Triple A

There are at least five things I ought to be doing right now other than blogging, but a promise is a promise, and it ought to be kept, especially when that means you can procrastinate doing laundry.

Today has been a bizarre day. Tim had oral surgery this morning and he got put under for it. I was a little nervous about that. When I went in to see him after it was over, it was strange to see him there but not there, his eyes stuttering as he tried to track the Doctor's face. He didn't talk for a while--talking is not his favorite mode of communication anyway--but he was ready to jump right up, in spite of the fact that he was bobbing and weaving as he tried to move.

We walked into the house and he promptly threw up and, to his bleary bewilderment, lost bladder control. Glad I didn't send him back to school (just kidding! I probably would NEVER have done that.) I don't mind the work of caring for invalids, but I don't like the people I love to be something other than themselves. He's feeling a little more Tim now, reading a book and banging on the wall with a lacrosse stick when he needs my help.

I went into school the other day to help Tim with writing and got the tail end of a pep talk his teacher was giving the class. He was just finishing telling a story about how his day had started (it seemed to involve mechanical failure of a car, a downpour, and a fair bit of walking), but told the kids that he'd seen a bumper sticker that said "No Bad Days" as he was trying to get himself to school. He asked them what they thought that meant.

My favorite answer was (can you guess?) Tim's. He said , "It means, 'You decide.'" After we had finished up Tim's writing and the kids had gone to PE, I was cleaning out Tim's desk (this is a job he sometimes needs help with) when the teacher came back. I asked what had happened, and he told me that his car had died--run out of gas, he thought--several MILES from school, that he had a class to attend (teach?) after school until 9 pm and that his other car was in the shop. But no bad days!

It took me ten minutes or so, but I finally extracted the key from his reluctant hand, grabbed a gas can from the garage, implored Teri to go with me (okay, it didn't take much persuasion--she's incredibly busy painting her house, but she fairly sizzles with jump in and do good spirit) and set off to find the car.

Now, I was not as optimistic as Tim's teacher that the car would turn out to be merely out of gas. He had confided a) that the 'car' was actually a Volkswagen Westphalia, b) that he was unfamiliar with the gas gauge because the car was a recent purchase, c) that he had bought it from a graduating college student, and d) would we please overlook without prejudice the marijuana-promoting bumpersticker affixed to the back since it belonged to the previous owner?

I thought (and Teri agreed) that if you buy a Westphalia from a college kid on weed, you get what you pay for. Which is a long walk to school. But this teacher is a great guy, dedicated, intelligent, hard working, and very much loved by both our kids, and a mercy mission makes more sense than plates full of cookies, so we both prayed that somehow gas really was the problem and went to work.

Teri, wearing paint clothes and a take-charge expression, grabbed the gas can while I got the gas key out of the ash tray. (Aside: keeping your gas key in the ash tray is the same as not bothering with a gas key, except that it increases the chances of dropping the thing down into the innards of the dash. Anyway.) The gas can spout was a tricky, and neither of us had used it before. It had sort of a retracting cover which we couldn't figure out how to pull back and the gas seemed to be supposed to come out the sides.

Finally Teri pulled the cover back with one hand and holding the gas can in the other, stuck the nozzle in and poured. Gas gushed out all over her hands and feet and splashed into her eye. She set down the gas can and calmly but forcefully asked for water. I ran around ineffectually, first looking for a water source (a mud puddle?) and finally settling on the box of wipes I keep in the car.

Once Teri's sight was restored we were back to trying to force gas into the Westphalia. After Teri had been doused a couple more times, I called Tom (fortunately without generating static electric sparks.)

"Hi," I said. "Teri and I are here with Mr. Smith's car and without asking for any explanations could you please tell us how the gas can works?"

Long pause. "Who's Mr. Smith?" he asked.

Finally he divulged that the gas can works on faith. You cannot see how the gas will get from the can to the tank, but if you shove it in there and pour, somehow the transfer becomes true. We tried this method. It worked as advertised. Until Teri pulled the can out.

