Learning to Listen to a Child Learning to Read

Let me begin this post by saying that I am very proud of my children. All of them. And all of their reading efforts, challenges, and eventually, mastery.

Now, let me continue by saying that the time that they are learning to read...1st-2nd grade for my oldest, Kindergarten for my middle and youngest, and 1st grade for my one who struggled a bit in Kindergarten...is an adventure, to say the least.

I know you know what I mean. That time that they send home reading homework every night. Reading homework that your child despises. Reading homework that tests your patience. You love your child. There is nothing more that you want than to see your child succeed, and you want to beam with pride at his or her accomplishments. But seriously, getting through these nights are pure torture for a parent.

Me: "Connor, get out your homework, please."

Connor. "I don't know where it is."

Fast forward past tripping over the backpack, meltdowns over how the snack I gave him lacked sustenance, and how he was rendered blind by my lack of proper nutrition (which should have been candy,) and we finally sit down, ready to read "Where My Food Comes From." I'm already envisioning a very shocking lesson that will scar the kid for life when he realizes bacon doesn't come from those hand dryers in public restrooms.

We finally sit down. It becomes quite obvious that he does not want to read. He starts reading slowly, pausing between every word. He turns around, until he is hanging upside down, off the couch, reading the book as if he was William Shatner. Well, if William Shatner was reading upside down.

I calmly ask him to sit back up. He does, and then spends a very long time trying to get out each word. He is able to flawlessly read the word "agriculture," but stumbles on the word "fruit," drawing out the word in a torturous, long drawl that somehow turns into a gargle, and it takes every ounce of my being to not shout out the word "FRUIT! IT'S FRUIT!!!" This kid...who can read the back of a cereal box...who can read every Skylander there is out of a book, cannot figure out how to say the word, "fruit." Or "and."

I know it's only a matter of time. I went through this with every kid. We went on to read all of the Harry Potter books, The Hobbit, etc., and they read on their own many more books. That said...I'm not going to lie...getting through the initial reading stages are not fun. And it is WAY more work on the parent than it is the child. Okay, maybe not. But it does feel that way at times. Especially when the word is "but," and the kid doubles over in laughter, causing you to have to explain ANOTHER crazy thing about the English language...there are many but(t)s in this world, but the only one he should focus on is the one that contradicts whatever he just read.

Changes

I looked back the other day at the first few posts in this blog. I can't believe how much has changed over the last few years. My babies are in first grade. My oldest is living on his own, and the second oldest is going to graduate high school this year. The middle child is dangerously teetering on the edge of childhood and pre-teendom. She still has a couple of years to go, but you wouldn't know it by talking to her.

Our family has also moved. Again. We also gained a new member of the household...my mother.  This also brings about new routines and challenges. Several months ago I *might* have blasted some Beastie Boys tunes in the middle of the day while dancing around in my underwear. Now if I play music it is something like Tom Petty, and the volume is at a respectable level. I ask for parenting advice and learn the names of the different birds that are outside the window.

The family is enjoying the new house. There is a loft area, which has a nice reading nook, and allows for paper airplanes, secret messages, and the occasional toy to be catapulted down to the first floor below. Cats walking by up in the loft area also provide superb target practice for nerf guns aimed from the first floor.

There is a pond out in the back yard that has been great for watching frogs, poking sticks in the water, and in Owen's case, "accidentally" wading.

There are two fireplaces here. Real, wood-burning fireplaces. After setting off the smoke alarm a couple of times, and Bruce once setting the carpet on fire when a log fell out, we finally got the hang of it and it has become a source of enjoyment on really cold days.

Hopefully now that we are settled, I can start to update the blog more often.  It is almost time to pick the kids up from school, which means the blasting of Taylor Swift shall commence...with the kids dancing around in their underwear.

Dieting Dilemmas

The last few days have been a bit stressful, but not due to children. Or missing husbands. No...the stress stems from a visit to the veterinarian, with our poor portly kitty who has gotten so big, she has been having issues. The issues aren't with her health, per say, although I'm sure that is effected as well...no, our poor kitty can't reach around her belly to clean properly. This creates issues for all of us. She is one of three cats that we own, so for the sake of simplicity, I shall refer to her here as "Fat Cat," and the others will be "Normal Cats."

They began by weighing her. Now, let me start by saying that Fat Cat used to be very skinny. She was tiny, and sleek, and could leap tall counters in a single bound. We coaxed her onto the scale, and it read just under 20-pounds. She is supposed to weigh around 10-pounds. Needless to say, the recommendation was to put her on a diet. This is all well and good, but when you have two other cats who do NOT need to go on a diet, the situation gets more complicated. My sister, who came along with me, struggled to carry my cat as I paid the bill. The woman at the counter looked at the sheet, and then looked at me.

"Your cat weighs twenty pounds??"

"Yes."

"Oh...wow...I was thinking maybe they made a mistake when they wrote that down..."

We brought Fat Cat home, whose bottom was now looking a bit like a baboon (they did a sani-shave...to help with the cleaning issue.) She was not happy.

I started separating the cats during feeding time. This did not go well. Fat Cat refused to eat the new food the first day. Instead, she desperately tried to get into the old food, which we have in a big plastic bin. She tried knocking it over. She tried prying the top open. She tried chewing a hole in the bin.

Dinnertime came. Connor ate most of his cheeseburger, but I wasn't quick enough to clean up what remained...I looked over and saw a black and white paw come up from under the table and begin to drag the burger over the edge. I caught it...and Fat Cat gave me an evil glare before waddling into the shadows.

Day two did not go much better. She did nibble at the new food a little bit, but mostly tried to find ways to steal other food. I also think she began plotting ways to kill me.

Day three slowly got better. I have gotten good about being on top of the kids to take care of their dishes, and Fat Cat is finally starting to eat some of her food. Normal Cats are just confused. They don't understand why there isn't food in their bowl 24/7, but happily eat whenever I feed them.

I also bought a cat tower (it isn't very big, as it turned out,) on clearance. The cats in the picture on the box all fit nicely on all three levels. So, either my cats are seriously huge, or they used kittens for the pictures. Poor Fat Cat...if she manages to lay on the top level, her sides spill over the edge and the whole thing kind of teeters back and forth. The oldest Normal Cat sits on top of it like a huge gargoyle. The young Normal Cat isn't interested in the slightest.

