The First Day of School... Kind Of

We all got up this morning, with big plans.

Mine was to get the kids off to school, send Pumpkin off with Mr. Wright to take pictures of some house a million miles away, enjoy an adult beverage or six, and take a bubble bath. Maybe crawl back into bed. Whatever it ended up being, it was going to be gloriously kid-free. (See photo.)

Yessssssssss...

So, I got the girls on the bus, and off to middle school:

And got the boys ready:

But I decided to take the boys to school, myself, rather than putting them on the bus, because Bravo had not yet been assigned to a teacher. 

Here we are, on the first day of school, and the kid DOESN'T HAVE A TEACHER, YET.

Let me back up a little...

Our district has a pre-K program available for kids who qualify for it. Basically, if their assessments show they're deficient by a certain percentage in one area, or a cumulative percentage over all areas, they're "in." Well, Bravo came to us with an IEP, so he was "in." He finished out the year with the pre-K program, and at the end of school, his teachers told him how much they would miss him, and how excited they were that he was now going to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER! Woot!

They may have also said something like I needed to fill out a packet for Kindergarten, if he was going to be in district when school started, but, you know, we're doing kinship care, and the plan is for him to go home, so back in June, I had no idea if he was going to be around when fall came, so I sort of filed the information in my "Think About It Later" file.

And there it stayed. Right up until Monday, when I was reminded that he still wasn't registered for school. Aw, firetruck...

So, on Monday, I packed the baby into the stroller, walked a couple blocks to the district office, and filled out the paperwork for him to be a BIG KINDERGARTNER, and turned it in (not without some struggle, because I don't have access to a lot of necessary documents, like his birth certificate, and so on). But, I got it done. 

Then, I was reminded that if I wanted him to attend the same school as his brother, I would need to "choice" him, and that was a completely different set of forms.

Let me back up a little further...

A few years ago, the boundary lines for our schools changed. Our house is in this weird little pocket that got changed from the school Curlytop and Snugglebug had been attending, to this other school. At that time, we sat down with the team, and determined it would be best for the girls to stay in the school they were already in, since their supports were already set up, we had a great working relationship with the team, and it was a familiar environment for them. So, we just had to "choice" them to the school they were already attending. And it was no big deal. 

So, when we got the boys, we "choiced" Alpha into the school Snugglebug was, and had been attending for years, because... one bus, convenience, and all that. (Curlytop had moved on to middle school by that time. Interestingly, she moved on to a middle school out of our boundary, because of the elementary school she had been "choiced" into. Snugglebug joined her, there, this year.)

Anyway, I filled out the choice forms, and was told we should have an approval by Tuesday, unless for some weird reason the superintendent decided to deny it. Good thing, since school starts on Wednesday, right?

Yesterday, I got the call that it had been approved, which was awesome. I asked who his teacher would be, and the district rep didn't know, but said the school should have that information for me. 

I was tied up yesterday for quite a while, and didn't get a chance to call the school until after everyone had already left the office, so I was a little anxious, knowing school would be starting today, and poor Bravo still didn't know who his teacher was.

So, this morning, I just drove the boys to school, and trotted into the office with Bravo. "Who's his teacher?" I asked.

"We don't have him assigned to a teacher, but we should have that information for you by tomorrow."

BY TOMORROW? I mean, this kid was sitting there, in the office, with his backpack on, and his shoes that weren't scuffed, yet, and his sweet little clean face, and all the other kids were heading off to their classrooms, and we would know tomorrow who his teacher was?

"So, what do I do? Do I just... take him home for today?"

I got a blank stare from the secretary. After a moment, she recovered, and said, "Kindergarten starts next week. You know that, right?"

Ohhhhhhh...

Anyway, here's what my plans have been changed to, today:

I think he's a little disappointed. I am, too.

I swear, Southern Comfort, we will see each other again, soon.

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Car, Pay Diem

Photo credit

“It rattles, shakes and knocks,” I said to my brother, Bubba. “I’m almost afraid to drive it.”

