Each morning as the children make the long walk down our driveway both our dog, Walter, and cat, Peter, follow the gang as they wait for the bus to pick them up. No amount of shooing can deter them from their goal to stop the human children from getting on the big yellow monster. I’ve even locked them in the garage only to have them both jump onto Darren’s workbench and jump through a window with is permanently stuck in the open position.

Several times Walter has taken the “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” approach and followed the children right onto the bus. Usually the kids can coax him off but one time he made his way to the back seat and refused to budge despite the roaring laughter of fellow passengers. I learned of this when my telephone rang at 7 AM:

“Uh, Mrs. J? This is Kelly the bus driver. It seems your dog has decided to join us today. Can you come down and get him?”

So with big fuzzy pink slippers and old bathrobe, much to the humiliation of my horrified children, I made the trek down the driveway to retrieve Walter. I looked a little like Phyllis Diller as I boarded that bus and made my way past several dozen feet to the rear. Walter was none to happy to see me, either. He knew in that moment that his victory was about to turn into defeat.

“WALTER! What are you doing?? Come on, boy! Momma’s got a treat!” I said with false enthusiasm.

He did his best Marlee Matlin impression and acted all deaf and stuff so I decided to pick him up. To this day it is the only time Walter has bared his teeth at me. Had I known that I would be humiliating myself in front of the children’s peers that morning, I might have tied my bathrobe in a square knot with a couple half-hitches. Instead, as I picked up my scholarly pooch, my bathrobe parted like the Red Sea exposing my Sponge Bob Square pants pajamas.

Do you know what it feels like to be laughed at by a couple dozen ADHD kids? I made my way back to the front of the bus with Walter whispering a growl and squirming the entire time.

“I’m so sorry!” I offered the driver without actually making eye contact. After all, I set him back at least 8 minutes from his normal route time.

“Ahh, that’s alright” he said in a loud voice, ” ‘The dogs on the bus go ‘woof-woof-woof, woof-woof-woof,woof-woof-woof! The dogs on the bus go woof-woof-woof, all through the town’ ” and then proceeded to laugh at his own bus-driving cleverness. He was still singing as the door closed and the bus pulled away.

It was a long walk back to the house.

If my children ate school lunches every day it would cost around $266 per month. This wouldn’t be horrible if I knew they were receiving wonderful nutrition, however,  I’ve been in the school kitchen. I did my fair share of serving the processed food like chicken nuggets with more breading than chicken, or ravioli from a ten pound can.  I adore the school cooks. I just think what they serve has less nutrition than what feeds the bacteria in the petri dishes at our local health clinic. So I made it my mission to send my children with homemade lunches this year.

It certainly does complicate my mornings. It takes greater coordination than I was born with to stir oatmeal while trying to funnel steaming hot chili into a thermos at the same time. Try flipping pancakes while you’re counting out equal portions of apple slices! It’s like patting your head while rubbing your tummy. Heaven forbid one child receives 5 slices and the other only 4.  And I’m sorry but garlicky chicken noodle soup smells horrible at 6 AM.

The other issue I have is controlling the containers. Last night I found a Gladware container from a few weeks ago in Isaiah’s backpack. Talk about a petri dish! Rice pudding doesn’t look the same after being at room temperature for 20 days. Reminders, threats and warnings are useless when it comes to taking ownership of lunchware so I’ve taken to writing each child’s name on both the containers and the lids in effort to find out who isn’t being responsible. And yes, you probably guessed it. That means I’m trying to match the correct lids and bowls every single morning. I still have no idea who isn’t placing their dirty dishes in the sink each day. Perhaps I should implement the Dewey Decimal System and have them check out their utensils each day.

Who am I kidding? I’ve had enough late fines at the library to fund several months of school lunches.

I don’t know. I sure like the idea of making my children nutritious, “made-with-love” meals each day. The reality, however, bites.

Today is Miss Elly’s ninth birthday. She woke up around 1 AM and slept fitfully on the couch for a birthday is
nothing to sleep through! When I began to make breakfast, she was up, already dressed in her new birthday outfit,
and anxiously awaited each family member’s birthday greeting. Unfortunately, with the exception of her BFF Nathanael, not one boy wished her happy birthday until I actually prodded them with a less than subtle reminder.

“Isaiah. Get back here! It’s your sister’s birthday. Do you have anything to say to her?”

“Yeah. Where’d you leave the toothpaste cap?”

I gave him a look that actually tore cartilage in my face.

“Yeah, yeah. I was just teasin’, Elly. Happy Birthday.”

