Where the Wild Things Are

I had a dream about Omi several nights ago. In my dream I was at her funeral and had walked up to say goodbye before the casket was closed. As I was looking at her, her eyes fluttered open. Remember, this is a dream and anything goes. This was not some weird bizarre scenario she just opened her eyes and looked at me. She said, "I love you." Now, not to get too prophetic she also told me not to forget to put her earrings on her (clip on's I'm sure) but all the same, it was nice to here from you, Omi. I love you too. Talk to you soon. (p.s. and don't worry about the earrings--I've got you covered.)

A letter from my mother. She calls me sweet pea and sent this along with a lonely sock that got left at her house when we visited. The comfort of being called sweet pea is always nice after a harrowing day with a traveling hubby and three rambunctious boys.

My sister's address on her mission in Japan. For being the baby of the family I think she is the most independent and self reliant--great qualities for a missionary!A postcard from a fancy wedding of Chris' friend we attended with the children. Thank goodness Grammy came along to lend a hand or fifty two.

My visiting teaching list (guess I better call those ladies!).

A gift card for dinner about to expire. Chris' Italian fetish has been replaced by a 24/7 need for Mexican food.

Some pictures of family. Uncle Brian and Aunt Kathy's family who helped get us established with the bakery here (when you move to a new city it works wonders to find a good bakery right away--some almondines and raspberry napoleons can smother any homesickness!).

Matthew's and Will's little friends Maryanne and Katie--still miss you!

And Tiffany and Jaklyn--I love saying hello to you everyday!

A Christmas email letter from my older brother that is too clever to not look at often. He always has been my clever, funny, creative brother. Just older than me I idolized him as a child and still can't take his picture down.

A seasonal schedule for pick-your-own fruits near here. One of our favorite activities with the boys.

A place to jot down memorable things the boys say so I can remember them until I can get them into a more permanent home.

A note from the grill fix-it man saying he can't fix my grill and will have to order still more parts (reminds me--I need to call him to schedule another appointment, oops).

The website for the Thomas the Train recall. Matthew is anxiously awaiting our new pieces in the mail. Oh I hope they come soon.

There you have it, a little bulletin on me. You never know what little scraps of paper can say. Now it's your turn!

I've always been one for a good sort. This is why I have been away from the blog for a bit. It's that time of year--sorting time. I love seeing things peeking out the tops of their appropriate bins, little labeled boxes all in a row. When I was a child I loved going to R & K Bookstore which had an office supply section and digging my eager fingers into buckets full of identical paper clips, gazing at small tins displaying tightly packed groups of matching pencils and pens of all colors, delving my hands into containers of a million small elephant erasers, and squeezing each multi-colored squishy pencil grip between my finders before returning it to its pile of cohorts. As an adult building train set-ups with little Jacob Mika we always sorted out all the track into piles of long straight, short straight, wide and sharp curves, switching pieces, etc. (Jacob also loved a good sort, lucky for me!) You'd think all this organizational love would spill over into my household but alas, sometimes three active boys take precedence and more often than not I suppress a cringe and continue cooking dinner rather than halt my activities to make sure the plastic animals are not getting put away with the mega blocks. Our baskets all have pretty good labels and the boys do well at matching toys to the appropriate bin but after a while things just get jumbled up and it is time . . . time for THE BIG TOY SORT!

We dump all the toys into a pile, surround it with baskets, and begin the sorting. Thankfully one big pile is all we have and the sorting progresses fairly quickly (albeit I have to keep on the little ones and do most of it myself--but it makes my happy!).

The other task I took on last week is not nearly as fun as the toy sort, doesn't progress nearly as quickly, and has to be done solely by me. That lovely biannual activity for those of us who live in seasonal climes--the fall clothes sort. Buckets are hauled out from closets and under beds, drawers and shelves are emptied, and the boys must stand in front of me fully fed up with the whole ordeal while I try one item after another on their bodies to discover what fits and what gets a little rest in a bin until the next child grows into it. After many nights folding, checking tags, and making piles I have finished. New buckets were bought and filled and now every item is in its place. I have been sneaking little peaks at my work during the day--it just makes me feel happy to see all the buckets in a row with their happy little labels peeking through the plastic: 3-6 months summer, 2T winter, 0-3 months all seasons, etc. Ahhh, the peace of organized clothes, it's as good as a trip to the spa.

This is what I have been doing all evening. I finally decided to dump out the basket Chris calls sock h#*@ and spend some TV time practicing my preschool matching skills. Now, if we can track the underwear fairy back to her lair I shouldn't have to do his laundry for weeks! Guess we know what not to get him for Christmas!

This is not really a post but more of just a notice. For a funny laugh pop on over to my friend Gremhog's site and take a gander at this video. Perhaps you have seen it before but I laughed out loud.