“So, it runs like a car with 280,000 miles on it?”

“No. We refer to 280,000 miles as ‘the good old days,’” I sighed.

Big Green came to us about seven years ago. She had more miles on her than we’d like, but she started, she ran, and she accommodated enough cabooses for our giant clan. Considering I’d just rolled our family van in a three-flip horror, Big Green was in considerably better shape than our other car.

Now, she shimmies and clangs like a two-ton belly dancer. The dash lights went out a couple years ago, and because Mr. Wright deemed removing the dashboard to fix the bulb too problematic, I now use a flashlight propped on top of the steering column to check the speedometer. The back window doesn’t properly close anymore, so we have a rag stuffed into the latching mechanism to keep the interior light from staying on – or would, if the interior light worked.

A family of four could be fed from the scraps and crumbs of French fries, potato chips, dry cereal and assorted other snack foods wedged into the cracks and between the seats. We could probably create a small island with the mud caked on the headlights – which, by the way, we can’t wash because we have a low beam out, and the dirt is masking the fact that we’re driving around with our brights on all the time.

Vehicle maintenance is not a gift the Gonzos possess.

Big Green is getting on in years. She has a ton of miles on her, and she’s held together mostly by prayer. She doesn’t look as great as she used to. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m responsible for the big scratch on the rear panel. I just haven’t confessed to Mr. Wright yet that I backed into the fence around the pool. He was pretty upset at the thought of a stranger doing the damage in a parking lot, so I’m not sure how he’d react to his beloved bride proving to be the culprit.

Like Big Green, I’m getting older. I’d like to say I’m aging gracefully, but really, I’m just aging. My odometer keeps ticking, and some days I, too, am held together by stubbornness and prayer. The mirror reports I don’t look as great as I did ten years ago – though Mr. Wright swears I look better.

As beat-up and sad as our old rig is, Mr. Wright isn’t making plans for trading her in. He has this funny idea about getting a full lifetime out of things. Thankfully, he feels the same way about marriage. I’d hate to see him driving around in a new, sporty convertible. Know what I mean?

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Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

Photo source

*Admittedly, this post was supposed to go up last Wednesday, but I was on my way to California with my main squeeze and my kiddos. Ah... Glorious distraction!


As a vegan, I’m aware my diet is different from others. Still, it’s always perplexed me that when I’m invited to dinner, my dietary restrictions seem to boggle the minds of people who are accustomed to preparing “normal” food. I prepare vegan meals for my family every single day, and don’t bat an eyelash. It’s not difficult, so what’s all the hubbub, Bub?

Myself excluded, I’ve never planned a meal for someone with a special diet. All that changed last week, when Mr. and Mrs. Editor came for dinner.

I consider the Editors a couple of fine and discerning taste. They are, after all, friends with me. So I was thrilled to have an opportunity to showcase my not insignificant culinary skills by pulling them away from the chaos and busyness of running a newspaper, and giving them a chance to relax and enjoy a fine meal and a drink or two.

As is my custom, I contacted my guests, asking if they had any food allergies. Mr. Editor replied, indicating no food allergies, and a preference for “only fruit for dessert.” Talk about crushing news! I’m writing a vegan dessert cookbook, and my guests don’t want dessert? Not satisfied with the idea of a peel-your-own course, I created a delicious cherry balsamic reduction to serve with fresh sliced Pink Lady apples from the tree in our little orchard. Not terribly gourmet, but a little fancier than just plain fruit.

I planned a delicious Eggplant Pomodoro as the main course, and Mr. Wright insisted on cooking off a hunk of organic dead cow. He calls it “prime rib.” I call it “carnage.”

A couple days before the big day, I spoke with Mrs. Editor, who informed me her husband wasn’t exactly accurate in his report that any old food would be fine. Turns out the Big Guy was in the middle of a bout of elevated blood sugar, brought on perhaps—and this is only a guess—by a night of imbibing glorious cocktails with his favorite columnist. Okay, I’m guilty. But his blood sugar levels meant certain foods were strictly off the table, so to speak, including wheat, beans, tomatoes, sugar, and a whole host of other things I can’t imagine living – or cooking – without.

