I have five morning chores and five afternoon chores that I rotate monthly between my five older children. Some are easy, like taking out the recycling, and some are harder, like loading the dishwasher. Now, my two year old can manage putting the clean dish towels from the laundry pile in the dish towel basket under the sink without any assistance, but I hardly expect him to set the dinner table without help.

The point in these chores isn’t so much absolving me from household responsibility (not yet anyway). I’ve tried to pick ten tasks that need to be done on a daily basis. I want my kids to see what it takes to efficiently run the house (no, clean laundry doesn’t just magically appear in your dresser); I want to instill in them a sense of team unity in running that house; I want them to master certain tasks to the best of their ability; and I want them to practice obedience. Often this last goal is the primary point.

The chore that gets the most complaints is emptying the dishwasher in the morning. The other four morning chores are things that can slide, and I did that intentionally. Some mornings are too crazy, and the added stress of crucial jobs being undone would be too much. If the dining room rug doesn’t get vacuumed every day, it’ll be unsightly, but we can live with it. But if the dishwasher doesn’t get emptied, the dirty dishes begin to pile high in the sink…and on the counters…and eventually, even making dinner, let alone eating it, is difficult.

I have one child who, in recent months, has acquired an unpleasant knee-jerk reaction to any request for assistance. A reasonable and predictable request at 3 pm for everyone to pick up the debris-strewn house so they can go out and play with the neighborhood kids who will be home soon from school is met with crossed arms and a shrill whine: “But nobody else is cleaning!” Ask her to do something extra, like help her little brother get some juice, and you’d think we treated her like Cinderella. But even things clearly her responsibility, like removing her personal belongings from the main living areas, seem quite beneath her dignity.

This month, this child has had the dreaded task of putting away the clean dishes. Every morning, my reminder to do this job has been greeted with the most unpleasant, high pitched noises expressing, as best as I can tell, her extreme displeasure at being assigned such an oppressive chore. She is young enough that I would gladly have helped her with the items that went in the upper cabinets, but my own knee-jerk reaction to her tirades has been a flat-out refusal to give any assistance.

She would cry and whine, and I would tell her if she had asked nicely, I would have helped her. She would instantly calm herself and ask nicely for help, and I would tell her no, she needed to ask nicely without first crying about it and without being reminded about proper behavior. And then I would walk away so as to not witness her gymnastics in getting glassware and stoneware away, lest my fear of dishes breaking would soften me.

We repeated this scene for nineteen days. I despaired that she would ever learn her lesson and wondered if some genetic deficiency prevented her from being capable of poised and pleasant behavior. But finally, on the 20th day, when I asked her to empty the dishwasher, I watched her take a deep breath, compose herself, and say, “Mommy, would you please help me?” Amazing.

And so it has been. I’m glad that I didn’t shorten the chore rotation period to two weeks as I considered. As yet, this good behavior has not extended into other times during the day where she is asked to pitch in, but there is hope for her. Slowly, slowly we mold decent human beings.

No, I did not watch the game last night. Who cares about baseball anyway? Considering that women are being forced to have abortions in China, new brides in India are being murdered by their in-laws for the dowry money, and J-Lo is finally, finally, pregnant, can we really even bother to call ourselves decent Christians if we get all wrapped up in such petty things as sports?

Besides, I hate crying. It gives me a headache.

Instead, the kids and I watched Bridge to Terebithia. I loved this book when I was a kid. Unfortunately, that was about 25 years ago, and my memory is a bit sketchy. So, we’re all happily munching popcorn and enjoying how these two adolescents engage their imaginations to create a fantasy world, and then, the next thing you know, Leslie is dead.

My husband, working on the computer across the way, has a very sensitive wife-has-lost-it-emotionally warning system (or perhaps he just could hear my sniffles and sobs), and he came over to see if I was okay. He’s not watching the movie; he has no idea that this girl has died. For all he knows, it’s just more post-partum weepiness which has me crying, at times, over completely insignificant things. But he knows, without duly expressed concern and compassion, he runs the risk of a snowball effect wherein I cry also because nobody cares, and then I cry more because I’m crying over something stupid, and how could I expect anybody to understand that…it can get quite ugly around here for these (thankfully) brief episodes.

“Blast it. I forgot the girl dies. I’ll be fine,” I managed to croak out, wiping away my tears, and regretting we didn’t just watch baseball instead. He expressed his concern, patted me on the head, and then went back to work.

Then Jenny started asking me, “Where did Wesley go?”

“Leslie died, honey.”

