One Little Mistake

I've been on the phone for two hours with 8 different people trying to get to the bottom of one very critical mistake. I have to tell you that I have had the worst experience with incompetent nurses and lab techs after Hope's delivery. During delivery, they were wonderful, but after they wheeled me into my room, it was ridiculous.

This all revolves around that lovely PKU test that Georgia state law requires of all newborns. The one where they stick your child over and over trying to get enough blood from their heel to fill into what seems like 5 way-too-big circles when your 1 day old is screaming for mercy. The lab tech wrote Hope's time wrong on her PKU test before she was discharged. Which wouldn't be a big deal if it wasn't for the fact that this test must be done no earlier than 24 hours after the baby is born.

Hope was born at 7:35pm. The next day, she had the PKU test done at 7:40pm. The lab tech wrote down 17:40...military time for 5:40pm. Brilliant. So voila, I get a call on Thursday that says that the state has rejected her test because it was done too early. The results are fine, but they won't be accepted. This of course, was on the heels of hearing a recent story on the news about a 5 week old being removed from the home by the state and placed in foster care for a week because the parents refused to do the PKU test.

I'm waiting to talk to the Supervisor at the lab now. And my head is spinning in fury over this stupid mistake. One short line before the number seven has created complete havoc, and no one knows who I can talk to about having that one short line erased! UGHH! But God forbid, if I refuse to spend another 6 hours taking care of this issue, or having her go through the test again, and paying for it again. or lose another day of schooling the children. Because, for all I know, a police officer might be knocking on my door in five months, with orders to take Hope and have her retested. OIY!!!

Uh Rooooo

Wouldn't ja' know, that one of our Silkie chickens, just might turn out to be a rooster. Remember my compromise with the children? Short version: We might have to cull chickens down the road, but we won't cull your Silkie pet chicken. We were supposed to get ONE female Silkie, but the company we ordered from, threw in an extra. (Often a red flag that you've received a free rooster.) However, Silkies are known for being very difficult to sex in the first place. The joke around Silkie circles is you'll know what you have when it either crows or lays an egg.

Two days ago, I noticed something. The combs on my two Silkies were different. Pre-adolescence is starting to set in, which usually reveals itself most noticeably in the combs. We are looking pretty good amongst most of the ladies, with one or two "Hmms". But the Silkie thing was obvious since I had two to compare with each other. I ran my suspicions by the chicken forum that I have been reading daily, and it is looking like we may have a "Roo-fus". A Silkie rooster. Sheesh.

That would be a bump in the road that I hadn't planned on at all.

I guess this is where I get on my knees and pray. Please let Roo-fus be a rooster that shys away from speaking in public. And for everyone's sake, Roo-fus needs to be as good with the children as he is with the ladies. No chicken attacks. Cause it would be really uncool if I had to be a mean deal breaker and cull a Silkie. We wouldn't even want to eat him cause of his black skin and his smaller size.

Guess we better start really loving on that guy to increase our chances of a roo that is more of a lush and less of a He-man. Because right now, he is the loudest in the bunch, and he attacks fingers. Oiy.

I Hate You

I got my first "I hate you" this morning. I told the children after schooling that they couldn't play outside in the front yard until I had taken a quick shower. (Even though we live in a very safe neighborhood, I'll never take my chances on the children playing alone out of eye and/or earshot till they are at least 30). Whelp, apparently that didn't go over very well with my very-moody-this-past-week daughter.

Jack, promptly informed me after I headed into the bathroom, that Grace had said "I hate you." Daggers. Daggers. And yet the first thing you want to do is probably worse than her own words. So I showered and considered my options...let it go, have her sit down for the next hour and do some lovely copywork, take away her TV hour, call Daddy for back up ideas...

I settled on letting her think I had given her a pass, by not mentioning Jack's tattle. But when she asked for her TV hour, she and I had a little talkin' to do. We did. And it went over well. But no TV hour, no ma'am.

Ken's response later was, "She's lucky I wasn't there." I think she was.

I'm usually pretty tough on punishment, but seven years is a lot of parenting to go through without hearing an "I hate you." Not bad. So I went easy. But if there is a next time...not so much lil' missy.

It Is Starting

When I returned from the grocery store last Sunday, Ken approached me with this...

