The Song of the Albatross

I bought a piano. This is a huge step. We have moved every two years for six years now. I feel that buying a piano is a sign of a major commitment. I don't want to move it again, for a long time. And besides, I like it here.

It was a major investment--not of money, but of energy (discussion, argument, search, arrangements and so forth). But, it is here. It is ours. And Ethan will begin piano lessons in October.

This makes me feel a little grown up, and a little like a kid on Christmas morning. Our living room is starting to feel like a grown-up room. I'm not used to being a grown-up.

Wanna see?


I know, it's nothing spectacular, and it's probably older than me. But, it was a GREAT deal. And it's ours.

Nobody in our home really knows how to play it--yet. Even so, the sound of it in our home tonight made it feel like, well, home. Like family. And we're going to learn to play a little, or maybe a lot.

(I have to say, what with the downturn in the economy and living in the state with the highest unemployment rate in the nation, Craigslist is a GOLDMINE right now. )

Where am I and what have you done with my life?

I called my mother today and tried to quit my job. You know, the motherhood thing. Really, I'm just not qualified. I really think they should have given a prequalifying exam with questions like

Section 2, Potty-Training

Question #1
Your older child comes running in to tell you that your newly potty-trained younger child has just peed all over the kitchen floor in front of the fridge. What do you do?

A) Strip him down in the kitchen and throw him in the tub and everything else in the washer, then mop.
B) Cry
C) Spank him
D) Send him to Grandma

Question #2
Your older child comes running out of your bedroom yelling something about his little brother that contains the phrases "no-underwear" and "poop on your pillows". What do you do?

A) Kindly remind him that after using the potty he needs to ask for help wiping and, at a bare minimum, always remember to put his pants back on.
B) After having him assist you in changing and washing your sheets, meticulously comb the rest of the house for signs of poop, including, the guest bed, the carpet, the dining room floor, etc.
C) Scream at him
D) Call your mother and quit your crappy job
E) Both A & B

Question #3
Your well-potty-trained 5 year old child calls to you for assistance in the bathroom. You open
the door to find him standing there, poop all over the toilet seat, his thigh, the bottoms of his feet and, of course, your rug. What do you do?

A) Tell his father his son needs him.
B) Throw him in the tub and hose the place down.
C) Hand him a bucket of bleach water and go for a walk.
D) Call CPS and turn yourself in.

I would have failed to qualify for parenthood--not necessarily for incorrect answers, but for incompleteness--I'd have just put down my pencil, walked out of the room and went back to my former life wondering "what was I thinking?"

This why there is no test, no qualifications and no manual. If we realized what we were getting ourselves into, the future would only be in the hands of the competent and prepared, instead of the naive and idealistic.

Priceless . . . Sort of.

On our fun little vacation to Chicago, we opted to pay a little more for a hotel with a pool. It was fun. The boys really enjoyed it. Now we're paying for it. Here is my pool expense summary to date:

$100 (extra $20 per night for five nights for the hotel with pool)
$20 (initial doctor's visit copay to diagnose ear infection after we returned home.)
$50 (ear drops)
$10 (antibiotic)
$10 (appx cost of various over-the-counter pain medicines for ear ache)
$20 (second doctor's visit copay to diagnose continued ear infection after course of 1st antibiotic)
$20 (second antibiotic)
$10 (antibiotic ear drops)

Total: $240 and counting. The doctor would like to see him again in 10 days to verify it is gone. That's another $20 copay, and I'm running low on Tylenol and Motrin. Not to mention the inevitable snacks at the drug store while we await prescriptions. I figure we'll be lucky to get out under $300.

Cost of the pool on vacation $300
The pain of listening to a six-year-old cry about his ear for three weeks . . . extensive.
The joy of swimming . . . priceless

"I Wish We Lived Here . . . "

(Ethan, age 6, who doesn't always grasp how lucky he is to live where he does)

We had a fabulous family vacation this past week.

