The ability to read is the first thing to go

I have always been an avid reader. When a book attracts my attention, I devour it and I can’t do anything else until it is done. The most embarrassing example of this would be Ann Rice’s The Witching Hour with Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone in second place. When I worked in public schools, I had audio books for the car. I almost wrecked twice during action packed scenes and lights turning from yellow to red. I hope Kevin isn’t reading this one…

When Harry Potter six and seven were released there was no way I would be able to give Harry the attention he deserved with little ones in the house. Therefore, I did what a normal mom would do. I sent the kids to grandma’s house for the weekend. You can judge all you want, but I got my books read. Now that I live in the wonderful northeast, I don’t have the luxury of grandparents down the road to keep my kids so I can read.

A new book just came out by the Young Adult novelist Natasha Friend. I have been looking forward to it, mostly because I have yet to read a YA novel with a northern setting instead of a southern one. I tried to start it the other day with all three kids around. Yep-read with three kids. That is what I just wrote.

This is what happened:

“I am crouched behind a tower of Meow Mix in the pet-food aisle of Shop-Co, watching my mother hyperventilate….”

“MOM!!!!!!!”
High strung middle child with big ideas comes to me with a box, a magnifying glass, and his ant farm instructions: “Mom! Good, you aren’t busy. Let’s start my ant farm, you know, the one I got for my birthday in November, but guess what; there were no ants to collect in November. Why not start it today?"

Well the main characters are in the pet food aisle. Let’s go hunt for ants. We decide that the best way to trap them would be to place an apple slice outside. Gross, but happy is the four year old.

Back to my book!

An older man picks up a York Peppermint Patty and his wife screeches at him in public, “Put that back!” “No sweets!” The teenager laughs to herself that it is candy and not a crack pipe. Maybe crack would help me finally lose the last of my baby weight….

Speaking of the baby, my third child/toddler /mascot is in full swing with his early interventions. He comes running through the kitchen with a toy car he is pushing on the floor saying, “Ready! Set! Go!” over and over again as he pushes it and laughs. Then I noticed his face is red. He has been helping himself to his sister’s ketchup, but I don’t think he had anything to put it on. Book is down, paper towel is up.

Dishes are done, faces are wiped, and I’m going to try again.

The main character’s mother is two years younger than I am (and I’m not old compared to other Connecticut mothers). When she gets depressed, she pulls out her Beverly Hills 90210 VHS tapes and eats popcorn. Oh hell yes! This is awesome!!!!

My only daughter decides now she wants to care about fashion and her Kindergarten social life. “Mom!! Will you fix my hair-what are you reading?” Then it hits me she will be a teenager one day, but I will be really old and not cool like this lady. She doesn’t notice my pathetic attempts at math in my head.

“If you aren’t doing anything, I need my red shoes and the cape-I want to play Snow White. Hey- where is the play date book? I want a play date with Buffy, Muffy, and Bitsy… can you check Facebook and see if their mommies are there?” How does she know this stuff?

I handle my diva’s princess crisis and go back to my book. I read Stephen King’s The Stand in a weekend. I will confess to Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas in one afternoon. I really am enjoying For Keeps, it is fun and readable. I looked down at the page number.

I was still on page 19. That was it. I had not broken 20 pages in two hours. I once was teased in the third grade because it took me a week to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory but it took the gifted kids less than two days. This was not going to happen to me again.

I huddled the kids up on the couch and gave them a talk:

"Now listen you three, I know for a fact that a mother of three wrote this book and if she can write it with three kids, then I can read it."

This speech was returned with blank stares and their own agendas, big surprise.

Frances: Can we order pizza?
Kenneth: Order Pizza?-“Billy’s” mommy makes it, they don’t order it.
Frances: You better sweep the cheerios up before Dad gets home.
Lowell: Cookie! Water! Yes! Please…ready set go…..
I gave up. OK Tash, I’ll get to you later….

(LATER)

Everyone is in bed…Ah, I can curl up and embrace my inner teenage self just like I promised I would.

Then I remembered I was married.

“Hey honey? Honey? Where are you? What are you doing?”

I have every intention of writing a wonderful book review on this blog eventually. But you know what? To do that, I have to read the freaking book. I’ll try again tomorrow…..

Hoarding????

My husband and I don’t go out much. Blame it on what you will: little kids, a bad economy, not many choices on the shoreline, but we tend to stay home and watch movies. There weren’t many movie choices on Easter eve. I turned my attention toward the premium channels and shows we had never seen. There it was under A&E: Hoarders. Hmmmm –this might not be a good idea. We couldn’t resist, we had to watch and see what was going to happen.