I was inspired by my friend Annie's post a short while ago about wringing the last bit of pleasure out of our passing summer and have been meaning to follow her example. We did our own bit of wringing a couple weekends ago and this past weekend welcomed in what hopes to be a beautiful autumn. Summer called it quits around here with two fabulous events. The first being the air show. In past years Chris has just taken Matthew but this year we went down as a family and found a nice spot on a hillside overlooking the lake to wait in anticipation. After what was much too long for two aviation loving boys we heard a rumbling in the distance. Heads started craning every which way and before we new it--WHOOOSH, there went the THUNDERBIRDS! Matthew and Will could hardly contain their little emotions. The half hour show was amazing to say the least and has inspired a good bit of play around my family room over the past weeks.

1. The most important question to be asked in our house for the next 20 years or so

Me: What did you do at school today:

Matthew: First we took a picture. That was fun. Then we took another picture. That was fun. Then everybody sitted down like a pretzel. Then we put on our listening ears. (here he counts his fingers) Four. That was number four. Then number five, we all sat at tables!

(Ahhh-he's already making lists. He is his mother's child.)

2. More spill-over from Bindi (sorry this goes on a bit)

Matthew: Guess which animal I am this morning, mom?

Me: A cheetah?

Matthew: No. I'll give you a clue. I'm orange and white.

Me: A tiger? (apparently I'm pigment challenged)

Matthew: No. I'll give you two clues. I'm orange and white and I live in a cave.

Me: A lizard?

Matthew: No. I'll give you three clues. (can you tell he's a bit into numbers lately) I'm orange and white. I live in a cave and I like to eat meat. (any guesses anyone?) I'll give you four clues. I'm orange and white. I like to eat meat. I live in a cave and I like to jump on rocks. Here's five clues. I'm orange and white. I live in a cave. I like to eat meat. I like to jump on rocks and I'm a wild dog that lives in Australia.

Me: (finally) A dingo?

Matthew: YES!

3. Guess who's in charge of Mom

Me (as I grab Joseph's hand from diving into the toilet water): Ahhhh. Who left the bathroom door open?! Matthew, did you leave to door open? You know you are always supposed to close the door.

Matthew: No. Did you leave it open Mom?

Me: Actually, maybe I did leave this door open.

Matthew: Is Jesus going to put you in the corner?

I found this clip on another friends blog. I'm not quite sure of the blogging protocol of swiping it to also put on my site--is that very bad bloggity manners? However, I went back to watch it so many times I had to post it here to share. The voice, of course, is astounding, but I found the most wonderous part of the whole thing is watching Pavarotti's face during the piece and especially at the end as he is practically overcome by his own music. Like an actor you can see him get into character before he begins, he becomes the Prince, he feels and believes every little word he is singing. It really is beautiful. I'm still trying to figure out how to post the actual video here so until I do you will have to click the link. (Sorry:) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssun-uqjA3E

A WORD OF WARNING: This can be somewhat captivating. Especially for those of us prone to easy distraction. Example: you watch the video, you watch it again, you visit google for the translation, you go back and watch the clip again after reading it, you check out the other Pavarotti clips You Tube provides for your sight seeing pleasure and find they are not quite as good as the first one, you remember the video your friend Jodi told you to see about a nursing eight year old but are unable to find it (probably a good thing), and not until then do you smell something burning. So, before you click on the link above, please, please go into your kitchen and make sure you have not left a small pot of shredded beef simmering in some spices and salsa that will quickly evaporate leaving the meat to begin a slow descent into charred oblivion and demoting your pot to the back of the cuboard until your lovely mother-in-law comes to visit again since she is the one who fixed the pot last time you did this. (Hi Grammy, yes, you might want to check on some plane tickets, I did it again.)

All three of the boys had to visit the doctor today for shots. I loaded the stroller with books, toys, and fruit snacks to hopefully keep the two who weren't current victims occupied while the unlucky other child had his turn. There should be some kind of endurance award for this activity--the hilariously fun task of trying to absorb critical health information projected at you by an expert while asking and answering pertinent questions about child A's growth, behavior, and habits, all while wragling child A on a paper covered table, keeping child B in his stroller and out of the medicinal supplies and garbage can and coaxing child C to look through that magazine again before consuming a fourth pack of fruit snacks; then roating the children until each has had a turn at each station. I tell you, I am one proud mamma when we leave the office without having broken anything and still in fairly happy moods (Dr.'s included). Anyway, the shots still take Will and Joseph by surprise and they hardly have time to scream before the event is over. Matthew, however, remembered shots from the last time he was at the doctor and started saying "Ouch ouch ouch," before the nurse even gripped his thigh. As his skin was puctured he let out a blood curdling scream followed by some hearty sobs but after application of a special "super star" sparkly baindaid he calmed down and was able to go for a walk with the doctor to pick out a sticker. Leaving the office we stopped to make our next appointments with the receptionist and Matthew skipped around to her side of the counter, pulled up his shorts, and exclaimed, "Do you see my super star bandaid?!" She nodded and was duly impressed. Matthew looked at her with a scrunched up nose and said with a knowing voice, "It really, really hurt, though." She responded with the appropriate empathy. Then Matthew got an impish look in his face and said with a little up-turned inflection in his voice and all the pride in the world, "Did you hear me scream?!"

