Well, he’s leaving, but he’ll be back. He’s just going to Minnesota on business for four days. He leaves early in the morning, so on one hand, I’m a little frantic about making preparations. I need to get to Target for laundry detergent and meringue cookies. I’d like to go to the video store to rent DVDs. We probably need more milk.

And I hate to take the children shopping. I can’t think while they are careening around the store and bombarding me with questions. And it always costs me more when they come along because I am a pushover in the grocery store.

Anyway.

The irrational thing is that I always imagine I will start and finish some type of enormous project while my husband’s away. This time, I’ve settled on painting. My entryway and hallway need to be painted. Why not paint while I am outnumbered four-to-one by children? Why not paint while I am the sole adult in charge? Why not, indeed?

The only thing standing between me and progress is this little book, The Secret Life of Bees. I’m not sure I can let latex paint and my green, soon-to-be orange-gold, entryway come between me and this fiction.

As for my husband, he’ll miss us, about as much as he’d miss having a rock in his shoe.

When I was older than eleven and younger than fifteen, I fell in love with veterinary medicine, a al James Herriot, author of All Creatures Great and Small . Even the description of plunging a hand deep into the innards of a pregnant cow did not dull my dreams of becoming a veterinarian myself, preferably one who lived in Scotland.

My parents, in a strange bid to force me face-to-face with reality, arranged for me to work on weekends for a goat farmer. This job required me to ride my bicycle a good twenty miles up and down rolling hills to the goat farm.

The goat farmer was a portly woman with stick-straight, frizzy, gray hair, which hung down her fat back. I can’t remember her name, but I remember very clearly being introduced to a pen of small goats. I was given a knife and some clippers. She demonstrated how I was to trim the hooves of these smelly creatures. Then she left.

She left me with her son, a teenager or a young man who made me acutely aware of being with him, and not in a cozy, comfortable way. But I didn’t have time to worry because I had goats to fix.

I caught the uncooperative goats and I trimmed and clipped and shaved their hooves, only drawing a bit of blood.

I can only remember one other incident at the goat farm in which the goat farmer woman had me help her shear the goats. I guess they were angora goats.

We brought the goat into the dim kitchen where the goat farmer prepared to shear the goats by stripping down to her underpants. They were giant, white, granny-pants, for which I give thanks. If thongs had been the fashion back in the seventies, I might have seen much more of the goat farmer than I desired. As it was, my adolescent self was horrified to view a grown woman in her underpants, especially a woman with a generously protruding stomach filling out her cotton panties.

I can’t imagine I was much help. I remember nothing, other than the fact that the goat woman sheared the goats in her kitchen, while wearing underpants. Sometimes I think I must have dreamed that part, or maybe I dreamed the whole thing–the job, the bicycle ride, the bleeding goat hooves. I think I was paid in goat milk.

I didn’t work at that farm for long. Soon after, I worked at a health food store and then graduated to Taco Time, where I learned how to properly roll a bean burrito or a soft taco.

I gave up my dreams to be a veterinarian somewhere along the line. The idea of reaching up a cow vagina didn’t bother me, but the vision of that goat farmer woman in her gigantic white underpants frightened me forever.

And that’s what I’ve been thinking about lately. Strange jobs. Paths not taken. Seeing people in their underpants.

Today is my husband’s day off. He asked what my plans were for the day and I fell to the floor, laughing my fool head off. Plans! Who makes plan? I have kids who school at home and a two year old.

Actually, I said, “Well, I really need to write my Student Academic Plans and if you could take Babygirl out of here for a couple of hours, that would be so helpful.”

He, being a Superior Husband and all, agreed. Off they went.

I sat at the computer and clicked on K12.com to gather the list of assignments for today for the boys. My internet connection kept wavering though, jiggling and swaying like a suspension bridge, and then BOOM. I was off-line.

I rebooted. And clicked. And switched to the other computer. And rebooted it. And briefly found myself connected again before plunging into the dark world of disconnection.

