Actual Unretouched Photo

This afternoon, my twins went to their twin friends’ house to play, leaving YoungestBoy stranded here with me and his sleeping baby sister. When he realized this injustice, he began to cry and said, “Why can’t I go?”

I said, “Well, honey, there’s no one to watch you over there.”

He said with disgust, “I can watch myself!” Then, “I am going to be so bored! There’s nothing to do around here!”

I said, “Bummer. Well, do you want to be bored in your room or in here?”

Amazingly enough, he went outside and found a way to amuse himself. It’s tough to be five years younger than your brothers. Awhile later, the neighbor boys showed up and played with him for thirty minutes, softening the blow of being stuck home alone without his brothers.

My husband came home at 4:00 p.m. so I could have the car and take the kids to the school Open House. Only, two of the kids were gone, so we revised our plans and he took Babygirl for a car ride while I walked with YoungestBoy down to the school. On the way, he said things like this:

“Mom, would you be scared if the entire world was sucked into a giant vortex?”
“Mom, did you know there are bugs that can battle spiders?”
“Mom, I heard there is a spider that is so big it can eat a mouse.”
“Mom, did you ever hear about that beetle who can shoot acid out of its (here, he points to his rear end) back?”

I said, “Where did you hear about this?”

And he said, “The extreme channel.” It’s not actually a channel, but rather, a show–something about Extreme Animals, I think on the Animal Planet. That show profoundly affected him, apparently. He said, “Thad kind of spider is only found in the Rain Forest.” I said, “Well, I guess we’d better not go to the Rain Forest.” He said, “No, I don’t want to have my hands eaten by a spider!”

We arrived at school and located his classroom and met his teacher. I recognized her because my twins went through the same school. She seems lovely and kind and extremely organized. Her room was neat and tidy and uncluttered visually, which matters to me because I am so distracted by a crazily messy room.

YoungestBoy’s favorite friend, David, is not in his classroom, which I figure is a good thing, as David’s been described to me as “active” (by his mother) and “energetic” (by my neighbor, a classroom volunteer). When I asked my son why he liked David, YoungestBoy said, “He loves action!”

Anyway, my son tends to like action, too, and likes to incite his classmates to giggle at phrases like “nickel and a pickle.” Last year, during the closing program, my son yelled out “pickle” during a pause between songs and the boys surrounding him all chortled with kindergarten glee.

My boy loves to get a laugh. He also thrives on doing well and meeting his teacher’s approval, so he gets good grades and excellent comments, but he does have that tendency to go for the laughter.

We lingered in his classroom awhile, then headed to the library to buy some books at the Book Fair. Then back to the classroom for further investigation.

I can’t believe school starts in two days. I can’t believe I am keeping my twins home for school. I can’t believe my baby is going to be two in two days. I can’t believe it’s 11:20 p.m.

Tonight, at 6 p.m., I looked at my baby prancing in the kitchen and said to my husband, “Hey, how about if I leave her with you and run to Target?” And he said, “Why don’t you just take her?”

I sighed and said, “Fine,” in that way that means, This is not fine, far from fine, why can’t you see that I just want to be alone in the car, listening to the radio and thinking a linear set of thoughts without interruption and then shopping in the store without distracting, amusing, entertaining, corraling and soothing the wild beast that is my daughter shortly before bedtime? Out loud, I suggested to Babygirl that we’d be going to the store, “But first, let mama change your diaper.”

Babygirl did not want her diaper changed, but finally relented. But then, she wanted to pull her pants on by herself. I sighed deeply, cradled my forehead in my hands and despaired. She pulled the jeans on, threw her hands into the air in a victory salute and shouted, “I DID IT!”

And then she pushed her jeans back down to the floor so she could pull them up all over again.

That went on for about twenty minutes. I gave up and said, “Hey, you want to take a bath?” She very happily said, “Zes,” and headed for the bathroom, where I grumpily sat on the toilet and watched her pour water over her head four times in a row, asking for “towel” each time to dab her eyes.

Sometimes, I just want to leave the house without complicated negotiations and arrangements. Alas, that day seems very far off. I finally deposited a somewhat sleepy Babygirl into her bed at 8 p.m. on the dot.