As it turned out, there was a stopper in the end of the gas can spout. Had we seen it in the first place, we could have pulled it out and simply poured. Too bad we didn't, because as Teri removed the can, the edge of the stopper caught on the inside of the spring loaded fuel inlet cover and stayed caught half inside, half outside the gas tank.

The moment stretched painfully as the possibilities became clear.

"Ah, Mr. Smith....? Though we only wanted to help, unfortunately...."

I asked Teri if she thought it was appropriate for me to pray. She asked me why I hadn't been praying all along.

Clearly, in order to get the thing OUT, we had to open the spring loaded cover without dropping the stopper, but the space was pretty cramped. Teri clutched the stopper while I ran around looking for sticks...screw drivers...pliers...

"Do you have a chopstick in your car?" Teri called. I came up with a live-strong bracelet, a pair of sunglasses, and a capless pen.

After several abortive attempts, at last I pulled and twisted while Teri poked (with the sunglasses ear piece) and whew! Our prayers were answered and we hyperunventilated.

Teri's VW experience being more recent than mine (though I recall revving the rabbit frantically at every stoplight with the best of them), she got behind the wheel. The Westphalia belched several clouds of exhaust and miraculously started up.

We walked into the school together, smelling like a well-prepped arson site, and presented Mr. Smith with the key.

He walked up enthusiastically but was forced to take a step backwards as the fumes overcame him. He gave us a sincere if watery-eyed smile and gasped out, "I'm so sorry! You smell like gasoline!"

Which is all the thanks a couple of bored middle-aged stay at home moms hungry for adventure really need. I think Teri muttered that next time she's bringing HER gas can.

Five Things that Moms Say that Make No Sense (No Particular Order)

1. Why can moms not get that only girls wear coats? You'd think they were girls or something.

2. What is this bizarre obsession with mud? Sheesh! You'd think it was radioactive the way they carry on about it.

3. Eat! Don't eat! Eat! Don't eat! Moms cannot make up their minds. Look, Mom, there are two categories of food: good food (Lucky Charms, cheetos, root beer) and bad food (weird soup, spaghetti sauce, whatever's for dinner). If you'd just work on always getting us good food, we'd eat and you wouldn't have to say a word.

4. The room clean thing is one I'll never get. It's just a whole lot of effort for no reason. I've cleaned that thing a million times and no progress has been made. In fact, I think it's dirtier than when I first started. Could we just stop?

5. WHY do you want to comb my hair? And WHAT is the purpose of a "part?"

Okay, yes, I do admit you were right about the deodorant, and where did I put that, anyway?

Play it, Mom

I bought a bottle of fish oil pills at Costco. My thinking: yes, they could be quackery, and they do make you burp fish, but what ACTUAL damage can they do, other than to the pocketbook? So I told Tim that some studies show that Omega-3 and Omega-6 make you smarter. He wanted to try this out. I gave him a pill to swallow. About five minutes later I looked over and he was still trying to swallow it. He would put it in his mouth, fill a glass full of water, get an incredibly determined look on his face, and then throw his head back, splashing water all over his shirt, his face, and the floor. He would look hopeful for a second or two, then spit the capsule out, fill the glass again, and start over. After about fifteen minutes of this, he jubilantly yelled, "I did it! I did it! I swallowed the capsule! I'm going to be smarter--if that's possible."

Church today was one of those humbling, exhausting experiences. I got up at 5 am to finish up Program Practice Prep. This involved lots of printing, collating, copying, and one large Eddie Spaghetti poster. At 8 am, I ran to my Ward Council meeting. Bishop: "Primary?" Me: "Nothing from us."

All heads swivel. Bishop: (incredulous) "Primary has nothing?"

I know, I know, me and my big mouth are the most popular members of Ward Council. I got home to find Mom and all boys in action, having made SIX pans of rice crispy treats. Thanks Mom. And we were even all in the car and off to church right on time. A beautiful, textbook morning. And then...

