Settling In

You know that you are actually "there" when the night lights (without which a sleepwalking mommy would fall down the stairs) are finally properly positioned to provide a dim floor level glow throughout the house.

We are finally getting settled.  We now have three working, properly elevated shower heads (which means that our bathroom is no longer clogged with extra razors, makeup, hairdryers, and towels).  When we moved in, one shower was set up so that spray would hit a normally sized person somewhere around waist level; another released a stream of water designed to dampen the tile but incapable, for example, of rinsing soap off of a body... The only shower head capable of producing an acceptable shower was the one in the master bedroom. That is all fixed now and we are discovering more about the "new" house.

The most troublesome thing, the thing that we did not anticipate causing trouble, is that the kitchen is centrally located - surrounded by the bedrooms. This is only a problem if, as in our house, you have two people who arise at (the ungodly hour of) 4 AM each morning - showering, making lunches, slicing bananas and eating cereal; one who crawls from bed and begins to shower at 6 AM; and another who does not have classes before 2 PM. Yesterday's comment from Stubble was, "Oh, it's YOU making all the racket." I was, at the time, measuring coffee into the coffee pot. Not exactly a noisy activity. In our former house, the kitchen was well separated from all bedroom areas and morning activity or lack thereof was not an issue.

The other issue of gravity facing us is the garbage disposal. I completely understand that MOST people have one largish side of the sink in which to wash cooking pans and one smaller side of the sink that contains the garbage disposal. We have, for the last many years, had one HUGE sink with a garbage disposal right in the middle of it. Therefore, we must learn to rinse pots into the smaller disposal portion of the sink before washing them. Something that, for us apparently, is very difficult. I spent a great deal of time this morning bailing beans and carrots out of the large side of sink so that it would drain.

There are many excellent things about this new house:

• The stars. That should probably be: STARS! We live on a small private drive that has no street lights and the improvement in star viewing is nothing short of amazing.  On the other hand, the lack of surrounding lights and the presence of coyotes can be un-nerving.
• The garden. The previous owners left a partial row of onions in their vegetable garden, whether by accident or design. I have discovered that there is nothing better on a hamburger than an onion pulled from the garden, washed off, and immediately sliced.  On the other hand, there are seeds to be planted, soil to till, weeds to be pulled, shrubs to be trimmed.  Oh, and did I mention the weeds to be pulled?  And then there is the fact that one of the neighbors came by Sunday with a picture guide to local snakes to show us which ones to not kill.
• The laundry room. Which is now separate from the cat's litter boxes. There was nothing quite like surprising a kitty in mid litter box activity with the buzzer of the dryer.  It accounted for some alarming noises issuing from the area behind the kitchen.  And some interesting clean ups.  On the other hand - there is no "other hand" here - we now also don't need to be concerned about clean sheets dropping onto scattered bits of clay.
• The "Family Room". Or as my family chooses to call it, "The Living Room" because you can only "live" where there is TV. Right? At any rate, we now have one family/living room (the upstairs room with couches and chairs and side tables) where I can read unmolested by television programs about cars, airplanes, or large machines that 'make things'.  The "other" family/living room is downstairs and contains couches and chairs and side tables and is the room where I can watch Modern Family, Gray's Anatomy, The Good Wife, and (best of all) Blue Bloods (with Tom Selleck*). Those are the (few) hours of the week when I evict the rest of the family from the vicinity of the (large) television and take it over as they scatter to other areas of the house.  The exception would be Ms. Flippers, who occasionally watches Gray's Anatomy with me.
• The Bonus Room.  AKA "The Gaming Room".  Originally a storage area off of the garage, it is now panelled, carpeted, and drop ceilinged.  It now houses all x-boxes, ps-whatevers, Wii's and gaming computers and their assorted monitors, speakers, 3 easy chairs and a couch.  The mini fridge left by the previous owners resides just a few steps away outside of the door.  I do not go there.  Ever.
• The kitty tower.  It is now accessible to the kitties.  Formerly it was locked away in the Family/Gaming Room which had been taken over by people under the age of 30 who left lots of power cords lying around.  Power cords that would attract the teeth of kitties who were attracted to the bits of food stuck to them.  It became not so much a Family Room as a No Parent's and Kitties Land.

