Mission accomplished.

Tonight, I took my four children and two of their friends to see “Shrek,” which we all enjoyed.  My 9-year old son thought it was the funniest “Shrek” movie yet.  My daughter laughed like a maniac, even when she had no idea what was funny.  (I think the Super Loud Laugher sitting in our row may have encouraged her to extreme guffaws.) 

On the way home, we were stopped at a red light.  The kids all noticed two workers removing letters from a Walgreen’s sign.  My daughter wanted to know what they were doing, so we all glanced over just in time to see the lady remove the “S” from “SHIRTS” turning it into “HIRTS 2/$10.”  The kids thought this was amusing . . . “HIRTS, only FIVE DOLLARS!” they shouted and laughed.

And then–it was such a long red light–the woman put back the “S” and moved to the “R” while the older boys stammered, “Oh no, no, no . . . don’t remove the R!” and just at that moment, off came the “R,” turning SHIRTS into . . . well, SHI TS, two for ten dollars . . . and the barking laughter grew hysterical.  The light turned green, I accelerated and the kids screamed with laughter.  I was laughing, by then, at their hilarity.

I’m no longer laughing, though, because somehow I ended up hosting what amounts to a slumber party.  We returned home at nearly 8:30 p.m. . . . I ran a bath for my daughter, then changed into exercise clothes.  Then one of my 14-year old twins appeared at my bedroom door.  He looked sheepish and said, “Uh, Mom . . . we have a problem.”

And then he explained that the two boys who went to the movie with us planned to spend the night.  They’d cleared it with their mother, only no one had bothered to ask me.  “And,” he continued, “John and Joseph [*not their real names] think they are spending the night, too.  They’re downstairs.”

Now, earlier tonight, the same son asked me if John [*still not his real name] could spend the night.  I went a little berserk at his request and explained that “I DO NOT WANT ANYONE TO SPEND THE NIGHT!  I’VE SPENT TEN MILLION YEARS THIS WEEK WITH FOUR HUNDRED CHILDREN IN AND OUT OF MY HOUSE AND NO NO NO NO NO!”  I was very coherent and eloquent.  Ha.  And he didn’t say another word. 

And yet . . . and yet . . . I couldn’t say “no” to these four kids who’d already asked their parents and gained permission and WHY DO THEY WANT TO SPEND THE NIGHT?  (Could it be the ice cream they all ate at 10:30 p.m.?)  I had earlier raved to my son, “WHAT IS THE POINT?”  When I just informed the younger three kids that at 11:00 p.m. I expected them to go to sleep, Joseph [*still not a real name] protested and began to tell me about how things are done at his house and I said, “Uh, at my house, kids do not stay awake past 11:00 p.m.”  (And yet, at the moment, seven boys are awake and it’s 11:16 p.m.)

I haven’t even met the parents of John and Joseph [*uh, fake names].  Seriously, who sends their kids down the street to spend the night at someone’s house without meeting the host-mother (aka the INSANE LADY WHO LETS HALF THE NEIGHBORHOOD SPEND THE NIGHT)?

Well.  Okay then.  It is what it is.  Did I mention that my husband’s out of town for two days?  Boy, what fun I’m having in his absence. 

(The three youngest boys have created an elaborate “fort” in the family room using an assortment of quilts and couch pillows and heavy blocks and . . . oh, a bunch of stuff.  They are sleeping in this haphazard shanty-town.  Well, “sleeping” might be overstating what’s happening at the moment.)

Oh, I hope we sleep tonight.  I hope they sleep.  I want to sleep. 

*  *  * 

Update:  The three youngest (all about 9 year old, I think) slept–as far as I can tell–from 12:30 or 1:00 A.M. until 6:00 A.M.  The oldest four?  Well, I came down at midnight and told them to turn off the lights and be quiet and go to sleep.  They were ever so cooperative.  Why?  Because as soon as I went upstairs, they turned on the computer and resumed playing Runescape.  (All sites on their computer have to be approved by me–everything’s password-protected–so I am not worried about them accessing other things.)  Oh yes, they did–as I slept, confident in their obedience.  And then, at 3:40 a.m., my daughter woke and crawled into bed with me.  Then at 6:00 A.M., she woke up, whining.  I told her to go back to sleep and then the DOOR SLAMMING woke me at 7:30 A.M.  All the boys were awake and the younger boys were attempting to “prank” the older boys.  Thus, much door-slamming ensued.  I came down in my purple bathrobe and reprimanded everyone . . . I am so not the cool mom, not the fun mom, the ha-ha-ha, isn’t-this-fun?-mom.  I’m the irritated mom who got roped into a non-slumber party and now I’m weary.