“You’d better cook a double portion of that carnage,” I told Mr. Wright.

I know healthy food. I don’t always choose it, but I know it. I have a pantry full of brown rice, quinoa, millet, couscous and other healthy grains. Turns out they, too, were off the menu, along with the fresh fruit. I decided to leave feeding Mr. Editor to my husband. Mrs. Editor, the kids, and I would enjoy the scratch-baked dinner rolls, Eggplant Pomodoro, and dressed-up apples.

That day—like so many, when you run a newspaper—wasn’t an easy one for my friends. That afternoon, I said, “The dinner rolls are rising, the carnage is thawing, and it’s peaceful here. Come enjoy it.”

Maybe I was stretching the truth a bit on the “peaceful” part. Twenty minutes before our guests arrived, the eggplant was crisping in the oven, the warm rolls nested in a pretty wicker basket, the carnage was nearly roasted to the Department of Health’s “safe” temperature, and fresh, pretty apples waited on the counter to be sliced for dessert. I decided to grab a diet soda from the cooler in my office.

Big mistake.

Mr. Wright was at his desk, trying to get some last-minute work done. Boy, howdy—there’s nothing more attractive than a man providing for his family. I took a minute to flirt a little with him, and he took five minutes to flirt back, and I took...

Fifteen minutes later, I sashayed back into the kitchen to find smoke filling the oven, rolling off the charred, blackened slices of eggplant. A brawl broke out between Curlytop and Snugglebug over a cheap metal bit of jewelry. I began yelling out ingredients for Mr. Wright to fetch for my “meatless balls,” which would have to replace the eggplant over the pasta, while alternately yelling at the little ones to stop yelling. Just as the situation reached an honest-to-goodness riot level, the doorbell rang.

It was the best night I’ve had in a long, long time.

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Seven Reasons I Need a Clone

July 5, 1996 marked the birth of the first mammal to be cloned from an adult somatic cell. She was a sheep, cloned by scientists at Roslin Institute near Edinburgh, Scotland, and named “Dolly.” The cloned donor cell was taken from a mammary gland, and, as one of the scientists explained, “Dolly is derived from a mammary gland cell and we couldn’t think of a more impressive pair of glands than Dolly Parton’s.”

Which just goes to show, I suppose, that you can lead a man to science, but you can’t evolve his thinking.

I remember having serious concerns about the project, wondering if the cloning of humans could be far behind. I tend to agree with bioethicist Leon Kass, who opined back in the 1960s that “the programmed reproduction of man will, in fact, dehumanize him.”

Still, there are times I wish I had a double to fill in or give a little help during my busiest moments. Ethics aside, I can’t deny the allure of being able to be two places at once, or getting twice as much work done in my limited time, or perhaps training a clone to do the chores I detest the most. For example:

1. Parent-Teacher Conferences: While we only have five kids at home now, those twice-yearly conferences add up. In the past, we’ve tried the “divide and conquer” technique, scheduling conferences at the same time and sending Mr. Wright to one, while I attended another. The problem is, I’m too much of detail-oriented gal to accept “fine” as an answer when I ask how Mr. Wright’s conference went. Details, man! I need details!

2. Sports Season: Has it ever occurred to athletic directors and administrators that having a house full of ambitious children is particularly straining on parents? Having soccer, football and junior high volleyball seasons occur concurrently has certainly made our calendar full, and try as we might, we can’t attend every single game or match.

3. Work-at-Home Mom; Stay-at-Home Kid: I know I’m asking a lot for Snugglebug to happily entertain herself with educational materials while I work on a deadline, but if she’d just stop trying to climb the six-foot fence to get into the pool, I’d get a lot more done. This is where I ask for my clone to have a Mary Poppins gene or two inserted.