It started with the Organ. About half way through the prelude, a sizzling fried-wires sound was heard from the vicinity of the soffits and POOF! no more organ. Then, just as the sacrament was just coming to a close, into the reverent silence came a distinctive, loud, IRREVERENT, musically electronic sound from our bench. As the noise went on...and on...and on...and on... and nobody did anything about it, I began to realize that it was NOT one of the boys. The sound was way too pretty. It could only be one person on our bench.

Mom.

That's right. Let one unsearched person onto the bench, and that's what you get. I couldn't stop laughing (silently). Then it got worse. I had planned a complex schedule for Primary time and as a result I brought a whole bag full of watches to distribute to watchless teachers. I never thought about the possibility that some of them might be have alarms...that were switched on...and left at the default setting of...what ever time but 12 noon? So right about the time our very excellent WML speaker was approaching his conclusion (and I was once again sitting at the piano), all beeping broke loose from the Mumford vicinity.

We heard last night at (yet another) ward fireside that a Puritan woman and her employer's family were forced to leave their community because she smiled in church. My friends all tell me the best part of the Mumford reverence fiasco is watching me try to hold it together while playing the hymns.

Tonight at bedtime, Tim for some reason had his heart set on sleeping on the downstairs couch. He gave me every argument he could think of. Finally, I said, "Look, Tim. We sometimes DO allow kids to sleep on the couch, but NEVER on a school night." He demanded to see a copy of the family rules where that one was written down. "Tim," I said, "studies have shown that sleep deprivation actually reduces your academic performance." "Oh, don't worry Mom," he said. "We'll make up for that with the fish oil pills."

I have so much more to say, but I'm exhausted and I have to get up at 4:45 am to take Tom to the airport. We're so lucky to have Mom staying here this week--but LOOK! In spite of that, I still blogged. What commitment!

Muddy

Hey, thanks for all the comments. I'm loving the blog renaissance!

It has been the ugliest fall here in Bham. It has rained and rained and rained. Out in the back yard where Tom was once building the canal, we now have a muddy rock pile rising from a puddle. I would imagine that this frustrates him, but we haven't talked much about it.

Last Monday was an early release day from school. I hate early release days. Not because I dislike having the kids home. On the contrary! But having them home every odd once in a while just for the afternoon means that they want to plan something out of the ordinary, and that inevitably involves extra kids and quite a lot of bother of one sort and another. This particular Monday, it also involved our old dead lawnmower, now bereft of blade, and the muddy rock pile/puddle. Also jumper cables (fortunately no one was blinded) and quite a lot of whooping. And truckloads of mud.

I know, I know, you're wondering, "Julia! Where were YOU???" Well, I was here. Mostly. It just didn't seem like the stunningly bad idea it turned out to be until the moment that I realized that (unlike me) the boys saw the old lawnmower less as a great learning experience in the shop and more as a poor man's four wheeler. When I heard the mower roar to life, I ran out to the garage to congratulate them. For a moment, I basked in the joy of knowing what a great, broad minded mother I am.

Then I turned into a shrill, narrow minded, screaming mother. "STOP! NO!!! GET HIM OFF OF THERE!! NO WHEELIES!!! ONLY ONE PERSON!!! I REALLY DON'T THINK..... ZAAAAAACH!!!!! HEY!!! WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS!!! COULD YOU JUST! YIKES!!!! TIME OUT FOR THE MOWER.....HEY! BOYS!!! NOT THE SKATEBOARD!!"

"What, John? A tow rope? Like for a... No honey, no tow ropes."

"I don't mean we don't HAVE a tow rope. I mean YOU can't have a tow rope."

"I mean, no tow ropes on the mower. Look boys, think about this picture. A rope tied to the lawn mower. People running around. Ropes twisting around limbs and necks. Ropes dragging people. Ropes cutting things off. Important things like heads, arms, and legs. "

"Look, boys, I totally get that you are VERY responsible and..."