My husband is a neat freak. He comes from a family of neat freaks. I don’t think I am a neat freak until I get around people that aren’t us and then I realize that I am neater than I ever was fifteen years ago. The show follows two people with this hoarding problem and how they try to get help. Before I hit “Play” on demand, I giggled to myself that I have hoarding tendencies-but I was wrong. These people don’t just have spoiled kids with a playroom that could keep an empty preschool happy for years. These people don’t just have bookshelves and bookshelves of books because they were raised by a college professor and a lawyer. These people refuse to throw away tax book guides from 1988 and have skunks running around the basements. Yes, I said skunks. I could not believe what I was watching-my books and my children’s toys were nothing. The next day was Easter, and after a wonderful sermon on rebirth and starting over-we purged our already clean house just to make sure we weren’t “hoarders.” Of course, hoarding might be relative. I'm sure someone with the opposite problem of O.C.D.thinks the house is a mess if there is one dish in the sink.

I am not a psychologist, and I don’t know what I’m talking about, hence the title “Quack” in my blog. BUT I think something is going on with these people that they aren’t showing us in the editing process. We watched three episodes, and all three times when the professional cleaners were called in with the dumpsters, they flashed their faces like they were trying very hard not to crack up. One of them politely said, “M’am, a rat chewed through this shoe,” and she still wouldn’t let him toss it. It took another woman four hours to look at one box and she started screaming for them to find something she had to have that minute. Does this happen in any other country? Seriously?

I did notice that when it was time to throw something away the hoarder always had a reason and a story behind why they should keep it. Now, don’t go off on me, but that was pretty cool. I could tell/make up a story about any object in my house too, and I’m going to start writing them down.

Here we go:

“No! No! Don’t throw away the Snoopy glue stick-when I was in Kindergarten, I begged my mom for a Snoopy lunchbox and we finally found one and I have to have that glue stick because of Snoopy, even if it is used up.”

Or this:

“No, I must keep my 2007 Wonders of the World wall calendar because some day I’m going to visit all of them and then I’ll need to make a special scrapbook for the kids and I’ll want to cut those pictures out of that calendar.”

I’ll stop with the stories-but now I have good places to get material from.

I think that this hoarding might be like my memory. I don’t need things because I remember it all anyway. I also have a European attitude in the sense that I would take time with friends over having things any time when given the choice. Some people must need to have the physical presence instead of the mental one. I hoard a lot of memories…

We have to remember when we watch these shows that these are real people suffering from a real problem. The point is that they are trying to get help in addition to entertaining us in a bad economy. If one person watches this show and decides, "hey, that is me-I need help," then the show has done it's job. I definitely look at some of my daughter's autism tendencies a little differently now. If she has a Mickey, she needs a Minnie. Then we need to add Donald, Daisy, and the rest of the gang as well. The next thing you know the toys have piled up and she has moved on to another show. When we see it early, we can help it quicker. On the flip side, when you go on television or the internet, you give people the opportunity to judge and poke fun. I'm a victim of it too, but it doesn't slow me down. It's life.

A few more tips if you don’t want to be like these people:

1) Pick a day to “purge.” Make it monthly, annually-whatever. Neighborhoods have tag sales and Goodwills have donation places. Then you don’t have to feel guilty if you just toss it. (One more little disclaimer-if it is trashed, throw it out. Be respectful of donation centers and what people would want to buy or re-use.)
2) Subway kid meals come in really cute reusable bags. We fill them with markers and little toys. Great for organization and if it gets ripped, no big deal-just don’t hoard them.
3) We print out pictures and labels that the kids color and cut out and then tape to the bins that toys should go in. This takes all kinds of time and keeps everyone busy for hours…
4) Take care of the toys and things that you have-then you buy less.
5) Keep a notebook and jot down the stories as you clean!
6) Don’t be afraid to tell the kids “No!” or “You can’t have that many toys, spiders and skunks could hide in them.” LOL that was funny……

Now the only place in the house that looks like a “Hoarders” episode is the attic, but I’ll take care of it soon enough. Must get a special notebook for the occasion and make sure we can name the skunk something other than Flower….

God Bless.....

1. Other moms-whatever their personal style or belief.
2. Libraries and playgrounds
3. 1$ bins full of chalk and bubbles
4. batteries, batteries, and more batteries
5. Early Intervention!

Happy Easter and Spring Breaks to all-will write more when all is calm. LOL.....