4. The 6:15 A.M. Alarm: I’m a night owl by nature, and that alarm does little but tick me off and make me want to throw things—namely, the alarm clock. If I could program my clone to do the morning kids-to-school bustle, I could sleep in, making me a grateful, cheerful mama instead of a cranky, sleepwalking beast.

5. An Extra Lap: When you have kids with Sensory Processing Disorder, you double as a jungle gym. Those sensory-seeking kids need constant touch, and they always seem to be climbing, sprawling, or rubbing on you. Such is my life with Curlytop and Snugglebug, and all too often, fights over who gets to sit on Mama break out. Imagine two mamas, with two laps!

6. Aviation Advocate: Somewhere along the way, I developed an unrealistic fear of flying. A few times a year, Mr. Wright gives me a sedative and pours me into a too-small seat on some enormous aircraft to fly to some wonderful place to attend some important event on his blessed arm. Once my clone arrives, I’ll be sending her. I’ll even spring for first-class seats, if it means I don’t have to get on an airplane.

7. Church Versus Deadline: Due to an illness I’m sure my clone would have been immune to, I had to ask for an extended deadline this week. Now, instead of attending church with my family, I’m eking out this column—and Mr. Wright didn’t spare me his look and oration of disapproval.

I’m convinced… bring in the clones!

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Getting Your Garden Ready

Photo source

What I don’t know about gardening would just barely cover the Pacific Ocean. I wasn’t born with a green thumb, and my severe allergies to pollen and bees pretty much ensured I’d never develop one.

Anything I’ve tried to cultivate has spitefully funneled its energy into dying—quickly, and with abandon. So, I mostly adopt a hands-off approach when it comes to things growing in my yard or garden. Sure, I have the kids or Mr. Wright mow the lawn, but I try not to mess with the flowers too much.

I may not know a weed from wisteria, but one thing I do know when I see it is “ugly.” Brown, dead foliage is ugly, and I always assume, since it’s already dead, I can’t do much more damage. I took an antihistamine and ventured into the out-of-doors a couple days ago. Brave, I know. The flowers in the back yard had updated their spring palettes and opted for ostentatious displays of lemon-yellow, bright fuchsia and violet.

There was also a lot of dead stuff. Broken, crisp leaves and decaying flowers crowded around the bottoms of the plants, and I started plucking them by the handful. I got jabbed and sliced by a few thorns, but the ease with which the lifeless branches and shoots pulled away from the living stems entranced me, and I kept going, throwing the expired material into a pile.

It took a few hours, and when I was done, all that was left was color. Beautiful, glorious flowers topped vivid green stems and nestled among the bright leaves.

Did I mention it took hours? I had a lot of time to think about things I don’t spend much time thinking about—like myself. I’ve been a busy, busy bee lately, and I’ve lost a bit of focus. I’ve taken on a lot of projects, people and plans; and something has to give.

As the flower beds became tidy and de-cluttered, it was clear to me that life is much the same way—dead things fall easily away from the living root, figuratively speaking. I don’t mean it’s going to be easy once your beloved dog is dead, or Grandma passes on. I’m just talking about the spiritually dead things we fill our lives with.

I struggle with giving up activities, projects and people I feel obligated to serve or have invested a great deal of time in. I agonize over letting go of things because I erroneously believe they define me. I’m a member of (fill in my favorite club/group/organization du jour), or I hold the title of (insert my current occupation), or I’m known for being really dedicated to (plug in my passion of the moment).

It’s time to clear away the dead stuff. You know, the standing monthly lunch date with the friend who criticizes; or the sport you keep playing, even though it’s beginning to feel like a burden; or the volunteer work you feel like you can’t refuse, even though it makes you resentful?

If we walked away for a month, would those things easily fall away, like dead leaves? Or would we miss them, aching for their return? Are we allowing dead things to define us? I’m speaking figuratively, of course. The happy Elvis impersonator is, by necessity, defined by a dead thing. I’m not talking about him.

