To answer a few recent questions (”What do you do for me-time?” and “They have zebras at your fair?”), let me just say this. I go to movies alone, probably too often, considering the price of of a movie ticket, but I do. I like the communal experience of watching a movie with strangers. What I do not like is the presence of small children in a movie theater when the movie is not animated and rated G. Tonight’s small child (at the 7:30 p.m. show) was loud and then cried and had to be carried from the back row of the theater all the way to the front and out the door. Uh, can you say “distraction”? PLEASE PEOPLE, I AM BEGGING YOU, HIRE A BABYSITTER WHEN YOU GO MOVIES WHICH ARE INAPPROPRIATE FOR YOUR PRESCHOOLER!

A-hem. Okay. Where was I? Oh. So, during the movie In Her Shoes, a character tries on an outfit. Another character says, “Jackie Kennedy?” “No,” the character responds, “Jackie Onassis.” At which point, a girl to the right of me leans over to her friend and says loudly, “Who’s that?”

Well, maybe you had to be there. I found that amusing.

I have to say, this movie pleasantly surprised me. I laughed. I cried. I wished I had more than one tissue stuffed in my pocket.

It did not, however, make me nostalgic for my own sister, the one who hasn’t spoken to me in more than three years.

Finally, yes, we did have zebras at our fair. An entire barn held exotic animals, African cattle and pygmy goats and other furry, fuzzy creatures not seen at your local farm.

And now back to me. What do I do for myself? Well, I read blogs and I write. I read books and I write. I leave my house in the evening as often as I can, sometimes to grocery shop in peace, sometimes to see a movie, sometimes to prowl the aisles at Marshall’s for bargains. I occasionally enjoy a decent break in the middle of the day when the babies and toddlers all nap simultaneously and then I eat lunch and read the newspaper. Whenever I have a break in the action, I give myself permission to sit and read or rest rather than clean.

It’s not much, but it’s enough for now.

I’m one of those people who reads “The Reader’s Digest” in the bathroom. Once, for fun, I decided to read a novel, but only in the bathroom, when nature called. I read the newspaper almost every day. I scan cereal boxes, junk mail and the fine print. My two bedroom bookshelves hold hundreds of books, but that doesn’t stop me from browsing the bookshelves at thrift stores, hoping to score more books for less money. My policy is to read the book before I see the movie, but if that strategy fails, I read the book after I see the movie. (Sometimes the changes in plot are jarring.)

I just love books. I like the papery smell, the weight of a volume in my hands, the promise of pages unread. The first job I really desperately wanted was at the public library. (My brother got the job and I went on to work at Taco Time. I’m not bitter. Much.)

I have hated a few books in my day, though. Without further ado, I present a short list of books I have hated.

Waiting to Exhale. I threw this book away when I finished reading it. The movie was entertaining, but I recall despising the writing in this book.

Bridges of Madison County. Someone told me that someone she knew considered this the worst book ever written. So I had to read it. Again, the movie was beautiful–the plot itself is fine, but the writing . . . horrible. And laughable.

Four Blondes. A truly awful book. I’m just glad I only paid a quarter for it at a garage sale.

The Beans of Egypt, Maine. I bought this book while living in Connecticut when my husband was in graduate school. I attempted to read it three separate times and carted it across the country to the Pacific Northwest, then over to Michigan, then back to the Pacific Northwest. I tried again and again to like this book, to plow through it. Finally, I stuffed it into a box of books destined for Goodwill.

Boy, do I feel better now that I’ve confessed. I’m a hater.

On the other hand, I am against banning books. Did you know it’s “Banned Books Week”?

(Update: I should clarify. I am against the general banning of books in our society. That doesn’t mean I think every book should be in every school library across America. And I also believe in family book banning–that is, in my family, I reserve the right to monitor, censor and ban certain books, just as I do movies and music.)

I realized today with a sort of shock that I am a Working Mother. And by that, I don’t just mean that I handle the bulk of the housework and the childcare. I mean that I work. I get a paycheck every week. I work for money.

But I work at home and I do work that is considered not to be work by most everyone. I wipe noses and change diapers and referee disagreements between three-year olds. I balance this work with my household duties, which means that I never dust and hardly ever get down on my hands and knees to scrub my kitchen floor. So, the balance is more like a wobbly seesaw with a chubby kid sitting on one end. A lot of see, but no saw. A lot of teeter, but no totter. Very little housework, but a lot of childcare.

