Actual Unretouched Photo

Today’s drama was brought to us by a handful of dirt flung into the air.  Said dirt landed squarely in the 9-year old’s eye.  I heard keening, the type of sound that drills into a mother’s ears with unmistakable urgency.  I ran into the back yard and found my boy with his hands over his face, his body bowing to the ground.  I pulled his hands from his face, expecting blood and perhaps a handful of broken teeth, but I found an eye full of dirt.

I hurried him to the kitchen sink, directed the cold spray onto his face, yelled at him to OPEN YOUR EYE, and tried not to freak out.

After a lot of water, a moderate amount of yelling (“you HAVE to open your eye–pretend you’re at the pool!” . . . “but at the pool I wear goggles”!) , and some terror, we succeeded in removing all the dirt from his eyeball.

I’d rather have boredom that that sort of excitement.

My daughter, the culprit, was duly chastened and tearful when I gave her a stern lecture.  She threw the dirt with joy, not malice.  All the same, dirt in the eyeball hurts and scares a mother half to death.

The trick is to have something to write about or writing about nothing in such a way that your readers aren’t smitten with a fatal case of boredom.

This morning at 6:15 a.m., my alarm clock startled me awake.  I swatted around until I connected with the snooze button, then spent the next three minutes deciding whether to stand up my walking buddy.  By 6:18 a.m., I had decided to stay under the covers.  This is the first time I’ve purposely not showed up for my morning walk.

The worst thing is that after I made that fateful decision, I never really fell into a deep sleep again.  My daughter showed up, snuggled under the covers next to me for a few minutes, then scurried back to her room to watch television.  I heard my son’s alarm clock ring and listened to him start the shower.  A few minutes before eight, I wrapped my purple bathrobe around myself, wiggled my feet into slippers and went downstairs to make lunch for my boy.  I had to remind him to brush his teeth and put on his shoes.  (Would he go to school in stockings if I didn’t remind him?)  I combed his hair.

When he left, I went back to bed for fifteen minutes.  Okay, maybe thirty.  I am not a morning person.  Ever.

At 9 a.m., the kindergartener from down the street arrived and I was dressed and appeared alert when I opened the door.  My daughter greeted him with great joy and then they ran outside to swing on the tire swing.  She wore socks and shoes–at my insistence–a tank top with a jack-o-lantern on the front and faded pink capri stretch pants.  The yard was damp from last night’s rain.

I roused my teenagers from their unkempt beds–they are messy sleepers–and moments before their dad appeared to take them to P.E. at the YMCA, I handed each of them a piece of toast and off they went.  Blessed no-complaining-quietness.

Now, be thankful that I spare you the details of the rest of the morning . . . laundry, changing lightbulbs, dishes, ironing,  retrieving dirty socks from far-flung corners . . . oh wait, those were the details.  Suffice it to say that I am Boring.  At half-past noon, the teenagers returned, red-cheeked and full of school-related complaints and the kindergartener left.  I began working at 1 p.m. and finished at 5 p.m.  (Mysterious online job that pays money, real cash money, woo-hoo!)

Husband left for meeting.

We had dinner.  (Chicken, quinoa, corn and broccoli.)

Finally . . . bedtime.

Now, more work (same mysterious blog-time-stealing job) until midnight.

The end.

Here we are: Dog the Bounty Hunter and his buxom wife, Beth.

Unfortunately, from this angle, you can’t see exactly just how buxom . . . and my pale pink lipstick has rendered my lips virtually invisible.

Still, we found ourselves utterly hilarious and won a very informal costume contest.

• Gattaca release

My husband and I are going to a costume party tomorrow night. I think this will be the first costume party we’ve attended in fifteen years, maybe longer. (We hosted that party, so long ago. I was the Tooth Fairy and he was a cowboy.)

We are going as a famous couple. We have chosen a couple that makes me chuckle . . . but what does not make me chuckle are the unclear shipping policies on the two websites I used to order parts of our costumes. GUARANTEED 1 to 5 days shipping actually means . . . oh, I don’t know, ONE TO FIVE DAYS SHIPPING, right?

Apparently not. Apparently you are supposed to understand that if you order past 9 a.m. (Pacific time), then you’re really ordering the next day. And the day they process the order doesn’t count. And five days really means eight days. Just in case you aren’t familiar with New Math. I ordered in plenty of time, according to the shipping chart, but I didn’t realize that five means eight. Silly me.

