Not that we’d need this around here, but click here if you have or know anyone who has PMS. Consider this a public service announcement.

This afternoon, I was cleaning up and I heard a little thump, bump, tumble as Babygirl came down the stairs. I said, “Hey, are you all right?” and she said, “Yes,” but then I heard a little gaspy cry. I went over to check on her and found her face completely obscured by underpants. She looked as if she was prepared to hold up the local 7-11, only she miscalculated and didn’t rotate the underpants so the leg-holes corresponded with her eyeballs.

I picked her up and laughed under my breath, while I patted her back and mentioned, oh-so-casually, that if you are going to go down the stairs, you shouldn’t pull underpants completely over your head.

Remember that. If you are going down the stairs, make sure the underpants on your head don’t block your vision completely. Free advice.

Many years ago, when I still cried over my infertility, I had a friend named Julie who had a three year old son. And a husband, too, for that matter. While I was taking my morning temperature and scheduling my intimate encounters around my fertile days, Julie was busy accidentally getting pregnant. Twice in a year. She’d call me, crying, overwhelmed, despairing over her messy house and her sink full of dishes and I’d say, “I’ll be right over. I’ll help you.”

And I would. I’d drive to her house and find her disheveled and sniffly. Her couch would be covered with mostly unfolded laundry and her bed would be a tangle of sheets and her floor would be strewn with toys and clothes and shoes and stuff. Her sink would be piled so high I’d have to empty it before I could start rinsing and washing. I’d reassure her and tidy up and put all the clothes back into her closet and run a few loads of wash and fold the jumble of clothes on the couch. I created order out of that disorder.

Secretly, I thought she was sweet, but incompetent. What did she do all day? How long did it take for a house to fall into such disrepair? How could she let this happen? I did my good works with a great deal of smugness.

And then I had twin boys. That event alone set the stage for my current low standards. TwinBoyB used to spit up a lot. If I didn’t reach him quickly enough, I’d hear a slurping sound and catch him sucking the half-curdled formula out of the Berber carpet. So is it any wonder that I didn’t care if the pacifier was rinsed if it happened to drop to the ground? My kids licked the floor. How could a grimy pacifier matter?

When the twins were toddlers, I couldn’t keep them from throwing sand at each other. They loved sand–I didn’t have a box, though. I just had some guy with a pick-up dump a big mound of sand by the side of our driveway. We lived on ten acres then and this pile of sand blended right into the landscape. So, they’d sit in the center of this mountain of sand and throw it. At each other. Despite me.

One long Michigan winter left me desperate to entertain them. My friend, MaryKay, said she had a rice pool for her kids. I said, “How do you keep rice from getting all over the house?” She said she just vacuumed around the pool and didn’t let her kids carry it around.

That sounded easy. So I tried it. I bought a big, rectanglar Rubbermaid container. I filled it with twenty-five pounds of rice. I supplied shovels and cups and implements for play. My boys flung that rice into the far corners of the rooms. Repeatedly. Some of you (mothers of girls, probably) canNOT imagine such a thing. I never thought I’d turn a blind eye, either, but I did. I figured, hey, it will keep them entertained and it will vacuum up. Maybe I can actually have a moment.

I think they are probably still finding errant grains of rice in odd spots in that house. They probably blame mice.

I used to let the boys sit on the kitchen floor with giant bowls of soapy water. They’d play with it and inevitably spill it all. I’d use a billion bathtowels to clean it up. That made up for my infrequent mopping.

Wouldn’t it be reasonable to expect improvement? Learning, even gradual? Yeah, I thought so, too, but as it turns out, the mud-flinging and spillage persists. Instead of fighting them, I surrendered. I don’t bother picking up all the stuff scattered on the floor. At least not right away. I have a laundry folding system on my couch, but sometimes it just looks like piles of unfolded clothes. I will leave dishes in the kitchen sink so I can stretch out and read a novel.