Since we live at a camp, we vacation in cities. This year it was Chicago--a fabulous town, and educational too. My boys learned a great deal visiting the museums and landmarks (Ethan can tell you more than you ever wanted to know about German submarines). Here are a few things I learned:

#1

A four hour train ride is not always four hours. It is sometimes closer to seven. But that's okay because, as Ethan likes to point out, you can walk up and down the train (and up and down and up and down and up and down) and you don't have to wear a seat belt.

#2

The Sears Tower is no longer the Sears Tower, it is the Willis Tower. But people look at you funny if you actually refer to it as the Willis Tower.

#3

Hotwire can get you a GREAT deal on a fancy hotel in a fabulous location.

#4

The walls at a four star hotel are not necessarily any thicker than the walls at any other hotel. Oh, and your passionate neighbors aren't any quieter either (but, if you pound on the wall and yell "KEEP IT DOWN!!" they are less likely to come over to your room in their wife beater and tell you to keep it down your own self--so pound away. It worked for me).

#5

If Bill Clinton stays at your hotel, you probably won't bump into him at the pool, but there will likely be a lot of men in dark suits hanging around talking to their watches. Which is pretty cool if you're a kid.

#6

I should budget more for eating out on vacation.

#7

My mission president and his wife are still as FANTASTIC as they were 12 years ago (I am getting old)--they even put up with my poorly behaving 6-year-old at dinner. I wish I'd remembered to take a picture.

#8

City buses and transit trains are more fun than taxi cabs--even when you're tired, but especially when you're driving.

#9

A good babysitter on a vacation is worth her weight in gold, and I still enjoy great theatre, I just don't get to experience it very often any more. You can see a video clip of the fantastic show we saw here.

And most importantly

#10

Vacations are more fun when dad can come.

As I Was Saying . . .

I talk. A lot. My mother tells stories of how my father would come home from work and I would follow him around jabbering incessantly. He would look at her and ask: Does she ever stop talking? My husband laughs at me now when I ask him the same thing about my 6-year-old. I mean really, I can't seem to get a word in edgewise around him. Actually, I find myself standing in my father's shoes, tuning out the continuous monologue, nodding and mm-hmm-ing every so often. Then I question my patience and fitness for motherhood, yada yada . . .

So yesterday, when I sat next to a woman at a social function whom I hadn't met before (and whom I noticed no-one had chosen to sit next to) and attempted to make small talk, I began to have some serious self-doubts.

Hello, I'm Jennifer--

I'm Chatty Finland (names have been changed to protect the self-absorbed).

And this is my family Matt, Eth--

It's easy to remember my last name because it's a country. These are my kids Larry and Mertyl.

Hi Larry, how old are you?

He's two. He doesn't talk yet--or chooses not to talk.

I'm beginning to understand why.

He's the one always screaming in church.

Oh, I understand that, my--

You know, the really high pitched scream? That's him. He does that at daycare too.

I know, I gave up--

I did too. But he's got to go back. I'm going back to school.

Oh, that's--

He'd scream all day--10 hours! I'd come back to find him in the corner, sucking his thumb.

Perhaps it was the only time he could say anything uninterrupted.

Oh, look at the time . . .

Like I said, I talk a lot. I talk about myself a lot. But I like to think I enjoy listening and learning about others too. I'm not self-centered, I'm just terribly interesting!

Maybe this is how other people feel around me. Perhaps I'll work on not talking so much, and particularly not so much about myself. Go ahead. Tell me something about you . . . Seriously, post a comment with something you don't think I know about you. I'm dying to read it. Anyone? . . . Is anyone still reading this? . . . . Hello?

Confessions of a former pet-lover

I'm ready to talk about this. I grew up loving cats. All I wanted was a cat. I cried for cats and envisioned the day when, free of my father's allergies, I would have a home literally crawling with felines. Then I grew up. Then I had children. I am no longer a cat person.