I thought these photos would explain better than I ever could. Hope you enjoy them! I know the show is a bit long but Grandma's look at this so please bear with me :)

So it turns out, some years ago a little girl was born who must have been very sweet. She grew up being nice to all those around her, was a friend to everyone, and helped all she met to feel good about themselves. She continued growing up, married, had three little boys, moved around the country a bit, and eventually became a primary teacher to a little boy who bit her. This is the only past I can imagine for Matthew's, a.k.a. The Cheetah's primary teacher because she is the sweetest, most understanding and forgiving person ever! She even apologized to me that I found out about his biting! Truly she is a saint. Thank you, Nikole, for being such an angel! As for Matthew, a bit more of the story that was too funny to leave out. Chris happened to be out of town Sunday so missed the drama at church. I had already dealt with punishment and all that stuff by the time he got home Sunday afternoon but obviously still told him about everything that went down earlier in the day. Chris called Matthew in to where we were standing and said, "Matthew, did you bite your teacher." Instead of responding Matthew looked over at me with a stare that I can hardly describe. It was part astonishment, part betrayal, part that odd smile you get when you are embarrassed but don't know how to react. I could just see it in his face, "Holy Cow! You sold me out to Dad?! You told him? I thought we were buds? Where's the family loyalty? A little warning would have been nice. What's up with that!" He stared at me with this look so long that I had to turn away and choke back the laugh (so did Chris). Then, as Chris started talking to him Matthew looked up from his tilted down face and said ever so penitently, "Dad, um, Dad, uh, Mom already put me in the corner so you don't have to." Priceless!

1:00 A.M. Pasta salad is done. Paper goods have been purchased. House is clean. Veggies are cut and ready to go into salad. Croutons are baked. A bizillion mini lemon cupcakes await their frosting and sprinkles. A special personal size star cake sits on the counter. Kitchen has been cleaned. Dishwasher is running. Clean underwear for tomorrow spins in the clothes washer. Joseph turns one tomorrow (or today I guess, it is one in the morning). To Joseph: I'm trying to be ready. I'm trying to be prepared. I just hope your little birthday isn't ruined by the fact that mommy can't hold you as much as you want since she's trying to turn out a nice party for you--that you don't really care about. And as much as I try to have everything ready on time, I won't really be ready. Because you are turning one, and even though I want to be excited, that means my baby is growing up. And for that I am never ready.

Chapter 1: Biting; or Another reason Bindi must go on hiatus

Matthew was removed from his church class yesterday and brought to me. Never a good sign. One of the primary leaders met me in the hall with him and explained he was having "kind of a rough day." Another bad sign. She told me he bit his teacher. The third bad sign. "Matthew," I said in a somewhat stern voice, "Did you bite Sister O'Dell," as I roll my eyes a bit. You see, dear readers, Matthew is not a biter. He has never been a biter. He is, however, a pretender, and lately he has been pretending to be a cheetah (because of our dear Bindi the Jungle Girl). So I was not taking the biting very seriously. I assumed he sort of put his mouth on his teacher's arm and maybe licked her or something (nasty enough in itself) and in general caused enough distraction and disturbance to be taken out. This was not the case. The leader who brought him to me could see I wasn't grasping the gravity of the situation so she explained further. He really bit her. Bit her enough she cried. Yes, he bit her that hard. I couldn't believe it. I didn't know what to do. I was of course upset with Matthew but as I stood there the realization fell on me--this was one of those situations. The situations I try my hardest to avoid but that follow me around like a dragging shoe lace. The responsibility, the fault, the embarrassment of this situation does not ultimately land on Matthew, the four year old perpetrator . . . it lands on me, the Mother. I now bear the shame of being the mother of a biter. "Look, there goes Emily. Watch out, her kid bites." "Oh, there's the biter. You'd think his mother could control him." I will be told everyone's cure for biting. The biting back, the hot sauce, the naughty chair. I will watch as parents whisper to their children to be sure not to sit next to Matthew, "he bites." But as with all problems one must look at the root. Biting is not Matthew's problem. He does not have some weird Freudian issue with being nursed too long or not long enough, or having a pacifier till he was almost four. He does not have some oral fixation. No, Matthew's problem is not with his mouth. Matthew's problem is his imagination. He was not "Matthew" hiding under the pew during class. He was "Cheetah." And desperately trying to get away from the hands hunting for him under the bench. So, where does one draw the line? He had his time in the corner, he was denied his "after church" nachos to tumultuous tears, and there will be no "Bindi" for this week until we work out how to foster his love of animals and unbridled imagination without creating the predator of primary. As for now he is relegated to calmer creatures and spent the afternoon rolling and unrolling himself in a blanket while he transformed from a caterpillar to a butterfly.

What have I learned in all this: the embarrassment a child feels at being dragged over to an adult's house to apologize and the resentment directed at the parents for this embarrassment is nothing compared to the embarrassment the parent feels at having to apologize to the offended adult before the child, after the child, and every time the parent runs into said adult forever after!