On Monday the temperature hit the mid 60s. That meant that my house became an island amidst a sea of mud. It is very icky here on warm days. Here is the bathtub after I washed some boots. Gross.

Just for your information, do not take the wet linings out of muddy boots and put them in your dryer. Do not let the whimpers and whines of four children who see all their friends off school and sledding across the street convince you that a half hour in the dryer will make everybody much happier. Those linings are filthy, and will coat the inside of your dryer with a thin veneer of mud. More gross.

At dinner, I told the kids, “Kids, your father has given up losing his temper for Lent. This means you all must give up annoying behavior.”

The response? “But we already gave up TV!”

Peter, who did not give up TV, has no excuse then for this.

…do you know where your new baby’s social security number is?

Bill asked me for Mary’s social security number a few days ago, and I insisted we had not received it yet…at least not that I could remember. I looked in the one spot where all our important documents are kept – all birth certificates in one folder, all sacramental records in another folder, passports in this envelope, social security cards in that envelope: Bill’s, mine, Fritz’s, Billy’s, Katie’s, Jenny’s, Peter’s, no Mary.

It’s the exact same thing every year at this time. I have a piling system, although this past year I’ve been much better. Moving half-way through the year forced me to do actual filing at a time when I don’t usually. Wanting to have organized files and needing copies of certain documents ensured that all files were tidy and up-to-date. I even, proudly, stayed on top of the piles/files those first few months after the move, and in fact have only one pile now because I am not using the same desk I did last year.

Nevertheless, since the baby’s birth, a “small” pile had grown (less than 12″ high). Needing that social security number prompted my usual tax time filing frenzy.

Sure enough, there I found her number. And now it’s in the proper envelope, right behind Peter’s.

A Year Ago

Bill: I’ll be home around 5 pm.

Me: Really? Wow! I think there’s some steak in the freezer…can you pick up a bottle of wine on your way home?

Now

Bill: I’ll be home around 5 pm.

Me: Aw…why so late?

A Year Ago

Me: Oh, it’s 10 pm. Guess I’ll put my tea cup in the dishwasher and go to bed.

Now

Me: Oh, it’s 10 pm. If I can get this baby into her bassinet, I’ll be able to rotate that laundry and fold a load so the boys have pants to wear tomorrow.

A Year Ago

Me: Honey, would you take out the garbage?

Now

Me: Honey, would you take out the garbage…and load the dishwasher…and feed the dog…and pull the chicken out of the freezer…and find some clothes for Petey…and…

A Year Ago

Me: 4:30 am! Rise and shine! Come on, Greta, let’s go for a three-mile run! Isn’t it a beautiful, although dark, morning!

Now

Me: Huh? Wa? 5:30? Need coffee…

A Year Ago

Bill: You know that old guy at church? He was at Chosin…

Me: Oh…uh…oh.

Bill: …in Korea.

Me: Oh…uh…wow (thinking: he’s pretty old).

Now

Bill: You know that old guy at church? He was at Chosin…

Me: Oh, really? What a bloodbath! I wonder how he made it out of there? Do you think he’d tell his stories? Maybe we should interview him…

(I’ve spent the last 6 months learning more about military history than I ever thought I would want to know. I actually know who von Clausewitz is…well, I know there’s a guy named von Clausewitz who wrote a very thick book…)

A Year Ago

Bill: What’s for supper?

Me: Oh, I’m trying out this new chicken recipe I think you’ll like.

Now

Bill: What’s for supper?

Me: Hm. Hot dogs?

A Year Ago

Me: I can’t wait to have another baby!

Now

Me: You, my little girl, are so worth this messy house, the lack of sleep, and the uncreative meals!

After Mass last Sunday, a parishioner asked my kids if they had been sledding. They assured him they had. Had they been on Suicide Hill? he asked. No, just the hills in our neighborhood.

My kids wanted to know where Suicide Hill was. It’s near The Prison, but there is more than one around here, and we passed The Other One on Tuesday morning. They wanted to know if the hills over there were Suicide Hill. I explained it was the wrong prison and then asked if they knew what suicide meant. Really fast? guessed Fritz. I defined suicide and explained how that applied to a sledding hill. I then got to hear the boys evaluate every hill we passed for its suicide factor.

Katie didn’t quite get the vocabulary lesson, and later was talking about sledding on Shoe Size Hill. Is that narrow or medium width?

The last few days have brought warmer temps. The kids asked to go sledding yesterday, and I warned them they might not be able to do so. They persisted and were off. Jenny was the first to return, crying, covered from head to toe in mud. I got a towel on the floor before she came in, but then, like a wet dog, she shook her hands and wet mud splattered all over the walls and floor. No photos, just damage control.

Katie came home next, but Bill was ready for her.

And the boys, being boys, had to be ordered home.

…something in the mail from Netflix.

