Sunday, February 27, 2011

Today's Life Lesson 101: Natural Consequences.

Dear Sweet Child o' Mine:

There are certain things in life that are givens.

Mommy will always love you.
Daddy will always love you.
If you steal money from school,
you will always need to return the money,
write a letter of apology
and deliver both in person

Last week, you stole money from school. While it was not enough to finance Mom's trip to Orland, it was money that did not belong to you. And you told us that you knew it was wrong; that you should have brought the money to the teacher, and that you wanted to keep it so you did.

You initially told us that you took the money in Class A with Teacher A. You wrote a letter of apology to Teacher A. Daddy took time off of work to bring you into school and explain the situation to the office. Yet, the apology was unable to happen because Teacher A was not at school that day.

Curiously enough, you reported each day this week that Teacher A was not at school.

But Thursday, I was catching on (oooo! I'm good!). So I emailed your Clueless-Yet-Oh-So-Boy-Band-Cute Kindergarten teacher.

Long story short: Teacher A was at school every day this week, and you had his class twice. And, I discovered that you did not see Teacher A in Class A on the day of the theft.


Caught in your lie, you label Teacher B in Class B.

But, then you change your mind and label Teacher C in Class C.

And then, you volunteered the idea that you took the money from Teacher D in Class D.

My best guess is that you were trying to confuse us SO MUCH that we would become frustrated. That you were feeling really out of control in this situation, and lying was the ONLY way you could figure out to gain some control in the situation. I think you were trying to take up a lot of Mom's time and energy.

But, my dear son, life is not a game of Clue. And I'm not going to bust my hump trying to figure out if you took the money from the Professor Plum in the Conservatory, or from the Miss Scarlet in the Library.

Your Mother is getting smarter with each passing year. In years past, I would want to pass out punishments like they were Halloween candy. Which would have only increased your need for control. Which would have only then amped up my desire to be in control. Which would have made an already crazy situation even crazier because I wouldn't be able to just let. things. be.

I am learning about the wisdom and beauty of Natural Consequences. Natural Consequences ease my stress. They help me keep control of my time and energy.

Even in this convoluted situation, Natural Consequences exist. In this case, if you steal and claim that you stole the money from 4 teachers, then, you will earn enough money to pay back all 4 teachers, and write 4 notes of apology, and you run the risk of having 4 separate teachers issue consequences for stealing.

Ouch! That's a LOT of chores. And a LOT of writing. And possibly, a lot of consequences.

I'm sorry, my dear one, that you are so unhappy today. I know that this has been a very tough lesson for you.

And while I know that you did not like this lesson, I'm hoping that this Life Lesson sticks, and that these Natural Consequences will help shape you.

And if not, at the very least, I hope it helps you remember the next time you are going to play the game of Confusion and Delay, you remember that the fewer, the better.

Love You to the Stars and Sun and Moon and back again,
Your Mama

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Accurate Reality vs. Perceived Reality

Nine days to Orlando. NINE.

Children with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) are often not able to accurately assess their current reality vs. their perceived reality. Many times my boys will feel as if they are "in danger," when they clearly are not. This is why we use an EMDR attachment therapist in the healing process.

Miles has a pile of white uninflated white balloons. When he is feeling unsafe, we blow up a white balloon as big as he needs in order to see/feel that safe feeling. We talk about where in his body he feels his safe feelings when he is safe. It's in his core. So, sometimes, to help him "move out of" a fear cycle, we act silly and blow up really big white balloons and stick them under our shirts.

But the trouble discerning one's accurate reality vs. one's perceived reality doesn't just affect our children. One residual effect of dealing with children with PTSD and unhealthy attachments is that the parents often don't know what is Reality and what is Imaginary with their children.

I have been finding myself extremely stymied these days.

Keenan has an IEP (Individual Education Plan), as he was tested and meets state definitions of special needs.

Every day, a Special Ed teacher pulls him out and tutors him for 30 minutes in math.