Tomorrow morning, I will be haunting the local Halloween shops.

Tomorrow night, I’d better be in my chosen costume or I will have to go dressed as The Very Angry Pastor’s Wife.

(And yes, either way, I’ll post a picture. Want to guess what famous couple we’ll be dressing as?)

I like to keep my thumb on the pulse of pop-culture. I always have. I adore People magazine, though I am too cheap to spring for a subscription. I read movie reviews and watch movies (only in theaters because I am allergic to being interrupted while watching a movie . . . and my life at home is one big interruption after the next). I admit to a fascination with reality television (it’s okay, you can confess that you watch “Gene Simmons Family Jewels” and “The Real World”–I won’t sneer because I watch them, too).

But I cannot abide the following:

1. Kimora. While I do watch her show (while working late at night), I would never consider buying any of her clothing line (Baby Phat, in particular) because I find her so annoying, so self-consumed and so unable to spell. (I can’t stand “cute” spellings and slang spellings of words. Yes, I’m talking about you, Ludacris.) Seriously, when I’m in my favorite store (Marshall’s!) looking for bargains on the clearance racks, I recoil from anything that has a Baby Phat label. I am a Baby Phat snob and it’s all Kimora’s fault. Which brings me to . . .

2. Sean John Puff Daddy P. Diddy Diddy Combs. The problem I have with Sean John Puff Daddy P. Diddy Diddy Combs is his smug attitude, his pompous, insolent demeanor and his misplaced self-confidence. Oh, that and the fact that he failed Marriage 101 and is not married to any of his four children’s mothers. (Nice touch, cheating on your girlfried with whom you have twin babies.) I cannot tolerate him . . . not his music, not his reality shows, not his behavior, not the expression on his face, certainly not his music or his music videos, vodka, or perfume.  And, when I find a piece of his clothing line in Marshall’s, I reject it, no matter how much it has been marked down. I would not want the Sean John clothing label on any of my children. I don’t want to give one penny to Sean Jean Puff Daddy P. Diddy Diddy Combs. Ever.

3.  Joel and Victoria Olsteen.  My dislike for them is irrational, perhaps, and unwarranted, but I cannot stand the fake smiles plastered on their faces.  I want him to cut off his mullet.  I want her to stop speaking in platitudes and cliches.  I am a Yankee, I admit it, and even their accents irritate me.  (But not your accent.  No.  I love your accent.)  Why must these sorts of people be on television when I find them so dreadful?
*  *  *

And that concludes this week’s edition of The Annoyed and Judgmental.  (Yes, that’s me.  Annoyed and judgmental.)

I just had the most ridiculous argument with my 14-year old son. I had just put my daughter to bed and came downstairs to sign onto my computer. I use a laptop, but it sits on my black, faux-marbletop desk in the family room (adjacent to the kitchen). Not long ago, we got a third computer which sits on a small desk to my right. The box-part of the computer (yes, that’s the technical term), sits on the floor between our desks.

My desk chair, a hideous garage-sale find with royal blue upholstery and wheels (one which falls off at the most timid touch), had been wheeled to the other side of the kids’ desk. The wheel had fallen off.

I replaced the wheel and shoved the chair back to my desk.

Then I noticed that the computer on the floor had been pulled out from its resting spot. I said, “Hey, why is this computer sticking out?” The boys all claimed ignorance. I shoved it back, scraping my fingertips in the process.

I sat on my blue chair, pushed the button on my laptop and . . . . “HEY! WHERE IS MY MOUSE?!” I have a wireless mouse, which until this very night has never tiptoed off my desk, never wandered into the kitchen, never swan-dived onto the floor. One son said, “How would we know? We didn’t do it!”

Then my other 14-year old came in, knelt on the floor, laid on his stomach and reached far under my desk to retrieve the mouse. He claimed to have no idea how it might have migrated to the floor, under my desk.

I am relentless, a Pit Bull who just cannot unlock its jaws. I had to know what happened to my mouse. How did it fall down and under my desk? I called all three boys to me and demanded to know.

My son took this as a great insult. He informed me that I needed to learn to look around, to figure out problems on my own. “Do you think perhaps you could solve your own problems?” he said to me in that exact sarcastic tone I use with him. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to slap him, so I stood to my full height (which is an inch or two shorter than his full height) and said, “I HAVE BEEN SOLVING MY OWN PROBLEMS FOR FORTY-TWO YEARS!” and he said, “Why do you always blame us?” and I said, “I am not blaming you. I am ASKING QUESTIONS because ASKING QUESTIONS IS A GOOD WAY TO FIND INFORMATION!” (I learned that from Sesame Street, I kid you not.)