How did we survive without our high-speed internet connection?

I called Comcast to ask if there were some type of outage, found out nothing, unplugged everything, rebooted and found myself linked to the on-line world yet again.

By this time, though, the day had flown by and my husband and Babygirl were back from their adventure to Kristy Kreme. I had achieved nothing, but my boys completed most of their lessons before we lost our connection yet again.

I haven’t caught on my daily-read blogs. I haven’t answered email. I didn’t finish my record-keeping for K12.com.

You’d think that my house should be spic-n-span and that the laundry would all be put away since I spent so much of my day flapping in the wind without my internet anchor. Alas, not true. Between my meeting at school this afternoon, a meeting tonight and grocery-shopping, I feel farther behind tonight than I did when I woke up this morning.

By the way, Babygirl (who was 2 in September) can play on the internet. I set her up with pbskids.org and she plays games. She knows how to click the red “X” at the upper right hand corner. She can manipulate the mouse. She knows how to put in a CD and play her toddler game. I am pretty impressed.

Next time my computer loses its internet connection, I know who I’m calling.

That’s right. Babygirl, Computer Whiz-Girl, Age 2. I’m having business cards made up right away.

Slept in. Avoided traditional Saturday morning donuts. Took Babygirl to bank, shoe store, church bazaar, grocery store. Babygirl looked at “girl” in mirror at shoe store, apparently not recognizing herself. Sometimes I feel the same way. Where did my baby go? And who is that wrinkly-eyed, doughy-chinned woman holding my Babygirl in the mirror? (Oh, what an unpleasant mental image! I apologize. Please erase that and continue to think of me as, oh, say Julia Roberts. No, someone more my age. Yes, that’s it–Brooke Shields.)

While waiting for shoe store to open, Babygirl ran up and down the sidewalk four times. A two year old can be so easy to entertain.

This afternoon, YoungestBoy went to yet another birthday party. He’s quite the popular party guest. Next Friday he has another party to attend.

TwinBoyA read two books in two days. He’s insatiable and wanted to know if we could go to the library tomorrow. (It’s closed.)

I went to a movie tonight: Shall We Dance, with Richard Gere, Jennifer Lopez and Susan Sarandon. It was an amusing film, made more so by the woman behind me with the hearty, joyful laugh.

Babygirl sang all afternoon. Apparently, a song was stuck in her head because she kept singing, “I. Love. You. You. Love. Me. We’re. A. Hap-py. Fal-i-my.” (Barney theme-song.) I laughed at how she sang “family.”

Have you ever noticed how some people’s lives seem so portable? In the six years we’ve lived here, we’ve seen people come and go. A military family I know has moved from here to Hawaii and then to North Carolina. My mom has moved three times in these six years. One close friend moved from Kansas to Vermont and then Missouri. What is it with these people who just carry around their lives like a potted plant? They can just up and go and then plunk down in a new sunny spot at a moment’s notice.

And here I am, growing roots deep into the soil, growing impossibly tangled with the neighboring perennials, stuck in one spot. Stuck?

I’m planted in a lovely spot. We stayed in a pot for so long, growing slightly root-bound until we had to choose, decide, break the pot and stay awhile. But I am slightly wistful for the portable days of the past, although I am really loving my golden hued living room. That color looks fabulous with my autumn decorations.

And now, I’ll end this tortured analogy. Feel free to throw clay pots and daffodil bulbs for dragging you through the mud.

p.s. After more thought, I realized that the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere is six years, even in my childhood. No wonder I’m worrying about getting stuck in the mud here.

Funny Girl
Friday! The twins went to their friends’ house to play, so dinnertime found me in the car, heading for Wendy’s with the two youngest kids in the backseat. “What do you want tonight?” I asked YoungestBoy and he recited his order: “Chicken tenders, fries and a chocolate shake-thing.”