Combine the last three bullet points and you will know exactly what attracted us to this particular house...

* About Tom Selleck.  He was gorgeous years ago when I was first married and he has certainly aged well.  I do enjoy being able to look at him watch him in a weekly television show again.  Note:  The Bearded One has aged well also.

thwuup. thwuup. thwuup,thwuup,thwuup

Pay no mind.  It is just the sound of my rotors as I hover.

Those who rail against helicopter parents maybe just don't get it...

What normal 19 year old is savvy enough to stand up to a bureaucracy?  Not too darn many.  When most of them are told, "Oh, sorry.  There's nothing we can do."  or "I'll do it.  I haven't taken care of it YET, but I WILL," they  just walk away feeling used and disillusioned.  And they wait.  And wait.  And wait.

The very idea of an adult in a position of power making a mistake and then leaving the 19 year old victim of that mistake to clean up the mess herself just seems to me to be a bad idea all round...

Yes, there is a time to step back and let your child stand on their own two feet.  This was not one of them.  I hope that Ms. Flippers has now learned that there is a time for patience and a time to kick problems to "the next level".  I hope that if this ever happens in the future, she will now be able to take care of it herself and I can just stand back with my rotors at idle.

and now my hairbrush is missing

Barring tsunami, tornado, or other disaster (like a run on the banks) we will be closing on our new property in 2 weeks.  We are ALL in various stages of advanced stress.  Some of us are not sleeping (The Bearded One).  Some of us (me) are clenching our teeth so that our jaw does not open to permit the entry of solid food.  SOME of us are phobic about the possibility of being "unconnected" to the internet during the 15 minute trip from our current house to our future one (Stubble).  I understand that there may be help for him in a thingie called "EasyTether".  Ms. Flippers (who found the new place) is floating above the fray except for losing (in the last week) her house keys (twice), her passport (once), and her cell phone (still not found).  Also missing are three of twelve salad forks, three cereal bowls, and four 12 ounce glasses, although Stubble and I must share the blame for these missing items.

Yesterday morning Ms. Flippers used our shower in the morning as Stubble was hogging their shared bathroom right when she needed it.  She left her shampoo and conditioner behind.  And now my hairbrush is missing.

Clean vs. Organized

So much for my abilities as a nag...

The conversation went something like this:

Me:  "So why isn't your room clean?
Stubble:  "It is."
Me:  "No it isn't.  There is crap all over the bed and stacks of CDs all over the place."
Stubble:  "That is organization.  I thought you said that you wanted it CLEAN."
Me  "I DID!"
Stubble: "Then why didn't you say so."
Me: (mentally beating my forehead on the doorjab (repeatedly)) "Here is a tub for all of the CDs in your room.  The bunch on the dresser fell on the cat."

Because It's What I Do Best (part 2)

Nagging.

I am really a champ at nagging.  The National Superbowl of Nagging Champion, actually.  Because I am, at heart, altruistic, I would like to take this opportunity to share all that I have learned over the years:

Nagging works best when used sparingly:
A neverending barrage just sets the compliance bar higher.  It is like escalation in warfare - at a certain point nothing works but annihilation (and then who would you share holiday dinners with?).

Nagging works best when done quietly:
The shouted "How many times do I have to say this..." only causes the stereo (or TV or Xbox) to be turned up...and once you have expended all of that energy, you won't have it any in reserve for the long haul.

Nagging, done properly is better torture than fingernails on a chalkboard:
It is incessant.  It is intermittent.  (both excellent psychological concepts and not at all as contradictory as they may at first seem).  Eventually making it stop and keeping it from starting again is all that matters.


The latest "topic" for the nagging is clean bedrooms.  The Bearded One set one holiday task for Ms. Flippers and Stubble...
Get their bedrooms cleaned up so that the doors can be open and the cats can get in (without doing damage to their furry little selves or the bedroom contents).  The way that The Bearded One accomplishes this is to fret about the issue for a few days while letting me know that he is fretting and exactly what he is fretting about.  Then there comes a time when the volcano begins to spew...
"How many times do I have to say this...."
"Is it too much to ask..."
Once the initial eruption is over, if they wait long enough while doing nothing, it all blows over.

