So am I, buddy.

So. A few nights ago was LAUNDRY NIGHT. That would be the night when I could no longer ignore the pile of laundry that needed to be folded.

Got it sorted. Laid out. Hung, and resorted into piles that needed to go into the respective childrens' rooms.

Got it all into Porter's room. He was in bed, reading. Would give me the cute little smile of his when I entered into the room, but was mostly into his book.

Then it was time to go into Jensen's room. He was also in his bed, reading happily. My first trip, the pants trip, he informed me that, from this point on, every time I went into his room, I had to give him a hug. Twist my arm. He didn't notice that the underwear trip became the underwear trips, as I began to bring the pairs of underwear in one by one. Same with the shirts.

Every time I walked in, his little face lit up, and his arms reached for me. Big hugs. Lots of giggles. And that smile. The one that melts me instantly- I got that one, every time.

The last trip, he said to me, "Mom... I sure am glad that I made up this rule."

So am I, buddy. So am I.

*sigh* I'd give my right.....

I've been away for a while... busy enjoying the remainder of the summer with my boys. Now it's back to work, and the serious juggling begins.

Monday Porter has dance from 4 to 4.
Tuesday Porter has children's chorale from 3:15 to 4:15.
Tuesday Jensen has karate from 4:15 to 5. Yes, this puts me in two places at once. I haven't quite figured this one out.
Wednesday Porter has dance from 4:30-6:30.
Thursday Jensen has karate from 4:15-5.

Soon, Jensen will pick up hockey again, which is usually on Wednesday evenings as well.

And, of course, I'm working full time. And Mike is working a ton as well, so it's usually up to me to do the Mom taxi. Which really doesn't do justice to how I feel. I honestly feel like I'm standing on the runway at O'Hare airport (is that still the busiest airport in the world- I haven't had time to check) trying to direct planes with just those little orange flashlights that they give out. Except my flashlight probably has had the battery stolen out of it to run some loud or obnoxious toy, so it doesn't work anyway.

Thank goodness for technology- the one saving grace in all of the chaos has been my cell phone. I can do some decent pinch hitting and directing as long as I can communicate.

So, of course, the darn thing died. Kaput. Deader than a doornail. I have an interim one that I'm using, but I cannot stand it. I dial with my cheek while on the phone, I never have been able to figure out how to adjust the volume... you get the picture.

I'd give just about my right *ANYTHING* for a decent cell phone. Leg, ovary, boob... whatever.

I really covet the iPhone, but it's exclusive to AT&T, and they don't have coverage in my neck of the woods.

So here is my open post to Verizon:

Dear Verizon, if you can offer me some sort of "smartphone" that has these features and doesn't break the bank, you'll have my business for ever and ever. You'll make money off of me each and every month. I've been a customer of yours for about 15 years now, so you know that I'm not a huge fan of change. But my life has changed and a decent phone would assist me greatly in trying to bring order out of chaos.

My cell phone wish list includes:

E-mail
Touch Screen
Handsfree capability
Web browser
Some sort of ability to type normally- I'm a lousy texter when I have to use the numbers.
Camera

Oh, and we're managing to keep our heads above water, but barely, so let's keep the cost down, OK?

Until then, I'm on the runway. Directing traffic with a flashlight with no batteries. And compulsively checking Craigslist for a phone that I can afford. I'm trying to keep a sense of humor about the whole thing, but every time I butt dial someone on this... phone... that I'm using... well, it gets harder.

Loading up the family truckster.

And heading to the Great White North for Lori and Dawn's wedding. I'm usually a planner, but not this time. This time, I have ignored the ever increasing urges to plan stops, activities and the like.

We're heading out- the only must stops are my grandmother's grave in Choteau, Montana and my aunt's house in Billings. Otherwise, we've got to be in Banff on the 5th.

World's largest ball of twine? Bring it. We'll stop.

Largest hairball ever recorded? That's a must see.

Hold on. It's going to be a wild ride.

Optimism is a state of mind?

What is there to be optimistic about?

With all of the negativity in the world, sometimes I wonder. The economy is in the tank, my business is in there with it, and my grandmother can't remember how to use a phone. It's exhausting.

But then... then I come home. To frantically happy cries of "MOMMMMMYYYYY'S HOME!!!" as my children rush to greet me. I breathe in their smell as I pick them up and wrap my arms around them.

That. That particular smell of little boy, sweat, and a fun day of play for them.