"I never questioned your judgment, but..."

"BOYS!!! NO TOW ROPES!!! NO, NOT FOR THE BIKE!!! OR FOR ANY VEHICLE OR REASON!!!"

"AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! GET THAT THING OUT OF SIXTH GEAR!!! DO YOU HAVE A SPEEDOMETER?"

My friend Teri's advice to her boys is, "If it looks stupid, sounds stupid, or smells stupid, it IS stupid." I don't know how she successfully raised two boys with this piece of advice, because frankly, NO idea which has just occurred to a boy strikes him as stupid. Ever.

And later, after it has been proven stupid, the idiot antics still have to be shared. My boys can't resist telling me all the horrifyingly stupid things they do. They just can't. It's great to pull it off without getting caught, but within 60 minutes, they find themselves sidling up to me and asking, "Mom, if I tell you something, promise you won't get mad?"

I love my boys, I DO, I DO!! But don't tell me I have my hands full. Everybody does. Do they think I don't understand this? I am in a boat with six adorable males. The boat is filling with water. I'm frantically bailing, yelling for help. The boys are looking at me. They're all wearing the same perplexed look and they're asking, "Why is water (mud, a party for sixty, hooky-bobbing, etc., etc.) a problem?"

Ten Blogs in Ten Weeks

Scott has thrown down the gauntlet. I pick it up. A challenge for all my beloved blogging sibs. I miss the blogs! I am as much to blame as anyone! So I'm going to take an oath: I will write 10 blogs in 10 weeks--a blog a week for the next two and a half months. May some of the rest of you take the challenge and help me avoid housework on Monday morning.

Oh, and if anyone can help me get rid of the little green bar in my pretty picture, DO IT!! PLEASE!! HELP!!!

The kids have started school and its been even more painful than usual. The lunches. The backpacks. The signatures on everything, though why they think it prevents things like progress reports and picture day from escaping my notice, I'll never know. Violins, Cellos, Double basses. Concerts. SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER SOCCER. Birthdays for everyone. And SO on.

Alex is taking singing lessons, but don't tell anyone. He sings like an angel. He loves the lessons. He loves to practice. It's fragile bliss, though, because if even ONE person makes a derogatory comment, I suspect that I won't be able to drag him back to the lessons with a tow rope. His teacher is a lovely man who has an entire mantelpiece full of cut glass and crystal, sparklingly lit and backed by a gigantic mirror. It's probably half a ton of fragile leaded glass whatever. Honestly.

I've noticed that standing there gazing at the crystal makes the kids incredibly, perfectly good. They don't balk. They don't refuse. They don't look mulish and they NEVER EVEN THINK of banging the keys or stomping their feet. The possible consequences are just too terrifying. I wish I'd thought of that technique years ago.

Now, I have several more possible topics and I'd like to go on, but frankly if I'm going to make it through ten blogs in ten weeks, I have to save some topics. So remind me that I promised to tell you about a man, a plan, a canal...panama! next week.

I'll just finish up with a Tim. This is a report from Tom. The other day they were riding in the car together and this conversation happened:

Tim: Dad, as soon as the last of our friends move away, can we move to Idaho?

Dad: What are you talking about?

Tim: You know, most of our friends have moved away, so I figure after the Rosses move we might as well go, too.

Dad: But the Rosses aren't moving.

Tim: Well, it's only a matter of time. Besides, if we move to Idaho, Zach can save you some time by driving me to Scouts when he is 14.

Dad: True, but I have a law practice here. I have a reputation--people know I'm a good lawyer, so they come to me. If we moved to Idaho I'd have to start all over.

Tim: Sure, but if you're such a hot-shot lawyer, you can build up a new reputation in no time. And I don't mind eating smaller portions for a while.

Silence…

Tim: Besides, don't we have all those cans of wheat and stuff out in the garage? We can just eat that.