He accused me of yelling and I said, “I AM NOT YELLING!” and we went in circles, dosey-doeing our way until I was positively dizzy. I never, ever did find out how my faithful mouse of several years found itself stranded under the darkness of my desk. At last, I waved my bony finger at my son and said, “This conversation is over. We will no longer discuss it. I mean it. Go. Go now.” He left, but I could tell that he wanted to give me some more helpful tips to improve my parenting skills.

What he should do is write a parenting book now while he still knows everything.

So, last weekend at this time, the skies were blue and I was nearly at the top of Mt. Baker with my friend, Cari. The last few winding curves on the mountain caused Cari to steer her mini-van into the lane away from the cliff . . . she was afraid we’d simply fall off the edge of the road, never to be seen again. I, on the other hand, was unafraid. Probably because of the snow-plowing in the winter, the roads had no guardrails at all. Cari told me that the roads were normally bounded on each side by high walls of snow–which was clear from the 8-foot bamboo stakes lining the roads.

We arrived at the Chalet at about 4 p.m. and set up our scrapbooking supplies. Outside the window to our backs was Mt. Shuksan. I stood and stared awhile, then got to work. My goal was to affix my pictures from 2003 into a scrapbook by the end of the weekend.

Looking back four years over the course of two days reminded me of how much my kids have grown. My life is so much different now, yet so much the same. Four years ago, I had two 9-year olds (who turned 10 during the course of the year). Right now, I have a 9-year old who will be 10 in a few months. Four years ago, I had a 4-year old who turned 5. Right now, I have a new 5-year old.

Things are different now, though. Back then, I had a baby. Now, I do not. Back then, I had all boys. Now I have a daughter who says things like, “What are you wearing today?” and “Isn’t this shirt cute?” Back then, I weighed over 225. Now I’m 55 pounds lighter. I’d gone back to my natural color back then; now I’m blond again.

When I looked at those pictures, I thought of how quickly children grow up. I wonder if I hugged them enough, if I screamed too often, if my children have any awareness of my devotion to them. I wonder what life will be like when four years have passed. My twins will be 18 then. My 9-year old will be a teenager. My daughter will be 9-years old.

My husband, I have no doubt, will look exactly the same. I married him because he is so consistent, after all.

Anyway, the weekend at Mt. Baker flew by in a haze of sore shoulders, stacks of photographs and walks up the mile-loop to the ski-lodge parking lot. We stayed up until 2 a.m. and I slept until 9 a.m. At the end of forty-eight hours, my scrapbook was complete. We drove an hour and a half down the mountain, then I drove three hours home to my family. I arrived after my daughter was in bed.

Then Monday dawned and my real life started all over again. It’s taken me the whole week to regain some momentum.

What a lovely weekend it was, though, worth the lack of sleep and sluggish re-entry into my family.

Here Cari and I are, hiking trails the last day.

The wind gusts push the trees into a frenzy this afternoon. I pause from reading the newspaper to stare out the window. The clouds glide across the blue sky, reminding me of movement and change and the impossibility of stopping a storm.

*  *  *

And just like that, clouds crowd the sky, blotting out the blue.

The phone rings. My neighbor tells me, “My son just called, crying hysterically because your son punched him in the nose. My son thinks his nose is broken.”

“My son?” I say, with disbelief.

“Yes,” she says, “My husband is on the way home. Would you mind going over to check on him? When he called me, he could hardly talk.”

I rush my younger kids into the house, grab my keys and speed ten houses down the street to the kid’s house. I find the victim lying on his front step with a towel on his nose. A zip-loc bag full of ice cubes sits by his side. He shudders and cries a little. I examine his nose, which to my untrained eye appears to be unbroken. Thick blood rims both nostrils. I cannot believe my son–who is nowhere to be found–is responsible for this.

The boy tells me his brother and another boy were fighting. He went to break it up and my son punched him in the nose.

So, when his uniformed father–a soldier who’s been to Iraq–pulls up moments later, I offer the story and my opinion that the nose does not look broken. I apologize and he says, “Boys will be boys. When I was growing up, I broke my brother’s arm.” This confession consoles me. Then he says, “There has to be more to this story.” Really? That hadn’t occurred to me, but obviously, there must be.