Let’s talk about the birds and the bees. Don’t worry—I’m not going to launch into a human sexuality lesson. I mean the literal birds and bees. While out in the flower beds, the birds were singing and flitting about gaily, as if urging me along in my purging project, while the bees angrily buzzed around me, as if saying, “Get out of here. Leave well enough alone.”

I, for one, have too many bees in my life, and sometimes their buzz drowns out the song of the birds, encouraging and praising me. I do believe I’m in the market for a course on insect extermination. Figuratively speaking, of course.

How’s your garden shaping up?

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Someday, I Won't Be Here To...

Dear Mr. Wright and kids:

In the event of my untimely demise or incapacitation, I am leaving the following list of instructions. Put them in a safe place - you'll need them.

1. The toilet paper roll is held in place by a spindle. When one roll is empty, you may replace it with a full roll by firmly grasping one end of the spring-loaded spindle between your thumb and forefinger, then pulling toward the center of the spindle. Once free, remove empty toilet paper roll, then replace with full roll. To put spindle back in place, follow above directions in reverse.

2. The stovetop may and should be cleaned. To accomplish this mysterious task, allow cooktop to cool (this is important, lest you burn your fingers and have to look for the aloe vera gel - and we all know Mom is the only one who can find it). Then, use a damp sponge to wipe away spills and food particles. Repeat as necessary.

3. To clear cutting board of bread crumbs, use a clean sponge, a paper towel, a washcloth, or even your hand. The important thing is that you do it.

4. Bread will dry out if the bag is not closed properly. For this reason, bags of bread are sold with a handy closing device called a twist-tie. The twist-tie doesn't cost extra; it's thrown in as a free accessory. USE IT.

5. Dumping clean clothes on the floor tends to make them dirty much more quickly. Some genius, way back in history, created a wondrous device called a "dresser." It has miraculous little things inside it called "drawers." You will find that clothes stay cleaner much longer when placed inside these strange "drawers." To use: Firmly grasp knob on outside of drawer. Pull knob toward you, thus opening drawer. Place folded clothes (see Appendix A for instructions on how to fold clothes) inside drawer. Gently push drawer closed. Slamming drawers has never been proven to help them stay shut.

6. A stick of margarine will, by its very nature, collect bread crumbs. May I suggest using a butter knife to slice off the amount of margarine needed, instead of stabbing or scraping at random parts of the stick, smearing on toast, and going in for another scrape, leaving crumbs embedded in the cube?

7. Getting dirty dishes to the kitchen may sound like an insurmountable task, but I will try to explain it in elementary steps. First, grasp plate, bowl or glass in hand. Next, lift the item. That's right - just pick it up. Good! Now, turn your body in the direction of the kitchen, and begin walking. Continue until you reach the kitchen (see map, attached). Finally, place dishes in sink. For the advanced, an attempt at rinsing dishes may be made.

8. You're just going to have to accept that when I'm gone, there will be no one to stay up all night baking cookies for the bake sale you forgot to tell me about until bedtime. There's just no way around that. I have, however, drawn a map to the nearest bakery (attached).

9. Go ahead and pour those last few drops of milk out of the jug and put "milk" on the shopping list. No one is going to yell at you.

10. Using a snowshovel and rake to shove everything from your bedroom floor into the closet is not the same as cleaning your room. Along the same line, cramming every available space in the house full of stuff is not the same as being organized. Find a place for everything, and keep it there.

I know it will be hard to go on without me, dear husband and children, but rest assured that I am in a much, MUCH better place.

Love,

Mom


Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/urbanwoodswalker/ / CC BY-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/designpackaging/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/indieman/ / CC BY 2.0

All the Wright Moves

The homeschooling next-door neighbors with six kids and the homeschooling family across the street with six kids laid hands on the huge trailer attached to our Suburban. They prayed for our safety, and thanked the Lord that we were leaving.