That is what there is to be optimistic about.

Between a rock and a hard place.

My grandmother is 99, and things have been going down hill for her pretty steadily.

She went to the hospital last week for an irregular heartbeat, and it became clear that we had to go to help her.

She has been living in a retirement community for almost 20 years. She had a nice little 1 bedroom apartment, but she couldn't do it any more. I flew back east with my parents to help them assess the situation this week.

My mother and I packed up her apartment, and made her new "home" as comfortable as possible. Her home is basically a hospital room.

Her 100th birthday is in the beginning of November, and she's determined to make it, because she's summoned the entire family to help her celebrate 100 years of life. My grandmother, a vivacious and independent woman, can no longer do anything for herself. She can't stand, she can't eat, she can't drink, she can't go to the bathroom alone.

I want her to live. I want to celebrate her 100th birthday with the biggest damn party she's ever seen. My selfishness is not wanting to give her up.

She's had a great run, but I think that there's got to be a tipping point. She's outlived two of her children, her husband, and a boyfriend that I think was truly the love of her life. All of her friends are dead.

So I have to reassess, and rewrite.

I want her to live, but on her terms, not having to ask to be fed, bathed, changed, or dressed. I want her to be happy, and she's clearly not. So if she's ready, if she's truly done, then I have to love her enough to let her go, if that's what she wants.

Gotcha.

My husband had this sent to my office the other day. It's a 16 x 20 canvas print of one of his photos of us. Apparently it was delivery attempt number three, due to some confusion about home delivery vs. PO boxes vs. someone has to be home to sign for it. That's an ongoing problem here, but not one that I'll get into at the moment...

At any rate, it was ordered in early June and I love it. He's captured us all perfectly- especially the children.

Porter sits expectent, interested, engaged- doing exactly what he's told. Looking great doing it, relaxed and happy, the world is his oyster.

Jensen stands. With that "smile" that he has- the Jensen smile. He's doing what he knows that he's supposed to, but you can see the mischief in his eyes. The laugh that is about to burst forth, the imp barely contained.

More new from old...

Last summer, we had a day where we built a play house for the children. It was an extended family project- meaning that mom, dad, me, Mike, and the children all worked on it. Great fun, it turned out beautifully, and we painted it to match the house.

It looked so cute and quaint and perfect nestled in the hollyhocks in our back yard. I quickly found out that boys don't do quaint and perfect, and the playhouse remained mostly unused. I put some straw inside for the winter, so that at least the dog could use it as a dog house, but even she didn't like it.

So mom and I decided that we were going to do a little renovation. Granted, we had none of the proper tools, just a bunch of scrap lumber left over from when we built the fence. No saw, but we did have a power drill and a box of screws. We spent a good part of two afternoons on the project and finished it up yesterday. We had a great time, and we laughed a LOT. When you're trying to raise a play house up off of the ground and make it more fun, but find out that your level is broken about a third of the way into the first day, you've got to keep your sense of humor handy.

The board lengths don't match, the woods don't match... it's a hodge podge of wood. It was very reminiscent of building a tree house when I was young, and it brought back memories of lugging wood up a tree with my brother and my dad.

So, we no longer have a quaint cottage nestled in the perennial garden. AHOY! We have a pirate ship, and we had to pry the children off of it yesterday afternoon. And as I type this, the dog has discovered her new favorite place to lie down for a nap- in the cool shade underneath, where she can look out the front fence and be on guard for intruders.

Mission accomplished.

The best part of the project was spending two days laughing with my mom, and enjoying her company. Those are memories that I'll treasure.

Mrs. S.

My mom, Porter and I went to a mass for our neighbor yesterday. Mrs. S. was a terrific lady, and a great neighbor. She had only lived in our town for a few years, but judging from the number of people at her service, as well as the varied make up of the group, there are a lot of people around that thought she was terrific.

She was a social and sociable woman, but due to her age and health, she couldn't get out very much. But that didn't stop her- she organized a knitting group, and there were often cars in her driveway- she was determined to not be alone, and to always expand her circle of friends.

Mrs. S. had been going downhill for a long time, and had chosen to stop fighting the cancer that had invaded her body, so her death was no surprise. She was a kind, caring, and giving woman, and she will be missed.

Goodbye, Mrs. S.

New from old.