The Special Ed Teacher, who I am naming #B for Number Bitch, basically thinks that Keenan's Kindergarten teacher (who I LOVE) and myself are


"Keenan can count to 26. Keenan can add. Keenan can identify colors and shapes. Keenan can focus. I really don't see the things you are saying," she tells us in her nasally Special Ed disdainful way.

Keenan gets back to class. Keenan cannot do most of these things. Keenan is always puzzled.

Keenan gets home. Keenan cannot do most of these things. Keenan is always puzzled.

Although, if you tell Keenan to take 25 M&M's for a snack, although he clearly cannot count aloud for me, he somehow always---ALWAYS--ends up with 25 M&M's.

Well, for now, #B is just going to have to keep on keeping on with his IEP plan. She can consider herself the Healing Special Ed Goddess who teaches my son numbers for all I care.

Keenan won't learn with me at home. He's not learning with his teacher. I don't care if it is a cognitive disability, or an trauma-induced emotional instability manipulation-induced learning disability; he is learning with this woman, and she's gonna have to deal until we can figure out the rest.

For the past 18 months, we have really, truly thought that Keenan was across the board delayed. I hate to say it, because it makes me feel like the Wicked Witch of Mothers, but I am beginning to suspect that his delays are perhaps manipulative tactics.

I just bought Nancy Thomas' purple book "When Love is Not Enough." She has a section on Clear Speech:

"Children who whisper, mumble, or run their words together in order to get their parent to bend down and say, "What?" over and over, wear their parents out and are no learning clear communication."

Hmmmm. I cannot understand Keenan more than 75% of the time when he and I are communicating. His teacher cannot understand him more than 75% of the time.

But, the Speech & Language Therapist testing his language skills said that his pronunciation is completely accurate and age appropriate.

His ESL teacher thinks there's nothing wrong.

The #B thinks I'm smoking crack.


So, this past week we've been working on table manners. "May I please be excused, Mommy?" is now required by all, as is sitting on your butt when you eat (pillows or phone books are issued to those having trouble reaching the table.) If you cannot use good manners, then you finish the meal in the dining room/office.

This morning, Keenan could not remember, "may I please be excused, Mommy?" He used "can I go?" He used: "Can I leave, daddy?" (the Mister was not home.) He pouted and cried and stuttered and was starting to get the other children agitated at Mom. "Mom, I don't know if he can do it," Atticus worriedly whispered to me.

After 5 minutes of trying, I informed Keenan that since he was not using table manners, he would eat his dinner in the office.

Followed by a meltdown. He brought his bowl over and said, "I don't want to eat in the office. May I please be excused, Mommy!!!"

Well, f*ck me gently with a chainsaw.

(5 SPARKLY GOLD STARS to the first person who knows what movie that line came from!)

I'm thumping my head against the wall here, people.

Nine days. NINE days away from having 5.5 HEAVENLY MANIPULATION-FREE DAYS.

I cannot wait.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

The Mystery of the Clogged Bathroom Sink

Our bathroom/laundry room sink suddenly and mysteriously clogged up this past week.

After reading a Clogged Sink Mystery story courtesy of the fabulous Amy, Hatfield and I were not eager to solve our own clogged sink mystery. So we did what any other set of intelligent women in denial would do: we placed a laundry basket over the sink so no one else could use it.

Finally, after 4 days of avoidant tactics, I asked the Mister to please snake the drain.

And then I made myself a margarita to help me cope with the findings. The time of day is irrelevant to the story.

So, armed with his trusty iPod and accompanying iPod speaker-thingy (because GOD FORBID the man has to accomplish a task over 60 seconds without his podcasts. The man is addicted. He will seriously take 15 minutes to charge his damn iPod before he can make the 3 minute car ride to the video store to return a movie. It drives me cah-ray-zee), the Mister entered the bathroom.

He set up his iPod, and then came back out of the bathroom to find because he realized that he forgot his drain snake. Imagine that.