By 9:00 A.M., I was ordering everyone to clean up the messes they’d made.  (One kid brought peanuts in the shell and so shells were everywhere.)  By 9:30 A.M., I was sending them home.  By 10:00 A.M., my 14-year olds were falling asleep.  I demanded the truth . . . and that’s when they confessed to playing games all night long–well, they did sleep an hour.  I think they were just too tired to lie.  Huh.  I have now blocked access to their favorite computer game as a little demonstration of the consequences of disobedience and lying.  And the best thing is that they had to choose between going to the beach with me (to explore the low-tide) or going with their friend (who spent the night) to an activity on the military base.  They chose the military base . . . so they are staggering from booth to booth, display to display, activity to activity on an hour’s worth of sleep.  So, there!  Take that!  Now whose laughing?  

My 9-year old got about six hours of sleep.  He’s at a birthday party right now.  My 4-year old and I are going to explore the exposed shore.  I shall return with pictures.  Maybe.

I had an actual thought today, the kind of thought that made me say to myself, oh, I need to blog about that.  I think I even composed the first sentence in my head.  And now it’s gone.  If you happen to find it, will you please return it to me?  Thanks.

Meanwhile, how about this picture I took a few weeks ago?  I adjusted the light a little so the foreground was more of a shadow.  This is Mt. Rainier and the moon.  See the moon?

My 4-year old daughter and I dropped off the boys at the YMCA for P.E. this morning and then drove to the grocery store.  I had a page of coupons from the Sunday paper and an intention to shop quickly so my little girl couldn’t ask for too much junk food.  I added to my grocery cart only the following extraneous items:  yogurt fruit snacks, Sponge Bob crackers, a handful of yogurt pretzels from the bulk food bins, a candy bar.  Ridiculous, I know.

We’re standing in line, then.  By some miracle, she’s sitting in the cart rather than wandering like a free-range chicken.  And then a man walks by with a dog on a leash.  Seeing a service dog is not unusual at this store–I’ve seen a service dog tethered to a wheelchair on a semi-regular basis.  But today?  Today, the dog walking by on the leash is a pug.  A pug in a pink shirt, as a matter of fact.

My daughter leaned over and said to me, “Can I pet the dog?” and I hemmed and hawed and the man heard her and so I said, “Can she pet your dog?” and he said, “SURE!” and picked up that bug-eyed pug so she could reach it.  Then he said, “Her name’s Tina.” 

That man stood too close to me with his pug.  My daughter petted Tina’s back and asked about the harness.  The man answered eagerly and I thought, okay, enough, put down the pug!

While I unloaded my cart onto the conveyor belt, I could hear the man talking to a woman in the adjacent line.  I couldn’t hear her, but I could hear him explaining about Tina and how she doesn’t usually wear her vest that indicates she’s a service dog.  He went on to explain that Tina loves to go places, and that her favorite destination is Ikea.

Okay, first of all, a PUG?  As a service dog?  Seriously?

Secondly, everyone and their five-year old knows that service dogs are not pets (they don’t wear pink shirts, I’m guessing) and no one is allowed to pet them.  Unlike Tina.

Yet, if Tina hadn’t strolled through the store in her pink shirt, I’d have nothing to blog about today.  So, thanks, Tina!  You fake service dog! 

If I were a house, I’d be waiting for tenants to move in.

If I were a lot, I’d be vacant.

If I were an Easter bunny, I’d be hollow.

If I were a milk carton, I’d be empty in the fridge.

If I were a marker, I’d be dried out.

Lucky for us both, I’m none of the above.  And despite the echoes in my head, I managed to post a little something over at the Larger Families blog.  We were supposed to do a photoblog of our Mother’s Day and somehow I missed those directions.  I had nothing.  You’ll see.

Meanwhile, I’m still trying to get over this stupid cold.  And I keep falling asleep while reading The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene . . . which I love . . . I just can’t stay awake.

The veins in my hands are like silky cords of blue-green.  I still can’t get used to these aged hands dangling on my wrists.  Between my fingers the skin is raspy, dried out from chemicals I use to wash clothes and clean dishes.  I’d slather my hands with lotion but what is the point when I will scrub them clean again in a few minutes?

My fingernails are short, practical, ragged around the cuticles.  They suffer from neglect, from dishwater and digging weeds and idle picking while I’m watching television.  My skin is loosening, bunching at the knuckles, criss-crossed with lines like a crazy map showing where I’ve been.

My hands show signs of overuse.  They’re getting old, which seems impossible since I am still the same inside.  My ragged hands betray my age and make me wonder why women abandoned the fashion of wearing dainty gloves in public.  I have no time for manicures, nor would the gloss of painted nails survive the ravages of my daily life.

Two of my grandfather were each missing fingers.  My Grandpa Johnson cut his index finger off with a saw while he was building a church.  I have no idea how my Grandpa Martin lost his finger . . . he fought in World War II, but I suspect that his missing digit cannot be attributed to that historical event.  I need to ask, to settle the mystery of his missing finger.  (I used to think that grandfathers all had one finger missing, as if it were a requirement.)

