Gramma's Fitted Sheets

Coming out of a strange and wonky, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year, we were left with little in the way of personal possessions.  This has been quite tolerable since we kind of prefer the minimalist life anyway and you'd be surprised at how much you do NOT need.  But we were down to one set of sheets for our bed (mis matched of course: a flowery fitted sheet and a solid color flat sheet.  And a squillion pillow cases.  I guess I was worried that I'd have a squillion kids who needed to go trick or treating or something).  And those sheets were ...well, threadbare.

Okay, I totally just thought of a hilarious story involving my grand mother.  She was a young bride and very shy.  She was setting up housekeeping and needed some sheets.  I guess they didn't come in sets back then (this would have been in the fifties) and she was specifically in need of a fitted sheet.  She couldn't find them in the department store and so she had to ask.  Did I mention she was shy?  She found a sales lady and peeped,

"Do you have any fitted sheets?"


Only she didn't say fitted sheets.  She mixed up the consonants in the last two words.

She was so mortified, she ran out of the store and never got her sheets.  To this day, my mom, sister and I cheerfully refer to fitted sheets as !@#! @#$T%&.

Okay, back to the original story.

&^$%@!!!

So, hubby and I got into a conversation about sheets and thread count.  He decided our sheets - which you probably could read a novel right through - had a thread count of two.  One for him and one for me.  Hahahahahaha!  Next to his warm panini press legs, I married him for his sense of humor.  

So we've been keeping our eye out for new sheets.  But I'm too cheap to buy any.  And I actually kind of like super well worn sheets anyway.  Ironically, I get this from my gramma!

Wait.  She probably didn't really like them.  She was just scared to replace them.  I just figured that out!  I probably need a series of detective novels written about me.  Also, an action figure.

But anyway, Hubby texted me from work the other day.

Hey, babe, Obie is going to the Sportsman Show and they have 1200 count sheets for twenty bucks!  Want him to pick us up a set?

Ummm...no.  Not really.  Do I want some guy named Obie to buy me sheets at a Sportsman Show?

Call me old fashioned.

Hey, maybe some guy named Juan could run out and buy me some Always Overnights with Wings at the dollar store!
And some dude named Butch could grab me some pantyhose at the Super Walmart!
And some man named Carlos could snag me a bra while he's at Freddie's!

Heck, I'll never leave my house again!  I'll just get strange men to buy me the bare necessities of life and deliver them to me while I lounge in yoga pants and eat bon-bons! 

Sadly, I turned down the generous offer made by my husband and his shopping pal and now I can't find a better deal.  Actually, I can't find 1200 count sheets at all.  Ross and TJ Maxx - my two main haunts - don't have anything over 400, and they're more than twenty bucks.  But I'll never admit it to him or to Obie.

$^%#$%!!

Donna Reed and Anna

Little Rooski is trying these days to become more independent.  Typically, she likes independence about as much as she likes mushrooms, which is about as much as her Aunt Laryssa likes mushrooms, which is about as much as you could fit inside a pixie's thimble.  If ever you wanted to.  Rooski doesn't like mushrooms, independence, responsibility, school, cleanliness, finishing a book, finishing a book report, finishing anything, or squash.  She does like hot wings, shopping, quality time, graciously allowing her mother to read to her, creepy things, doll houses, bohemian hippy skirts, tie-dye, and accessories.  But this story is about her growing up just a little.

When you're a mom you no longer get to do anything by yourself.  You're never ever EVER lonely.  So that's a good thing.  But when you're trying to do alone type things, this can actually be a detriment.  Apparently I've really been a bear lately when it comes to having five seconds per day alone in the bathroom because suddenly at least one out of three of my gremlins have been attempting to not establish contact with me during those five seconds.  This is unusual and makes me alternate between giddiness and suspicion.

Giddy, as in:  wahooo!  there's soap in my eyes and no one is hollering bloody murder!  I feel giddy!

Suspicious, as in:  hang on a second...why is it so quiet?  have my gremlins been kidnapped by ax murderers or are they just eating a bag of sugar?

But this morning as I was enjoying my five seconds, Anna decides she has a hankering for a strawberry smoothie.  Now normally she'd hint around, cajole, wheedle, and then hand me the blender.  Or her sister.  Then she'd skip merrily off to climb a tree or paint a picture or lovingly rearrange her collections of rocks and used gift tags, only to come back when her frosty beverage is ready for sipping.

But this particular morning her big sis wasn't home and I was attempting a shower.  (Most people actually take showers, mommies just attempt them most of the time).  My super deluxe 'Spidy Sense ears could hear the conversation going on between her and her brother (because I'm listening for ax murderers and the rustling of a bag of sugar).  It went like this.