10 minutes later, armed with the industrial-quality snake (we learned early in our post-placement days), he locked himself into the bathroom.

Loud swearing, clanking and pounding commenced for the next 45 minutes. Followed by: "Hay-zeus Chris-tay Holy F*cking Hell!" (The Mister never drops the f-bomb in my presence, so this always makes me giggle.)

"I don't want to know!" I hollered while glugging a margarita. Which totally impressed myself. Who knew I could be so good at that? Seriously, I could probably win a Yelling-While-Glugging-A-Margarita contest.

"Awwww, MAN!" he continued to yell. "Aw, crap, I'm gonna retch! This sonovabitch is bigger than Lily (our 15 pound cat.)"

I pulled the blanket over my head, plugged my ears and began humming. But then I realized, crap! I can't do that and drink a margarita, so the margarita won out.

About 10 long minutes later the Mister emerged from the bathroom, with a large, heavy, wet garbage bag.

"What the hell was it?!?" I asked.

"Well, at first I wasn't sure," he began.

Oh good God, that can't be good if my Mister cannot figure it out. He grew up in the country with a bunch of farm animals, for Pete's sake, and knows about all kinds of stuff that just the mere thought makes my squeamish city-girl self wanna pass out. If he can't figure out just what the heck it was, well. . .then we're screwed.

"But then I figured it out. . . .Lint!" He proclaimed with great pride.

Well, no sh*t he didn't figure it out right away. I'm not sure if the man knows what machine is the dryer, let alone locate its lint trap. (Love you, babe.)

"Lint?!? Seriously?!?!" I asked.

"Yeah, like 15 pounds of lint, all clogged up, right beneath the sink stopper." He paused, likely trying to gauge my sense of self-control. "Clearly, someone stuffed the drain with lint from the bathroom garbage."

Ahhhh, the plot thickens. What suspect do you place your money on, dear Watson?

Daaaa, da dun dun dddduuuunnnn. . .
The Usual Suspect

Sure enough, just the mere mention of "So, you all will NEVER GUESS what Dad found in the bathroom sink" from my lips at dinner time sent the child soaring into a huge panic attack.

And, he was the only one who was able to correctly guess. Case closed!


But seriously, call me Pollyanna or call me a lush two margaritas into the evening, but I gotta say, my boy's creativity is Pretty Darn Impressive.
I mean, Lint in the Sink.

And, his patient sense of gumption is Pretty Darn Impressive as well. Our sink drain stopper/thingy is really quite low to the sink, and he's not allowed to spend copious amounts of time unattended in the bathroom, so he clearly had the ingenuity to determine an efficient way of stuffing lint into the small drain opening and the patience to do this continuously over the course of several days until he effectively plugged the sink.

That would make an impressive resume, were he searching for a job as a Professional Sink Clogger.

But, all's well that end's well. Thank God it was just lint and not a dead rodent; that's definitely one thing to be thankful for. And Miles will do a few chores to pay Daddy for the time and effort he exerted in removing said lint from the trap.

But what do y'all think: Should Miles be given a few chores to pay Mommy back for the tequila and margarita mix she had to imbibe to emotionally cope with the clogged drain?

I'm guessing I already know the Divine Ms. Geralyn's answer ;), but anyone else wanna chime in?

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Differing shades of perfection

Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, See No Evil
Oh, the irony of this photo ;)

Every Saturday morning, Keenan and Miles have their "Spa Morning."

Spa Morning = an olive oil bath + conditioner treatment for hair and scalp + a boatload of bath toys reserved especially for Saturday mornings.

It's a BIG DEAL to them. And, truth be told, it's a BIG DEAL to me, as it's an extra half hour of quiet to drink my coffee and read the Entertainment Weekly that arrives each Friday in the mail.

This morning, Miles frantically pulled me out of my Oscar prediction article revelry.