Then Babygirl piped up: “I want a cheeseburger and a doll.”

I laughed and she said, “I am so funny!”

Two year olds make you laugh so hard that it makes up for the times you grit your teeth and cover your ears to drown out their screams. This morning, she was playing her computer game–she clicks the mouse and everything–when she clicked on the letter “K” which brought up a picture of a kangaroo.

She climbed down and came into the family room where I was folding laundry. “I want a kangaroo!” I said, “We don’t have a kangaroo.” She stomped prettily and whined, “I want a kangaroo on the t.v.!” I said, “There are no kangaroos on the t.v.”

Then she burst into flames.

Inattentive Mothering or Are You Talking to Me?
I can’t tell you how many times I realize that someone, somewhere is talking to me. I say, “Are you talking to me?” which reminds me of Robert Deniro in Taxi Driver: “You talking to me? You talking to me? You talking to me? Then who the hell else are you talking to? You talking to me? Well, I’m the only one here.” . . . even though I never even saw that movie.

I wonder if my children will ever realize that I have thoughts and that many times I’m actually in the middle of talking to myself–or listening to myself, rather. If I don’t answer, they up the volume or simply chant, “MOM! Mom! MOM!” until I vaguely look around and say, “Are you talking to me?” and I’ve turned into Robert Deniro again.

I’m not sure if they talk to me because I am inattentive or if I am inattentive because they are always talking to me. At any rate, on one hand, I think children do best if they are left on their own–within certain boundaries, of course. I don’t want to hover and wipe their chins when they are 11 years old. On the other hand, am I missing their childhoods because I am so distracted by my internal dialogue and external noise? Am I paying enough attention? Can you ever pay enough attention? And if you pay enough attention, will you spontaneously combust from the effort?

On Being Judgmental
I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to be judgmental. It takes no effort to look out from the safety of our front doors and judge each other. I do it in big and small ways all the time–judging people who wear slippers in public, for instance, or wondering at those in the movie-theater who have such bad taste in movies.

If you say you are not judgmental, you are probably deceiving yourself. That includes me, of course. But with awareness comes–hopefully–understanding and change. This insight courtesy of Hillary, who pointed out that I do the very thing I criticize others for doing.

And now, I promise not to call Michael Moore an idiot again. At least in print.

Babygirl cheers for treats!  

Mundane Stuff
Babygirl declared yesterday, “I gotta wash the dishes!” And she did. She stood on a chair at the sink, sprayed water, moved dishes from one sink to the next, cracked a glass and got her clothes wet. What fun she had. This time around, I am wiser and I let her practice doing chores in the hopes that one day, she will actually do the chores with a smile on her face.

When I started motherhood with a set of twins, I didn’t encourage this sort of thing because the mess of two children playing in water at the sink is not really just twice the mess of one child. It’s more like four times the mess. And they fought over everything. They still do.

Right now, one of the twins is working on spelling while the other works on literature. What puzzles me is that they choose to work on the crazy yellow couch in the golden living room rather than in their room, where I painstakingly set up separate study areas for each of them. I always forget that they are not me. If I would adore my own separate study area, they will hate it.

I Blame Paris Hilton
What’s up with people carrying their little yappy dogs into stores around here? Two times in the past week, I’ve seen someone clutching a pointless little dog in their arms while they shopped–once at the grocery store! What’s that all about? Does everyone think they are the exception to the rule?

An anonymous person made the following comment on my blog a moment ago: Why not just be happy for what God gave you and shut up for a while! Did you know there was a war on and plenty of women are losing their children every day. How about grabbing yours, thanking God, and stop whining!

Frankly, it’s impossible to take an anonymous commenter seriously and comments like this always crack me up.

But to answer the questions:

Question: Why not be happy for what God gave you and shut up for awhile?
Answer: Your question presumes I am not happy, which is a false presumption. Furthermore, is happiness really the point of life? I think not. Finally, if I shut up, who would write my blog entries? Were you hoping I would ask you? I don’t even know your telephone number!