“But where did Wesley go?”

“Heaven, honey, she’s dead.”

This kept up for a few minutes until she said, “Is she in the graveyard?”

“Yes, she’s in the graveyard.” This satisfied her, and finally, the topic could rest in peace.

After the movie, Fritz offered his opinion. “Why did they have her die? This is a kids’ movie. People aren’t supposed to die in kids’ movies.”

I nodded empathetically. “I agree. I think her death was completely superfluous.” Everybody just stared at me. Instead of asking for a definition of superfluous, they all just pretended I didn’t say anything at all. My words of comfort were wasted.

Off went the kids to bed, and then Bill had someone come over to work on a report, so I retreated to my TV-free bedroom. It was only later, as I was feeding the baby at her usual 11 pm oh-I’m-sorry-you-weren’t-trying-to-sleep-or-anything awake time, that I remembered to check the score.

It’s okay. It’s time to move on. Baseball in October is obscene. Instead of watching the World Series, maybe I’ll get some more kid-and-mom friendly movies.

Like Old Yeller.

The landscaping around this house was pathetic when we got here in July, and things like weeds don’t just go away.

But in July, we were unpacking.

And August was oppressively hot.

Now that the weather is a bit cooler, I have decided that it’s time to deal with the mess. It’s either now, when I’m in my last month of pregnancy, or next month, when I have a newborn who needs constant attention. Or we just let the weeds grow.

It’s amazing how much physical discomfort I am willing to endure out of pride. This past weekend, I weeded, I planted daffodil bulbs, I planted a few low-growing green and white leaved bushy things, and I mulched. And I swept the sidewalks. And I got clover and grass out from between patio block cracks.

I’m about 2/3 done. I need more mulch. And more daffodils.

And Bill? He hauled the bags of mulch and then got out of the way of the crazy pregnant lady. Somebody has to have a brain around here.

For the exclusive convenience of my husband, I’ve added a link on my sidebar to Catholic Beer Review. I have my reservations about doing this. I mean, I don’t even like beer. And this is a mom blog, not a beer blog (despite evidence to the contrary). And, well, the author lists Jane Austin movies among his favorites. It’s not that I mind it if a man likes Jane Austin, but there needs to be enough testosterone-laden interests to balance that or I just get really uncomfortable. I admit it, I’m a sexist.

But Bill seems to be enjoying the blog, young as the blog is, so I’ve put the link up so he can find the site fastest. It’s another way to guarantee that he comes to my blog first. Even if I don’t talk about beer. Much.

Yesterday, while reading this blog, Bill was waxing sentimental about some beer, and I was listening, like the good wife that I am. It might have been better for him if I hadn’t been listening, because he throws out the acronym IPA and then proceeds to define the acronym IPA as though I didn’t know what it meant. Now, had I merely walked in on a conversation with someone else and not been listening to the subject, I might have confused IPA with IPO and pondered a moment if we had free cash available for investment. Acronyms are such a guy thing.

But since I was listening, and he was clearly talking about beer, I was completely insulted that he felt the need to tell me what an IPA was. I reminded him that we’ve been married for nearly twelve years, and that surely he didn’t think I was so dense that in all that time I hadn’t picked up the meaning of those letters. Now, I don’t know what makes a beer an India Pale Ale any more than I know what makes a beer a stout or a lager or a pilsner, but I do know what the initials stand for, for crying out loud.

He continued with his story, but all the beer talk reminded me of a conversation I’d had with my seven year old the previous day.

“Bill, I have to interrupt,” I said. “Billy asked me yesterday if beer was liquid bread…”

I could see a certain gleam in his eye.

“And since bread was good for you, wasn’t then too beer good for you…”

The guilt was pretty obvious now.

“I told him the law clearly stated he had to wait until he was 21, no matter how “healthy” the product.”

“OK, he got that from me. We were watching a video on You Tube…”

He got that from you? Really?

I’ve posted the offending video. Beer and legos: talk about the corruption of minors. I think I need to fire the babysitter.

I think I need to stop blogging about beer.

This weekend, we went to a birthday party for a boy turning 4. The theme was Pirates of the Caribbean. Billy especially enjoyed donning an eye patch, bandanna and two gold hoop earrings. “Don’t worry, Mom,” he said, “They’re not putting holes in my ears.”