If you know me well, you'll know that I don't always play well with others. I don't have a lot of patience with people, and what you see is what you get. I'm not a socialite, and air kisses are not a part of my personal body English. I have no tolerance for the "niceties" of social climbing, because I tend to see it as dishonest- I either like people, or I don't, and I don't care if their checkbook is stuffed or their lineage can be traced back to the Mayflower. I understand that these things are important to some people, and that's fine. But it's not for me.

If I like you, you know it. You won't get an air kiss from me- you'll get a hug. I don't trust easily, and I don't trust often. Why? I have no idea. I was raised in an intact home, with loving parents, so I can't blame them. I had no catastrophic trauma in my childhood. I'm just that way.

Bottom line- I have a lot of acquaintences, but not a whole lot of people that I truly consider friends. I've been described as "open," "friendly," and "sociable." I meet a lot of people in my line of work, but usually I'm just glad to get home to my family and my home. If I do socialize, it's usually with people who have children around the same ages as mine, or someone close by.

It's even rarer for me to connect with another woman. I have an older brother, and was a tomboy growing up. I just tend to do better relating to men- maybe because they rarely feel the need to conform to the social etiquette that seems to escape my comprehension. I have met someone that I do connect with on a fundamental level. We didn't meet by design, at least not my design. It was a chance meeting with her husband, then a business relationship. But that changed recently. It certainly helps that our kids get along well- not perfectly, but that's good. They get along and then... they sort of fight like brothers... then all is forgotten again.

Which made me think. My children don't usually get along with other kids in that way. They also have a couple of good friends, but I've rarely seen them take a "relationship" to the next level like that. Porter and Jensen treated these kids like long lost relatives that it was OK to have the Jerry Springer-esque knock down drag out screamfest with... knowing that everything would be smoothed over (with remarkably little parental intervention) and would be water under the bridge at the end.

As I watched the kids, I noticed that my feelings had changed towards their parents, and especially towards their mom. (I don't usually pay much attention to the warm fuzzy realm of "how are you FEEEEELLIIIIINGGG?") They weren't clients any more, they were more. It hit me like a truck, as I found myself saying one simple sentence.

This one sentence that told me that my perception of this person had changed. And I couldn't believe it as it came out of my mouth, because I didn't even think before I spoke. It's not the kind of question that you ask of a client, but it IS the kind of question you ask a friend.

"Hey- we'll see you at the pool in a bit- do you have any tampons?"

Angels are out there.

This is related to my mommy melt down. Last week, my husband and I sat down and looked at the finances. Obviously, as in many places, the real estate market is down here, and I'm just not bringing in the bacon. Mike is busy, but the bottom line is that by August, if something doesn't happen, we'll be in pretty dire straits.

Add to that, the fact that Porter was recently diagnosed with a visual processing disorder. In order to help him succeed, he needs vision therapy. It's not covered by any sort of insurance, and the price tag is, well, steep. Over $3,500. We applied for a grant from a local charitable foundation, and my bad news was that it was denied last week. I felt like such a colossal failure- my son has a need, and there is just no way that we can do it. If we could pay at once, then we could bring the cost down to just over $3,000. Otherwise, we could make 5 payments of $685. Given the current state of our houshold, neither is an option.

I found out about another grant, and downloaded the application. It requires three character references. I called two people immediately, and they agreed.

Then I asked my third person. She wanted to know what we needed the grant money for, asked fairly detailed questions. And then she told me that no, she wouldn't give me a reference. Instead, she would write us a check for the full amount and we should call and get the first appointment set up. She'll need some photography down the line, and my husband can work it off.

Angels are out there. And I know one of them personally, apparently. So, while we may not know what will happen come August, at least there is one fewer worry on our plate.

Being a grown up SUCKS.

Total mommy melt down today. The cause is not something that I want to share with the kiddos, because it involves one of them and I really don't want him to feel badly. Any way... the kids' reactions were everything that I could have hoped for, if I could have ever seen my way to completely lose it right in front of them.

Porter just wanted to know why- and I couldn't tell him. So he told me that he was going to give me some space, and he went upstairs.

Jensen just came up with a quivering little lip, and a quaver in his voice and told me, "Mommy- I hate to see you so sad. Can I make it better?" No, sweetie... sometimes the grown ups have to figure things out, and sometimes they're overwhelming, but Mommy will figure it out. I always do.