I especially feel bad when I sit there, while Fat Cat is shut in the other room with diet food, eating chocolate when I know that I could seriously stand to go on a diet myself. And then I think, "Fat Cat...you're LUCKY. I wish I had someone to force me to eat healthy." And then I go grab a beer, because seriously...diets are stressful.

Fire Bad, Beer Good

My husband has been on a business trip...for almost four weeks now. He has been able to come home on the weekends (arriving late Friday night/early Saturday morning and then leaving again on Sunday afternoon.) If you have read any of my past posts, you know that when Bruce leaves for more than a day it is the equivalent to what happens when the mogwai eat after midnight in the movie, "Gremlins"...everything turns ugly and chaos ensues. I also start monologuing about depressing stories from my past like Kate. Like the time I had to drive up north with all five kids without Bruce and...oh wait, I already told you that story. Did I tell you about the time I fed the kids after midnight?

While Bruce was home briefly for the weekend he did something crazy. Now, let me preface this by saying my husband NEVER does anything crazy. He is afraid of anything new or different...or new. He likes routine...and avoids change at all costs. This is why I had no concern with sending the boys with him to get haircuts. I'm not sure why he did what he did...maybe because the stylist was cool, decked out in tattoos and a rockin' beard. Maybe he figured, "what the hell, I'm out of here this afternoon, so I can't get in TOO much trouble." Maybe he just wanted to make sure the boys were happy before he had to leave again. Maybe he was drunk. Whatever the reason...he decided to let Owen get a mohawk. He did tell me that the stylist offered to fix it for free if I was upset. My baby boy, who had long, shaggy hair, came home looking like this:

Owen was so happy, I didn't have the heart to tell him that I don't know what we would do for school...because in Michigan right now we are going through a bit of a deep-freeze where you HAVE to wear a winter hat. So, unless we find some wrap-around ear muffs, the kid is going to have a floppy mohawk. After dropping off the boys (Connor also had a tiny faux hawk, but it could easily be a normal haircut once washed,) Bruce promptly left for Ohio.

Today the kids had no school. This is becoming the norm here, because with this crazy winter they have had eight snow days in the last month. Today was not a snow day, though, just a "Professional Development" day. What it really means is one MORE day that the kids are home and driving Mom crazy because they are bored and miss school. 

The morning began with me waking up to find poop...all over the bathroom. Owen tells me that he "tried" to make it to the bathroom, and didn't quite make it in time. He "finished" in the toilet, but had to clean up afterward. So...there were about fifty poop-smeared wipes in the trash...poop smeared on the seat of the toilet...and for some reason, poop smeared on the floor. This conjures up a mental image of my son doing the butt scoot on the floor to try and wipe off the poop...like a dog. I'm not sure that is an accurate interpretation of what happened...but it seems like the most probable explanation. 

Shortly after the massive bathroom clean-up, we discovered that a cat had vomited in the hallway. Luckily the dog helped clean some of it up, because what could be better than eating cat poop? Eating cat vomit. This is why I do not like it when dogs lick me. So, I cleaned up what Onyx didn't, and made sure my coffee was extra strong. 

Later, I sent the kids up to clean their bedrooms. Irelynn told me she needed a trash bag...so I went to get one from under the kitchen sink and realized they were all wet. The pipe was leaking, and everything was soaked. I sopped up the water, and promptly called someone to come take care of it, because we have dealt with this on and off for awhile now...and Bruce always temporarily fixes it and tells me NOT to call a plumber. Well...Bruce isn't here...and I need a working kitchen sink. Luckily someone came and it was fairly simple. This, as it turned out, was actually the least frustrating part of the day.

Remember the trash bag I sent up with Irelynn? I remembered later, too, and went upstairs to get it and gather up more trash to put in it from upstairs. Not too long after I was cleaning up, Irelynn came upstairs.

"Mom...I kind of dropped a tissue in the candle."

"What??"

"Um...I dropped a tissue in the candle."

"IS SOMETHING ON FIRE???"

"Not anymore."

I ran downstairs to find a tissue...all black, laying in the center of a huge, round scorch mark on the carpet. Irelynn was fine, thank goodness, and needless to say we had a very lively discussion regarding fire safety. I asked her why she would have had a tissue near the candle to begin with (the tissue box is no where near the candle,) she replied, "um...I was trying to clean the black part off of the inside of the candle." While it was lit?? I'm guessing it was actually that she was curious about the flame and was messing around to see what would happen. My mom asked me if it was difficult to be angry knowing she was trying to "help." Actually, it was not difficult to be angry. Especially after seeing the carpet. I was thinking, "you're one of my 'smart' kids! Seriously???" I didn't say that, of course, but I really was shocked that of all the kids, she was the one who stuck a tissue in fire. The kid with the mohawk...I'd expect that from him.

I will say that I'm fairly proud of myself for surviving this long. I think it's because I actually lost my sanity a long time ago. At this point I kind of chalk it up to "just another day in the Sawdon household." I figure, bedtime will be soon, and I have some beer in the fridge. That reminds me, hopefully the kids won't have a snow day tomorrow, because I need to get to the store. We're almost out of milk, bread and beer.

The Longest Business Trip

I believe it is Murphy's Law that states, "when your husband goes on a business trip leaving you alone with the kids, something will break, someone will get sick, or the dog will shit in the house." I could be wrong on that, but I'm pretty sure it is something to that effect.

This has been the longest business trip yet for Bruce...broken up by a brief return home on the weekends. Three weeks, total. I have, for the most part, been managing fairly well. I've kept up on the day to day activities...made sure the little ones have done their homework, planned out the dinner menu, and managed to actually bathe the children once in awhile. However, there is inevitably something that trips me up, sending me into that downward spiral of shame where I start using sarcasm on the five-year-old, feel my eye begin to twitch and find myself rationalizing that "it's 5pm somewhere." To my credit, I have waited until bedtime to actually crack open a beer...but it has taken a great deal of will-power.

Yesterday seemed to be the culmination of things that happen when Bruce is away on a trip. And they all seemed to happen within the span of about 15-minutes. We had just finished dinner, and needed to do the "Home Alone" rushing to the airport re-enactment of getting ready to go to Taekwondo.

"Where's my belt?"

"I don't have a white shirt...wait...yes I do."

"No, I will put the bo staffs in the car...stop before you poke someone's eye out!"

The boys were wild. When Connor gets wild, he does this little thing where he throws up. I don't know if it's due to those early years of horrible reflux, or if he gets motion sickness from his own motion...but he threw up. Then the dog decided to pee all over the floor (which he hasn't done in a very long time.) Then the washing machine decided not to washing machine anymore...which I decided I could deal with later. Except for the fact that it was Connor's bedding, which he had peed on the night before and kind of needed that night, so I was really hoping I could get it into the dryer before we left. No such luck.