"Okay, okay...blender...blender...where do we keep the blender?  Here's the top...bottom, bottom, oh here it is!  Okay...okay...ice...ice is - right! Ice in the freezer.  Okay.  Strawberry stuff.  Here it goes...Gianni!  Back up!  Back up, G!  You're making me spill!  Don't lick it!  Oooo, you are so gross!  No!  Give it back!  Make your own smoothie!  This is hard!  Okay...okay...why won't it turn on?  Gianni!  Come back!  Do you know how to work the blender?


Yup, the ten year old is asking the four year old for help with small appliances.  This runs in the family.  I ask the eleven year old for help with the printer on a daily basis.

Why won't it work??  No, don't get Mommy!  We're gonna figure this out, Batman.  We can do this.  I think my ice is melting.  Stop licking the floor!  Sheesh.  You're so weird.  Help me!  Ack!  Okay, it's working but it's really loud.  Why is it so loud?  Is it broken?  It's not crushing the ice.  It's so loud but it's still not blending it up right.  Is it?  I don't know.  This is hard.  No, don't get Mommy!  K, I'm gonna turn it on again.  Stop licking that!  It doesn't look right...does it look right?  Here.  You taste it!  Good?  Oh man, you spilled again!  It was too you!  You got in my way and made me spill!  For crying out loud, Gianni.  Fine.  Lick it up.  Now I have to start over.  This is so bad.  Aagh.  I don't want a smoothie anymore.


She's so cute.  I love her.  I hope her husband will love her.  And bring her smoothies and buys her silent blenders and doesn't lick the floor.  Her standards are very high thanks to her little brother and the bar he's set.  As an example, Rooski would prefer her suitors do not streak through the house and if they do streak through the house, she would prefer that they don't clench toy trucks between their cheeks.  Yes, those cheeks.  It's really not too much to ask.

Once upon a time the eldest child had a fit over math.  This was the fifth fit in as many days.  She was wearing her mother out.  Her mother was becoming adept at converting mixed numbers to improper factions, finding the LCDs, and converting back to mixed numbers (reduced).  The eldest was not.  There was shouting at the computer and a lot of smacking the mouse around, which the mom - although not condoning the behavior, did in fact understand, because the computer falls asleep after .3847 of inactivity, which is utterly maddening when you are either 1. trying to convert mixed numbers, or 2. write silly blogs.

So the day went south.

Far, far, deep south.

Where it's hot and sticky and everyone's tempers are hot and sticky.  Mom's hair began to frizz in the southern heat.

Mom was angry with the eldest, but the middler and the youngster paid the price because the eldest was too cranky to notice how cranky Mom was.  So the middler kept apologizing for her sister's behavior, her own behavior, her brother's behavior, the alignment of the stars, global warming, famine in Africa, and the price of oil.  This made Evil Mommy feel even more guilty, which in turn made her more Evil.

A trip to the library was in order.  Biographies on Maria Tallchief and Cleopatra had been planned but the gusto was gone.  The get up and go had got up and left.  The wind was knocked out of their sails by a cranky pre-teen who held them hostage with her spirit.

In order to soothe her savage Evil Homeschool Mom Beast she bought her children's love with a trip to McDonald's.

This doesn't happen often.  Not because she is holier than thou and only feed her offspring organic vegan bone marrow nuggets, but mostly because she is cheap.  And junk food, oddly, is not.

The guilt was so off the charts by then that she let the miniature humans order not off the dollar menu.   Her children didn't know there was such a thing.  A menu other than the dollar menu??  They still had to split one large soda though.  Thus, the arguing over rootbeer vs. blue Powerade.

The youngest had fun.  For about an hour.  Then some rotten little thug punched him in the gut in the slide and the fun was over.

It's all fun and games until someone gets punched in the gut by a troll.

He (youngest, not Troll Face Thug Boy) came back with a red face and those horrible tears that are too proud to drip down his face.  You know the ones.  The ones where the chin quivers and there's such a support of bravado but all he really wants to snuggle Mama and cry.

Older sisters and Mom held each other back from not whalloping the tar out of Thug Boy.

Youngest lost his socks.  There were finally tears.  You would have thought those stinky, no longer white, ratty socks had been passed down to him by a beloved ancestor.  Hearts were broken in the McDonald's playland today.  Heaving sobs.

Had to stop at the dollar store for poster board.  In order to balm the youngest's broken heart and soul, a glow stick was purchased.

He hates it.

Because it glows.

He doesn't want it to glow.

Mom put in her resignation.

And they all lived...  happily  ever after.

The end.

Are You A Homeschool Bully?

Originally published by Home Educating Family.  Reprinted by the author (that's me) with permission.