Then I went to Target and spent more money than I expected. I always do. But now, we have snacks, we have the remaining school supplies, we have lunchbox snacks, we have milk, we have laundry detergent and other stuff too boring to mention.

Tomorrow, I’m sleeping in, without the impending horror of having to take Babygirl to the doctor or the photographer. Tomorrow’s challenge will include getting haircuts for three boys who find visiting the barber to be utterly boring and as close as they have ever come to a near-death experience.

Babygirl went to the doctor this morning. I told her in advance that the doctor would touch her tummy and look in her ears. She repeated “doctor” and “tummy” and seemed all right with the idea.

I did not warn her about the dangers of standing on the scale at the doctor’s office, even though I should have known. I cry when I have to stand on the doctor’s scales, too. Doesn’t every American girl?

As I was taking off her shoes so I could place her on the scale, she asked to go home in a mournful voice. Then I stood her on the scale and at the exact same time, the nurse stuck a thermometer in her left ear, saying, “Oh, I’m sure she’s had this done lots of times before,” and Babygirl let out a yelp, following by an outraged scream.

Babygirl is not accustomed to having her temperature taken, nor is she used to people shoving things into her ear. She’s never had an ear infection, nor has she ever had to see the doctor for an illness. And she resents anyone entering her personal space. So, she continued crying while I held her against the wall so her height could be measured.

My Babygirl is now 26 pounds and 34.5 inches–in the 50th percentile and 75th percentile, respectively. I took her to the doctor last when she was 13 months old. That visit went very badly, with Babygirl screaming her head off and the doctor consulting her computer charts and gravely telling me that if Babygirl didn’t fatten up, she’d have to have more tests. “So bring her back in two months for a weight check and a flu shot.” The doctor didn’t give me time to ask questions, nor did she ask anything about Babygirl’s development (which was perfect, because she is the Perfect Baby, aside from her stranger anxiety). I was very upset with the doctor’s doom and gloom comments about my long, thin girl who was and is very healthy and smart.

I didn’t take her back two months later. In fact, I didn’t take her for her 18 month check-up either. I fully expected to be scolded today, but everyone was quite pleasant. Everyone except Babygirl.

We will never know Babygirl’s head circumference, because she refused to let either me or the nurse put the measuring tape around her blond noggin. Then the nurse pulled up the computer screen showing Babygirl’s immunizations and glory be to God! Babygirl was up to date on her vaccinations! I thought she’d missed some scheduled immunizations from the missed 18 month check-up, so I was fully expecting Babygirl to get a shot or two today.

The nurse left and Babygirl settled down, only occasionally gulping and hiccuping and saying “Go home! Go home!” When the doctor opened the door, Babygirl jumped and started crying again.

Then the doctor had the nerve to look in Babygirl’s eyes and ears. She pressed on Babygirl’s tummy and examined her spine and her hips and Babygirl shrieked as if she was being eaten by alligators, one finger at a time. This is a child who will never be abducted because anyone foolish enough to snatch her would regret it within ten seconds, drop Babygirl and slink away. Babygirl will not stand for anyone to touch her or talk to her or get within two feet of her.

When we left, I said, “Say bye-bye to the doctor,” (who’d just given her a Barbie sticker) and Babygirl paused for a split second as if considering a polite “bye-bye,” then turned her head again and hid her face behind my neck.

Then Babygirl said, “Donuts,” and so, just to ensure that Babygirl will indeed remain above the 50th percentile in weight and as a bonus, also have an eating disorder, we went straight to the drive-through donut shop and bought a dozen donuts with chocolate frosting.

Her brothers whooped and hollered as if it were a surprise holiday when they saw the donuts. It was. A holiday, I mean. It was “Babygirl Had No Shots Day,” a cause for celebration, indeed.

This week, I have no DaycareKid. It’s practically a vacation, except that I still have these four kids who actually live here. And no maid.

I made appointments this week, then–this morning, Babygirl had an appointment to have her picture taken and tomorrow, she’s going to the doctor for her check-up and vaccinations.