I drive further around the circle, stopping at the other boy’s house. My sons are not there. When I return home, somewhat in a huff, I find them trying to look invisible.

I separate them and interrogate.

Their story is that another boy was fighting with the victim’s brother. The victim rushed over to–what? Intervene? Punch someone? We’ll never know, because my son grabbed him to stop him. The victim threw a punch, my son threw a punch, the victim grabbed my son, my son turned to run and whacked the victim in the nose with a random backhand.

The victim maintains that my son punched him straight on the nose. The other five boys, including the victim’s brother, corroborated my son’s story: the damaging blow was an accident.

Nevertheless, my son–who told his story with tears streaming down his face while he begged to know his punishment–has been grounded. He shouldn’t have interfered, shouldn’t have grabbed anyone and certainly shouldn’t have thrown any punches, even if they didn’t land.

The ironic thing is that the boy my son was defending is a weasel who doesn’t like him and whom he claims to dislike as well. The victim with the bloody nose, crying on his front porch, is his best friend.

And the whacked nose was not broken. I hope the friendship remains unbroken as well.

*  *  *

Update:  The boys are still friends.  The kid who was bloodied came over tonight so he could go to youth group with my sons.

Disclaimer:  Should you happen to know me and my family in real life, please do not mention this incident to the boys.  They don’t know I have a blog.  As I attempt to balance their privacy with my exhibitionism, a stray comment from you to them might cause all my spinning plates to crash to the floor.  And we don’t want that now, do we?

Hey, want to catch a virus? This originated with Mary DeMuth over at Relevantblog.

Quick, where were you ten, twenty, thirty years ago? (If you’re younger than thirty, clearly you can only tell us about ten and twenty years ago.)

Ten years ago: My husband and I lived in a parsonage situated on ten acres in northern Michigan. Our twins were four years old and I was five months pregnant with my first “unlikely pregnancy.” I felt great and loved every second of pregnancy. I had no sickness, no complaints. Once a month, I drove forty-five minutes to the home of an Amish midwife who checked to make sure my pregnancy was developing normally.

My husband pastored a small country church and I taught Sunday School to 4-year olds and led singing from the piano every Sunday morning. I babysat a few kids in my home to earn extra money. In preparation for Halloween, the boys and I made a scarecrow for the front yard. I was planning a little pre-trick-or-treat party and perhaps had already begun to sew the costumes the boys wanted: pumpkins!

Twenty years ago: I had been married for almost three months. In July, my husband and I drove his Chevy Blazer from Washington state to Connecticut where he enrolled in graduate school. I worked as a legal secretary in a law office, which sound exciting but I was bored because the lawyer had just begun her solo practice and I didn’t have enough work to do. (And she practiced contract law which was dull. I should note that her handwriting was illegible which made transcribing her work tricky.) When she’d leave the office, I’d gaze out the window onto the Green in New Haven and wonder at the beauty of the autumn leaves.

We had no television so I read a lot in the evenings while my husband studied. (The first winter there I read The Hobbit, following the entire Lord of the Rings triology.) I weighed 145 pounds and thought I was fat because after getting married my pants started to get tighter.

Thirty years ago: I lived with my dad and his new wife of only a few months. (She was 29 and never planned to have kids, so we were all struggling to adjust.) My mother had remarried, too, and lived in a small apartment near the middle school I attended. I rarely saw her, though. I was in seventh grade and we lived on a dead end behind the cemetery in a new brown house with brown carpets. My bedroom was lavender. My dad bought me a full-sized piano and it barely fit in my bedroom. I took piano lessons from Sue Moser, who taught at a community college, but I loathed practicing and didn’t apply myself as I should have.

The boys at school teased me because I was tall and mature for my age . . . I dealt with this by wearing my puffy blue down jacket all the time. (I never took it off during school hours.) I earned straight-A’s without much effort. I weighed 136 pounds and believed myself to be disgustingly fat. By the next year, I would weigh 123 pounds and still think I was disgustingly fat.

* * *

If you want to play along with Mary’s “virus,” describe on your blog what you were doing 10-20-30 years ago. Link back to Mary’s blog (http://relevantblog.blogspot.com) and mine, too (http://unretouchedphoto.com). Let’s see how far we can spread this thing! (You can also play along by merely leaving a comment below.)