As childless newlyweds, my husband and I acquired a cat. As full-time employees with long commutes, we acquired a second cat to keep the first company. I can admit, with not too much guilt, that I've never been particularly fond of our behemoth cat Tibby. Yes, she was cute as a kitten (they all are). But as she grew, and grew, and grew, she developed some annoying, though tolerable habits. Yes, it was fun to watch her play fetch like a dog. She's not a bright cat--which was often humorous as well. But, when I was pregnant, bloated, uncomfortable and just wanted to be left alone, she just wanted to sit on me. The "must be in constant physical contact" with me thing continued and continued. Wherever I would sit, I'd suddenly find a paw on my shoulder. Cute huh? Unless it's you. She also liked to whine for any and no particular reason--incessantly.

We've gone through 8 years of this. After I had children, my caregiver bank was completely maxed out. I had nothing left for felines. I wish someone had explained this to me years before in explicit terms like YOU DO NOT REALLY WANT TO GET A PET. YOU WILL BE UNABLE TO EMOTIONALLY AND PHYSICALLY CARE FOR THIS PET ONCE YOU HAVE CHILDREN. NO ONE ELSE WILL CARE FOR THE PET BUT YOU, SO YOU WILL GROW TO RESENT THIS PET.

The only person with a somewhat remotely beneficial relationship with this cat was my husband. The cat loved me, I despised the cat. The boys loved the cat and she despised them. The cat tolerated my husband almost to the point of affection, and he tolerated her almost tothe point of affection. Yet none of this was so intolerable as to get rid of her. Until she began peeing on my rugs.

A line was crossed. I am not a cruel and heartless person (depending on who you ask). I took this kitten in and cared for her for 8 years, annoying habits and all. But, there is an invisible line drawn in the sand at peeing in inappropriate locations. For me anyway.

For others, there may not be such a line. Look it up online. You will find hundreds of suggestions and tips for retraining a cat who has strayed from his litterbox. And while your patiently redirecting his behavior by playing calming background music, and being oh so careful not to give kitty a complex by telling him he is bad, your rug is being pee-ed into oblivion. I don't have that kind of patience.

I tried, I really did. A friend suggested she may have a bladder infection (because the first thing I do when I get a UTI is pee on the floor). They were right. I spent $200 to diagnos and treat a kitty UTI (here kitty kitty, pee in this cup). Then I was told that I would now have to feed her exclusively $50 per bag special bladder health food. Um, you are aware this is a cat, right? I tried again. But, when she began to pee and poop on the carpet this time, not just the rugs, my secondary, back-up line was crossed into oblivion. Kitty spent several days between a pet carrier and my bathroom awaiting long discussions of my heartles cruelty and painful phone calls to no-kill shelters:

How old is she?

Eight.

No one really wants an 8-year-old cat with litterbox problems.

No kidding.

Have you tried playing calming music near the litterbox? . . .

So, I gave up. I threw in the towel. I even sprung for the expensive pet-hospital euthanization rather than dropping her at the shelter, just so I'd feel better about it. And no, I don't want to watch, nor keep the ashes.

The funniest thing about it all (I can laugh about it now) was that when I hauled this cat to the pet hospital for her last rights, I was a mess. I cried--quite a bit--for a cat I never really liked. Here's how it went down.

I steele myself and get my emotions all in check, drop the boys off with dad (it's okay mom if Tibby has to die--she used to scratch me anyway). I drive to the hospital, haul the cat inside and wait. and wait. Everybody and their dog was there. Loving pet owners, crooning over their sick animal. I was hoping the waiting room would clear out before I stepped up to the counter and stated Please kill my cat. Close, but not entirely. By the time I got up there, there was just one lady in the room, standing at the counter next to me with her lap dog.

Can I help you?

Yes, I need to have my cat seen.

What is the problem?

Well, I just need to have her, um euthanized (my voice quavers unexplicably).

Okay, here's a box of tissues. I'll get the paperwork.

And I started crying. The lapdog lady next to me puts her arm around me and says

I had to do the same thing last week.

I turn around with the paper work and a box of tissues and suddenly the room is full again. People leaning over to sneak peaks at the terminally ill cat in my carrier, wondering if she's contagious. I dunno, does mispeeing spread?

Did you want to keep the ashes?

Um, no thank you?

Do you want to watch?

What, are you nuts?--Not unless I have to

Okay, we'll bring the carrier back in a couple of minutes.