"MOM! LOOK! LOOK!" he cried, absolutely horrified and pointing at Keenan's back. "Keenan has a Black Spot on his back! He says it hurts!" pause. He looks pained as he discloses his next thought, "I think he's going to DIE!"

Keenan looks freaked out.

I peek.

It's a beauty mark.

Miles is a deep, delicious darkness with no beauty marks on his body. Keenan, whose skin color earned him the nickname "Ti-Blahn" ("a little white") at the orphanage, bears several beauty marks and knows what they are. But, he didn't make the connection that the black dot on his back might be the same as the black dots on his arms and leg.

"Oh, sweeties, that's just a beauty mark," I offer, pushing up my sweatshirt sleeve to model my arm. "Look, Mommy has lots of them. They don't hurt, and they won't kill us. It's all okay."

Both boys looked very nervously at my arm. Keenan's face lights up, "Oh! I have 'dose'!" He shows the few on his legs.

Miles just stares in disbelief, shaking his head. "I don't know, guys. . . that doesn't look right to me."

"Well, we all have different skin. God made each one of us special and perfect, and I promise you, both Keenan and I are not going to die from these little dots."

Miles continues shaking his head, and I resume my reading spot in the hallway. "Don't worry, Keenan," Miles say, "I'm sure God loves you anyways, even if he gave you all those spots. It's okay he gave you those."

I smiled at Miles' sweetness. I know that someday, it's very likely that our boys will have different sorts of feeling about their skin. But for now, I am just so grateful that Miles loves his perfect, dark, spot-free skin.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

For Angie

When we enter the Mothers' Witness Protection Program,

I say
we request either request:

Somewhere Really Warm



where we can take turns being Idina Menzel.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Valentine's Day H**ters

This whole "school mom" gig takes a lot of getting used to
for my old-school, home schooling self.

of other children,
creating mass confusion and delay.

The Mister may drop them off at the normal time
on Late Start Wednesday,
and fail to notice that
no one else was at school.

But, dammit,
I do have


And I have these smiley faces,
56 freaking owls,
and some wicked carpal tunnel
to prove it.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Dealing with my own shiznit

When we started this adoption journey, I read a lot. Because that's what I do. It's a way I keep my shiznit together.

Many of those books offered the advice: deal with your own trauma/triggers before you deal with trauma kids, because their trauma is going to spark your trauma.

Say wha?

Enter Ego, Stage Right.

I don't have trauma issues. Sure, like everyone else I have problems, but I'm an intelligent, equipped adult who dealt with them. After all, I have some of my own kids who I haven't messed up. My husband and I are married and we managed to get an approved homestudy without any raised eyebrows, so clearly we have our shiznit together.

So. . .whatever. I deal with my own shiznit just fine.

Excuse me for a moment while I laugh so hard that I pee myself. BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!

Because, you do know what happens after Enter Ego, Stage Right?

Enter Reality Bites, Stage Left.

Enter Life, Stage Right.

Enter Huge Knock Upside the Head, Center Stage Parachuting Down in a Somber Display of Black Lights and Ominous Music.

Because, holy shiznit, as I am discovering, I had no idea just how much Shiznit I had hanging around these hallowed halls of my soul.

* * * * * * * *

The last few weeks have been rough. Like bottom of the barrel, kicked me when I'm down rough.

Actually, the past few months have been increasingly tough. Even though my boys' healing behaviors have, overall, been increasing, my ability to cope with life has been drastically decreasing.

In addition to the problems of raising troubled children, a whole lot of other "problems" were suddenly surfacing and tripping me up.

Problems that, pre-adoption, I had been very good at compartmentalizing. I suddenly found myself unable to do so. The stress of trauma parenting and the stress of life and other issues were breaking me. Quickly.

I finally came to the realization, with the help of some very honest, been-there-doing-that friends, I can't just "deal" with all of it. That it is nearly impossible to keep it together when there is just SO much to deal with. That while I *might* have been able to keep it together pre-adoption, there is NO WAY that you can keep it together when you add in the stresses of trauma parenting.