After squishing all of the kids and gear into the vehicle, we managed to leave the house...and realize we were out of gas. I think a special shout out needs to go to the Polar Vortex for making my evening even more memorable as I stood outside pumping gas in my Taekwondo uniform.

Somehow we survived class, and made it home with almost all of our gear (I believe we left a board there.) The kids finally went to bed.

This morning wasn't too bad...other than Owen now waking up covered in his own pee, causing us to rush around after an impromptu shower, and a long discussion over the cutting of the toast into certain geometrical patterns that must be done with precision so as not to bring on Owen's Hulk-like personality disorder. He is a charming child, really...very amicable. But you do not want to see him angry.

We are only half-way through the second week. I think today I am going to have a long talk with the washing machine, and then go buy some lunch and surprise Irelynn at school (who has been asking for a lunch date for a week now.) Hopefully between that, and spending dinner with some good friends tonight, I can get back to feeling like I can handle this again. At least until the next incident involving bodily fluid or one of the kids singing "What Does the Fox Say."

At least I stocked up on beer.

A Child's Perspective

I haven't updated my blog in awhile, and as I thought about different things I could write about, I realized that maybe a conversation my youngest children had the other day would be worth sharin. I wrote the following as a Facebook status, and received a lot of positive response:

The three younger ones were having a discussion this morning about Martin Luther King Jr. It was so cute and sad to hear history from a child's perspective.

Owen: "People with black skin even had to use different drinking fountains. And go to different schools. But it's okay, that's not a true story."

Me: "Owen, it IS a true story. Things really were like that at one time."

Connor: "That doesn't make any sense."

Me: "No, it doesn't."

They went on to talk about how Martin Luther King Jr. helped to change that...and how they can't even imagine having some of their friends go to a different school because of the color of their skin. They listed several names of friends who they never would have had the chance to meet. The whole conversation puts things into perspective...whether you are talking about race, sexual orientation, or beliefs...in a child's eyes, we are all human, and discrimination "doesn't make any sense." People aren't born with hate...we learn it. I wish everyone could see the world that way.

That Creepy Elf...

I have been avoiding the Elf on the Shelf for the last few years. I see people posting pictures, and sometimes it seemed cute and funny...but mostly it just seemed creepy. The thought of a little doll that moves around at night and watches you to see if you've been naughty or nice would have given me nightmares as a child. I think it would have freaked out the older children, too. Marissa had a doll given to her by her grandmother one year...it was very...realistic. The doll terrified her. She asked me to remove it from her bedroom...so the doll ended up in the corner of the hallway, until it scared ME one night coming out of my bedroom. With much guilt, we finally decided the doll must go. I think we waited a few years before we admitted to Grandma that her loving gift had terrorized our family.

Irelynn is a different child. She thrives on magic...and everything has a life of its own. She encourages magic, and wonder...and at times, creepiness. She claims to have ghost friends who take her through magic portals at night. While part of me is in awe and loves her imagination...I'm not going to lie, part of me is a little freaked out at times. Needless to say, upon hearing about the Elf on the Shelf (and who hasn't?) she started asking for one. She wrote me letters. She won't let it go in my room. I can help name the elf. She will keep an eye on it for me. After her pleas did not work, she turned to the elf itself. Someone told her that if you write a letter to the elf, it will appear. My child is nothing if not determined.

We now have an elf.

He showed up this morning. I read the book to the three younger kids, explaining how the elf flies to the North Pole at night to report to Santa on their behavior. Then it was time to name the elf.

"I know...Chris!" Owen was proud of himself.

"No, it's a girl," said Irelynn, "I think it should be Elfie or Lollypop."

"How about Tiberius?" Bruce is never going to give up on that name. He WILL find a way to honor Captain James T. Kirk.

The kids glared at him.

Irelynn replied, "I doubt elves even watch Star Trek."

Connor, quiet this whole time, piped up.

"Snitchel."

I looked over at him and said, "do you mean 'Schnitzel?'"

Connor shook his head "no."

"Snitchel?"

"Yes," he said, "Snitchel."

Irelynn looked at him, shocked, and said, "Connor! That's not very nice! He's an ELF...he has to report to Santa!"

Connor just smiled.

The final decision was Elfie Schnitzel (pronounced "Snitchel.") Now I have to start coming up with creative ideas on what to do with her (Irelynn assures me that Elfie is a girl.) The idea of an elf causing mischief and then reporting to Santa on the children's behavior seems a little wrong to me...so our elf will have to be silly without causing trouble.

I suppose I should enjoy these years where the magic is still alive in the home. I don't have much inside me...but Irelynn is finding a way to squeeze it out, little by little. Who knows...maybe by Christmas I'll think that Elfie is actually kind of cute. Doubtful...but stranger things have happened.

The Destruction of Spyro

I do not normally spend much money on Halloween costumes. I have a difficult time justifying spending a good deal of money on something that will barely make it to Halloween, let alone past the holiday. Through the years we have used hand-me-downs, gotten creative, or *sometimes* bought particular costumes through Craigslist. This year I broke down and spent $30 on a Spyro costume. I'm not proud. However, if you could have seen Owen's eyes light up when he saw his favorite character hanging on the wall in between Batman and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle...I'm pretty sure you would have caved, too. You see...for some reason, Owen loves Spyro...and all the Skylanders. We do not own the game. He has never played it...nor has he seen the show (I hear there's a cartoon...I'm not even sure if that's true.) We are actually quite baffled as to how he KNOWS about Skylanders, let alone why he's obsessed with them. Spyro is his favorite, though...with his birthday money he bought a small stuffed Spyro...and sleeps with it every night.

Connor saw a pirate set that included a sword (I think the real reason he wanted it,) an eye patch, a gold hoop earring, and a hook. This was much cheaper, and we can get creative with the actual outfit, so I was okay with this choice.

Irelynn decided to be a fox. The costume, I have to admit, is pretty stinkin' cute. However...I'm also ashamed to say that I spent only *slightly* less money on the fox costume. The reason she wants to be a fox is because of this song:

She is also contemplating gathering some friends and creating a dance routine to this song and performing it at the school talent show later in the year. This is why I caved and bought my daughter a fox costume.