The room began closing in on me. I grabbed some tissues and stepped outside. After a couple of minutes the vet brought me my carrier and left with some final words:

Be careful driving alright?

Thanks. sniff.

And that was that. I went home and poured a whole box of deoderizer on the carpet, cleaned my bathroom and felt much better. I think of her every now and again and wonder if I did right by her, or if I'll have to some how do penance in the afterlife. I've also thought quite a bit about the meaning of the term "stewardship" and if I've been a good steward. I suppose it's all in who you ask.

I wish someone had said something to me before we got the fish. Oh, and the hermit crab.

Business & Travel

We left cloud 9 for a bit, but we're back now. For a bit. The boys actually did quite well with all the flights and layovers and such. Well, except for Elliot's rolling around, screaming tantrum on the floor at the gate of our initial return flight. So much for the idea of removing him to allow him to finish his tantrum where he can't disturb others. Sure, let me just grab his older brother, our 3 backpacks, the stroller and my carry-on and rush with the screaming child to . . somewhere, to finish his fit. Sure.

I expect, and do my best not to tolerate, some impatience and inappropriate social behavior from my children, but from grown men? Come on people. Let me explain. Near our departing gate (this was just prior to the fit described above), the men's restroom had been closed down for some reason. It was blocked off and a sign posted that said "Closed. Please use restroom near gate B10". Pretty simple instructions don't you think? It is an airport of course and I'm sure you'd run in to multiple men's restrooms on the way to baggage claim as well--choose your direction, you are bound to bump into a toilet sooner or later.

So, instead of patiently following those instructions, what did a whole host of gentlemen travelers decide to do? Use the family restroom of course. So, I stood there, with my carry-on baggage and stroller, breaking up fights between my two boys who needed respectively to pee and have a diaper change, waiting in line behind half a dozen men doing their business. Now, one would not assume that if the men's room is closed, that it would be appropriate to file on into the ladies room, right? So why is it okay to use the family room? Because men are allowed in there perhaps? Okay, point taken (men with their families however). But why, in heaven would you assume that, while justifying your use of the inappropriate restroom, you should have priority over those for whom the restroom is intended? I suppose I could have used the ladies room, but I've found that my 6 year old child, that looks like he's 8 or 10, is generally frowned upon in ladies rooms. And, I try to avoid sending him alone into a crowded men's room for obvious reasons. Come on people!

So, when my children began to complain about the wait and that they needed to do their business, I loudly explained that the men's room was closed and all these gentlemen, rather than walking to the one down the hall, have chosen to use the family room, so we have to wait behind them. That garnered me a couple of smiles from the men ahead of me, but not one of them budged. Two other parents came by with their children during all of this and loudly asked "Is this the line?" before moving on to other restrooms. Both of them however, had a same-gendered single child and a diaper in hand--obviously traveling with another adult with whom they could leave their luggage and such.

The guy in front of me commented that there isn't a bathroom down there by B9. I explained that it is down the escalator by B10, as the sign indicated. Rocket scientist. Finally, his wife exited the ladies' room, gave him a questioning look, and he left the line with her, explaining the bathroom closure and mumbling something about the big hurry I was in. Big hurry?!?! Have you ever traveled with two small children with small bladders and little patience? Obviously not. And so, we were finally at the top of the line. At which point, I noticed that not only were the men using the family room, but they, for some inexplicable reason, had been using it with the door open (the toilet being conveniently located outside of direct line of sight from the hallway). What, does it not count if the door is open? And, I noticed the light was off. Do I even ask what is going on in there? Maybe, while berating the last gentleman, the first exited without my noticing. "Hello, is anyone in there?" "Yeah! The light went out!" That's to deter men from going in and out of the bathroom with the door open--the light only stays on so long. Most people turn the light on and shut the door, idiot. So he comes rushing out, leaving us of course to flush away his pee. Nice touch.

Things got better, I worked out my annoyance with the male gender and we went about our flight home. I need to clean the house and unpack, but I'm thinking since we're leaving in just a few days for our family vacation in Chicago (we're taking the train, thank heaven), I may not bother to fully unpack.