When I opened Babygirl’s bedroom door this morning, her eyes were sleepy and her hair was mussed and she stuck her lower lip out unhappily. Normally, she wakes up slowly, I think, and when she’s ready to see people, she screams my name, “MOM! MOM!” I went in before that point and she looked at me sadly as I picked her up and said, “Tummy hurt.”

Uh-oh. Not a good omen.

I smiled brightly at her and in my most cheery voice chattered as I changed her diaper and put on her tights and gave her a drink of water and told her we were going bye-bye. I did my best not to upset the delicate balance of her toddler world, not an easy task. I ironed her new, pretty pink dress and put an older dress on her so the new dress would stay pressed and clean until we got to the photography studio. Being a girly-girl, Babygirl enjoyed getting on her tights and her shoes and didn’t even mind when I wet down her hair to reactivate her curls. She probably would have liked it if I put a little lipstick on her and pierced her ears, too. but I did not. We left right on time. It’s my husband’s day off, so I left the boys at home.

We arrived exactly on time at the studio. No one else was in the waiting room to my relief. Sometimes we’ve had to wait and wait until the babies and kids are cranky. This time, fate smiled on me.

Until he walked in, looked at the paper in his hand and said, “This is . . . ?” I said, “Uh, Babygirl?” He said, “Yes.” And I said, “Um, is Crystal off today? I thought we’d be having her.”

This guy, this photographer, took pictures of YoungestBoy when he was a year old. This man freaked out my boy with his loud voice and his crazy mannerisms and his broad, scary movements. Plus, he has a long gray pony-tail down his back.

He said, “No, she has other appointments today,” and I said, “Oh.” I thought to myself, I specifically asked for Crystal. Where is my beloved Crystal, my sweet young Crystal with her low-rise pants and her gentle charm? I want Crystal! Then I said, “Okay. Well, my baby will scream in your face. Let’s go.” I said that in a gentle voice so Babygirl would not be scared.

I told her, “Hey, it’s our turn! Let’s have our picture taken!” and she followed me, like a lamb to slaughter, to the big scary room filled with props and flowing fabrics and chairs hung on the wall. She was not amused.

She said, “Go home.” I said, “First, we’re having your picture taken! Won’t that be fun?” I raised my eyebrows and grinned at her and she scrunched up her face and said, “No. Mommy chair.”

“Mommy chair” is Babygirl code for “I would like to nurse now because I’m feeling sad and scared and maybe just a little crabby.” She usually only nurses before she goes to sleep, just a few minutes and I think she’ll be fully weaned in the near future. But when she is off-center and feeling needy, she reverts and wants to nurse. Thankful that her phrase for this is “mommy chair” and not something like, “big-big-B00B-B00B,” I said, “Yes, I will sit on the chair. And here’s the pretty chair for Babygirl!”

I sat her in the white netting canopy on the pink fluffy blanket that Scary Photographer Guy set up for her. She immediately burst into tears. I did my best sweet-talking, but she sobbed. I finally told Scary Photographer Guy, we might just have to take pictures of her crying and call it good. I had my doubts.

I took Babygirl into the little dressing room, nursed her for a few minutes and went back out to find that Scary Photographer Guy had bubbles. Good thinking. He must be brighter than he looks. Babygirl was momentarily distracted and so he snapped a photograph of her–not smiling, but not screaming and wailing and red-nosed. Then she began to cry again.

I calmed her down again in the dressing room and came out to find he’d arranged a new background, this time with wide ribbons and a little blue chair. I talked faster and most convincingly than a car salesman, but Babygirl whimpered and cried big tears. He took four more pictures, but they show only a more and more distraught girl.

(The lower left was the first picture.)

During that time, I said to her, “Hey, want to go shopping when we’re done here?” And she said in the saddest possible voice, “Shopping.” When we finished, Crystal appeared and said, “If you want, you can schedule another sitting with me.” I appreciated the thought, but I don’t think so. It’s traumatic enough–for both of us–to even get there in the first place.

When we finished, we went over to the mall where I purchased three pairs of size 8 “Husky” jeans and khakis for YoungestBoy. Then I bought Babygirl a little box of Tom Thumb donuts and we went home.