Beyond my imperfect housekeeping, what’s bugging me today is the clear-eyed fact that I have no connections with local women around me. Because I’m neither (or both?) a full-time stay-at-home mom or a full-time working mom, I lack the benefits of each job title. I don’t schmooze with other stay-at-home moms, getting together over coffee while the kids play in the other room or lingering at a park bench chatting or joining playgroups or volunteering at the schools or anything. I can’t run errands during the day or enroll my little girl in classes at the YMCA. My work day begins at 7:30 a.m. and ends at 5:30 p.m.

On the other hand, I don’t share a camaraderie with working moms, either. No laments over childcare and gossip about co-workers. No working lunches, no shared laughter in the office, no professional satisfaction of teamwork. No contribution to the workforce whatsoever. An entire career world exists outside of my neighborhood and I’m excluded because I’m working, but I’m not a career woman. Besides that, I get no sick days, no 401k, no vacation time, no raises. I can’t afford cruises or vacation houses like many of the two-income families in my town. My work ranks just above folding soft tacos at Taco Time.

Today was a lonely day. I tried to remember the last time I laughed really hard at something besides my kids. Nothing came to mind. I thought, I’m so depressed, but I’m not really. I would like to sit with an old friend and just ramble and talk long enough to get jittery from the caffeine. Maybe I just wish I were still in college, free of the snot and crumbs and tiny bits of cut paper that my kids keep creating and leaving like snow on the family room floor.

Probably, though, it’s all the wishful thinking of a true introvert. What I really wish is that I were a blustery, outgoing, cheerful, happy-go-lucky kind of woman, the kind that everyone invites to parties. While I was talking with my husband tonight, I said to him suddenly, “It must be nice to go through life being an optimist.” He truly is optimistic, deep down to his core.

And let’s just say I’m not. I specialize in pinpointing the flaws, the errors, the many ways things can go wrong. There’s a place for people like me, and apparently, it’s the laundry room.

I confess that I started drinking early today. It’s true. I popped open a can and stacked an iceberg’s worth of ice into a large purple cup. Normally, I try not to drink before noon. But today? Today, I needed a drink.

You would, too, if you were here, surrounded by the scattered toys that the 3-year olds dump and toss and inundated by the twins who either can’t or won’t stop talking. At one point, one 12-year old boy traipsed into the living room to bug the other 12-year old boy. A great ruckus ensued and one boy came racing into the family room, hollering and giggling, until he was tackled by his brother.

I sat here at the computer, clicking my way through the K12 website, ignoring the attack.

Sometimes, pain is a good teacher. The troublemaker ended up on the floor, wailing for awhile until he realized he had no audience. Then he went and got his vocabulary book.

As for me, my cup is almost drained of the Diet Dr. Pepper. The kitchen table is a mess of old newspapers, schoolbooks and dirty bowls. My daughter hides behind the patio curtains wearing only her tights with the puppy on the back because her dress just dragged into the toilet. The 4-month baby girl ought to arrive any second. Good thing she is immobile, still, because my floor is definitely not baby-safe.

I do, however, have enough caffeine coursing through my veins to keep me going until naptime. And that’s A Good Thing.

I spent my evening sorting and organizing forty-eight packets of photographs. Two boxes now contain the tangible proof of our lives in the years 2004 and 2005.

Now, if I can just figure out where I put the pictures from 2003 and 2002, I’ll be all set to resume scrapbooking.

Meanwhile, I came across this photograph.

Today, the twins had P.E. at the YMCA. After my husband dropped them off, he came home and picked up my daughter and the 3-year old boy we watch and took them to the park, leaving me home alone.

And how did I spend my precious quiet hour?

I cleaned out my refrigerator, including the freezer. Then I sorted through the ever-present pile of papers and magazines on the counter and relocated everything. I picked up the scattered Legos so they wouldn’t become even more scattered. I took the recycling out to the bin.

And then everyone was home. What does it say about me that I spend a rare hour home alone cleaning out my freezer? What would you do if you were home alone for an hour?

Immediately following Sunday School, I took my two youngest children with me to The Fair. The shuttle bus ride was the highlight for my three-year old girl. My seven-year old begged to ride a few rides and I let him, despite my saying, “We are just going to see the animals. No rides.”

My daughter rode her first kid-sized roller coaster and she did not enjoy it. I cradled her as we whipped around and around, six times, I counted. Each time we passed the carnival worker, I’d beg silently, Please, please, stop this thing! Out loud, into my daughter’s ear, I’d say, “You’re doing great! We’re almost done!” She didn’t cry, but she wasn’t thrilled, either. I wasn’t thrilled to see the carnival worker pressing a flannel cloth to his nose. What sort of contagious disease did that guy have, anyway?