The adult host confessed to my husband that he was a bad father and had allowed his still 3 year old son to watch the movie 300. They both enjoyed it. They wanted to do a 300 theme for the party, but The Mom said no. I agreed that a 300 theme for a 4 year old’s party was inappropriate. Bill replied:

“Oh, so instead of honoring brave warriors who gave their lives to defend all of Greece and civilization, we’re encouraging our children to dress up as common criminals?”

He has a point.

At this party, the movie The Cat in the Hat was playing. My kids had never seen it, although we had just recently been reading the book after a several month long hiatus. The next day, Jenny told me:

“Mommy, the book got it wrong.”

Oy vey.

We like to watch old movies around here, and even the kids enjoy Roy Rogers and other classics. I don’t even really notice that these flicks are in black and white. These movies combined with a recently read Calvin and Hobbes comic inspired Billy to ask:

“Dad, did the world really used to be with no color?”

And finally, like teens who have learned a few curse words in a foreign language and think that their parents won’t object to foul mouths if they can’t understand what is being said, my kids think the word schnook is permissible. Thank you, Foghorn Leghorn. I’ve argued it before (here in Nutmeg’s comments section) and I’ll say it again: just because you use an arcane word to call someone stupid doesn’t make it any better. My husband disagrees and thinks the kids’ use of the term is really funny, especially when Billy quips:

“Schnook…chicken….they both look great in our oven!”


Random day, random kid: Mom, what’s for dinner?

Me: Loud-mouthed schnooks.

Bill and I went to a grown up party last night. It was a German-food themed progressive party: appetizers at the house across the street, a sit-down dinner next door, and dessert at another neighbor’s house. It was nice not to have little people constantly interrupting me with their pressing needs.

Of course, my two youngest children are doing everything possible to convince me that I should never do anything like that again. Both were up multiple times last night in utter misery. Pete spent two hours in my bed fussing and fidgeting before I put him back in his room where he screamed for a good five minutes before returning to sleep. Jenny is on the floor right now in tears because she doesn’t know where her backpack is. Going to bed at 10 pm is never a good thing.

And, unfortunately, there is only one convenient Mass around here. Today would be a good day to go in shifts.

Perhaps the nicest thing about this party last night was discovering that I have a good number of neighbors who like to drink. In military communities, you usually find a good chunk of people like that, but you also find an unhealthy dose of teetotalers. They are generally good, Christian folk who are most likely to be seen heading for church on Sunday morning.

Of course, my family has the appearance of being good, Christian folk and we can be seen heading for church on Sunday mornings, too. And we homeschool to boot. I’m quite certain that many neighbors over the years have confused us with these non-drinking types. “No, no,” I want to say, “We’re Catholic! We use real wine at our church!”

Generally, actions speak louder than words, but with an 8 month old gestational baby along with me, I was drinking water. Fun, fun. Full responsibility for showcasing our drinking philosophy fell on Bill’s shoulders. I think he did a good job. I was left to pathetically insist that I really do like alcohol, honest, do I have to tell you some drinking stories? in an effort to not look like Ms. Goody-Two-Shoes. Geez, you’d think I was nineteen again.

We’re having our Oktoberfest party in two weeks. The German beer is always a big hit, but I think the various schnapps and Jägermeister shots do much to demonstrate to our new friends that, among the church-going crowd, Catholics have the best parties. I’m not sure the boys have lederhosen that fit, my dirndl doesn’t have a maternity cut, and I fear this apron wouldn’t get here in time from Germany, so some of our usual ambiance will be lacking. Hopefully our decorations and the German food will make up for lack of decent clothing.

Just before I left the party last night to come home and let the poor teenaged babysitter go to his own bed to sleep, I was explaining to one neighbor that having a party a week or two before giving birth was no big deal. This is our fourth Oktoberfest, and we’ve got it down to a science, I think. Plus, having a party with an infant is much more difficult. She insisted that she thought I was pretty crazy for such an endeavor. As I walked away, I told her that Bill and I do everything we can to prove to the world that we are, in fact, the craziest neighbors they will ever know.

And now I need to go deal with three children who are in lousy moods from lack of sleep and get everyone out the door for Mass. We Catholics can’t let a little thing like a late-night party get in the way of giving glory to God.

Billy, our renegade Bengals fan, has been conducting indoor football scrimmages with Peter. One of Peter’s earliest words was “HIKE!” Despite the Halloween dresses and tap shoes and his sisters putting barrettes in his hair and pink ranking among his favorite colors, he really is ALL BOY. And he loves football.