She took a nap, then, to recover from the trauma of having her picture taken. I can only imagine how much she’s going to scream tomorrow morning when the seemingly nice nurse plunges needles into Babygirl’s legs. And she thought it hurt to have her picture taken! At least she can’t dread it. That’s my job, the dreading.

Late Saturday night, I read the blue note paper on my desk. It said, “Music, Lamb of God,” which was a reminder to myself that I was supposed to sing during the service on Sunday morning. I said to myself, “Self, tomorrow morning you can get up early and run through it. No problem.”

I am clearly delusional late at night.

Sunday morning dawned and I woke and then rolled over and convinced myself that “five more minutes” of sleep was essential. My husband left at 7:00 a.m. and still, I snoozed. Finally, at a bit after 8:00 a.m., I said, “I have to get up! I have to sing! What am I going to wear?”

From then on, I was in full panic mode. Shower quick! Fix hair! Wonder why I have so much hair! I was completely sweaty after straightening my now too-long locks. Babygirl woke and then I busied myself getting her ready, too. I went downstairs to remind the boys that they should be completely ready–”including shoes and brushing teeth!”

An hour after I crawled from bed, I was dressed, complete with make-up and semi-tamed hair. Babygirl was ready. YoungestBoy was ready. The twins? Not. No shoes, no brushed teeth. I pawed through my books, found my sheet music, sat at the piano and ran through the song, hollered when TwinBoyA tapped me on the back and asked me to fix his hair–”I AM TRYING TO PRACTICE!”, figured that my children will definitely choose to be atheists by the time I’m finished raising them, combed his hair, finished practicing verse three and shouted, “GET YOUR SHOES ON!” once more and left the house.

With the kids.

We arrived early enough for me to tell the sound guy that I would be singing from the piano and that I wouldn’t be doing a sound check. Then I sat in the front row (it’s like the bulkhead of a plane–more leg room) and waited for church to start.

Babygirl sat and wrote on a notecard for a few minutes, sat through one song and indicated that she’d had enough. She wanted to go to the nursery. Problem is, she won’t stay in the nursery by herself, but I couldn’t stay either, because I had to sing. Quite a problem, really. We went downstairs and found her favorite little friend in the nursery, with her mother.

When I told Babygirl I’d be right back, she cried and clung to me. I told her I had to go, but I’d be right back and walked out while she wailed.

I sang my song and went back to the nursery, where Babygirl was momentarily silent, but sniffling and hiccuping from the screaming she’d done. She began crying again and we left the nursery so I could calm her down. She said to me, “Mommy back.” I said, “Yes, Mommy came back.” Then she said, “I was sad.” I almost laughed, but instead I said, “Yes, you were sad.”

(I’m sorry this is so dull, for anyone still reading. This really is a personal journal above all, so sometimes this is going to happen!)

After church, we left fairly quickly–sometimes we stay during the “Coffee Hour” and visit–but today, we didn’t sit down (although YoungestBoy did make sure to fill his pockets with cookies). Because my husband had to stay and perform a funeral service, we went through the drive-through and ate McDonald’s in the car.

I meant to put Babygirl down for a nap, but I was reading a book (“Rosie,” by Anne Lamott) and watching the men’s Olympic marathon. She was laying down on the bed, asking me to cover her with pillows, and then wiggling around and jumping. Finally, I decided that I’d let her skip her nap and then she’d go to bed earlier.

We meandered downstairs eventually, went into the back yard and discovered the clouds had parted and the air was warm and it was still summer! I said to YoungestBoy who was wandering around with a garden hoe, looking for things to chop, “Hey, you want to go to the P-O-O-L?” I spelled so Babygirl wouldn’t know what I was saying. YoungestBoy said, “Sure.” So, then I said to Babygirl, “Hey, you want to go to the pool?”

She said, “Go to the P-O-O!”

So, we rounded up everyone, while Babygirl chanted, P-O-O and P-O-L and on the spur of the moment, off we went to swim.

At the pool, the sky was vivid blue, the sun was warm, yet autumn definitely lurked just out of sight. A chill in the air reminded me that summer is leaving and I feel unusually sad to see it go. I watched the big kids try to drown each other and felt the sun on my shoulders and felt wistful.