My son rode three or four rides and confessed afterward that he didn’t actually like “The Kamikaze,” a contraption that swings two boat-like cars back and forth and finally, completely around, upside down. He’s such a trooper–he rode the rides by himself because I couldn’t leave his sister.

But before the rides, we passed through the livestock barns. My three-year old hopped and clapped at the sight of one cow behind after another. She greeted the goats, sheep, turkeys, zebras, and horses with equal enthusiasm.

All told, we were at The Fair for two and a half hours.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon cleaning up my twin boys’ room. I took a Sharpie marker and labeled their dresser drawers so they can more easily find and put away their clothes. Both dressers were garage sale finds, so I wrote directly on the drawers. My daughter watched me do that and I just hope she doesn’t think my actions give her license to write on the furniture, too.

While I was cleaning the boys’ room, my kids were busy wreaking havoc in other rooms.

Yesterday, I took my daughter to the grocery store, which she completely adores. She picked out a small pumpkin to take home, a “sugar” pumpkin meant to be baked and used in cooking. She cradled that pumpkin all the way home and after a few blocks said, “I want some treats in my pumpkin.”

The child remembers last year’s trick-or-treating, apparently. I find it so strange that small children can remember things from the distant past. She still remembers the cat we had when she was a baby. It was a black cat named Shadow and he ran away (we figure) when she was about eighteen months old. One day, months later, we were walking on a bright sunny day and I said, “Look at your shadow!” She looked around and wanted to know where the cat was. It took me a few minutes to realize what she was talking about.

I spent a glorious seven hours away from my home–alone–frittering away time. I drove, I shopped, I ate, I saw a movie, I mentally scolded the parent who ushered her small child into a movie rated PG-13, then I shopped some more. I only brought home pants for my 7-year old and a pair of white canvas Bass sneakers for myself ($15 on sale from $49.99).

Now, I am procrastinating. I can choose from the following options:

1) Wash dishes in kitchen sink;
2) Straight up family room, including moving dishes to kitchen sink and straightening up couch cushions and putting markers away;
3) Prepare my preschool Sunday School lesson;
4) Check children’s progress in stack of student books perched precariously on my desk.

I don’t want to wash dishes. I am ignoring the family room. I really need to figure out some alternative plans for Sunday School because I loathe the curriculum I am forced to use (David C. Cook). (One activity reads: “Give each child a paper heart. Encourage the children to use the crayons and straws to make their family members on the hearts.” Huh? Straws?) The children’s school books can wait until tomorrow.

So, I thought I’d respond to a friend’s blog in which she ponders the reasons mothers choose to send their little ones to preschool. Or not.

She says this of her twin 3-year old boys: “They seem to be strong, outgoing, independent kids, all three of them. That has to be one of the things I am most proud of, that they are not and have never been, clingy children. So, I wonder still, do mothers who refuse to leave their kids with anyone else, ever, do so because they need to feel like they are the be-all, end-all for those kids? Are they so over-protective because it gives them a purpose in life? Or what? What’s the deal? Or perhaps I am just a reckless, irresponsible mother because I do not hover over the children and I do not dote on them constantly. Maybe that’s it?”

I have never sent any of my children to preschool. Why not? When my twins were three, I began a home daycare, so our days were structured like a preschool, including craft-time, snacks, playing outside, and other activities. Plus, I lived in an very rural area. I am not sure there were preschool programs available. But mostly, I couldn’t figure out a reason I’d want to send my kids to preschool. What would they get from preschool that they didn’t get from being home with me? They were already interacting with other children their age because of the daycare children in our home.

When my next son was two, I began to fantasize about sending him to preschool. Mostly, these dreams were born out of my frustration. He was an active boy who quit napping early. He’d throw the most amazing tantrums in his overtired state. Yet, when he turned three and was eligible for preschool, I couldn’t imagine sending him away. He was great company, a cheerful, extroverted, smart little kid. We spent our days going to the YMCA, running errands, picking up his brothers from school and playing. I started a little playgroup and a group of moms came over every other week to visit us.

I couldn’t imagine any reason to send him to preschool. He’s now in second grade and consistently earns high grades and praise from his teachers for his cooperative, cheerful attitude.

My daughter is a clingy child, the opposite of Smoov’s “strong, outgoing, independent” kids. When my little girl was only three months old, she began to display her personality. I took her to my mother’s house for Thanksgiving dinner and soon after we arrived, my baby started to scream. She cried hysterically and I was unable to calm her down. Finally, I excused myself and brought her home, where she immediately quieted and went to sleep.