This vacation, I got involved.  Witness a master in action...

Me:  "If you get the room clean, I'll vaccuum."

1/2 hour later
Me:  "I'm starting a load of wash, I need everything off the floor.  If it is on the floor and isn't dirty, it needs to be in the dresser"

1/2 hour later
Me:  "Can I vaccuum yet?"
 
1/2 hour later  
Me:  "How about now?  Are you ready for me to vaccuum?"

1/2 hour later
Me:  "I'm starting another load in the washer.  Do I have everything?"

1/2 hour later
Me:  "Can I run the vaccuum yet?"

Sooner or later (usually sooner) the clothes start arriving in the laundry room and I am told, "I can do the vaccuuming - you don't need to bother."

 1/2 hour later

"Can I put the vaccuum away now?"

By The Chimney With Care...

I am currently making a black Christmas stocking. Yes, I said BLACK. A truly festive color. And perfectly right for Stubble. In our family, we have a tradition of fashioning personalized Christmas stockings; thus The Bearded One's stocking with boats and airplanes. Mine was made my a much loved Aunt and as she made it when I was but a wee child, it has snowmen and mittens and stars...but I love it enough that I won't allow it to be replaced.

Stubble's stocking has been a bit of a problem. If I had made it when he was 5 it would have been loaded with Pokemon (um, he is 20 now and not a big Pokemon fan). At 10 it would have been filled with soccer balls (he hasn't played soccer in years). At 16 it would have been covered with cars - but cars aren't really stocking material once you get your license and your first car. I have had to wait a very long time to personalize his stocking. Finally, he seems to have settled into computers.

I showed The Bearded One the felt that I had squirreled away for the stocking. Red. Blue. Green. The Bearded One's eyes immediately went to the piece of black felt that I keep for putting felt on the bottom of things that should be felt backed but aren't.
"Black," he said.
"Black?" I asked, thinking how AWFUL it would look.
"Yeah, Black," he replied. "Think about it."

And after thinking about it for a few minutes it made perfect sense. Stubble, from the time he could express preferences made his known for black. With accents of gold and silver.,..

So I am making a black Christmas stocking. With a tower and cable and ports and CPUs and a flash drive.....

And it is black and sparkly and gold and silver, and you can read Intel on the CPU...

Merry Christmas, Stubble.   

If you look a little to the left you will also see a piece of the penguin stocking that I made for Ms. Flippers.

And to all a good night...

Rotten

It's those darn kids, you know.  At about 13 they turn on you.  The girls start wearing revealing clothes and savaging their friends behind their backs.  And the boys!  Those baggy jeans, and the skateboards.  And the sullen, insolent stares!  And when they grow up it isn't much better.  They are a bunch of self absorbed do nothings...video games all day and leaching off of their parents!

I could see it running across her face as she stood in the produce section, waiting her turn to get a plastic bag in which to place her selections.

  Stubble and Ms. Flippers were debating the relative merits of Honey Crisp vs. Granny Smith apples, standing in her way, apparently oblivious to a busy woman trying to do her chores and get home.

And then Stubble pulled off a bag, turned to her, and said, "Here you go."

A smile, at first timid and then sincere broke across her face as she said, "Thank you," and turned to select tomatoes.

I guess we did something right.

Easy to be Hard

Parenting.  The hardest job you'll ever do.

The sentiment is overused and trite.  But like many oft used phrases; it is trite, but true.

When is it the hardest?  When your 9 month old is running a fever and can't tell you where it hurts?  When your 6 year old's beloved pet dies?  The first breakup of a serious relationship?

The answer is that it gets harder as they get older.  When the problem can't be solved with hugs and some motherly words of wisdom.