She slowly removed her hands from her hips and hunted down the next boy.

Shame on them. They should have been seeking her.

Elly is so easy to love. If she isn’t cracking me up with her wit, she’s amazing me with her insight and understanding of the world around her. She actually likes me and wants to spend hours upon hours together. She asks cooking questions and loves to care for our daycare baby. Her thumb-wrestling skills are cat-like and unrelenting. She knows High School Musical 2 by heart and can do all the moves for anyone willing to sit long enough to watch them. She’s on the A honor roll and is in the highest reading and math groups in her grade. She befriends the friendless and is the first to respond to a commercial for starving African children. Her heart just breaks when she sees suffering.

Yeah. She’s easy to love alright.

My gift to her was the most amazing 600 thread count sateen sheets I could find for a twin size bed. I wanted her to slide into bed and feel like a princess. (I’ll explain that in a future post…really, I wasn’t being a dorky mother here) Her response to my gift?

“Gosh Mom, and here I would have been happy with an iPod Nano or a trip to meet the cast from High School Musical.”

Did you know that nine year olds still pee their pants when tickled long and hard enough??

Happy Birthday, Eddy Joe. I love you to infinity and beyond…and back.

I am in need of advice.

You see, I have…this friend whose husband has spent the last two weeks deer hunting which actually didn’t bother my friend at all. My friend is happy that her husband was able to spend time doing something he loves and my friend made it so easy for him to get away from the rigors of day to day life at home. She never complained once when he arrived home from work and was out in the field five minutes later. In fact, she took over all his responsibilities while he was away. When my friend’s husband came in from hunting, he plopped on the couch and turned on NASCAR or football while my friend scrambled around getting children ready for school and folding laundry.

But my friend’s husband never once thanked her or showed any sort of appreciation for her willingness to accomodate
his hobby. He never made mention of her great effort while he was away. It seems my friend’s husband is a complete dork sometimes.

So in light of my friend’s husband’s dorkiness, how would you encourage my friend? What advice could you give to my friend that would help her not trip over her pouting lower lip? After all, all my friend wanted was a thank you without having to ask for one!

Last Thursday I had a few extra children in daycare since school was closed for parent/teacher conferences. It was a full house and I kept chanting in my head “Please God…help me keep everyone safe!” It was a juggling act between taking care of the baby and entertaining school aged children who are accustomed to going from one activity to the next.

Everything went fairly well until my son, Isaiah, ran into the house yelling ”KEVIN! There’s two deer in our yard!
There’s two deer IN OUR YARD!” Kevin lept off the couch and ran to his room to unlock the gun safe and gather his
ammunition. He ran upstairs and out the patio door into the back yard without even stopping to put on his shoes or coat.

By now there was a whole line up of children watching out the glass door as Kevin took aim. Thankfully these children come from a family of hunters and had even been out hunting with their dad the weekend before. Still I warned them “Okay guys…this is going to be gross. Look away if it’s going to make you vomit!” Of all the gross things I can think of, cleaning
up puddles of vomit from children who do not belong to me ranks up there with anything you’ll find on the television show “Dirty Jobs”.

Kevin took one shot and the deer instantly dropped. It was a clean kill and I was later assured that the deer never felt a thing. Still, I was providing care to little ones and torn between yelling at Kevin for not waiting for a better time and being proud of my son who was beside himself with excitement over shooting his first deer.

I told the children to stay inside and went to my bedroom to grab my camera, hoping to capture the look on Kevin’s face. By the time I returned to the kitchen, the disobedient half of the group was running down to see Kevin’s deer. I discovered that the Mom-Is-Serious voice is recognized by all children, not just my own, so they begrudingly made their way back to the house. Since Kait was home I put her in charge for five minutes and met up with my son, not more than 100 yards from the house.

“MOM! I got ‘em!”

Despite the small lot of blonde hairs growing on his chin, Kevin’s face reminded me of the time when he successfully climbed the slide on the playground all by himself at age two. He was so proud of himself! I didn’t have the heart to chew him out for shooting in eyesight of everyone. We live out in the country for many reasons and one of them is the ability to hunt on our own land.

Since Darren was at work, I called my dad to see if he could help Kevin field dress the deer. Thankfully he was happy to help and came up a few hours later.

For the sake of those who are sensitive, I’m posting a photo of my dad and Kevin without the lifeless deer. I want to remember this crazy busy, chaotic day because it’s not often I get to see my melancholy, hormone-driven teenage son be so utterly happy.