Turns out, Porter wasn't going to give me space. Not really. Not my kid. Not the child who, like his mother, just can't let it go. Nope. He went upstairs and called my Dad, asked him if HE knew why I was sad. Dad didn't, so he called my Mom. (I didn't even know that he knew their cell phone numbers, so I guess that's one thing that I can cross off of my list.)

Anyway... I guess that, despite my melt down, we're doing something OK. We're raising empathetic children. For as much as I sometimes fear that we're raising kids who tend toward the self centered, when the chips are down, I can count on them.

Amazing.

You know, we made them out of all of the same stuff. Two boys. They've been raised in the same house, with the same rules, the same opportunities.

It never ceases to amaze me how different they are. Son #1 is sweet and giving, with a dash of spice, and a bit of a temper. Son #2 is a spitfire, with a competitive streak a mile wide, but a hidden gooey sweet side that very few get to see.

Yesterday they went with my mom to visit my grandfather. Mom bought them posters. #1 bought a poster that was a collage of kitten faces. #2 bought a poster that was a Rolling Stone cover featuring the Jonas Brothers. They're both tickled pink with their selections.

I'm tickled pink that they know enough about themselves to know what they like, and to be proud of their differing tastes.

Recharging the batteries...

So, the little ones were at their grandparents' house last night. It was a quiet evening, with a quiet morning. They're going to stay with my mom for the day.

I'm going to Denver to pick up a friend at the airport- a 2 hour drive with just me. I can recharge my batteries, with nobody "needing" me for anything. I can go at my own speed, get some errands done, and get some alone time.

Odd. I don't feel that way. I want the day to be over, and I want to be back with my children. It's strange- what I thought would be a chance to relax is actually very stressful. Then, it dawned on me. I don't need to be away from my children to recharge. Being away from them, I find myself listless, lethargic, purposeless... I need to be around them, around their energy, their vitality. THAT'S what fuels me, recharges me, renews me.

Sleepover with the grandparents

Last night we ate dinner in front of the television, watching a movie. The movie wasn't worth watching, but it wasn't the point of the exercise anyway. Togetherness was the point. Sitting close, legs touching, curling up together when dinner was done.

I slept in a little bit. Meandered downstairs to make some coffee. Checked my e-mail. Poured the coffee- I've been down here for 10 minutes, and the dog just came down. Normally, she's glued to my legs, but not this morning. Got her breakfast. One task finished before another is begun.

The pace of the household is off. One task finished before another is begun??? No. That's not my pace. That's not my life. My life is interruptions, noise, tasks left partially undone in favor of a more pressing, more immediate, need.

I feel their presence more profoundly in their absence.

HEY MOM!

The face is impish. He's six, and definitely up to something. What will it be? I search his face for clues.... does he have a bug behind his back? Does he have a secret? Will he come up and burp or fart at me? No. He has a gift. The most precious of gifts, an intangible yet priceless offering. The kind that I know won't last for much longer. He'll soon be too cool- too self conscious- to offer this kind of gift. As it becomes clear what it is, I accept it eagerly. Greedily.

HEY MOM! BETCHA CAN'T KISS ME!!!!

They're all our kids.

Recently we've had a couple of friends whose kids have been hurt- thankfully nothing super serious, as in a permanent injury, but still... you get the call that a child has been hurt, and you feel it. It's not your child, but you know exactly how that parent feels. It's not your child, but you would do anything to take that child's pain away. It's not your child, but you would gladly take that injury on yourself to take that pain.

And then you realize. If you took the pain of every injury, from every child, you would be constantly laid up. Maybe it's because we have two boys, but someone is always banged up in our circle of friends. We've got casts, crutches, surgeries, dentists on call... and we've all got the "Emergency Room Accident Rider" on our insurance policies. For boys, injuries are a part of growing up. Of becoming their own people.

We'll pick them up, dust them off, stitch them up, patch them up, and then send them out into the big world to get hurt again.

Simple Pleasures

Simple pleasures- trying to see the beauty of the world through the eyes of my children. As an adult, I get so bogged down with the minutae of day to day existance that I forget to enjoy living. I worry about the stupid stuff---- will I ever catch up on the laundry? Is the house clean enough?

I guarantee that, for my children, the house is clean enough. The laundry doesn't matter.

What matters is that we're about to play Monopoly for the first time. The sense of anticipation is palpable.

Update: 8 year old lost interest after about an hour. The younger... well, it was like playing Monopoly with a being created from the DNA of a deranged 6 year old, a shark and Donald Trump. Intense.