Back to Spyro. Owen was so excited to get this costume...he wanted to try it on right away. You see where this is going. Connor also had to try out his pirate stuff...and weapons in the hands of either boy always ends in disaster. The Spyro mask was on the couch...and I'm not sure what prompted the act of violence. Perhaps the boys were arguing? Or maybe Connor was just testing the strength of his sword, not thinking it would actually do damage? The sword came down...and the mask cracked...into several pieces.

I should have known better, and put the costumes up somewhere safe until Halloween. I just thought I would let them try them on for a few minutes...and a few minutes was all it took to ruin Halloween for Owen. We then began the search for a Spyro mask. Apparently, unless you order one online, you cannot buy just the mask anywhere. Luckily Bruce found a mask on Amazon, and ordered it promptly...which brought the total cost to just over $40 for a Halloween costume...for a five-year-old.

I'm pretty sure that Owen will be Spyro for Halloween for the next three years. If he doesn't want to be Spryo...that's okay...he can be a fox. (The fox costume is actually a dress with leggings...but it's okay...I'll convince him it's a Scottish fox.)

Super Glue, Duct Tape and Public Nudity

I was hoping over the summer I would have more time to update my blog. As it turns out, having five children around you every.waking.minute does not give you any real opportunity to sit down and write. Well, I could have written, but I don't think it would have been very coherent. My typical day anymore seems to involve breaking up arguments, cleaning up accidents (of all varieties,) watching the food disappear in the house at an alarming rate, and covering my ears with my hands while singing, "LA LA LA LA LA...I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" These are in my better moments.

I was actually starting to think, now that the kids are getting older, will there be much for me to blog about? The boys will be turning five in September...FIVE. They will be starting Kindergarten. No more babies. No more toddler antics. Just when I thought maybe I've run out of content...the SEVENTEEN-year-old managed to super glue Connor's Angry Birds piggy bank...to my kitchen counter. In his defense, he was trying to fix part of the piggy bank for his little brother that had broken off...but how he managed to get super glue all over the piggy bank, therefore cementing it to the counter...is beyond me.

The Angry Bird's butt now firmly a part of the counter.

The antics are not purely limited to teenagers. I think our entire family manages to entertain both the instructors and students at Tae Kwon Do. This cycle involves using a bo staff. During class, we were practicing our strikes on the bags, when suddenly a loud "crack" came from Bruce's direction. He literally snapped off the end of his bo staff. I did a face palm, shook my head, and proceeded to (more gently) strike my own bag. Suddenly..."CRACK." My bo staff split right in the middle. The instructor decided that perhaps the class should move on to the next segment of class. Bruce was able to get a replacement bo staff...mine has been fixed with duct tape. 

Our family also amuses Donatello.

Even getting ice cream is still an adventure with this family. We decided to take all of the kids down to the local ice cream stand. This was after I had driven my mom across the state to take her back home, so Bruce was responsible for taking the little ones to Irelynn's friend's birthday party. Apparently during the party, Owen had an accident, so he was going commando under his pants. I want to stop right here to say how lucky I am to have a husband willing to take three small children to a birthday party at the house of someone he doesn't even know. I can only imagine him trying, by himself, to gather the kids to leave...and then deal with Owen's accident. So, anyway, after the party, he picked up the teenagers from the mall, and met me back at the house (I had just gotten back.) We went down to the ice cream place and sat at the tables outside, enjoying our cones. Well, most of us sat at the tables. Inevitably, the younger ones get up and run around. Owen was the culprit this time...not only running around, but deciding to try and climb on the fence at the side. I turned to look, and there was my son...hanging from the fence...with his pants around his ankles. Facing traffic on a major street. Again...the kid was not wearing anything under the pants...so his pasty bottom was glaring in the sunlight. 

After attending to the child, he decided to run around some more, causing a few more episodes of public nudity...and then him tripping and landing, face first, into a wooden bench. We cleaned him up, with me going back and forth on whether it warranted a hospital trip (I was reassured that mouth injuries heal quickly and he was probably fine.) He did end up with a very fat lip, but I think the only real damage that took place was to his ego.

I see that my daughter keeps peering around the corner at me...through binoculars. I guess my writing time is up. Hopefully once school starts I will have more time to update my blog. The kids, for the first time, will all be in school all day. While the thought of that conjures up images of me dancing around the house, taking long naps, going to the bathroom in peace, and reading books that involve plot lines that don't rhyme or involve barnyard animals...I'm pretty sure that this will be a pivotal point in my life. I will have to figure out what it is that I actually want to do...like...enter the REAL WORLD. I'm pretty sure my dusty Communications degree will not be so significant now that I've been out of the workforce for ten years...and all of that great video technology I learned back in the day would be deemed archaic now. I suppose I have some time to figure things out. Now I guess I should focus on the child who just threw his bedtime Pull-Up at his brother.

Baking Disasters, Birds, and Bubble Pop

Why is it that every time I attempt to be all Martha Stewart-y, things go terribly wrong? Even when I actually do things right (or almost right)...inevitably something has to go wrong.

I tried to make homemade bread...for two reasons, really: one, I have just always wanted to make homemade bread, and two, we are extremely short on cash over the next few days. I found a recipe on Pinterest, and *almost* followed the directions (I had to use more whole-wheat flour than called for because I didn't have enough all purpose flour. And I didn't use enough warm water to dissolve the yeast.) The bread didn't rise like it should have...and we ended up with sort of a mini-loaf of bread. Which, although disappointing, wasn't a disaster...it still tasted okay. In fact, it must have tasted pretty good...because after leaving it to cool on the back of the counter, we walked in to find this:

Onyx obviously approved of the bread. I also learned (only took twice) to put any food in the microwave/oven/cabinet now to avoid doggy disappearing tricks. My second loaf (which looks MUCH better,) is now cooling...in the microwave.

My other attempt at a project was to put up a bird feeder, as requested by Irelynn. We bought the feeder, and a pole with hooks, to assemble and put up in the yard. We also had a little bird house that she had painted a few years ago to hang from the pole. We came home, and I attempted to put it up in the yard. I soon realized that they tell you to use a rubber mallet for a reason. I used a regular hammer to bang the bottom section of the pole into the ground. I'm sure you can imagine what happened next: I bent the metal, rendering it impossible to put the next section on top. I tried re-banging it into place. I tried forcing it together. I cut my hand. I shed some tears. I (somewhat loudly) discussed the pole's family background. Irelynn watched me from the window, and came outside to tell me, "it's okay, Mommy. It just won't work...you tried...don't cry, Mommy." Which, of course, made me cry MORE.