I’m trying to muster up some enthusiasm for autumn–my favorite season–yet, all I can do is grieve for what’s ending, for the loss of Babygirl’s babyhood, for the close of this chapter. I remember how sweet YoungestBoy has been these past few years, how I wish I could have freeze-dried him as a four year old and reconstituted him to savor later. He just wouldn’t stay four forever, and now he’s six and going to first grade and the thought that he’ll be gone all day, every day, makes me sad. We won’t have our mornings together. No more funny conversations and wrestling around on the floor, tickling.

My twins are on the brink of adolescence–TwinBoyA just told me how much he hates me because I scolded him for calling his brother “jackass”–and I feel nostalgic and falsely long for their younger years–even though those years wore me out and found me hollering and wondering if they would ever stop throwing sand in each other’s hair.

I just want to say, “Stop! Stop fast-forwarding everything! I want to see, really see this part! Slow down!”

But instead, the whisper of fall is in the air and the P-O-O is going to close and did I take enough pictures? Did we have enough fun? Did we fully enjoy the summer? Did we waste the time we had?

We stayed at the pool last night until almost 7:30 p.m. and when we came home, Babygirl was eager for bedtime. I was so sleepy, so worn out, but when I came out of the baby’s room, my husband said, “Hey! You want to watch a DVD with me?” I didn’t really want to–I hadn’t even been downstairs and I knew the laundry was mating even as I stood there–but I said, “Okay.” I kept falling asleep through “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” and my little snores would wake me.

When it ended, I finished reading “Rosie,” and fell into a deep sleep in which I dreamed about going to the ultimate garage sale.

At 7:30 p.m., on the dot, I told Babygirl, “Time for night-night.” I kissed her soft cheek and placed her in her crib, along with New Dolly and Old Dolly (twins, separated at birth, but reunited by me–I found one at a Value Village, then found a new one at the local Fred Meyer and bought the new one because it was clothed), Tiger, two soft pink blankets and a heavy hand-knit baby blanket. Babygirl said, “Dolly hat?” New dolly has a hat, which Old Dolly must wear to bed. I switched the hat from New Dolly to Old Dolly and said, “Night-night, Sweetie.”

On some nights, she says back to me in her baby-voice, “Night-night, Sweetie.”

The love I feel for this tiny child almost suffocates me sometimes.

I close the door and flip on the fan in the bathroom for white noise because it will still be an hour or two before the boys are quiet. My husband is still gone (officiating at that wedding) and I step into my bedroom and sit on the bed and flick through a few channels, checking the Olympics, but settling on the news.

And then complete silence blankets my house.

The power was out.

The electricity very rarely goes out here. I suppose that’s because most of the power lines are underground, but for whatever reason, we very rarely sit in a silent, dark house like pioneers in sod houses back in the Litte House on the Prairie Days, or like those poor post-hurricane souls in Florida.

For the first thirty minutes, my living room remained fairly bright with the waning light of day, so I sat and read (Rosie, by Anne Lamott) until I came to the end of a chapter and realized that this outage might last awhile. Better prepare.

My boys came filing out of their room, acting as if I had just done the most magnificent magic trick, making electricity vanish. I retrieved two flashlights from the laundry room–which miraculously had working batteries inside. Then I set to work lighting candles. My boys stood watching in awe, oooo-ing and awwwwww-ing with each match’s s-c-r-i-t-c-h and the whoosh of flame. TwinBoyA said, “Cooooool!” as if I was a performer eating fire in a spectacular circus.

They sat at the kitchen table, staring at candle flames, holding their hands to the warmth until I said, “Don’t! Don’t move the candles! Do not get burned!” I’m such a kill-joy.

I washed dishes while they ate pretzels and gazed into the fire. They were actually arguing about who could stare at which candle, but fortunately, the sound of the water drowned out most of that insanity.

Then I finished the dishes and decided to clean off the avalanche of papers on the kitchen counter.

Flylady would call this a “hot-spot,” that place where things just seem to collect, that spot which must be dealt with severely and swiftly less the clutter spontaneously combust. Or something like that. Darkness had fallen, so by that point, I had to lift each paper to my jarred Yankee candle (Hydrangea) to see what it was.