Goodnight Moon

It has been a while since my darlings and I have butchered story time. Since the toddler has now joined us in this bedtime ritual, we recently did Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise Brown. Who didn’t get a copy of Goodnight Moon at a baby shower, if not two or three? This book is going to be around forever. Whether your kids sleep with you until they are eight or you put them in the crib from day one, we lull the little munchkins to sleep with the stars, the air, and the noises everywhere. I don't know if whoever wrote the Waltons was a Goodnight Moon fan, but the only time I hear "Goodnight" over and over again is in this children's book and the end of that television show. We even have the book in Spanish and French. Here is how we read it, and once again, I have written it "Skit style."

P: In the great green room…
F: Green? How ugly. I want a pink room.
K: Oh!!!! Can I paint my room black?
P: There was a telephone….
K: Blackberry or iPhone? It doesn’t look like Dad’s…
P: And a red balloon
F: (singing) 99 red balloons…
P: Don’t do it Franny
K: I want a yellow one, Frances do you remember that time you let mine go and it got caught in at tree?
P: And a picture of
F: A cow jumping over the moon.
K: Where is the rest of the nursery rhyme? Why the cow? My favorite part is the dish and the spoon.
F: That isn’t real-but a dog could probably laugh.
P: And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush…..
K: Didn’t he brush his teeth? He is going to get a cavity
L: Night Night! Night Night!
P: Goodnight nobody, Goodnight mush
K: Why say goodnight to nobody?
F: Why not?
K: Let’s say goodnight to everything in our rooms. Goodnight Harry Potter books, goodnight violin, hey mom, I don’t have any clothes drying out. Did you do the laundry?
F: Daddy won’t let us have stuff lying around to say goodnight to.
K: Oh right
F: Goodnight princesses, goodnight wiggle sheets.
L: Night night! Night night!

This one is so special to me. Because I will always cherish my babies being rocked and read to.... Ha ha ha just kidding. I love it because Christopher Walken read it on the Simpsons. Forget his scenes in Pulp Fiction. Never mind the brilliance that was the Deer Hunter. He read to children on the iconic cartoon television show. Way to go Walken-could you handle my three as a crowd?

What classic shall we read next?

A Traffic Lesson

Who remembers the 2000 movie Traffic? It starred Michael Douglas, Catherine Zeta Jones, and Benicio del Toro. It was a great movie! But damn was I judgmental in my 20s. I remember thinking that Michael Douglas’ character was an idiot. The Drug Czar didn’t know his daughter had a drug problem? Yeah right, like that would happen in real life.

The Gods remembered me saying that. They saved it for later. They brought it back to me like a kick in the ass with full force.

The baby has been in an infant sibling study since he was four months old. He has hit every mile stone right on time, if not earlier. He has a good sixty plus words. He can run and he can feed himself. He laughs and plays with his siblings. If they are coloring, he is coloring. If they are running and kicking a soccer ball, so is he. I assumed everything was fine and that we were doing our part to help science.

He had the eighteen month visit in the name of scientific research last week. My husband didn’t bother to go-we didn’t think it was necessary for us both to be there. They called me in for the results and I was still clueless. They told me immediately he didn’t know his name. I nodded like this was nothing.

Of course he doesn’t know it. We call him “Baby, munchkin, little man, etc.” He’s the third child, what they call in family therapy “the mascot.” He is lucky he gets called anything. Then they looked at me and said, “No, he never looks at anyone even if you call him or give him a request, have you noticed?” Um, did Michael notice while he was fighting Mexico that his private school daughter was passed out at a crack house? I guess I didn't notice. But since these people are bringing it up, this must mean.....

No. No. No. Dear God, I’m still asleep, or my husband’s lab is going to jump out from behind the door and tell me I’m being Punk’d……

“We want you to start Birth to Three early intervention with him now. Don’t wait, and because of his sister, he gets moved to the top of the list. Call this afternoon.”

Alrighty then-two on the spectrum (possibly).

Fine, whatever. I am a good mom. If he were gay, I’d join PFLAG. If he were an alcoholic, I’d go to Alanon. I’m blessed, it will all work out fine. Thanks for bringing this to my attention, now let’s go home and make “Team Lowell” t-shirts.

I imploded in the parking lot. (Grandaddy-skip this part and please don't read it out loud to Grandmother)

F*&%% THIS SH*&%!!!!!!