It’s bad enough for this Browns fan who is married to a Packers fan to have one offspring go off the deep end and pledge his loyalty to the Bengals. {Apparently, the Ohio teams are playing this Saturday, and I’ve already been informed that the Browns have no chance.} But as I dodge my little football guys who are using the hallway and the staircase for their field and I hear the littlest one, currently in possession of the ball, put the pigskin down and state firmly, “I the Bengals,” I really must draw the line.

Worst of all, my husband places the blame squarely on me as the one who spends the most time with these kids. Just before he left for school, he strictly exhorted Billy to tell Peter that he loves the Packers and to stop mentioning the Bengals. Perhaps I should consider team loyalty indoctrination as a part of my core curriculum. I’m quite sure Bill would have little objection if I decorated the schoolroom with this or this or this.

As for the game this weekend, perhaps my young football pundits are right. Even Bernie Kosar said of the current Browns team, “So many things need to get better. If Jesus was the quarterback, they’d still be 0-1.”

Ouch.

The kids think it’s funny to sit in my chair at the dining room table and pretend to be me. They point their finger at their siblings gathered around and say, “YOU do your school work! YOU do your school work! YOU do your school work!” Nice, huh? But oh so true. I tend to say the same things day after day after day. Of course, if they would just.do.their.school.work I might be spared the necessity of sounding like a broken record.

And if they would stop asking the same questions every day, we might have some variety in our evening conversations as well. Instead, this is what we get:

Random day, random kid: Mom, what’s for dinner?

Me: Grilled chicken.

RK: Do I like grilled chicken?

Me: Of course! It’s your favorite!

Another random day, another random kid: Mom, what’s for dinner?

Me: Meatloaf.

ARK: Aww, I don’t like meatloaf!

Me: Yes, you do! It’s your favorite.

Another random day, another random kid: Mom, what’s for dinner?

Me: Ziti.

ARK: Ziti? What’s ziti?

Me: It’s your favorite!

Another random day, another random kid: Mom, what’s for dinner?

Me: Chicken livers and brussel sprouts.

ARK: Do I like chicken livers and brussel sprouts?

Me: Sure! It’s your favorite!

They haven’t noticed the trend yet.

Like Matilda, I’m considering a ban on toys made in China. From a moral standpoint, I should have banned all things Chinese years ago, but it is so difficult to be diligent about things like that when my daily life is filled with the adventures of real life such as teaching children to read and chasing naked toddlers through the neighbors’ yards.

But as much as moral reasoning may be brushed aside out of convenience (or inconvenience), when I need to begin scheduling product number checks on toys we own, thus taking away precious time from the creation of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or other highly important tasks, I begin to think that perhaps a bit of anti-China vigilance wouldn’t save me effort in the long run.

The latest recall includes the Little People Animal Sounds Farm which of course we own. Unlike the Dora and Sesame Street products listed in the last recall that we happened to have, the recall date on the farm goes back much farther than 2006; the date goes back to 2002. Dutiful Protector of My Children that I am, I go through Mattel’s “help me determine if my product is included” link for the farm and it shows me where to locate the codes that identify when exactly it was made.

I, and my computer, are on the first floor. The farm is in the basement toy room. But I’m procrastinating on laundry anyway, so I grab a notepad and pen and haul the waiting dirty clothes down the flight of steps as I go. That’s one trip down.

I notate the appropriate codes and then turn to the laundry. Fold the clothes in the dryer and add them to the already folded clothes sorted into three baskets based on ownership. Move the load in the washer to the dryer. Empty and sort the mesh hampers and add another load to the washer. Carry the basket of boys’ clothes to the landing halfway up the stairs. That’s a half trip up. And a half trip down.

Carry the mesh hampers up to the first floor. One trip up. One trip down.

Carry the basket with the girls’ and Pete’s clothes up to the first floor. One up. One down.

Carry the basket with mine and my husband’s clothes up to the first floor. One up.

Forgot the notebook. Another trip down. Another trip up.

Back at the computer, I follow the instructions related to the codes on the farm. The next screen wants another code from the same spot. I hadn’t seen this number, or I would have written it down “just in case.” Cursing Mattel for not telling me everything I needed to get from the beginning, I make one more trip down. And one more trip up.

Once again at the computer I briefly ponder whether I want the item to be on the recall list just to make all these trips up and down my basement stairs worth the effort, or if I would just be that much more annoyed with the hassle of having to return a product. Fortunately, my codes passed the test and we’re lead paint free.

The boys will fetch their own basket from that landing, but I’ve got to carry those other two very full baskets up to the second floor. Two up. Two down.

And then I think I’ll be ready for a nap.