I used to make fun of my mother.  The fact that I was over 40, living half-way across the country, and I still needed to "call in" so that she wouldn't worry.  She would still weigh in on our decisions:  major purchases, childrearing, vacation plans.  I  would laugh with The Bearded One on late Saturday afternoons as we left the harbor.  "Time to call Mom.  She'll be worrying."  And yes, she was.  She would be waiting for the call telling her we were safely off the water.  I laughed.  And now I am ashamed of it.

I'm sitting here, at 1:15 in the morning.  Unable to sleep.  Half watching Hoarders.  Worrying.  And it isn't a laughing matter anymore.  It just hurts that I can't make it better.  That Stubble has to find his own way.  That there is nothing that I can do to make it easier.

So here I sit.  Feeling sad.  Feeling guilty.  Feeling like a Mom.

Saturday afternoon

When she said, "It's a nice day.  Let's do something as a family,"
my heart sang.

Little Things

Sometimes it is making sure that the two granola bars are supplemented with an apple and a bag of wheat thins - and a "Don't forget your snack!" as she heads off to her evening English class.

Sometimes it is staying up to watch the Miss Universe pageant with her even though it is past your way too early bedtime.

Sometimes it is cutting up a bowl of fruit to supplement the previous "snack" before you head off to bed.

It is doing these things instead of offering the hugs that you really want to supply.

Signs and Portents

"You can't stay at Ms. Flippers house.  There are boys there.  I'm coming to get you NOW!"

Let me start by saying that we have acquired a daughter, Ms. Flippers.   Along with that daughter, we have acquired her friends.  One of those friends spent part of the weekend with us.

Now, just like Stubble, this daughter is all grown up, as are her friends.  Who are very nice and polite and a great addition to our home and I say that without any sarcasm at all.

At about 10 PM on Friday night I was awakened (yes, we go to bed early; even on weekends) by sounds of voices in our driveway and the accompanying glow of the motion sensor lights...
Being a Mom, of COURSE I went to investigate:

"Why are you out here?"  It is Stubble and my second son from across the street.  They are sitting in the middle of the driveway watching the street.

"We're waiting for (nameless).  He is coming to get "daughter's friend"." they reply.

"Um, nobody is leaving this house.  Get back inside,"  I state in my best MOM voice.  They comply and we enter the house to find daughter's friend in tears, packing a bag.

"He won't let me stay!" she sobs.  "He doesn't trust me when there are boys in the house."

Well, these boys are my son and my second son of another mother.  They live here. (the second son on weekends).

"Nameless is going to take me home." she sobs.

I am more than concerned now.  "He isn't taking you anywhere.  Your parents know you are here and here you stay." I state.

At this point I wake The Bearded One saying, "Bearded One, get dressed - we are about to have trouble."

"Huh?  What?" was the sleepy answer.  But when confronted with the fact that a boyfriend was coming to "retrieve" his "property" he is up like a shot.

By this time Nameless and his drunken father are back on the cell phone.  They are in the neighborhood and demanding directions to our house.

The Bearded One takes the cell phone and intervenes,  "We are not giving you directions.  She stays here."

Then the threats begin.  They will break The Bearded One's neck.  They mean business.  This is all on speaker phone now.

I call 911 and report the situation.  The police arrive.  Two squad cars with very concerned law officers who are taking the situation very seriously indeed.

We spend an eventful hour giving a police report, drying tears, and calling the young lady's parents.

They are also taking the situation very seriously indeed.

The police recommend restraining orders against both the son and the father.

Domestic violence threatens more than just young children and wives.  It begins with the girlfriend at the very beginning of a relationship.  You have to be alert to both the dangers and the clues.

I had a friend from High School.  One of my "besties".  She ignored the signs, married the guy, and left only when the violence began to involve their children.

There is NOTHING romantic about this kind of controlling behavoir.  The possesiveness and threats will only escallate and we need to teach our children to recognise the warnings and get the hell out before it is too late.

And This Time They Brought Reinforcements

The Raccoons, dang Varmints!  They are back and this time they are undeterred by the plastic mesh of the chicken "wire" protecting my pond .