The report was that Grace had made it, and Ken had caught her trying to stick the sign in the ground of our property. Ehm...facing a group of boys that were down in the cul-de-sac. When questioned about why she made the sign, Grace's simple reply was, "Cause boys like girls."

The child is seven.
We are in SO much trouble.

That evening, Ken and I casually reminded Grace that her first kiss will be at the altar on her wedding day. Would she be ready for that first kiss (at the altar on her wedding day, after she turns 30)? She'd have to do it front of everybody....ewwwww.

The unsettling thing, is that when I left for the store, she was bringing the stick in the house to make a sword. And I remember thinking something along the lines of "Now that's getting creative." I was told that the sword thing didn't work, so we went from weaponry straight to "Boys Rock!".

Shoeless Joe Jack

On Wednesday night, we were doing our usual after dinner scramble to get to AWANA on time. I went through the mental check list, barking orders and reminders to the children, "Brush your hair...get your AWANA vest...where's your book...Jack you need your shoes and socks on still...Grace your clogs aren't going to work, the teachers want you to wear something you can run in...ya-da, ya-da, ya-da."

We swerved into the church driveway five minutes late, (as we do every Wednesday), but I was feeling like a slightly late success after a full day. I opened the van door for the kids to hop out and Jack realizes, in that moment, that he has "forgotten his shoes". One of the coldest nights of the winter and my son "forgets" to put his shoes on before he leaves the house. Standing in just his socks he waits with a visible cringe for the other shoe to drop (forgive me).

After a few choice words to my son that probably walked the line in a church driveway, my mind raced through the options. Unfortunately, this was the second time that Jack had forgotten his shoes at church so I was going through the What-Is-Wrong-With-This-Kid's-Mother mental beating while clenching my teeth in determination to teach my son a lesson. My eyes scanned the car floor in hopes of finding a stray pair of shoes. Any pair would do.

And then I spotted them.
Cue in the angelic music from above and the spotlight.

For five seconds, I debated the years and years of therapy my son might have before him if I followed through on the shoes. But I knew I had the opportunity to provide my son with a memorable lesson in attentiveness. I decided to take the risk...

"Jack, I'm not going to let you go shoeless in the dead of winter. I don't know how you forget to put on your shoes, but you're going to have to wear shoes." Reaching under the seat for the spotted extra pair, I whipped out Grace's pink plaid flats with the pink strappy buckle. Reluctantly, sliding his tube socked foot into the shoe, to my delight, they were a perfect fit. The boy knew he could say nothing.

More than amused, I watched him run into a class full of boys that night wearing his baseball shirt, sporting a swollen blue nose from a fall last week, green military camo pants, and of course, the pastel pink plaid flats. I'm quite sure I won't need to remind him to put his shoes on again for a long while.

God Help Me Parent My Son

Something is happening to my son, and I need the power of the resurrection to get us both through this. Where is my old son???? I want him back! I'll give you a two hour glimpse into our interactions lately:

Today, involved battling our upstairs toilet as my boy had decided to use an ENTIRE roll of toilet paper on his backside. Of course, he chose NOT to mention this to Mommy, which means it swelled and grew to mammoth proportions until later in the afternoon when Grace freaked out at the frothing brew in the toilet. It took 10 flushes to get it all down safely.

Less than an hour later, I take note of my son's face while he is desperately searching for something to wash down what appears to be a horrible taste in his mouth. When questioned about what he has just eaten, he says, "Um..I think I ate some white stuff." In a half panic, wondering what pills he's swallowed, I asked for further explanation and for him to show me what he swallowed. He then proceeded to retrieve my stick of deodorant in a powder fresh scent. My son, ate deodorant. Deodorant people.

Let me tell you, he didn't flinch the one time I washed his mouth out with soap, but I think he's on to something with deodorant. My son can testify that it sticks in the teeth hours later, dutifully doing its best to prevent your mouth from producing moisture, and giving your mouth a clean powder fresh scent.

Independence Day

The children told on themselves. Feeling very independent, they said that while I was busy in the basement they got their own bowls of ice cream. The kids even volunteered that they had washed their bowls and spoons, placing them back in the cupboard. They did this so that I wouldn't know --- aside from the fact that their own pride at how sneaky they had been put them at disciplinary risk. I'm the dessert despenser, following clean lunch plate approval, but I was somewhat amused and let it go.