My uncle ordered popovers
from the restaurant's bill of fare.
And, when they were served,
he regarded them with a penetrating stare.
Then he spoke great words of wisdom
as he sat there on that chair:
"To eat these things," said my uncle,
"You must exercise great care.
You may swallow down what's solid,
but you must spit out the air!"
And as you partake of the world's bill of fare,
that's darned good advice to follow.
Do a lot of spitting out the hot air.
And be careful what you swallow.
~Theodore Seuss Geisel (Dr. Seuss), from a commencement address

One of the most popular reasons homeschooling parents choose to keep their children home – especially in this day and age – is to avoid the bullying and the peer pressure that inevitably comes with public schools.  We don’t want our children to experience that kind of abuse, especially on a daily basis.  Maybe some of us remember it ourselves and we shudder to think of our small sons and daughters being put through that type of pain and torment.

But there is another kind of bullying and peer pressure that is peculiar to homeschooling.  And I’m not talking about the kids. 

It’s us.  The moms.  The dads.

We have a tendency, don’t we, to bask in the glow that is our self righteousness that comes unbidden with our higher calling of homeschooling.  We don’t just look down our noses at our public schooling peers; we bully one another in various ways with our methods, our curricula, our doctrine, our schedule, our appearances, our marriages, our homes. 

Have you ever felt bullied by a fellow homeschooling mommy?  Have you ever bullied – however unintentionally – another homeschooling mommy?

I can’t speak for every homeschooling parent, but sometimes I can feel like the child spoken of in Ephesians 4:14:  I am tossed about here and there by every curricula wave and carried about by every wind of doctrinal homeschooling.  This week it’s Classical Education because that’s what all the “real” Christian homeschoolers do.  Next week it’s Unschooling because I met the neatest family at the park who do it that way.  Next month it’ll be a packaged curriculum everyone at Homeschool Group is raving about and if that doesn’t float my boat, then I’ll enroll them in the Homeschool Co-op (because all the cool kids go there).  Do we do this because we genuinely desire the best for our children and our families, or are we desperately seeking the approval of our own peers?

Homeschooling moms can be –dare I say it – competitive. Cut throat at times.  To the death.  We can be even worse than those feminist career woman we all shake our heads at when it comes to a strange sort of “I am Woman, hear me roar and watch me have it all” mentality. 

We want the homemade bread.  We want the perfect school room.  We want to be just like that other homeschool mom over there.  You know, the one who has it all together and whose kid’s don’t have yesterday’s jam still smeared in their hair? 

And we will throw one another under the bus to get there.

I think part of the curse of Eve was a propensity to gossip.  Can I prove this scripturally?  No, but I feel it in my bones.  Girls pop out of their mother’s wombs ready to chit-chat and there’s nothing more we love to chit-chat about then hearsay and rumors.  Sometimes we disguise this under Prayer Requests.  You know the ones:

Oh, before we hang up, Marg, remember to pray for Tammy.  Oh, you didn’t hear?  She’s just having the most difficult time homeschooling.  She just can’t stay organized.  I recommended that planner but I don’t know…Little June isn’t even reading yet.  Maybe she’s just not cut out for homeschooling.

Hi, there!  I just got done talking to Ruth; don’t forget to pray for her and her husband.  They’re really having trouble.  I told them to join that marriage class at church but you know them.  They never listen to advice.

So nice to see you!  Before you go, will you pray for Beth?  Yes, her kids are just running amuck these days and it’s like she doesn’t even see it.  I think she must be overwhelmed or something.  Maybe depressed.

I know I have to watch myself when it comes to prayer circles.  It’s so easy to twist my words and start mentioning things that I have no business speaking of, all in the guise of sanctified gossip, and all with the secret longing to make myself look smarter, holier, more confident…all to make the In-Crowd of Mommies like me more.  It’s no better on the bus or on the playground than it is in my living room.

Sometimes the bullying we are a part of is quite unintentional.  We don’t mean to pass judgment, but we can’t seem to help it.  Oh, you don’t use the Trivium? Oh, your kids aren’t starting Greek yet?  Doesn’t Sally play a musical instrument?

It’s all I can do this year – a tumultuous and trying year that seemed to last approximately fourteen years – to just concentrate on the Four Rs.  I’m not interested in Latin, I’m not signing up for violin, I don’t care if my kids ever learn Spanish, science is gravy and art is frosting.  If they can learn their math skills, read some great books, and print legibly than I’m having another cup of coffee and calling it a day.  Yes, your kids impress me with their knowledge of gnats or geometry or Shakespeare or the origin of the bean burrito, but I’m just not going to jump on that train right now.

I can’t speak for next year.

I heard about a new method I want to try.  All the cool homeschooling moms are doing it…

Milo

This is Milo.

By day, a mild mannered tea-cup chihuahua.  Protector of laps everywhere.  Fetcher of balls.  Neurotic.  Wuvable.

By night though (or early morning) he morphs into:

Savion Glover.

The world's best tap dancer.