I learned in these past 11 years that the messes will always be here. Even if I clean up today, it will be a mess tomorrow. Why sweat it? At this moment, the following items sit on my desk, here in the family room: a naked Ragged Ann (circa 1960 or 1970), a bucket of chalk, pipe-cleaners from last weeks Pipe-Cleaner Extravaganza, Babygirl’s sunglasses, my transcribing machine, my camera, assorted pens, CDs for school music, Land Before Time coloring book, car, bar of soap, old carrot, used tissue. And I could either spend time cleaning it up, or I could write. I choose to write. I need a break from the manual labor that is my life. I no longer have standards, I have substandards. As I told my husband the other night, I am a half-assed housewife. (Wait. Can a Pastor’s Wife say that? Let me check my manual and get back to you.)

That explains why today, when Babygirl walked up to me with her underpants on her head, I wasn’t alarmed–until I saw the skidmarks. Then, I said, “Hey, go get her some clean underpants, please! She needs clean underpants to wear on her head! Hurry!”

I have to draw the line somewhere. And wearing stinky flowered underpants upon one’s blond curls is that line. I just didn’t expect the line to be one of . . . well. You get the idea.

(And to Julie? I apologize. Now I realize that the household can fall apart in a matter of hours. I really had no idea.)

Here’s what I don’t want, never will want and think is completely stupid. Please do not name a star in my honor. If you want to give me something with “star” in its name, please give me the current issue of the National Enquirer, which features a story (and pictures!) called “Cellulite of the Stars.” I feel compelled to rifle through this issue every time I see it while I wait to buy my fat-free milk, bananas, salad and chocolate.

But I have resisted.

Doesn’t the idea that Britney Spears and Paris Hilton and even the stick figure known as Lara Flynn Boyle have cellulite give you a little thrill?

Well, maybe it’s just me.

Thank you, everyone, for the comments about my previous post. Some of you shared pictures of snowflakes and additional insight. Some of you emailed. I am thrilled that my words resonate with some of you.

Tonight, however, is just going to be boring, personal journal stuff. So feel free to click away.

My son just came out of his room (it’s almost 11 p.m.) and said, “First of all, mom,” as if we were about to have a full-fledged conversation. He and his brother are outraged–OUTRAGED–that I have instituted a charge for picking up clothes off their floor. Twenty-five cents an item. So, far, in two days, I’ve picked up twenty-five items. They are also alarmed that I have yet to pay them their $10 allowance for this two-week period. I am so cruel.

I told him, “Go to bed. I’m not discussing anything with you tonight. Go to bed.”

Do they not realize I am Off-Duty at 9 p.m.? No exceptions?

We watched the Superbowl today as a family. Well, I baked cookies, then folded laundry, then helped Babygirl get on her boots so she could go and stand in the muddy backyard and look at worms gasping for oxygen while rain fell on her head. She danced on the couch during half-time, making us all laugh. She swings her arms around and bops to the beat. Funny kid.

Early today, during church, Babygirl and I wandered into my husband’s office while he was preaching. She ate chocolate kisses out of his candy bowl on his desk, then asked me to push the button on his Billy Bass. She likes to dance to it, but when she pushes the button herself and the fish begins to flop and sing, it scares her. So I handled the button and she danced. Trust me, it was amusing.

I whirled through my house yesterday cleaning, vacuuming, changing sheets, decluttering, picking up . . . and then went shopping all afternoon alone. I have never seen so many pregnant women in one place as I did at Wal-Mart yesterday. I never shop at Wal-Mart because the nearest one is not very near, but I had gift cards to use. Besides pregnant women, the store seemed to be teeming with mother/daughter teams on weekly outings–and when I say “mother” I mean old, slow-moving women and when I say “daughter”, I mean slightly less old, slow-moving women. I was in a hurry, what can I say? So much shopping to do, so little time.

Later, at Marshall’s (I love that store) I bought three coats for my boys for next year for a grand total of $30.00. Now that is a bargain!

The sad thing is, when I returned home last night, my house showed no signs of my cleaning spree, other than my clean, flannel sheets on my neatly made bed and the de-mildewed shower. My husband said, “What do you expect? You have a family of six!”

What I really want to know is: Where is my Alice? (Of Brady Bunch fame.)

Finally, I must say that although I am enjoying reading The Shipping News by Annie Proulx, I cannot get over her constant use of sentence fragments. For instance, she’ll write, “”Fingers ochre from chain-smoking.” Or “The candle on its side.” Or “Warren gliding away.” Each fragment stops me cold. Maybe that’s her point? Anyway, I tried to read this book about fifteen years ago, but got bogged down. I saw the movie a few years back, so ventured another time into the pages. It won a Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award and it makes me want to travel to Newfoundland.