I remarked to the children, “You know, this is how people used to live, without electricity all the time.”

TwinBoyB said, “Well, how did they keep their milk cold?”

I said, “They had cows.”

TwinBoyA said, “Ewwwwwww.”

TwinBoyB said, “Warm milk! Ewwwwww!”

They pondered this as they ate. I could clearly hear the “CRUNCH-CRUNCH-CRUNCH-MUNCH-CRUNCH” of my boys eating pretzels and it was all I could do not to stab myself in the ears with a butcher knife. Is it just me, or does the sound of mastication drive normal people insane? I kept saying foolish things like, “Would you please just stop crunching? Just eat! Quick! Don’t dilly-dally! I can’t stand the crunching! Argh!”

My poor children finally abandoned their pretzels and reminded me that I had candles in the living room fireplace that were unlit.

I lit those candles and the boys gathered pillows and afghans and settled in to stare at the flickering flames. I finished my project with the papers and realized it was bedtime for the kids. My favorite time of day!

I lit a candle in each bathroom so they could brush teeth and sent them to bed with a flashlight.

The silence of a house without power is so still, so loud, so weird. I borrowed a book-light from the twins and sat to read in the living room, feeling very disconnected from the outside world. Thank God for books. I was happily engrossed in the story when the buzzing started, then a hum, then clicks and purrs and lights came on and the voice of the television upstairs murmured.

The kids all came out of their darkness to say, “Mom! The power’s back on!”

I said, “Yes, I know. Now, go to sleep.”

How about that? My kids were perfectly entertained with flashlights and the glow of candles for an hour and a half–they did not die from not playing Nintendo and not watching television before bed. We would make horrible pioneers, though. Ewwwwww! Warm milk!

I remembered this afternoon of a few things that scared me when I was a child.

I was afraid that if I used too much toilet paper, the toilet would overflow. I used four squares, no more, until I was no longer a scared child. In fact, I think I was married before I started using generous amounts of toilet paper.

I was afraid that I would slide between the outdoor stairs–you know the kind of stairs without backs on them? I was terrified of going up those kind of stairs. I knew I would fall straight through.

I was afraid to speak in Sunday School class because I never spoke on Sunday mornings before class started. I was afraid my voice would be all scratchy and choked.

I was afraid people were talking about me behind my back. I was afraid of being left out and of being different.

I was afraid that when I stepped into a boat–rowboat, yacht, motorboat–it would sink.

I was afraid that the center of the golf ball my brother had dissected would explode and kill us all.

——————————————–

Just a while ago, I was sitting here in the family room, perusing blogs, when I realized that the television was blaring. I walked over, turned off Cartoon Network and resumed my reading.

A few moments later, YoungestBoy slid open the patio door, came in, looked around, turned on the television and went back outside.

He closed the door before I could say, “HEY! TURN THAT OFF!”

——————————————

My husband is gone overnight to officiate a wedding in Portland. I feel a little adrift, alone again. The skies have turned blue and I think I’ll take the kids to the pool tonight. It’s supposed to rain again next week and then the pool will be closed. I don’t want to don my swimsuit, but I will have to because Babygirl will insist on swimming with her beloved rubber ducky floating ring. She even sleeps with “ducky” now.

I am mourning the end of summer and the passing of time.

And now, Babygirl is screaming, “MOM! MOM!” from her crib. So, the second half of this day begins.

You know what I hate? Besides raw tomatoes?

I hate people deciding who I am based on my marriage alone. I married a man 17 years ago who is now a pastor of a church. And somehow, that gives people all the information they need to decide who I am.

That’s why it’s not listed in my profile on this blog. The fact that I am married to a pastor has hardly anything to do with who I am as a person. People see “pastors’s wife” and they stand back, gape, cover their mouths, share private jokes, judge, snicker and come to a swift conclusion. They conclude that I am completely unlike them, that I must pray in tongues while I dance through the house doing my housework, that I spend hours teaching the children memory verses and that I am standing with my hands on my hips judging them because I think I am Perfect. It’s really no wonder that it’s so difficult to find a New Best Friend when you are known as The Pastor’s Wife.