Why I felt they had actually cleaned up everything is beyond me. I should have known better. Instead, I let the day slide until I revisited the kitchen 4 hours later. I'm quite positive that if they hadn't told on themselves, I would have never known, except for one small, teeny, tiny detail.

Yes gals...you can cry.

When The Kid Isn't Yours

This is my first time. My first time dealing with a neighborhood kid that is "difficult". We've lived only a few houses away from each other, and for years our kids and their kids have never crossed paths. Then recently the eight year old girl started to walk her new puppy into every neighbor's yard. Our yard is a special stop in that it has a fish pond in the front to visit, so she and her sister usually come by at least twice a day. It was on one of these visits that the girl and Grace met. It took no more than three minutes for me to realize we had a problem on our hands.

Shoving my hands hard in my pockets is all I can do to stop myself from spanking this child. She has zero respect for adults, peers or animals. When she visits with Grace and Jack outside, I HAVE to be within earshot. To give you an idea of the situation, this is what happened yesterday in the span of just 5 minutes:

Upon spotting the empty gerbil cage on the porch, I overheard the child demand that Grace show her the gerbil. Grace replied he was dead and now buried. The girl challenged that Grace unbury it so she could see it anyway. Grace made no such attempt, but upon further questioning she did share with her where the gerbil was buried. Upon that information, the girl grabbed the small shovel nearby and said SHE would unbury the gerbil herself. (This was not simple curiousity over death, folks. The tone of the girl's conversation was shockingly bullish and forceful.)

It was of course at this point, where I promptly came out of the house and told her nobody would be unburying the dead gerbil. She asked me, "Why NOT?" and then wondered aloud how I had heard her....hmmmmmm.

Directly after the gerbil reprimand, she picked up a rock from the burial location, headed over to the fish pond, held it high over her head and said, "Look what I'm going to do." Standing only two yards away from her, I told her not to throw rocks at the fish. She kept the rock high, making no attempt to put her arm down. Me..fuming at this point...told her she could decide how she wanted to end this thing. I should have kicked her tail out of the yard, but I think I was just as stunned as the kids with her behavior.

Just to keep up the vent festival for a moment...She also has a fettish with opening our front door. Despite my firm responses, she thinks it is humorous to open the door and a let the little toy dog in our house. After reminding her not to open the door, I'll overhear her saying to her sister, "Let's do it again, that was funny." At times, it is dangerous to the puppy, as I have caught them let the dog in, then shut the door, and pull the leash. Beyond normal etiquette, and animal cruelty, this is also the last thing we need to happen with Hatch chomping at the bit (in a friendly way) around other dogs and any time a door opens.

You'd think that a few firm conversations with the kid would change her behavior (at least around us), but it doesn't. She lies through her teeth to Grace, with one manipulation after another manipulation. While this has been a very teachable excercise for Grace, as she learns how to stand up for herself, the last thing I want, is for any of these shananigans to rub off on the kids.

I'm a whimp when it comes to confrontation with adults. I'm avoiding the "talk" with the Mother. I don't want to make an enemy out of the parents...they seem like nice people. I mean what do I say? The truth just would seem hurtful. I feel like I'm crossing some rite of passage as a parent. I could ban her from the yard, but that just seems ridiculous and somehow avoiding a real solution. However, her behavior IS ridiculous. Do I kill her with kindness or give her the boot? This is one of those "What Would Jesus Do?" moments, and I have NO idea.

The Easter Pinata

Every Easter it is tradition in our house for the Easter bunny to leave or do something unusual Easter morning. Two Easter's ago, she door bell ditched our house and left us with two rodent gerbils to take care of. Do I sound like I am complaining? Really, what was she thinking? Anyway, last Easter she surprised the children as they were getting into the car for church with a rogue stuffed animal in each of the children's car seats.

This year, the Easter bunny was feeling quite festive, and hung a Pinata in the front yard, along with 10-15 hidden eggs hidden among the garden. She also left a blow up bunny in each of the children's rooms with new Easter clothing to wear to church. The Easter bunny couldn't wait to watch the children go a-hunting. All of the cameras were prepared. The Easter bunny had even left a decoy of two Easter baskets next to the door to the BACK yard (no hidden eggs), just in case the kids decided to take an early look in the morning.