I am not going to lie to you guys, I was very angry. I went back and forth between being mad I put him in the study and grateful to have the study. I could finally imagine how the Greeks felt about the Gods messing with their lives. Who had I made mad? It couldn’t have been Aphrodite-I’m not that pretty. Perhaps Athena the warrior? Had I fought back too hard? I wasn’t worth Zeus’s time-I assume he plays with wars and elections. Which one was the one who talked too much? Hermes? He must have been angry I talked more than he did and wanted to blast me with something unexpected. GRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!

That afternoon I went home and taught my classes. I didn’t take my older son to his preschool because the last group of people I wanted to see was those women with perfect children. My best friend up here is a personal trainer, and she begged me to go work out. I downed a bag of Oreos. I also started treating my son like a ticking time bomb instead of the fun little mascot that he is.

A few days went by, and I have reflected on it. I can handle just about anything. One could argue that I don’t deserve anything else bad to happen to me, ever again. That isn’t the way life works. This go round, I’m better prepared. Lowell is his own person and I am giving him a jump start that his older sister didn’t have. We will see what happens. Boy, is this going to be fun to watch or what? Now I have a unisex puzzle piece!

What is the real lesson? Don’t judge Michael Douglas movies, be it Traffic or Fatal Attraction…..

Country Club Road

I don’t understand that other people don’t have my memory. I have always assumed that everyone remembers everything the way I do. To me, everything just happened. I went to summer camp for four years, I studied abroad twice, I paged in the general assembly, in the fourth grade all the other girls had glitter pen sets that matched from Hallmark and mine was Hello Kitty. I remember the names of everyone in the cabin, troop, or class and who sat or slept where. I never knew other people didn’t. They say you only remember the details for your first child. Nope. Frances walked at twenty months and her first word was bunny. Kenneth walked at nine months and his first word was cow. Lowell walked at twelve months and his first word was “Go!”

There is only one place on this earth I have thirty five years of memories about. It grew as I grew. That is my grandparent’s house on “Country Club” road. My grandparents have always lived in the same place. I am the oldest of thirteen grandchildren. When I was little, my two youngest aunts were still in the house. To this day, I refer to their rooms as “Cindy’s room,” and “Rachel’s room.” I used to get in big trouble for touching things in Rachel’s room. I was especially in for it if I touched the jewelry box on her dressing table, but she had the coolest earrings! What made the dresser so enticing were the many letters and photographs that covered it under a glass top. I had a thing for her pom-poms and swimming medals, but I never became competitive later in life myself. Cindy’s room wasn’t quite as appealing, but she was always with her boyfriend, who became my uncle about five years later.

I loved the basement. My siblings and I spent many an afternoon down there playing pool and trying to sneak into the wood shop. We weren’t supposed to drop the pool sticks on the floor. I have no idea how my grandmother caught us, but she could be anywhere in that house, hear the stick hit the floor, and be down in the basement telling us to go play outside. In that basement we jumped on the couches to “YMCA”, with the neighbors who I think were Lori and Will. They had every National Geographic ever printed on the bookshelves that lined the basement walls. Maybe that is where the three of us decided we wanted to travel.

The hallway was long with a small desk and a rotary phone. If I would answer, the other caller would rattle off at least three other girl’s names before mine was called. I would drag the phone around pretending to talk on it. This annoyed them less than us banging on the piano or trying to make the cockatiels talk or fly away and land on our heads. The backyard had its own mysteries to solve: Pigeons with silver bands on their legs, chickens that laid real eggs, and an Irish Setter named Meg with the same hair color as me, and she got smaller as I grew older.

In high school I went for weekends to see friends that lived near by. Again, my grandmother had radar for when I fell asleep and when I woke up. I think the only thing I ever got away with was the time my friends, who all went to their church, said, “Oh no, Mrs. H. - It is totally fine to hang out at the Reynolda House lawn after dark.” Maybe it was-there were a lot of us.

My grandparents have a passion for baseball and basketball-my friends still die laughing that “Page’s grandmother says Dennis Rodman is actually a really good player.” He must have been, but to this day I have no idea. Sports are really not my thing. When I was twenty, I finally turned to them and said, “Can I watch the X-Files on the other television?” Not only did she say sure, she brought me Pringles and Diet Cokes all night long.

This past summer and Christmas my own three children visited them at their house. My daughter was obsessed with the beautiful sea shells my grandmother has collected over the years. My sons played with the blocks and other toys I played with as a child (no, none of it has disintegrated yet). Everything was where it always was-even the Pringles cans filled with shells from Emerald Isle on the porch and the toy cap gun on the top shelf in the living room. I got in trouble for scaling a chair to reach it when I was six.