People who have different standards for me based on my spouse’s profession are misguided. They are the worst kind of people–unthoughtful people. And by that, I don’t mean people who are unkind or ungenerous, but people who just don’t think, who wouldn’t recognize a thoughtful moment if it pinched them under the arm in that really sensitive spot. Unthoughtful people cannot engage in thinking conversation, because they are missing whatever essential component that thoughtful people have in their souls. So, if you ever offer a thought-provoking comment to an unthoughtful person, you will see that person go completely haywire with screaming alarms and blinking lights and flailing limbs. And then they will call you a hypocrite or worse. The point of your thought-provoking comment will inevitably be missed in the hoopla of their crazy response and then suddenly, you are on the defense, wondering why.

Frankly, unthoughtful people wear me out and on bad days, they make me question humanity. On really bad days, they make me think I was right–people are horrible and not to be trusted and why did I ever think otherwise? Why bother?

People who don’t think live in some foreign land without a map. I can’t even find the entrance to the housing development where those kind of people live, let alone get close to them and understand them. When I encounter those kind of glib, mean, stone-souled people, I smile and walk on. No, I run.

But I’m a “pastor’s wife,” so I don’t give them the “You’re Number One” salute, even though that’s pretty much all they understand, because it doesn’t take much thought to flip someone off.

My name is Mel. My name is not Mrs. Pastor’s Wife. My faith is a skeleton, the framework of my life, not my hair. I don’t restyle it each day in accordance with how much gel or time I have or change it in light of prevailing trends. My faith holds me up, gives me strength, keeps my chin from puddling into my toenails.

I don’t talk about my skeleton as much as I talk about my hair–and when I say “hair”, I’m not talking about my actual wild curls, but rather, the part of life that is visible to the naked eye, the outside stuff–but that doesn’t mean my hair is more important than the bones that give me structure. My skeleton just is, and when people start judging me according to my hair, thinking they know everything about me, thinking they are in a position to judge how consistent I am–well, it makes me kind of testy.

Being judged and misunderstood pisses me off. Can a pastor’s wife say that? I’ll have to check my manual and get back to you.

In the meantime, putting these words here keep those words from swimming around in my already crowded head, so I feel a little better. So, no need to call the ambulance. I’ll be staying here, taking care of kids for a few more years, at least.

And now, I have to go make lunch.

Tonight, I went back to Weight Watchers. I had been absent for three weeks because of one thing or another. (Pringles, mostly, hardy-har-har.) Anyway, I gained two pounds, which–believe me, was actually fairly good news considering my un-Weight Watchers behavior the past three weeks.

After Weight Watchers, I headed to the grocery store, desperate for provisions (since I ate everything in the house–just kidding!). They’ve remodeled the grocery store closest to my house and for that reason, I wandered up and down most every aisle, picking out fat-free chili and skim milk and mini-Oreos (for the kids, wink-wink).

My cart was about half full when I glanced over and saw my Weight Watchers leader, Dianna. Instinctively, reflexively, without even a conscious thought, I averted my eyes and violently swerved my cart in the opposite direction as if I committed a felony by picking out food for purchase.

I know. I have some issues regarding food. Funny, huh?

Now, back to my “Caramel Honey” walls (or “Honey Caramel”–who can remember? I just know that I want to dip apples in the paint).

I put a second coat of paint on during nap-time today. This is what we used to paint. It’s a miracle, I’m telling you! If you are going to paint, buy one of these Paint Sticks. No drips, no drabs, easy as caramel-honey pie!

As for the color–picture the orange-yellow color that Little Tikes (the toy company) uses in so many of its toys. Like this basketball hoop. That’s the color of my walls. The intensity, anyways. Maybe slightly more orange.

When my friend stopped by the other day and I mentioned I was going to paint my walls the color of my hideous second-hand couch, she looked aghast. I said, “Well, my theory is that if I paint the walls that color, my couch will disappear.” She looked completely unconvinced, but I was right. My couch is all but invisible now, sitting against my vivid walls.

For an accent piece, I’m thinking of moving the Little Tikes basketball hoop next to the couch.

