

She also said she wanted bangs.

For a second I thought she was trying to make my head explode, since the whole point of getting the short cut was to even it out so that her bangs could grow as part of her normal hair.  But in fact, she was serious.  We talked about it and decided to take one step at a time.  Considering bangs was tough for me.  I want to balance the whole "being comfortable in your own skin" thing with "accepting wise advice from your mama" thing.

Heather (the stylist) started conservatively.  The length of hair that was getting cut was not long enough to donate.  If we had done this at the end of summer (before I trimmed Michaela's hair myself) it would have been.  Oh, well. 

Heather did exactly what we asked her to do...

She finished the haircut and it looked great...so very cute.  Honestly, Michaela looked a lot like Kitt Kittredge (the American Girl).  And then she looked at me and, with pleading eyes, said,"Please, please, can I have bangs, please, please, please?"  I went around and around in my head, and both Heather and I told her that she was going to be right back in the same place again.  She told us that she wanted to keep the bangs and that she would like a change.  Could she please, please, please, please get bangs? 

Well.  I really felt stuck as a mom.  It seems so silly because it's just hair.  But, at the same time, hair can be such a huge deal!  In the end I gave her a go-ahead; I had been telling her that I wanted her to voice her opinion, and that it was her hair and I wanted her to get the haircut she really wanted.

She was happy. 

It's hard to let go.  But I didn't cry, so I thought that was pretty good. 

Back on the Scooter Again

Christian had karate this afternoon.

Mike took Michaela on an errand.

Eliana and I looked at one another and said,"What shall we do?!"  She wanted to clean the house from top to bottom, but I said,"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy!" 

She said,"Who is Jack?"

Actually, she said,"Can we go for a walk?  Can I ride my scooter?"

Who is this kid that I'm having conversations with?  Wasn't she just latched onto me yesterday, and wasn't I just changing her poopy diapers?  All right, so things haven't changed in every way (the latch looks a little different, yet she is often regarded as a permanent attachment to my hip) (and she does pee on the potty!) but still...she's like a teenager sometimes, only very short.

We went out to the garage and got her gear, and then headed around to the sidewalk. 

Can I tell you how spectacular I thought it was when I realized that she was pink-purple-pink-purple-pink from her helmet to her scooter? 

Often Eliana is quite a poser for me...she likes to see the picture that I take, after all.  Today?  She was silly.  I would say,"Where is Eliana?"  She would say,"I'm right here!" and point to the holes in her helmet that were pulled down covering her eyes.  Clever, really.

This is the smile I wanted to capture, minus the blurry, eh?

But this happened...

and then this followed...

and apparently this could not be avoided...

with a grand finale of...

Trees!  Trees are still!  Trees do not smile or cover their faces or turn their backs! 

And yet, I think I would rather have the wiggly girl in my photo anytime.

Blur and all.