She’s a child who is slow to warm up to new situations. She’s shy. When she was a baby in my arms at church, people would always crowd us, eager to say hello to her. Without fail, she’d cry at the approach of people. I never was able to pass her to anyone else as I had done with my boys. My 7-year old was so friendly as a baby that once I handed him over to an admiring stranger in Walgreens. Once, when he was about two, he insisted on sitting with a young couple we didn’t know at Burger King. He has always been the kind of confident, strong, independent kid Smoov admires.

But that’s not because of preschool.

And my daughter is not clingy and shy because of a lack of preschool. She was simply born with this personality and my response to her is not overprotectiveness, though I suppose it might appear that way to Smoov. I attempt to ensure that she feels safe and secure in her home. Gradually, she’s become less worried about people approaching her. She talks to people at church sometimes. She chats quite a bit with adults she knows, like the mom of the baby was watch every day. She adores babies and displays an instinct for nurturing them. But she is a quiet, anxious soul.

But she is good with scissors and recites the alphabet. She dances and sings along with her CDs and cassettes. She recognizes about half of her ABCs and can tell me what they say. She talks, talks, talks all day long in the safety of our home. She has a sharp memory and shows a great deal of empathy towards other people and their emotions. She loves to help me do chores.

I can’t figure out why I would want to send her to preschool. What would she get at preschool that she is not getting at home?

Smoov wonders about mothers like me. “So, I wonder still, do mothers who refuse to leave their kids with anyone else, ever, do so because they need to feel like they are the be-all, end-all for those kids?”

I don’t leave my daughter with anyone else (other than my husband and occasionally, my mother) because of my daughter’s personality. It really has nothing at all to do with my needs or wants. Sure, I’d adore twelve hours a week without children (mine and everyone else’s!). But sending my girl to preschool so that I can be alone would be terribly difficult for her. Sure, if she had to go, she’d adjust eventually. But I can’t imagine that she’d gain anything at all by going to preschool.

I don’t think preschool is a bad thing. I think of it as a fun place, a safe haven for children, sometimes a safer haven for children than their own homes. Kids learn to play with other children, have opportunities to create and explore, experience the structure of a routine and all that good stuff. It’s a great break for mothers, too, and really, who are we kidding? That’s why most kids go to preschool.

And that’s not a bad thing, either.

But lack of preschool does not necessarily make a kid clingy.

Preschool is not the only path to strong, independent, outgoing kids.

Mothers (like me) who do not send their kids away to preschool don’t do so for one particular reason. Each of my kids has missed out on preschool for different reasons. Each of them have different personalities, which were not caused or formed by preschool or the lack thereof.

Most children go to preschool these days for various reasons. Some moms seem desperate to ensure that their children will not lag behind other children. Some moms are eager to reclaim a portion of their day for themselves. Working moms graduate their little ones from plain old daycare to preschool. I have no quibble with any of those reasons.

But I would rather keep my kids close to home during the short years before kindergarten. I see no compelling reason to send my kids to preschool.

Even though I would like to be home alone sometimes. I admit that.

(By the way, I think Smoov is one of the most amazing mothers I’ve ever known. She’s energetic, involved, passionate, patient, creative and brilliant. If you aren’t regularly reading her blog, you might want to ask yourself “why?”)

6:10 a.m.: Roll over and realize husband is in the shower. But alarm did not ring. Realize through groggy haze that I set alarm for 5:45 p.m. rather than a.m.

7:10 a.m.: Wake to the sound of daughter repeatedly yelling “Mommy!”

7:13 a.m.: Crawl back under covers for “ten more minutes.”

7:47 a.m.: Shower.

8:15 a.m.: Insist that 7-year old quit playing Nintendo and get dressed.

8:30 a.m.: Feed 7-year old.

8:35 a.m.: Ten-month old baby arrives, sleeping. Put him upstairs for nap.

8:45 a.m.: Son leaves for school.

9:00 a.m.: Begin cleaning kitchen. Urge boys to begin school work. Put laundry from washer to dryer and from dryer to basket. Clean litter box, feed cats.

10:00 a.m.: Finish cleaning kitchen. Three-year old boy arrives. Put potatoes and steak into crockpot and call it “stew.”

10:03 a.m.: Fake telephone call to school district office to inquire about enrolling extremely reluctant student in middle school.

10:15 a.m.: Firmly direct extremely reluctant student in method of following directions in writing memoir.

10:20 a.m.: Listen to extremely reluctant student shout, stomp and break pencil. Ignore unwanted behavior.

10:30 a.m.: Baby awakes. Tend to his needs.

10:35 a.m.: Continue to monitor progress of extremely reluctant student. Realize the validity of the viewpoint of those who believe “nature” takes precedence over “nurture.”