That's right. I have to actually work through this.

Enter SuperTherapist, Stage Right.

This journey of life is funny in the way that one day you are walking along, thinking that you have your shiznit together, and then suddenly---WHAM! You learn an integral truth about yourself that you have been ignoring all along.


My name is Sarah, and I am afraid of my emotions.
I'm afraid of showing others my messy emotions.
I'm afraid that my feelings will turn off others and I'll be abandoned.
I'm afraid that my feelings will be a burden to others.
I'm afraid that my feelings will anger others and I'll receive payback.

Gee, and to think that 4 years ago I thought I had dealt with all my shiznit!

I deal with my emotional fear by COMPLETELY BURYING my feelings. I am The Quintessential Emotional Grave Digger. Give me a shovel, and I can compartmentalize with the best of them. I have perfected the Stepford/SuperNanny (when times are tough, just pretend a television crew are following you around) approach to life as a way to keep on keeping on.

But the thing is, you can't keep on keeping on that way forever. What I'm learning is that Strength is not suffocating your emotions as a means of controlling life's variables.

Strength is owning your emotions, and knowing that you have a voice to speak them.


That's a pretty big lesson to learn. Realizing that was both a HUGE RELIEF and a HUGE HOLY SHIZNIT moment.

And then after that realization, another realization nearly knocked me over (man, I'm so self-aware. . not!)

Did you catch what I never did?

Hiding emotions?
Desperately trying to control life?
Not feeling emotionally safe with others?

Hint: What children do we know who approach life just like that?

Good God, you'd think that since I have nearly the exact same set of issues, I'd be AWESOME at dealing with theirs.

Well, I can offer empathy. I a boatload of empathy. But I'm struggling just like them.

It's time for Mommy to start using her Powerful Voice and Claim Her Emotions.

This is SO hard. So, So, SO hard. I can't believe how I just thought my kids would figure it out quickly, on their own.

Because, cripes, 36 years into this ride, I'm not much further developed than they are.

I have to face these problems head on. Because I cannot handle the stress of parenting my sons AND the stresses that we have swept under the rug and managed to trot around years past.

Holy shiznit.

The past few weeks, I'm opening up my emotions regarding some huge problems. Giving voice to all of my feelings, no matter how messy. Having hope that those who hear them will react appropriately. Knowing that even if that doesn't happen, I will survive and be better off for it, having owned my own emotions.

That feels good. That is empowering. That is the good side about opening up.

The "bad" side, which is also the predominant side, are that HUGE WAVES of pain, anger, hurt, fury, frustration, grief have been knocking me down.

Over and over.

In tears, this morning I've told the therapist how I've felt. How overwhelmed. How helpless. How scared that I was going to be stuck in this cycle of crappy feelings forever.

After our meeting, I'm feeling reassured. In fact, I feel hopeful for the first time in a LONG time.
I trust that the more I claim how I feel, the more I can process. The more I use my strength and set healthy boundaries in my life, the more I will heal.

I trust that this process can work in my boys. And I trust that this process will work for me too.

Good lord, do you see the parallels with my boys? And they are finally opening up their feelings and these HUGE WAVES. Identical HUGE WAVES.

Time. We need Time and Love and Reassurance and Patience.

Today, for the first time, I feel hopeful. That with work, I can heal. And move forward. And that maybe my life won't feel sucky and overwhelming forever.

But, man, what a long, strange trip this has been.

Enter The Beauty of Life, Stage Right.

I'm a big believer in looking for the good in times of adversity. Now, when I'm in the pit of despair, I completely admit that I can't see and/or I don't believe in the silver lining. But things are looking up, and I see it.

And look at what good is coming out of this! Out of all this trauma, I am learning about myself. I am growing. I am learning how strong I am. I am surviving. And maybe, someday, I'll feel that I'm thriving.

Enter Healing, Stage Right.

Big, messy, feeing healing. For both me and my boys.