The Valentine's Day Post

Late at night, when the kids are finally asleep, the lights are dimmed, the phone is off, the dishwasher is humming, the doors are locked, and I'm in bed with my husband, he whispers an insecure thought:


you only love me for my body.


Stop wiggling and get over here! I demand. 


No!  I'm more than just a hot body, you know! he hugs a pillow to his chest and effectively blocks my embrace.


No, you're not.  Quit fighting and give in!


*whimper*


Seriously, stop being so dramatic and give me what I want!


But...but...


No buts.  Come here.


And then I stick my freezing ice cold feet in the panini press that is my spouse's  legs.   Ahhhhh.  Then he says immmknottttjussupeeesameatunoihaffeelysanduhbraintooounoifweelsoust. which I think is something over the top like, I'm not just a piece of meat you know. I have feelings and a brain too, you know. I feel so used.  It's hard to understand him when his teeth are chattering and clanging together.  Even his teeth are melodramatic. 


We're good at this romance thing.  K, not so much.  Sometimes he tries to be romantic but I tend to kill it with sarcasm so we just eat some more leftovers and dvr something.  


On Valentine's Day, he spends his day in fear at work because he knows I said that it's just a hallmark holiday and he does NOT have to observe it, but of course, like any man he wonders if this is a test.  Am I serious?  Will he come home empty handed only to have me burst into tears?  


Last year at Mother's Day, he forgot to do anything.  When I mentioned it, his eyes got wide and he said, 
I thought you said it was just a hallmark holiday, riddled with commercialism?  


That's Valentine's.  Not Mother's Day.  Do I need to go over the birth stories with you again?


Sometimes he gets a little twitchy and gets this haunted look on his face.  I don't know why. 


I think I'll get myself a pair of fuzzy socks for his Valentine's present.  And you said I wasn't the romantic type!  Pshaw!  Take that, Cupid, you ornery little bugger! 


But he better not bring me flowers cuz that's a waste of money.  Plus I will kill them posthaste.  And my hips don't need chocolate.  And I only like the funny cards, not the mooshy ones.  But it has to be the BEST funny card.  The one you find after you've read each and every one at the store.  It's probably just best if I find my own card actually.  


Happy Half-Off Candy Eve, everyone!  God bless us everyone.  Amen.  


P.S.
I was only kidding about the chocolate.   

Why getting my four year old - going on twenty - dressed is the worst part of my day:

worse than exploding poop

worse than colic

worse than nothing to read.


Note:  I haven't had any exploding poopy diapers in a couple years and none of my kids had colic so my perception may be skewed.  




I love toddlers.  Love their squishy, cookie scented faces.  Love their Cheerio breath.  Love their dirty paws and tear stained, drippy eyeballs.  Love their attention spans of gnats and their tear-free shampoo locks of love.  And when they're little - leave em where you put em kinda little - they're dang fun to dress.  But once they develop motor skills and a sense of independence, my short career as Clinton Kelly in an apron comes to an abrupt halt.

You have two choices:

Let toddler dress himself.  This works only if you never plan on leaving your house and emerging anywhere in public.  "Public" tends to stare when someone comes at them with a Batman halloween mask, football pajama bottoms, rain boots, an inside out and backwards shirt, and a feminine scarf (which oddly enough, kinda does pull the whole emsemb together).  Add a winter hat in summer, or flip flops in winter and you have a small child's wardrobe.

So if you have to go into Public and if you're determined that the fruit of your looms look appropriate, here's what you do:

Pick out adorable outfit.  Try convincing kid to wear it.  Good luck.  The tags are scratchy.  The pants are the wrong color.  They're too long.  Too short.  There's no Elmo on the front.  The shoes aren't good.  The socks aren't soft.  Etc.

Wrestling a little child into clothing when all he wants to do is finish his half completed project of taking over the free world is a little like trying to put an octopus into fishnet tights.  The arms are akimbo, the legs are flailing, and your head will be smacked more times than you can count.  I tend to arrange my hair style according to what my four year old will be wearing that day.  If he has a button down shirt or the shoes that are hard to put on, I go with the messy bun look.  Because my head will be used at any given time as a hand rest, foot rest, arm rest, flotation device, landing pad, and a place to put his crackers.

Putting his Flintstone feet into proper shoes always poses a pickle as well.  Mostly because whether or not he needs to go potty he will be doing the Pee Pee Dance and it's really difficult to get square shaped feet into oblong shaped shoes.  My fingers will be smashed, my hair will be yanked out, my tongue will be bitten from holding back questionable exclamations, and I haven't even gotten to the tying part yet.  This is why I don't fight the flip flops in February thing.

Ironically, as I am writing this pointless post, my son is on the back deck in his pj bottoms, shoes on the wrong feet, his John Deere tractor apron backwards (so it's a cape), sliding in the snow.  Shirtless.  Shirtless is the new shirt.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.