Later I went back out to try again. Somehow, the gods must have been smiling down at me, I managed to get the stupid thing together. We filled the feeder with bird seed and waited. And waited. A few days went by with no birds. Then a big storm came through, and knocked the whole thing down. We finally put it back up...and eventually...the birds came. The kids are so excited...which makes it all worth it in the end.

The latest disaster was not of my doing...at least, not intentionally. Bruce called me from work the other day, wanting to know if I would bring the boys and meet him for lunch down by his office. The boys were excited, and we met him there and walked down to a little restaurant nearby. The boys were behaving, for the most part, outside of Connor giggling loudly about a whoopie cushion he brought. We ordered our food, and Bruce took Owen to the restroom (he actually informed us that he had to go potty...which is good, because we've been having issues lately.)

Our food arrived, and suddenly Owen decided he wasn't hungry. He told me his belly hurt...and he had to go potty again. You know that feeling you get when you just *know* your kid is about to be sick? I remained calm and focused on getting him to the restroom...we almost made it...we got just outside the door...and then it happened. He spewed all over the carpet. A woman and her kid at a nearby table looked over at us. Connor had followed us, and stepped in the puddle.

"Connor...I need you to go get Daddy."

"But I want to stay with you. What's wrong with Owen? OOOOHHHHH...OWEN THREW UP!"

"Yes, Connor, and I NEED you to go get Daddy!"

After much coaxing, he went back to the table, and I grabbed several paper towels to try and mop up what I could, as Owen sat down on the toilet and continued to have an explosion from the other end. Bruce came back with the waitress, who had a mop, and I tried to apologize profusely as Owen's butt was making the loudest noises I have ever heard.

After he was finished, we waited while the waitress boxed up all of our food, and added a can of Vernors to the bag for the sick boy.

As soon as we left, he perked up and seemed to feel fine. We got home and he ate his lunch, and drank his "bubble pop." As far as he was concerned, he had the best day ever because he was the only child to get "bubble pop." I'm glad the day turned out okay for someone.

Unfortunately, that was not the end of the sickness...it is steadily going through the family. The good thing is, I have a wonderful loaf of bread cooling right now (it actually looks great,) there are several birds hanging out at our bird feeder, and the next time I can get away to the store, I will stock up on "bubble pop." And beer. Definitely beer.

Turkey Basters and Ramen Soup

Sometimes I think Owen was put on Earth for comic relief. Not my own comic relief, but perhaps someone else's.

My husband asked me to buy a turkey baster because our lawn mower isn't working, and he thought he might need it when trying to fix it...I'm not sure what he's going to do with it, but I generally don't ask when it comes to those things. So, we have this turkey baster lying around the house, which for some reason, is a fascinating object for children. Irelynn carried it around and would aim it at people's faces and blow out air at them. Connor used it as a drumstick. Owen put it down his pants.

"Owen...do NOT put the turkey baster down your pants." A phrase I never thought I'd be saying, ever.

I could probably fill a book with phrases that I have uttered throughout motherhood that I never thought I would say:

"Owen, stop pretending your butt is a guitar."

"We do NOT throw poop at walls!!"

"The plunger is NOT a toy."

"Stop shooting the cat!"

Oddly enough, most of the phrases were directed at Owen...or a combination of Owen and another child.

The turkey baster was actually the more tame part of the day. The oldest girl came home in a mood that made the dog cower and her siblings try to steer clear. I'm not sure what happened at school that day, but I pity the fool who pissed her off.

While she was storming through the house, I was trying to figure out an early dinner because we had two Tae Kwon Do classes that night (Irelynn takes the older kids class, followed by the boys' Tiny Tigers class.) We had to be ready and out the door by 6pm. I decided to grill some turkey burgers. I seasoned them, and walked away for a moment, to see what the boys were doing. They were occupied by the old Nintendo downstairs, and Jay was with Irelynn on the neighbor's trampoline...okay...all kids accounted for, and busy. I turn back to the burgers to find Onyx...paws on the counter...EATING THE RAW BURGERS.

"ONYX!!!!  Bad dog! NO!!!"

Jay and Irelynn walked in the back door...both of them sans shirt.

"Irelynn...where is your shirt?!"

"I took it off. It was hot out there. Besides, Jay took HIS off..."

Thoughts of creepy neighbor guys watching from their windows drift into my mind, and I explain to her that she is getting old enough now that it is not appropriate for girls to take off their shirts outside. I really didn't think I'd have to have that conversation yet.

Back to dinner. I call Bruce to whine about the dog, and we decide that I should just make some Ramen soup, and that he and I could eat a salad. Okay. Oh, and he mentioned that he was running late because his boss called and requested something. Perfect.

So, we somehow got through dinner, got kids in uniforms, and got out the door on time.

Irelynn has informed me that tonight she wrote "spaghetti" on the menu calendar. Perhaps I should have a back-up plan, just in case. As long as it doesn't require the use of a turkey baster, I think we'll be fine...

Adventures with Onyx

I don't always run away...but when I do, I pee on the neighbor's garden gnome.

My dog is usually pretty laid back, very friendly, and fairly obedient. He seems happy to be inside, playing with his toys or laying on someone's lap (even if he's crushing them.) Once in awhile, though, he wants to run.  As hard as we try to not let him slip out without a leash, inevitably he will spot a chance when a young child opens the back door. Then nothing can stop him. His ears flopping in the wind, he sprints back to the woods...through the neighbors' yards, and circles around again. Usually he will come back when we call him...but today he decided to go on an adventure.

Luckily car rides outrank trail blazing right now...by a small margin...and we were able to coax him into the van. This has made me more desperate, however, to fence in our backyard. We would have done it already if it wasn't for the fact that we live in a community that has a Home Owners Association. You cannot just build a fence on your property. You have to jump through hurdles and present the right materials or the board members stand there like Gandalf..."YOU SHALL NOT PASS." 

So, in the meantime, my furry little hobbit dog will be taking us on many more adventures, I'm sure. I just hope I don't receive a letter from the association regarding my frolicking mutt. I'm sure the same people who will only allow certain kinds of fence materials, properly painted porches and exterior lighting to remain on all night would not approve of my dog's friendly exploration. 

Hopefully they will approve of my latest submission of plans...which will require us to put the fence up ourselves, because after material cost, we can't afford to pay someone else to do it. 