Monday, February 07, 2011

Green (and Gold) Fever

* How 'bout dem Packers?!?! HOOO-rah! An electric current is running through this city right now, and it's a pretty awesome thing to experience. We're bringing that trophy back home (where it belongs.)

* The Green Bay School District is giving the children a half day today. I need to pick up my Haitian Sensations today at 11:30. If you saw their little partied-out faces this morning, you too would realize that GBSD had it all wrong. They should be starting school at 11:30 this morning, not ending it.

However, I see a LOOONNNNNNGGGG, peaceful naptime in my future. *Huge Cheshire Cat Grin* for the naptime.

* By all Green Bay standards, Hatfield and I were entirely Wicked last night and instead of watching the Super Bowl, we took our Green Fever to a different level and went and saw WICKED at the Fox Cities Performing Arts Center.

Holy Wicked Brilliance. This was the best musical I have seen, hands down, EVER. I am in love. LOVE LOVE LOVE. Plus I got a Wicked Cool t-shirt that is Green, with a witch's hat and the words "Defy Gravity" written on it, right over my boobs.

I love double entrendre t-shirts.

* So, the Green (and Gold) Craziness continued when, after Wicked finished and the Super Bowl ended, Hatfield and I encountered a few drunk, male Packer fans in the parking garage staircase. Wicked Awesome, right? Not. After lots of yelling and cheering, a man said, "Gimme a Victory Hug!" and grabbed me.

Hatfield's eye got HUGE and immediately upon their continued descent down the staircase she said, "Mom, I can't believe you let that guy hug you!"

To which I responded: "My dear girl, I was afraid that if he didn't huge me, then he'd try and hug YOU!"

Because if he tried to hug my girl, I was all prepared to roundhouse kick him down a flight of stairs. And I'm NOT joking. I have a WICKED roundhouse kick that I've finessed at the gym over the past month and a half. Ask the Mister.

* Okay, you don't have to ask the Mister. I'll just tell you instead.

One day, when the Mister was telling the kids what a kick their Mom has, the kids begged to see. So he said, "Come on, hon, show them."

After much pleading, I took off my shoe, sighed and gave the Mister a semi-solid roundhouse kick to his hamstring.

He was on the ground before we knew it. I was shocked. He was shocked. And the kids have an entirely newfound respect for their old lady.

All's well that ends well. And the Mister's bruise is now gone.

* I loved every minute of my special night out with my girl. I have a lot of thoughts going on in my head about Motherhood and sibling-hood, and goals/aspirations/plans, and someday I'll post on those when I can get it all into words.

But last night was one of those perfect parenting moments. When you're with your kid, who you love so much it hurts, and you're laughing, having fun, talking, and you realize 1) just how much your little girl is growing up and 2) what a Wicked awesome person she is.

Friday, February 04, 2011

The Dance That Almost Wasn't

While we do not live in a large metropolitan area, we are very fortunate to have a large, active, local homeschooling organization. Field trips, spelling bees, geography bees, science fairs, proms, teen groups, tween groups, Friday field day (organized phy ed), competitive volley ball, basketball, track & field, graduation ceremonies, etc, are all available for the choosing.

Including a Father/Daughter Valentine's Dance, to be held tonight.

So in our little nook of the woods, we have some neat choices. Which is pretty awesome.

The less than awesome fact about this group is that it is a "Christian" group (no slam on Christians; I am one) and sometimes the attitudes are a little over-the-top and . . . well, those over-the-top, holier-than-thou attitudes really run the show at times.

Let me explain.

Earlier in the week, I received a phone call from the dance organizer. In a very concerned voice, she explained: "I'm afraid to have to tell you this, but we simply cannot honor your requested song for the dance because, well, you see, it has sexually explicit lyrics in it."

For the life of me, I couldn't remember what song I wrote down on the form. I vaguely recalled feeling guilty that I wasn't able to volunteer for the dance set up and decorating committee, so I had quickly tried to think of a cute song for the Mister and my girls to dance to.

