tears of a clown

My 9-year-old has this problem: I instruct my oldest child to go to bed, usually at a reasonable hour. Less than one hour after she's sent to bed, she appears at the door to my room, on the verge of tears. The tears are brought on by various things and this has been happening since she was 6. Not every night anymore, but tonight takes the cake.

The waterworks begin with the phrase, "I was getting into bed and I tripped over something under my bed." (I looked at her feet at this point to determine injury; none there.) "And I noticed my trombone," she sobs, "and I remembered that I have not practiced once since school let out." We are in full-on wail at this point. I am laughing hysterically at her, knowing that I am hurting her feelings, but completely unable to stop. "I came up here now," she continues through her tears, "to see if we can somehow manage to fit practice into my schedule because I get so busy, I know I'm going to forget..." Tears are streaming down my own face now.
"Busy doing WHAT???" I'm laughing. "Squeeze trombone practice in between forcing you to put on clean clothes every morning and brushing your teeth? After I stuff food down your gullet or after you lounge on the couch playing Nintendo or watching a movie? Or perhaps sometime between playing in the pool and grousing about picking dirty clothes up off of the floor surrounding your laundry basket? Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

Oooh, but she is mad at me now. She flounced out of the room crying down the stairs and all I could do was turn to Tad and start laughing all over again.

My cheeks hurt!

grocery shopping at its finest

I spend an inordinate amount of time preparing for grocery shopping. Now, before you think I've jumped off the deep end, I'd like to give a little history on the whys and wherefores of my grocery habits.

I like American food; that is, food that is served somewhere in America. When we were stationed in England, it was difficult to find certain kinds of foods. Chocolate chips, for example, were sold in 54 gram packages. 54 grams isn't even 1/2 cup. I would need to buy their whole supply of chocolate chips and then clear out the store in the neighboring town to make one batch of cookies. Condensed soup in England contained no flavor. None whatsoever. Minestrone, Vegetable Beef Stock, Leeks and Cabbage all tasted like watered-down water. And so on. We lived 2 hours away from the nearest decent Commissary and that trip was a pain in the butt. So I learned to make a large list and buy in bulk, thereby making fewer 2-hour trips to the Commissary in Never-neverland.

To make this list I would have to plan out meals for 2-3 weeks and buy all the supplies needed for that entire time - or do without. It became a science. I knew where on the paper to write "eggs," because it isn't in the same aisle as the "breakfast cereal," no-no. And then there were the coupons. So yes, it has become an ingrained ritual.

Back in America, I shouldn't have to do that anymore. But, how many times did I stand with all the cupboard doors open and the fridge in shambles muttering, "I can't believe I have seven half-meals here. I have spaghetti but no sauce; I have hamburgers but no buns; canned tuna but no mayo..." You get the picture. So I went back to The Plan. Here, it takes a slightly different turn. I spend between $5-600 per month on groceries for a family of 6 and I am not ashamed to admit that. However, I pinch pennies and still buy in bulk, resulting in running to several stores to get the best deals.

I hate shopping with four kids. The biggest basket I can find (with the big plastic bus on the front) will seat three of them. Inevitably, some lady with a five-year-old walking next to the basket holding one jug of milk has the only one in the store. I no longer shoot daggers at those women. I just let my monkeys jump on her basket and say in my syrupy sweet voice, "Oh, sorry, I couldn't find a big basket like your big empty basket there, so my kids are going nuts. Excuse my circus - coming through."

So I head to the store, list in hand, with four kids in tow. My eldest is in charge of the list and - miracle of miracles - I got the big basket! No running down the aisles! No knocking boxes on the floor! No hanging off the side of the cart! Usually I have to re-arrange seating because of hitting and squishing and touching, but all is remarkably quiet on that front. I breeze through the store halfway done in record time when I notice the dialogue. So I pretend to look at the oatmeal and really pay attention to their words.

My youngest daughter, not yet four years old, is hanging out of the plastic bus (not really yelling because that would have gotten my attention much sooner), "Mayday-mayday! Cease fire! There are children aboard! I repeat, cease fire! Abort abort abort abort!!!!"

The elderly people who were looking at Corn Flakes are now looking at me like I'm insane. The boys are repeating their baby sister's litany, punctuated with whistling bombs and close-range shrapnel. I only have the frozen food left. We need to get out of this store. Now.

There are just some things you can't make up.

OK OK OK i'm UP!!!

I have been woken up over the years by many different things. I have had cold, snowy dog noses poked under the blankets. I have had little brothers and little children jumping on my bed. The various and sundry wails of babyhood: I'm hungry, I'm bored, change me, I'm scared. I have had several kinds of alarm clocks, from the annoying klaxons and dj's to my current mellow pond of frogs. I can completely wake up and get vertical and be in motion in record time upon hearing either of the phrases, "I'm gonna barf," or "I barfed."

But they all paled to misty memories when I woke up today to feel something on may face. In my muzzy morning clumisiness, I actually squashed the spider TO MY FACE.

I'm going to go take a shower.