I am anticipating a "fence raising party" by the end of the summer. We shall celebrate having a small amount of privacy...and the end of our dog's adventures. No word yet on whether the Tooks or Brandybucks will be in attendance.

A Letter To My Dad

Dear Fodder,

I was thinking about you today, as I often do when I eat M&M's, drink diet soda, or wish the beer I was drinking was actually a Mohave Red. Or Lobotomy Bock.

Owen asks about you. I showed him pictures...and I think he understands, but I'm not sure that he does. He is sad that he never met you. He reminds me of you at times...his sense of humor, his blue eyes that sparkle, and his love of Star Wars.

I wonder what you would say to me now if you could see my life...to see that I ended up with twins, AFTER having three kids (which I'm sure you thought I was crazy to have at the time.) It doesn't seem like it was that long ago that I flew out to California with my brother to say good-bye...it feels like yesterday. The phone call still echoes in my mind: "your father's dead." I remember dropping the phone. I remember kissing my baby, Irelynn, and hugging the older kids, knowing that it would be the first time I wasn't there for their first day of school...and the first time I was away from my baby for that long.

You held Irelynn when she was 3-months old. She will be 7-years-old in two days. You would smile if you could see her...she's very smart, and creative...like you. She has your wit.

You would be appalled by our vehicles. They are dirty and due for oil changes. There are random Cheerios and possibly old french fries hidden between the seats. I am not organized like I used to be...our house is in a  state of chaos at all times. I haven't labeled binders with our videos in alphabetical order. I still can't play chess. And my college degree is gathering dust somewhere in the basement. I'm hardly the person you dreamed I would become.

I think, though, that you would be proud of me. If you could see...and know...your grandchildren, I think you would be proud. That's the one great accomplishment I can claim.

I wonder if you were alive today if you would be on Facebook. I think your posts would be hilarious. Sometimes I imagine what you would say if you read mine.

I know it's not much...I think my religious path is similar to your's...but I do think about you.  Every time I see a crow. Every time I see a movie with a scene filmed in front of Vasquez Rocks. And every time I look into Owen's eyes.

I miss you...and though we weren't always great at saying it to each other...I love you.

Love,
Dodder

The Garbage Collector

My oldest child used to collect seashells.  He had a pretty decent collection.  My next child collected stuffed animals...and had a name and background for each one (which was pretty impressive, considering she had around fifty stuffed animals.)  Irelynn used to collect shells.  Then she collected rocks.  She even collected bottle caps for a brief time.  Now my child has started a new collection...trash.

At first I was impressed by her creativity and penchant for going "green."  She wants to recycle everything into art projects.  Pizza boxes, sucker sticks, pudding cups, wrappers...she somehow finds a reason to save each and every one.

Now, as people who have known me for several years know...this kind of behavior bothers me. Greatly. I have overcome many of my anal tendencies after having several kids and realizing that there is just no way you can remain anal with five kids. You would drive yourself insane. I do still go in spurts, though, and randomly declutter the house, rendering my family speechless.  I also have resigned to merely cringing when the children put things back in the "wrong" place, instead of immediately moving it back to where I feel it should go.  I wouldn't say I've reached a zen-like acceptance level, but I have come a long way.

Until now.

As I was cleaning the kitchen, and Irelynn was quickly removing items from the garbage that I had just disposed of, my eye began to twitch. I tried to be reasonable, and let her keep some items. I tried to take deep breaths as I saw her "collection" pile up in her bedroom. I was reaching the end of my rope, though.

The other day she wanted to fish out all of the unpopped kernels from the bowl of popcorn my husband made.

"WHY??" I felt the eye twitch coming on.

"I want to save them until the summer so I can try to plant them.  Or I can glue them to paper and make a cool picture."

She also wanted to save the wrapper to Owen's Star Wars sucker...for an art project.

I don't remember what item it was that made me snap...the burger wrapper? The empty cat treat bag? The cardboard toilet paper roll?

"Just throw it AWAY!!  It is GARBAGE!  You are NOT keeping anymore GARBAGE! Go collect normal things...like coins, or shells, or even the stupid Obama trading cards your dad collects!  JUST NO MORE TRASH!!"

Yesterday she told me she wants to start collecting the Magic Tree House books. I think I can live with that.

Happy Endings

Tonight is one of those nights where I am thankful for good friends, long phone conversations with my mother, and having some peace and quiet after finally putting children in bed.  Oh...and alcohol.  I'm very thankful for alcohol.

I can't pinpoint the moment things started to go downhill...but I do remember the moment I realized that the evening was not going to get any better.  Bruce called to tell me he would be working late tonight.  This meant that I would have to take care of kids, homework, dinner, getting them (and myself) ready for Tae Kwon Do, and getting to and from the martial arts building...with five kids.  I tried to mentally prepare myself...which never goes well because I've been through this enough to know that things will not go well.

Homework ended in arguments between the teenagers because one asked the other one for help.  The helper was not very nice, and the helpee retaliated with some creative, yet derogatory name-calling.  While that was happening, Irelynn began crying.  She cried for the next hour, for various reasons:  Owen used all the blankets to make his tent, she used a permanent marker on a maze and messed up, people were staring at her, and she lost her pencil.  Connor began crying because he stole Owen's blanket Snoopy...so Owen hit him with a light saber.

I decided that I was going to forego making dinner (which involved prepping vegetables and had several ingredients,) and opted for pizza.  I did not want the same battle that we had the night before when I tried to feed my children orange-glazed fish and a beans and rice dish.

Dinner was chaos as the kids had not eaten food like this in awhile (I have been on a kick lately experimenting with healthy dishes.)  The kitchen turned into the set of "The Hobbit," where five starving children hoarded pieces of pizza and breadsticks as though they would never eat again...I think I even heard one of them talking to the pizza, calling it, "Precious..."

Then, Owen yelled.  Why he yelled, I'm not sure, but what he yelled was, "DAMMIT!"

Connor then responded, "MOO-oom...Owen said 'DAMMIT.'"

Before I could reply, Irelynn piped up.

"Oh yeah?  Guess what Brendan said in class today?  He said, 'shut the f-u-c-'...."

"OKAY.  THAT'S ENOUGH."  I cut her off, but not soon enough.

"What?  I was spelling it so the boys wouldn't know."

After dinner the teenagers promptly disappeared.  The three younger ones started feeling the effects of the soda they drank with dinner, and all chaos ensued.  Owen began chasing the dog with a Nerf gun.  Connor started jumping on the couch.  I told Connor to sit down, and then went into the kitchen to see the dog...on the counter...eating breadsticks.