"Ah, what song did I request again?" I asked.

"Brown-Eyed Girl. By a . . . let's see. . . Van Morrison."

Of course! WTF is wrong with Brown-Eyed Girl? Cute song, and Paloma has brown eyes. Made sense to me.

I nearly snorted out loud. "Seriously? That song is sexually explicit?" I asked, humming, sha la la la la la la la la la la dee da.

"Well, you see, the phrase "Making love in the green grass" is most inappropriate for this type of activity," she explained, in a weird voice that was the perfect blend of holier-than-thou bitchiness with appropriate embarrassment for having to have such filth come off her holy tongue.

I bit my less-than-holy tongue from saying, "Well, Gawd, I'm so glad I didn't request that I'm Too Sexy song."

I bit my less-than-holy tongue from saying, "Seriously? SERIOUSLY? You call that sexually explicit?!? Kiss my ass!"

I bit my less-than-holy tongue from saying, "You know what? Shove it! I'm going to start my own homeschooling group for moms who use the word 'fuck.'"

Instead, I said the appropriate Christian Homeschool Mom reaction, "Well, goodness! Of course I understand. I guess I could only recall those fun "sha la la la's" in the song."


Oh, the things we do for our children. And our husbands. Because, one of the things that I am MOST thankful for in this world is that my Mister is a KICK ASS FATHER to our daughters.

He is so connected with each of our girls. He and Hatfield have a very tight, special bond. In fact, I have a cute story to share about that in another post, but those two are Joke-Telling, Scary-Movie-Watching, Kindred Souls. He and Po, well, I'm still not quite sure if any of my DNA is actually in Po. I'm pretty sure I was just the alien carrier for Cliff's pure genetic material.

Anyways, the Good News is that we were not kicked out from the home school association.
So the Mister came home today to present his two lovely daughters with corsages.

The plan is to take the girls to Red Robin for dinner (but of course! Where else would the deprived family members of a vegetarian kitchen commander go?), and then onward to the dance.

Pretty Dresses?


Dapper Daddy?

Paloma decked out in a FABULOUS coat?


Now, if the Mister can only keep Po from dancing like she did here, about 30 seconds into this video, then it's probably a safe bet that we'll still be in the home school association upon the evening's end.

Yeah, good luck with that one, Mister.

Tuesday, February 01, 2011

My seasonal vent

I am of the personal conviction that a person may despise one and only one season each year. If you hate winter, don't yap at me about how miserable your summer is. If you are complaining all summer that it's too hot, then stop moaning about winter. You shall get no sympathy from me with your bi-seasonal bitching.

I make peace easily with 11 months of the year.

I hold a great grudge against February.

December holds the wonder of the holidays. January is a blissful for hunkering down, reading in front of the fireplace and trying out new soup recipes.

March hints at the promise of Spring. The snow melts at least once in April, and in May I can start planting my summer garden.

Which leaves us with February. The "F" word as far as the calendar goes.

There is nothing in February but misery. Who honestly out there enjoys Valentine's Day? Or President's Day?

Let's not even mention that rat bastard groundhog.

I have had enough of being cooped up. My kids have 3 months of pent-up energy. The lure of outside play is lost when the windchill hovers at or below zero.

My kids have gone bonkers. Evidenced by one of my 6 year old sons, who is standing in his own puddle of URin, smack dab in the middle of the kitchen floor, screaming. All because I said, "No playstation after dinner." So of course, let's just pee to show your control over your own life.

The child's been majorly off-kilter for the past two days. His brother, Mr. Radling, is floating around the house, all shiny and glowing as he gloats his good behavior in front of his brother. The tables are usually turned between those two, and Mr. RADling is milking it for all its worth.

Seriously, who lives like this?!?!

I'm tired of blaming insecure attachment, or RAD, or PTSD, or impaired cognitive functioning. For the next 28 days, I'm blaming February.

F#(#*ing February.