(Seriously, I have no point to these rambling post about my hands . . . but I had to write it because I am so distracted by the prominent veins on my right hand.  When did my hands get this old?) 

“Mom, I wish you were a fishstick because then I could eat you!”

I guess that’s her way of saying “Happy Mother’s Day.”

The doorbell rang.  A neighborhood mom asked if her boys were here and I had no idea.  But they weren’t.  Upstairs was just one extra boy with my youngest son.  My other sons are playing football in the street with a gang of other boys.  My daughter is upstairs watching the two play Nintendo. 

My husband just called to let me know he’s on his way home.  We’re going to have dinner tonight at someone’s house, so we farmed out our kids so we’ll be childfree for that event.  I’m just excited that I don’t have to cook.  I hope I don’t have a coughing fit . . . I’m at that lovely stage of this cold.  Fun.

What I’d truly like to know is why small children who go to bed late do not sleep in?  Why do they wake up even earlier than they normally do?  This makes no sense to me.  When I am queen, I will put a stop to this nonsense immediately.

Piles are threatening to overtake my desk.  Here is what I see:

1)  A novel that arrived by mail.  A Soldier of the Great War by Mark Helprin.  It came highly recommended and I’m looking forward to reading it, but first, I’m reading The Power and the Glory by Graham Greene. 

2)  A Chicken Soup book.  I’m writing a piece to submit to one of those books and brought it down for inspiration.

3)  An empty Super Big Gulp cup from 7-11.  Diet Coke.  Mmmm.

4)  An empty tissue box, further proof of the severity of my cold.  A full tissue box.  More proof.

5)  A thesaurus.  I’ve been writing lately.

6)  An old journal, a printed out email, notes, a magazine, a Bible . . . all piled up in one mass.

7)  A second pile of notebook paper, coloring sheets, and a spiral-bound notebook.

What do I hear?

The laundry circling in the dryer.  The hum of the refrigerator.  The murmur of distant children’s voices.  And now, a blood-curdling scream from the four-year old.  

What do I smell?

Nothing.  Remember that cold?

That completes this Saturday’s game of I-have-nothing-to-say-that-I-can-say-in-public.  Tune in tomorrow–or the next day–for more nothing.  Or something. 

I want a day without shouting.  I want my children to be the Brady Bunch, bell-bottoms optional.  I want the house to clean itself.  I want the cats to stop pooping.  Forever.  I want a pedicure.

I think scattered thoughts.  I think best when no one is talking to me.  I think talking is overrated. 

I need to vacuum.  I need to change the sheets.  I need to sort through my daughter’s closet to rid us of her outgrown clothing before she reclaims it.  I need more sleep.  I need an agent.  Or a cheerleader.  Or both.

I regret laziness.  I regret burned bridges.  I regret burning all my diaries that I wrote before I was eighteen. 

I dream strange dreams between 5:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m.  I dream of a day when my children are grown.  I dream that they’ll turn out all right and, in turn, create happy and healthy families of their own.  I dream of a cottage where I can dream.  I dream of writing stories that change people’s minds and hearts.

I love chocolate chip cookie dough.  I love reading good literature.  I love People magazine.  I love my husband, the man who makes me laugh more than any other.  I love blue skies and tall trees and crashing ocean waves.  I love my children, even when they spill whole pitchers of water on the floor and leave a trail of Cheez-Its from the kitchen to the playroom.

I hate being misunderstood.  I hate fleas.  I hate hearing children in movie-theaters when the movies are not intended for children.  I hate running out of a key ingredient while I’m in the middle of baking something.  I hate stepping in gum.  I hate being stuck behind a bus in my car.

I like sleeping in.  I like shopping in thrift stores.  I like hearing people’s stories.  I like farmer’s markets.  I like daffodil fields.  I like parades and fluffy clouds and shade on a hot day.  I like walking.  I like comfortable shoes.  

I dread making mistakes.  I dread making phone calls.  I dread conflict. 

I need to telephone potential volunteers for Vacation Bible School (VBS).  I need to find a babysitter for Saturday night.  I must catch up on laundry.  I need to return all my shoes to my closet.  I need to find a way to get all my work done and still carve out time to feed my soul.

What about you?  What do you want, think, need, dream, love, hate, like, dread, need to do? 

Because the boys’ hole is now big enough. 

Added to answer some questions:

When I asked one son awhile back, “Why?” he said, “Because we’re boys.”  That’s the clearest explanation they can give.  They have been unearthing big rocks, which seems to be the goal of the moment.

My husband couldn’t care less.  Our backyard is quite untamed and dominated by a giant Rainbow play structure and edged by overgrown laurel hedges.  (They kids play inside the hedges which are just beyond the hole.) 

The dirt has been spread down the little slope just below the hole and mounds up now on the sides of the hole.

I’m hoping they lose interest soon so I can refill it . . . but I can’t see a reason to make them stop.

Also, the in the picture, only one of those boys belongs to me.  The others are neighbors.