"ONYX!!  NO!"  And then glass broke behind me.  I turned around to see a pink snow boot laying next to the glass dish from my oil burner...on the floor next to me.

"Oops."

Irelynn had kicked off her boot, which went through the living room, over the counter, into the kitchen, and knocked down the oil burner.

At this point I decided that we would skip Tae Kwon Do tonight and I would just put kids to bed early.  I called my mom, who is always great at making me feel better, when I heard a knock at my door.  I was thinking, "uh oh...now what?"

I opened the door to find my good friend standing there...with a bag full of Smirnoff Ice.

"I read your Facebook post and decided I needed to come over."

The kids are now in bed, and the house is quiet.  And I am toasting my Smirnoff to good friends and skipping class (which I don't normally condone...but in this case, I'm glad I did.)

Perhaps I should watch "The Lord of the Rings"...and reheat some pizza for "second dinner."

Valentine's Day

Irelynn, my six-year-old, brought home a letter for me that she wrote in school.  Instead of telling you about it, I will just post a picture:

  In case you can't read it, it says:

"Dear Mom,
You are my valentine. Did you now i love you so moch?  More then anething exept JB! Owen looks like he's five or six right mommy?
love your chield
sencerlly Irelynn"

For anyone who doesn't know, JB stands for "Justin Bieber."  She is completely obsessed with him, and I will take it as an extreme honor to be loved more than anything EXCEPT Justin Bieber.  And yes, Owen is looking older these days.

Allowance Day

I have decided that it is time to get the younger kids to help out more at home.  My goal is to at least get them to pick up their own toys...and not poop in their pants.  I would say that is another story, but I have actually included "going pee and poop in the potty" as one of the daily chores for the boys on their new chore charts.  Unfortunately, I did not think that one through...the first time they use the potty they will happily check off that chore...and then later in the day have an "accident."  I use the term "accident" loosely, as they are now four years old and perfectly capable of making it to the bathroom on time.  As you can probably tell...I'm getting very frustrated with the potty-training thing, envisioning my boys accepting their high school diplomas in Pull-Ups, and have succumbed to pure bribery in an attempt to put an end to accidents.  I am literally paying them to poop in the proper place.

But I digress.  Back to chores and an actual allowance.  I've gone back and forth on the idea of allowance for years.  On one hand, I understand the benefit of teaching children to earn and spend their own money.  On the other hand, I also think that they should be expected to help out and be a part of the family...without the need to pay them to do so.  As you can probably guess, that hasn't been working so well.  Chores rarely get done...and when they do, it's only part way and often times somehow manages to make more work for me in the end.  I'm determined to change things...I have five children...I should be able to expect some help around the house, even if it means I have to pay them, right?

Irelynn is very excited.  She helped me create the chore charts.  She does all of her chores and then asks if she can do more.

Connor and Owen are excited, too.  The like to color all over their chore charts and sometimes erase Irelynn's chores.  They like brushing their teeth (one of the chores.)  They do not like picking up their toys.  This is usually a battle as one won't do it if the other one isn't "doing his part."  They pick up one toy and want to go mark it off on the chart.  And then go brush their teeth again.

Somehow we muddled through this week...and though they didn't do everything perfectly, I decided to award all of the kids allowance just to give them incentive to do better next week with the warning that NEXT time they need to actually do all of their chores.  I gave Irelynn two dollars.  She proudly carried them around, waving them in the air.  Then she lost one.

The boys wanted to know how much a dollar was (they each received one.)  Then Connor wanted to know who the funny-looking guy was on his dollar.  I finally told them to go put their money someplace safe.  Then Owen came up to me, crying.

"Connor ripped my dollar!"  He held up two pieces of a one dollar bill.

Connor just grinned.  I then made him give Owen HIS dollar.

That evening I put to bed two unhappy kids.  Owen was fine, because in the end, he had a dollar.  I didn't have the heart to explain to him that his dollar was not, in fact, going to buy another Wii game.  Connor was crying because he felt that ripping Owen's dollar was not just cause for taking away his dollar.  Irelynn was devastated that she worked so hard for her money and then lost it. (We did find it the next day, so all is currently well.)

I obviously have a lot to learn about children and allowance.  This was an epic Mommy Fail.  And I don't even have a clean house to show for it.  Perhaps I should start more simple by keeping envelopes or jars or something for each kid that I keep track of...or just forget it and give the boys chocolate coins for allowance.    

I wonder if I can still spend it if I tape the dollar back together.  If so, it is totally going into the beer fund.

Look Out, Jackie Chan...

We have signed our family up for Tae Kwon Do.  The whole family.  We thought it would be a great idea for exercise, discipline, and to just have something we could all learn and do together.  The kids were all very excited, (outside of the teenage girl, who went back and forth between being very excited to hating us for "forcing" her to do a sport.)  Our oldest was starting at a yellow belt because he had taken it before...and has made sure we are all well aware of his skills.

The youngest three take class very seriously.  Irelynn is a proud Tiny Tiger, and tries to execute every move with precision.  She has earned several stars in class already.  What Owen lacks in skill, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm and charm.  He has charmed his way into earning stars after class is over...even though his front kicks involve running forward, kicking so hard he nearly lands on his bottom, and letting out a warrior yell each time.  I'm not sure Irelynn appreciates that he can flash the instructor one of his smiles and convince her that he deserves a star, too.

(Owen and Connor taking the moves seriously)

(Irelynn taking it seriously, Owen and Connor not so much)

Bruce and I are taking the adult class with the older kids.  The class is very physically challenging for us older out-of-shape people.  Honestly, I think I can do the forms much better than the warm-up, which involves jumping jacks and push ups.  However, I did have a shining moment when it came time to spar.  I had to go against our oldest son, neither of us having any protective gear.  He was trying to look impressive, sending kicks toward my head and starting each move with a stance that looked like something out of a Kung Fu movie.  After the third kick toward the head, I got irritated and grabbed his leg, mid-air, and tripped his standing leg, bringing him to the ground.  Twice I ended up taking him down, and the instructor said (quite loudly, I might add,) "Dude...your mom's kicking your ASS!"  Damn straight.

Better yet was the fact that apparently the instructors all thought this was pretty funny...the next class we went to another instructor came up and said that he heard I had "kicked his ass."  Poor Jay.  I think he took it all in stride...for the most part, anyway.