And now, it’s officially so late that I will want to destroy my alarm clock when it rings in the morning.

You just have to read Judy’s blog. Judy always make me laugh.

And while you’re at it, check out my friend, Brandie, at her blog, Cute & Crafty. You, too, will be inspired to be cute and crafty!

I heartily recommend them.

I did not grow up in this town, but walking onto the middle school campus today felt like a flashback to my own middle school years. No wonder I felt nervous and wondered if I had on the “right” clothing. I had a meeting today with a group of people who would decide if my son, TwinBoyB, needs “special services” as they call it. And I started all this. What was I thinking?

TwinBoyB is a great kid. He’s generally easy-going and sweet–except for the constant score-keeping. (“That’s not fair! He got more than me!”) And he makes a lot of noise and puts too much salt and pepper on his food. And he never closes the cupboards in the kitchen. And he leaves shoes here and there and then can’t find them. Other than that, he’s a good boy. Except, the more I’ve been working with him here at school-at-home, I see how disorganized he is, how he loses focus, how his memory fails him, how he is unable to communicate in written words. I couldn’t figure out if I expected too much of him, or if I expected too little. I read Mel Levine’s books about learning disabilities and saw my son in many pages.

So, awhile back, I asked the principal of the “Virtual Academy” if there were someone who could evaluate my son for learning disabilities. The school district is required by law to offer services to its pupils. Then suddenly, a woman called and scheduled an evaluation. I was to be there with my son. I said, “And who will I be meeting with?” She told me it would be a whole team.

I panicked. That wasn’t really what I had in mind. I just wanted one person, preferably a person who specializes in learning disabilities, to evaluate him. So, I called and postponed the meeting. That meeting finally occurred today.

I did not bring my son. He would have been mortified to sit in a room full of adults while they discussed his shortcomings. It wasn’t even an “evaluation”–it was a meeting to decide if he needs an evaluation.

In the room we sat in a circle of classroom desks with those little baskets on the bottom. In attendance were the virtual academy principal, a psych intern, the school nurse, the main psychology person, a woman with a title I can’t remember–pupil services?–the special education teacher, and an occupational therapist.

I described my son’s difficulty with handwriting, with composing, with spelling, with attention, with organization, with comprehension. They asked to look at samples of his work, which I provided. They listened, they peered at his scrawled writing, they asked some questions and then they basically told me he sounds like an average sixth grade boy.

They were all very nice, so I didn’t feel as if I wasted their time, exactly, but I did say, “Boy, I feel like I wasted your time,” and they assured me that wasn’t the case. I think they minimized his difficulties and have no clue about the work Mel Levine has done. Based on his test scores in third grade, they said he sounds like he’s not eligible for special services. I explained that I thought I was already doing what he needs by schooling him at home and they seemed to agree. They’re going to email me with more ideas on helping him.

So, I guess we carry on. He’s fine and dandy and the fact that he can’t compose, spell, use spacing in his writing, capitalize, punctuate, organize this thoughts, comprehend written work, and stay on track is just the way a sixth grade boy is. We will continue to work and work and work and hope that one day, he doesn’t end up living in a cardboard box under a bridge.

Now in other news . . .

The Cold Fairy has distributed colds to everyone in my world. DaycareKid has a gloppy nose, coughing sort of cold. Babygirl has a cold with no symptoms other than her crabby disposition. She threw two fits today, which is unusual for her. She planned to ride home with DaycareKid and his mom and was furious with me when I plucked her out of the back seat of their car and brought her back into the house. My timid child is outgrowing some of her timidity, apparently. The twins both have colds, mild ones, enough to slow them down and distract them from their school work. And I have the sore throat, stuffy nose, run-down blues. My husband had his cold last week and YoungestBoy seems immune.

Despite all that, I agreed to do some transcription tonight, which explains why I am at the computer and not curled in my bed, gazing at David Letterman. But now, I’ve done all I’m doing and off I go, so that in six hours, I can start this all over agin. Oh joy.