At 10:45 PM, Stubble came up to our room to announce, "Mom, the raccoons are back and they're trying to break into the pond!  And THIS time there are SIX of them!"

Of course I leapt up staggered from bed to assist in the battle.  Armed with an empty Coke can, a sturdy dowel that usually acts as a secondary lock for the family room slider, and a flashlight, Stubble and I bravely advanced to the backyard battlefield.

One of them was on the lattice "roof" of the pond enclosure, another was inside having already uprooted the waterlilies.  Two youngsters were running about by the back fence.  For some unknown reason, the motion sensor lights had not come on.  Well, not really an UNKNOWN reason.  Somebody had turned them off, leading to the incursion into my territory.

As I found out later, the lights would not have deterred them as the elder raccoon has discovered a path to the pond guaranteed not to trigger the lights - over our neighbor's garden shed, down our fence by the bird bath, along the back of our shed and then up the wrought iron framework of the gazebo and finally into the pond itself...

Our timely entrance into the field of battle disturbed the maruaders and the adults retreated as quickly as they could given the need to stick to the shadows.  The two unfortunate youngsters, however, could not scale the stockade fence and fell repeatedly as they tried to climb it in the birdbath area.  As the intrepid Stubble closed in, flashlight in hand, they began to scurry back and forth along the fence, chirping for help.  Their mother hissed at us from the top of the fence.

Stubble grabbed a plastic parson's table from the patio and placed it so as to assist the littlest raccoons in their escape attempts.

"I'm only trying to help!  Don't you growl at me!" muttered Stubble to the mother raccoon who was by this time sitting upright on a cinderblock fence post, expressing her displeasure at the proceedings.

By then our neighbors were alerted to the goings on and offered their encouragement from their well lit back patio, which served to close off several potential escape routes for the furry invaders.

One of the youngsters managed to run to the front of our house and climb the reinforcing structure of the gate from which he fled to the safety of a darkened driveway.  The second, having retreated to the narrow passage behind the shed, managed to climb the gazebo wall from which he could reach the top of the fence quite handily.

Today the planning shall begin for a means to repel the nocturnal visitors once and for all!

If Looks Could Kill

Katsu sat by the litter box, shoulders hunched, head slightly down, a glare on her little kitty face. I  was the one who put her cone back on last night!  If she had her way, I would be a dead mouse lying stiff on the laundry room floor.  And then she would eat my carcas.  And leave what little was left for The Bearded One to find - just as a warning.

Katsu is NOT happy about her post-surgical cone.  The Bearded One and Stubble are also upset about the cone but for different reasons.  Stubble's bath mat has been marked two or three times.  She fits into the litter box cone and all, but that isn't REVENGE.  And Stubble is the one who drove her to the Vet on that fateful day.

The Bearded One cares more about the livingroom accent rug than the bathmat and she is systematically destroying the corners.  She started doing this (chewing on the rust colorred accent rug) as a small kitten but since last week's surgery she seems to feel that if she can't run around with her brother and sister, she may as well lay there and chew.

Stubble and  The Bearded One  have tried everything imaginable to get her out of the cone.  They started with an ace bandage wrapped around her torso  - which just slid off over her "hips" as she walked.  We finally ended up with the old standby  - the newborn "onesie" - which is fine until she sits down and slouches and her belly (and stitches) hang out below the t-shirt hem.

 Last night I bought a slightly largter onesie (0-3 month size), removed her cone and put her in the t-shirt with the "through the legs snapping exentsion" over her tail... and that worked out fine as long as she was right with us where we could see if she tried to disembowl herself by pulling out stitches.   She very happily groomed every inch of herself that was not covered by  onesie, ate, used the litter box, and then fell asleep in her donut bed for the rest of the evening.  Getting her back into the cone when I went to bed at 11 PM required assistance from Stubble (who apologised up and down to a very indignant Katsu).

"Why not just leave her in the t-shirt all night?" he asked.

Because I'm not willing to take her to the vet tomorrow and explain why the stitches are gone and her guts and hanging out,  that's why.


Which brings us to this morning's evil stare.  I did not just come downstairs and remove the cone.....I am a very bad person and deserve everything that she dishes out to me.  Duly noted.