11:45 a.m.: Mom of 10-month old arrives to spend lunch break with baby. Boys make their own lunch. Prepare lunch for 3-year olds.

Noon: Extra kids arrive for the day. Sisters, age 3 and 1.

12:30 p.m.: Four-month old arrives with stuffy nose. Warm bottle and feed her. Son returns from half-day at school.

12:45 p.m.: Ten-month old returns. Mom points out that he apparently has a cold, which explains his lack of napping. Put one-year old down for nap in playpen. She cries.

1:00 p.m.: Put 3-year old boy to nap on the couch. Put 3-year old girls upstairs to watch PBS before naptime. Put 4-month old down for nap. Rock 10-month old until asleep. Lay him down, pretend he actually continues to sleep. Neighbor boys knock at door. Refuse to let them enter.

1:30 p.m.: Escort 3-year olds to potty. Lay down for naptime. Sternly warn visiting 3-year old that it’s naptime. Refuse her demands of “mommydaddy!” “Drink!” “Door open!” “Watch t.v.!”

2:00 p.m.: Wake from light sleep and realize 3-year olds are asleep. Hear baby.

2:01 p.m.: Rock 10-month old and wipe his runny nose.

2:20 p.m.: Hear screaming. Return dozing 10-month old to crib. Rush screaming 3-year old from room to prevent her from waking up others. Leave her downstairs with toys.

2:21 p.m.: Rock 10-month old again. Hear crying. Realize no one intends to sleep. Pick up 1-year old and take both babies downstairs. Warm bottle. Feed 1-year old. Eat entire stack of Ritz crackers and tall glass of Diet Vanilla Pepsi for lunch. Notice crockpot is not even warm. Jiggle plug.

3:00 p.m.: Daughter wakes up. Is crabby. Wants to be held. Neighbor boys return.

3:30 p.m.: Three-year old boy’s mom arrives. Ten-month old baby’s mom arrives. Wave bye-bye!

4:15 p.m.: Four-month old baby wakes. Feed her bottle. Watch her spit up on jeans. And shirt. And hand. And arm. And chair. And herself.

5:15 p.m.: Mom of extra 1-year old and 3-year old arrives. Visit for ten minutes.

5:35 p.m.: Babysitter of 4-month old picks her up. Due to crockpot malfunction, take kids to McDonald’s for dinner.

No wonder I’m exhausted. I had nine–no, eleven children–here today. I dream of solitude. And tomorrow, I get it! I’m leaving at about 1:00 p.m. and don’t have to return until 8:00 p.m.

* * *

My son’s school is having a coin drive for Katrina hurricane victims. He gave his seventy-five cents of popcorn money to the cause today. I think I might be doing something right!

My husband helped some friends move today. A young stud was also helping move boxes. My husband tells me that he could hardly contain his mirth when the young man picked up a box marked, “China,” and said to the homeowner, “When did you guys go to China?”

My daughter and her friend sing the “Hokey-Pokey” song, but they have alternative lyrics. One sings, “Oh, do the okey-dokey!” and the other sings, “Oh, do the huppy-puppy!” I can’t stop singing that song . . . much like when I wake in the nighttime and find the Elmo’s World theme song running through my head like an uninvited guest.

Here’s a new blogger with not only a beautiful voice (listen to her Free Friday song), but also a beautiful style of writing. Run over and browse awhile at “Sing for Your Supper.”

Almost all my husband’s family lives in the path of Hurricane Rita. Most of them are staying put, which my husband (aka Mr. Safety) finds incredulous. If he were in the path of a hurricane, he would leave a good week prior to landfall. Mr. Safety prefers to opt on the side of caution, always. Mr. Safety would always rather be safe than sorry. Always.

Rather than worry, we are distracting ourselves with reality television. Last night, we watched the Martha Stewart version of “The Apprentice.” I have always liked Martha Stewart and what she stands for: Absolute Perfection. Perfect paint colors, perfect lilac bushes, perfect creme brulee’. And now that she has this little blemish–being a convicted felon and all–I like her even more. And I like to watch people fray at the edges and sometimes implode or explode, so I like “The Apprentice,” too. The melding of Martha and “The Apprentice” is a dream come true for me.

And when the scene came where she had to release one apprentice and she said, “You just don’t fit in. Good-bye,” my husband and I repeated the phrase over and over with glee. I would rather be fired than be told I just don’t fit in, but then again, perhaps I’m still a junior-high student at heart, desperate for the cool girls to take notice of me.

Naptime’s over. Time to get back to work.