Question: Do you know there is a war on?
Answer: Well, yes, I did. In fact, a friend on my street is expecting her first baby in three weeks. Her husband is serving in Iraq and will miss the birth.

Question: How about grabbing yours, thanking God and stopping whining?
Answer: How about you find a blog you feel more comfortable reading? How about you sign your name to your comments, you big coward?

Thanks for stopping by.

Oh, but before you go, I have a question for you. Do you know how to use a question mark? Or did you fail grammar in elementary school?

(Yeah, that was kind of unnecessary, wasn’t it? But at least I’m signing my name.)

Tonight, I stretched out next to YoungestBoy and read him a long library book. I had a sudden flash of nostalgia for those days when I could feel a baby squirming inside. How I loved being pregnant. After so many years of infertility, the shock of tiny in utero knocks always delighted me. Always.

When I was pregnant, for the first time ever, I admired my body. Instead of hating the imperfect contours of my body, I found myself in awe of my body’s functions. I stroked my swelling belly–which before I’d always despised because it was never flat. Ever. Now, I adored my round stomach. When I could feel the baby swirl around and hiccup, I exulted in my participation in a miracle.

How can you not want to participate in a miracle as often as possible? I totally understand those women who repeat this experience over and over again. But even if I had a choice, I’m not sure I would make the choice to be open to unlimited pregnancies. Maybe I’m selfish–though God knows, that isn’t an easy state in which to remain when one is a mother–but I do hope to have a life beyond my children.

I see myself as the planet and my children as my orbiting moons. It seems like some mothers function more like the chocolate shell on a dipped cone. Their ice cream children melt and they are a pointless, broken shell. The children are the center and somehow, when the children grow-up, those moms are empty. Of course, this is entirely speculation since I am in the midst of the chaos of child-rearing and having an empty nest sounds appealing. (I know, Suzanne, is probably making a clucking sound right now at my short-sightedness. I should probably sit on my hands and quit pontificating.)

I want to read an entire novel during the daytime, but beyond that, I have private dreams and aspirations that do not involve my status as a mother. I once said that being a stay-at-home mother is not what I am, it’s what I do. I don’t define myself by my day-to-day activities, but by my internal self, the part of me that thinks and daydreams and reads and observes. That’s the part of me which is often drowned out by the noise in my household and by the row after row of demands. That’s the part that stays up late at night.

As I approach forty (in January–send gifts!), I wonder about my life in a few years. Will I school the boys for the next six years? Will they go back into public school? Will I go back to school and pursue a career? Will I forfeit the satisfaction of a much-dreamed of career for a job that merely pays the bills instead? Will I ever write for publication? Will the laundry all be clean and put away on the same day? Or will the laundry baskets always overflow? And why, oh why, do Goldfish crackers crumble into a thousand pieces when they are crunched into the carpet?

In a way, I’ve never felt like the mastermind behind my own life. Obstacles have determined my course more than anything else, obstacles like available jobs for my husband, my dad’s death, our infertility, money woes, my children’s learning issues. It’s as if I’m a Pac-Man, working my way through the maze, not heading the direction of my choosing, but scurrying away from monsters who will eat me in a quest for fruit (magic pills?) which will keep me safe for a moment.

Does anyone fully feel like the controller of their own destiny? Do people actually live lives according to a grand plan? Am I the only one without a road map? Do some people get to fill in the blanks and not just pick between “A”, “B”, or “C”?

(I just realized that I sound like an atheist. I believe God has a plan for my life, but sometimes, just occasionally, I wish He would give me a road-map so I could pack adequately for the journey. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.)

I also think that perhaps learning to enjoy the ride, especially the so-called detours, is probably the point of all of this. After all, if you never leave the freeway, you never experience the worlds’ best drive-in and other joys on streets where the speed limit is 30 miles per hour.