Just kidding. What I really want are purple velvet pillows and new luxurious cream-colored carpet. Cream. And Honey. All I need now is a little hazelnut fudge topping and Granny Smith apples.

(Oh, and by the way, why has my profile and picture and list of blogs and everything slipped down the page? Or is it just my computer which displays my blog incorrectly? Does anyone know?)

TwinBoyA had been the child who makes me question my competency as a mother. Since he was a crawling baby, he’s attempted to wrest control of this family from me. He’s a scowler and when he was about two years old, he literally growled at church people who said hello to him on Sunday mornings. He’s always been touchy and moody and prickly. I swear he has the soul of a hormonal teenage girl.

A couple of years ago, I was helping him with homework and he grew more and more angry with me, rather than with the complicated multiplication problems. I grew exasperated with him and things were not going well. Then he threw himself to the floor. (We were in the living room, so it was a small gesture, really.) Saved by the bell! The phone rang.

When I returned to the math torture, he handed me a small folded piece of notebook paper. Inside, it said (in really horrible handwriting), “WHY ARE YOU SO MEAN?! YOU ARE THE WORST MOM IN THE WORLD!” I read it, looked him in the eye, raised my eyebrows and then said, “You forgot to say I hate you.”

He blinked and sheepishly handed me a second folded note. I opened it to find the words scrawled in dark pencil, “I HATE YOU!”

I am a horrible mother, because I giggled, chortled, guffawed, even–which made him burrow under the couch cushions and holler.

He has never been an “easy” child. He can be delightful and he says really hilarious things (usually unintentionally) and he is a great reader and has a shockingly large vocabulary. But he is quirky and strong-willed and raises his lip at me in an Elvis grimace when he’s mad at me. Which is often.

So, here’s where I get revenge: His sister, the practically-2-year-old Babygirl calls him “Elmo” (which is obviously not his name) and she demands that he “rocky-rocky” with her. No one else will do. She stands and screams “ELMO! ROCKY-ROCKY!” and will not stop shrieking until he complies with her wishes. She wants him–and him only–to read books with her. If he walks away, she screeches, “ELMO! COME BACK!” She has become a tyrant.

He complains to me and I just shrug. Sometimes, you’ve just got to let the little ones do the dirty work. Revenge is sweet.

(p.s. After I posted last night’s dull post, I casually used that handy-dandy button up there to confirm that, yes, there are more dreadful blogs than good ones out there in cyberspace. I don’t think I’ve ever found a good blog that way–and then–ACK! A virus started to download itself on my computer and I sat helplessly and tried to “X” out the box and then suddenly, McAfee swooped in and rescued me by annihilating that virus. Boy, did that scare me! Anyway, I will not be using that button anymore and I’m warning you, if you want to find a good blog, do what I do– follow the trail on blogrolls! No more “next blog” for me!)

It’s 11:00 p.m., which bums me out. My husband and I painted our living room tonight–well, half of it anyway and all that productivity cut into my evening. And I am worried that “Caramel Honey” is too much for the living room walls. Sort of.

Me: “Do you like this color?”
Him: “Well, it’s not a color I would have chosen, but I like it.”

Long pause.

Me: “So you hate it?”
Him: “I didn’t say that! I would just choose a boring color.”

He would not have chosen red stripes in the family room or “violet aura” for the bedroom. I throw all caution to the wind when choosing the color of a room. Why not? It’s just paint. I can’t buy fancy-schmancy furniture, but I can make a room feel a particular way with color. My husband likes plain, boring, dull. Dorm room beige would be fine with him. He leaves all the creative decisions to me.

“Caramel Honey” is a good color. It is. Warm, glowing, comfortable. Unfortunately, it doesn’t mesh well with my “guacamole” entryway, so I’m going to have to repaint that, probably red. I want to use red accents in the living room and eggplant purple.

We used this cool paint stick thing that worked like a giant syringe. I would highly recommend it. It really did eliminate the dripping mess of a roller.

I’ve just turned this blog into one of those really boring ones I find when I click on that “next blog” button up at the top of this page.

I’d better get to bed before I actually bore myself to death. Although, my husband might like that. With the life insurance money, he could have the living room repainted beige.