This is what my desk looked like on Thursday night. Neat piles. Easy to find everything that needs to be found. A pleasant place to sit and work.

This is what my desk looks like right now, the way it looked by yesterday afternoon, and the way it looks most of the time. Piles and piles and piles. There’s hardly room to use the tracker ball. It’s amazing that the phone happens to be on top – usually it gets buried. I would say the photo qualifies for an I Spy book, except that there is no harmony in this picture.

And the truly frustrating thing about this is that it’s not (all) me. Yes, I am responsible for the phone book and that box that contains CDs of Christmas music. But that isn’t my ruler, not my drawing of a boat. Unseen are the two dozen other pieces of priceless artwork and an Army beret that does not even belong to my husband. The problem is that when I tell the kids to clear the dining room table, they simply move everything to my nearby desk. What they don’t realize is that the vast bulk of their artwork goes right into the recycle bin.

Perhaps one thing I’ll do next year is get an art bin and train my children to store their things there. As for the beret that belongs in the dress up box? Maybe that box is too full and needs to be pared down…

0 – Christmas cards I’ve addressed (also happens to be the same number of Christmas cards I have in my possession)

1 – Birthday party to attend before Christmas

2 – Days the local schools were closed due to the recent ice storm

3 – Times I warmed my coffee in the microwave before managing to finish it today

4 – Children snooping around boxes, bags, computer screens, lists, closets, and basements

5 – Markers/colored pencils the dog chewed up today (not my problem)

6 – Stinky diapers the baby had today (this is good, I am not complaining)

7 – Tins of Christmas cheer that need to be mailed

8 – People in this house getting less sleep than they should be

9 – Times I reminded the children that the faster they do their schoolwork, the sooner they can go out to play

10 – Wet mittens/gloves littering the floor near my front door

11 – Items left to be purchased

12 – Days until Christmas (are you ready?)

The little old lady wanted a cab. She called about 15 minutes before my husband’s alarm was scheduled to go off. People only seem to need cabs after 9 pm and before 6 am. We frequently get calls intended for the local cab company. Our numbers are similar, but the two digits that are different aren’t near each other on the dial. I couldn’t figure out why so many people would make the mistake.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, you have the wrong number,” my husband said when she called.

“Ma’am, we’re not a cab company,” he said the second time she called.

“Ma’am, this is a residence,” he stressed the third time, still managing to be polite though barely awake.

The phone book was downstairs. I started fumbling for my robe and slippers. I took her fourth call upstairs, but when I said it was a wrong number, she quickly hung up. By her next call, I was within reach of the phone book and asked her to stay on the line while I got her the right number. When I recited it to her, she repeated back to me my own number which sounds similar. At least now I understand where the error is: not in dialing, but in hearing the correct numbers, likely from an automated information line.

She said thank you, but it was rather curt. I understand. She was frustrated. She was trying to get a cab and was calling the number given and was failing. There is no other cab company, so if she couldn’t get through, she couldn’t get a cab. Finally, she gets another number and she’s off to see if she has better luck with it.

I would have liked to have heard profuse gratitude for my efforts of getting out of bed to get the correct number. I would have liked to have heard sincere apologies for disturbing us at such an early hour. But I realize that my “good deed” was hardly altruistic. I just wanted the phone to stop ringing before the other half of my household was awakened.

For today, at least, let me try to see, appreciate and express my thanks to everyone who helps me. Like my sister, Barb, who has baked all my Christmas cookies, done my laundry, cooked, cleaned, scolded children, held the baby, and done countless other tasks on her “vacation” at my home.

I was pulled over for speeding late this morning on the way home from piano lessons. Why doesn’t the baby cry you want her to?

Actually, the very nice police officer didn’t play any games. He told me right away why he pulled me over, briefly chastised me for speeding with kids in the car (because 48 mph on a very wide, very straight, four lane road with a ridiculous 35 mph limit is dangerous, I guess), checked to see if my registration and insurance were up to date, asked if all the kids were mine, and then took my license back to his car to make sure I wasn’t wanted for felonies in ten states.

I was pretty sure I’d only get a warning, since he didn’t take the car info. My kids were very excited at the whole spectacle, and I think were a tad disappointed that nothing more dramatic then a cursory order to “Slow down” occurred.

As we pulled away, I asked who was going to tattle on me to their father. The response was a chorus of gleeful “Me!”

“Does he really need to know about this?” I asked.

“Yes!” Again, a happy, unanimous response.

So much for not biting the hand that feeds you.

For the record, I don’t keep secrets from my husband, and he wouldn’t be (wasn’t) particularly upset by this anyway.

Instead of quietly doing school work while the teacher loads the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes, one child passed a note to another child.

BiLLy yoo are stooPiD.

One day, she’ll understand the point about the pot calling the kettle black.