We will be testing for our next belts at the end of the month.  Hopefully that will go well, and I won't find Owen trying to charm his instructor after testing.  I'm still waiting for the instructor to correct Connor at the end of class, where the class is supposed to say, "Sabum-nim, Kam-sa-ham-ni-da."  Connor says, "Sabun-nim, Feliz Navidad."

Of course, the instructors are probably more concerned about the time Owen peed on the mat in the middle of class.  Or the time Connor licked the windows while waiting for us to order gear in the office.  Or that the mother of this family of seven takes out her aggression on her children during sparring...

Candy, Puppies and Pee

I have three glorious hours with no children Tuesday through Friday, as the boys are into their second year of preschool.  I would like to tell you that I spend this time being constructive...cleaning or organizing.  I would even like to tell you I spend this time selfishly...sleeping or reading.  However, due to the new baby in the house, I have been pretty busy.  Onyx, (don't worry...it is a puppy, not another child that I let my husband name,) is a ball of fuzz with eyes that melt you into forgiving him for pooping in the laundry room...and then eating the poop.

Halloween was cold and rainy, leaving us with plenty of leftover candy.  Bailey and Onyx have been taking advantage of this fact.

Bailey will grab suckers from the bowl...and bat them down to the floor.

Then Onyx will unwrap the sucker...and lick it.

Needless to say, the candy has been moved.  I wasn't smart enough to move it, however, until about the third sucker.  

Luckily he has been good about going in his crate when I have to go pick the boys up from school...because I'm not sure I could have handled coming home to something disgusting after the boys showed me their project from school today.  The letter of the week is "H," so they do various activities that incorporate the letter and letter sound.  I would describe the project...but I think it would be best to just post a picture:

Yes...those are "Hairy H's."  No, I do not know where they got the hair from...and I'm not sure I want to know.  I think that these might skip the refrigerator and go straight to the circular file.  

I thought that this might be the most unsettling thing I would encounter today...but as anyone with children knows, never, ever think that things could not get worse.

I walked down the hallway, talking to my mother on the phone, and noticed a puddle on the floor...that looked like it was coming from under the door to the bathroom.  My first thought was puppy pee.  Upon closer inspection, I realized that even the puppy could not pee that much...and the door was closed, and I could tell the light was on in the bathroom.  I knocked on the door.  Owen answered.

"Mommy...my pee came out."

"In the potty?"

"No...on the floor."

I tried to open the door, but it was locked.  

"Owen...," I said, "open the door."

"I can't...it's locked."

"Can you unlock it?"

"Um, no."

My mom asked if I needed to go, trying not to laugh.  I told her good-bye, and tried to convince Owen that he could unlock the door.  I finally gave up, and ran to look for the little metal key that unlocks all the doors in the house.  In the meantime, Owen was getting frantic.

"MOMMY!!!  I CAN'T GET OUT!!  MY PEE-PEE IS ON MY FEET!"

I finally found the key, and opened the door, to see Owen standing in the middle of his puddle of pee.  

"Just...stay there.  Hold on...don't go anywhere!"  I was imagining wet footprints up and down the hallway.

As I ran to find some paper towels, I heard a crash.  I ran back to find Owen sitting in his puddle of pee.

"Mommy, I slipped on my pee!"

Onyx came running around the corner to see what the fuss was about and skidded across the floor...and into the wall.  Before I could catch him, he was already running off, leaving little pee paw prints all over the kitchen floor.  

I'm not sure which is worse to clean...a puppy or a preschooler.  

I definitely think I will be taking a nice, long bath tonight as I try not to think about hairy H's and puddle-skating puppies.  

Fractured

I  have managed to survive the summer.  I'm not sure how...some of it is actually kind of a blur...but I am here, and another school year has begun.

There are several things I could write about...so much has happened.  I could write about how we got a new puppy.  Or how the other day, when I had the puppy outside, the boys locked me out of the house.  I could write about many of the boys' antics...but I think I will take a moment to write about something more serious.  Something that has been weighing heavily on my mind, and something I have not written about before.  While those close to me know that the older two kids are not biologically mine, most people either think that I look young for my age...or probably, more likely, that I got pregnant at sixteen.  The older two have been in our custody for several years now, due to abuse and neglect on their biological mother's part.  While we try not to remember the past...there are always echoes and shadows...things that cannot be erased.  The biggest lesson I have learned throughout raising children is that those former years really are the most important...everything you do and say leaves imprints.  Some wounds do not heal.

When Marissa was little she had blond hair that would curl at the ends.  She had big, blue eyes, and perfect little lips.

"You are my 'Rissa, my only 'Rissa
You make me happy, when sky's are gray.
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.
Please don't take...my 'Rissa...away."

I remember singing that to her.  She called me her "Mo Mo," because her mother would hit her if she called me "Mom."  Whenever we had to send her back to their mother's house...I would silently sing that song to myself.  I kept a binder, filled with notes and pictures, throughout the custody battle.  I would cry every time they came home with another story that they couldn't tell Daddy, because Mama warned them not to talk.

I remember crying myself to sleep every night...wondering what it would take before the children would be taken away from that situation.  How far would things go before the court decided that, hey, maybe that house isn't safe after all?

Please don't take my 'Rissa away.

They finally did get taken away...from their bio mom.  I was overcome with relief.  They were safe now.  They had two parents who loved them, and would protect them.  Everything would get better.  What I didn't realize is how much that would affect who they would become, and how they would deal with life.  I feel like those years fractured them...and I scramble to gather all the pieces...to glue them together...but I've never really been good at putting things back together.

She took my 'Rissa away.

The little girl that is now turning into a woman is angry.  She's angry at the world...and I don't blame her.  She's angry at me.  I try to be strong, and put up a wall to protect myself from the hurt...but it's difficult.  She doesn't know about everything we went through.  She doesn't know that I fell in love with her and her brother before I even fell in love with her daddy.  She thinks my words now are hollow.  Her words are filled with hatred.

I look at my younger three and hope that someday they will understand why their older siblings are upset all the time.  I hope that they will always know our love, and never have to feel that way.  I wish the older two would accept our love...and not feel that way ever again.

Hold your children.  Tell them "I love you," every single day.  Even when they are old enough to roll their eyes...because they need to know and feel that love.  I just hope, that maybe when they are adults, all those eye rolls will be worth it because they will have realized, all along, how much they were loved.  Until then, I need to brace myself...I need to ride out the storm.

Hopefully one day the skies will clear...and on the other side, I will find my 'Rissa again.

I will always wait for her.