Long story short, the Easter bunny was busy scrubbing with soap in the shower Sunday morning when her little darlings bust through the bathroom and raised their left arms to announce and display that the Easter Bunny had left them new clothes. Good! (The Easter Bunny thought.) The clothes and blow up bunnies held them over.

Silly bunny...tricks are for kids.

The children raised their right hands to also announce and display that they had discovered ALL of the Easter eggs already. And guess what Mom! She left a Pinata in the front yard!!!

Well at least we got pictures of the Pinata being beaten to a pulp. It was a beautiful day for a Pinata, and the children tried their best to break him, but he was strong. A third whack from Dad finished him off.

NEWS FLASH! I've finally figured out how to add video!! Warning: This will be choppy on the first run through, but once it has gone full circle, you'll be able to replay it again at regular speed. Remember when I mentioned that all of the cameras were ready? Well, we discovered in the morning that we didn't have any more discs for the video camera, so the little video option on the digital camera had to do. Forgive me for the quality, but this video is a bit humorous (or scary), as it displays our son's more aggressive side. Also, I must remember to shut up when I take video.

Sleepless In The Land Of Nod

I need some Mommy advice. My current youngest, Jack, has developed a habit of waking up in the middle of the night like clockwork and coming to the side of my bed to tell me that he is scared. We then head back to his room, reset a soothing music CD (to keep him company), I rub his back for a minute, and then leave the room. Usually, this is enough to put him back to sleep.

It is so bizarre that when I was sick and sleeping on the couch, Ken was the one who received the 3 AM wake up call from Jack, and it went something like this:

Jack: Dad? Where's Mom?

Dad: She's probably downstairs Jack.

Jack: Oh. (pause) Dad?

Dad: Huh?

Jack: (loud yawn) I sure am tired.

Dad proceeds to put Jack back to bed.


On the surface, I can handle this small interruption in my sleep. But between a bathroom trip or two, Jack and an early alarm for Ken in the morning, it is becoming disruption after disruption in my sleep. I'm starting to really feel it. With the soon addition of Faith needing to be nursed in the middle of the night, I felt the need to develop a dream last night where I freaked out on my son about all of the wake ups.

I have no idea what is waking him up at 3:00 am, but it is pretty consistent. And he's not sleep walking. I can't remember the last time he slept straight through in the last few months. He goes right back to bed...the problem is Mom being able to settle back to bed as easily.

Any recommendations on how to break this cycle????

Please Tell Me This Is Just a Phase

Jack informed me this evening that he would now like me to return his knight/pumpkin costume to the store. When I asked him why, he said "I would like to trade them in for butterfly wings now". AAHHHHHH!!!!!

I'm trying to stay calm telling myself that his preferences for the color pink, princess dinner plates, and now costumes are just a phase. After all, the child loves to head butt, wrestle, treasures his trains and cars, and enjoys watching football games already with his father. I know so much of it is my own stereotyping issues. But he's loved the color pink for two years now, choosing to do most of his school writing in pink marker.

Is a mother to draw the line at picking pink dinner trays and Disney princess plates?

Small Pumpkins...Who Knew?

After church today, we all headed to the pumpkin patch to pick out our traditional Halloween pumpkin. Thinking we were wise, for the first time ever, we went small - electing to pick pumpkins that were just big enough for Grace and Jack to handle (8 inch diameter). In this way, we speculated that the children could gut their own pumpkins, instead of Mom.

Grace was so excited to do her own pumpkin that it took everything she could muster to sit down and have lunch before preparing to carve it. Unable to stand it any longer, we settled down at the table after lunch to cut the top around the stem of the pumpkin. Sharp steak knife at the ready, I quickly discover that our pumpkin appears to be VERY thick headed.

** stab ** (silent maternal scream) Nooooo!
No! No! **stab**stab** NOOOOOOOOO!

No matter how hard I tried, the blade refused to go any further than 1/4 of an inch deep. A quick knock on the pumpkin confirmed my worst fear - rock solid.

Poor Grace. She was crushed. This was going to be her first "Do it all by myself" pumpkin. We resorted to gluing googley eyes, puff balls and making a wig for the pumpkin out of yarn.

In this case, bigger really is better.