I lost my paternal grandparents when I was ten. Twenty-five years later, my maternal grandparents are still with me. Today they moved to a wonderful apartment that is perfect for the two people that have given me a place to remember, grow, and bring my own children back to when I return to the south. Thank You GM and GD, for thirty-five years of one constant memory. God Speed in your new adventure….

The Violin Beginning

My son started asking for a violin when he was two. A member of the symphony came to his class and he pushed all the other two year olds out of the way to get to the man. He sat on the front row and kept going back to pluck the strings. When I picked him up he told me all about the "man with the big violin." I found out from the teacher it was a viola. He told me when he grew up he was going to play in the strings section.

I am not musical. I have said it before, no music taste rubbed off on me when the opportunity presented itself. I am not a good singer and I have never tried to play an instrument. Well, the flute once, but as good as my memory is I have totally blacked that out-forever. So when my son took a liking to musical instruments we kind of just patted him on the head and bought him some maracas. I thought he was two and would outgrow the violin and start asking me for a real dinosaur next.

No such luck.


This past Christmas, he told Santa he wanted a violin. That was all he wanted, one violin. I pleaded with him to tell me he wanted something else, anything else. At first he said no, but then he thought about it and said, "Fine. I want a violin and my own set of Harry Potter books. Mine. Not yours that we all look at together." Lovely. All my four year old wanted for Christmas was a musical instrument and some books. Nothing that whistled, flashed lights, or fell apart and was forgotten a week after the holiday. If Santa brought the violin, well, then what? Did he just run around with a bow and the fiddle? Nope-lessons would have to follow. He is four. Who wants to teach a four year old violin?

I have visions of these over achieving kids and their psycho moms telling them to be perfect. Had I become one of those moms? Did I want to be? I am happy if my kids are digging in dirt as long as they don't throw it at a stranger. All I ask is that they chew with their mouths closed and refrain from doing anything else rude at the dinner table. I wasn't about to create a little musician. But he kept asking and he never changed his mind: A violin, Harry Potter, A violin, Harry Potter. He didn't even change the instruments or books: A bassoon, The Chronicles of Narnia, a piano, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. He wanted that violin and that set of seven of his own. Fine then. I gave up.

Before I bought the instrument, I made sure I found a teacher. Now, here was the clencher. At this age, the mom is very involved in the process. You don't just drop your four year old off and pick them back up playing like Boyd Tinsley from Dave Matthews. The teacher warned me, and this is how it went:

"At this age and with this method, it is going to take a lot from the parent at first. A lot of families quit and try again in fifth grade." Did she want to write the letter from Santa saying, "Dear Kenneth, thanks for the request, but ask again when you are eleven?" Yeah right, so I had to ask her to keep going and tell me what she meant.

She said, "Well, I'll need you to read two books, come to three parent classes, and then interact with him during the lessons, so you can help him with his practices at home. AND his practice time should be twenty to thirty minutes at a time." She paused on the phone like I was going to hang up on her.

This women knew nothing of Kenneth's older sister. For Kenneth I have to read two books on The Suzuki Method. For Frances I have read, at the time of this blog post, (let me count them-pause) fifteen books by everybody and their husband since 2005. I even skimmed books I disagree with just to say I remained objective. I won't name the special ed books on this post, one person may adore something that didn't work for me. Anyway, after hours and hours of books, pamphlets, websites, and discussion boards for my daughter, my son needed his mommy to read two books. Done.

At the age of four, he has to practice his violin about twenty minutes a day. Mom has to be a part of the thirty minute lesson. His older sister spent her preschool years in and out of therapy offices. I took notes during each session and did anything and everything those specialists told me to do. Speech, PT, OT - we practiced it all day every day. We signed if they told us to sign, we colored when they told us to color. We climbed and we swang and we sang so many nursery rhymes and finger plays I was ready to fly off on Mother Goose's fine gander. And now Kenneth needs twenty minutes a day. That's it? At age four? All he needs is me, for twenty minutes? You got it buddy.

Santa brought the violin and his eyes lit up and he jumped up and down and said thank you over and over. We let him play with it Christmas morning, but then he had to put it away until class started. Since then, he has named it "Jacques." No object is more special to Kenneth than "Jacques." He has mastered how to take care of it and the bow and he is beginning to pluck. The teacher has not pulled her hair out over anything he has said or done-yet.

A lot? Most parents say "No thanks" because it is too much. The Suzuki method may very well seem like a lot to some, but for once, I get to meet the need of my middle child. It is taking a lot less out of me than round one did.