Always the Mommy

Do people ever just flipping LOOK?  One trip to "where something ought to be/used to be" - not finding it right there and the result is:  "Where is it?  I know we have it!"
As if I came in the night like the fairies and moved things around - just to play with their minds...
Box of light bulbs found.  In plain sight.  In the middle of a table.  In a lighted room.  With LABELS on the box identifying what it was.
Just plain laziness.

Improving my Mood

23:48
This was how long it took for the endorphins to kick in this morning. Knowing that I am going to do 30 minutes on the treadmill, sometimes I still have to play “head games” with myself. “If you get to the end of this song, you can quit any time you want to.” “If you get to 20 minutes you can quit any time”. “If you can do 10 minutes at 4 mph you can quit anytime”.
Usually the endorphins kick in somewhere between 11 and 17 minutes and then I feel like I could go forever… but I have to stop to go to work.
This morning, no matter what music I used, no matter what speed I tried, no matter how I adjusted my breathing, my feet and legs hurt for a long time. They were saying, “Stop now! Really, we don’t want to do this! We really, really mean it! Haven’t you gotten the message yet? Stop Already!” And yes, I did warm ups.
Thank goodness this doesn’t happen often because I really rely on the workouts now. It only took a few months, but now if I miss my workout, I’m grumpy all day.
The impetus for beginning the workouts was my doctor saying, “Your bone scan shows that your bone density is low normal. You need lots of calcium and exercise.”
This finally made me realize that with my son turning 18 in a matter of months, he should be perfectly capable of getting himself out of bed, showering, and making lunch without my supervision. The conversation went something like this:
Me: “Hey, Stubble. You are on your own now in the morning.”
Stubble: “Whuh?”
Me: “I’m going to the gym to work out.”
Stubble: “Whuh?”
I fully expected calls from the school going, “Where the hell is he?” but it never happened. He was only late one single day when he was sick in the early morning.
Why did it take me nearly 2 years to figure out that if I left, he might just rise to the occasion? Sometimes they surprise you that way.

Endings and Beginnings

I watched Stubble get his heart broken a few weeks ago. From my bedroom window I could see him talking to his girlfriend of two and a half years in our front parking area. She was going to come over to swim and to have dinner with us. Instead she broke up with him.
When he came into the house is face was frozen and expressionless and his eyes were bleak,
“She dumped me.”
“Are you OK?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“No.”
He never cried, at least not in front of me, but he did let me hold him and rub his back for about 20 minutes or so before he got out his computer to remove her presence from his Facebook site. He couldn’t completely do it though, because they have been together so long that he would need to erase most of his pictures. It has to be hard. They had so many good times and he needs to remember those without having the memories depress him, but that will only come with time and distance.
It is trite but true that when one chapter ends, another begins:
Stubble started college this week. He likes his classes and professors. He’ll be on campus from mid-morning until late afternoon which will keep him VERY busy. He will be around people most of whom are starting out on their own amazing journeys into adulthood. It is an exciting time in his life and I am very proud of what he is doing – giving up a lazy summer to get a head start on his transfer program.
I wish him all the best and much happiness.

Sweeping It Under The Rug

When The Bearded One travels, which is not so often these days, “normal” routines go right out the window. When Stubble was little, it was an excuse to have Friday night dinners of Coke and Popcorn while we watched the latest Disney ‘made for TV’ movie. Nutritionists do not be alarmed; I made him eat an apple for “balance”.
It was more important to spend time together than it was to do laundry as long as we still had clean underwear in the dresser. At least that is what I told myself. In reality it was because I just didn’t have the time or the energy to keep everything spotless (um...relatively clean) when there wasn’t somebody to tag team parent. It was a standing joke that the kitchen got cleaned when the call came from the airport that the plane had landed.
I kind of miss those times. Now that he is all grown up, I don’t have a valid excuse not to cook healthy dinners, wash up afterwards, and do laundry regularly. These days, I’d sure like to have somebody to watch a Disney Movie with while the kitchen just quietly stays a mess.