Our northern Snohomish County community was nice enough, but we really were the freaks of the neighborhood. Back then, we only had five kids; all of our neighbors had six. We were irresponsible enough to send our kids to public school; our neighbors all homeschooled.

We were preparing to move to the Lake Chelan Valley, and I was protesting the entire plan. No one could understand my resistance, and many asked, “Isn’t your whole family there?” as if that weren’t enough reason for my unwillingness to return.

The truth was, I had a bad feeling about the move. When Murphy penned his famous law, I suspect he had our future move in mind.

Our new house didn’t close in time, but summer soccer practice started right on schedule. That meant getting up with Princess at 3:00 a.m. every weekday morning, making a pot of coffee and driving over Stevens Pass to get to practice in Chelan by 7:00 a.m. There were still a lot of things to be done at the old house before our renters arrived, so after practice we drove three hours home, where I boxed and scrubbed and wallpapered and painted until I fell unconscious.

Our renters couldn’t delay their move-in date, and we had to start moving things out of the house before we actually had a new home to move them into. Mr. Wright rented a storage unit in Chelan and borrowed a friend’s pickup truck to haul boxes and bins over during his inter-county trips between his new office and home.

During a late-night trip over the mountains, Mr. Wright was involved in an accident when another driver fell asleep at the wheel. He wasn’t terribly hurt, but I used the incident as further proof that we shouldn’t be moving.

I was frustrated at having to move everything twice; once into the storage unit, and again into our new house when – and if – it ever closed. Fortunately, someone broke the padlock on the unit and relieved us of many of our possessions, so there wasn’t quite so much to move in the end.

Two days before the renters were due I sat, teary-eyed, in the middle of the living room floor, a gallon of sand-colored paint spilled on the carpet in front of me. I’d only meant to touch up the window sills.

We loaded the last of the boxes into the huge trailer, only to realize there was too much weight, and the tires were beginning to flatten with the pressure. Mr. Wright pulled furniture and bins out, rearranging them, until the weight was more evenly distributed and not directly over the tires.

“The trailer’s too heavy,” I said. “We’re either going to wreck our transmission, bust a tire, or make it on sheer faith.” I called the homeschoolers. Everyone laid hands on the trailer and the Suburban, asking God to provide us with safe travels and mechanical miracles.

We cleared the top of Stevens Pass just after dark. It was all downhill from there, as they say. At the bottom of the hill, Mr. Wright glanced in his side mirror to see a wheel spinning down the road. It passed, crossed in front of us and came to a smashing halt against the guardrail.

“You don’t think…” I began, as Mr. Wright pulled over to the side of the road. I never did finish the sentence. I didn’t have to. We both knew where the wheel had come from.

As we approached the back of the trailer, it was clear that one of the center wheels had come off. We both broke into hysteric, unrestrained laughter that lasted far too long. (Think Tom Hanks in “The Money Pit,” when the bathtub falls through the floor.)

When he could manage words, Mr. Wright took my hand and said, “Let’s go find the lug nuts, Babe,” and we walked and walked up the highway, flashlights piercing the darkness.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rooreynolds/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

More Evidence for My Insanity Plea: Premonitions

Look, I'm not saying I'm clairvoyant or anything.

What I am saying is that sometimes I have dreams, and they come true. My grandmother was known to read tea leaves and, by all accounts, was quite accurate.

Most of the time, I don't actually remember the particulars of a "seeing" dream until I'm in the middle of the situation the dream foretold. I'll be having a conversation with someone and realize I've had the exact same conversation before - in my dream. It's a weird déjà vu-like thing that's happened to me since I was a kid, and I've learned to mostly ignore it.

Sometimes, though, I have dreams that I do remember, and they seem like things that COULD happen in the future.

Last night, I dreamed that for some reason, Mr. Wright and I were in separate cars before we went to the airport to fly out to Japan. He was one place, and I was another. We were both engaged in last-minute activities (I was dropping the toddlers off to stay with their brother, Omri, and his family; I have no idea what Mr. Wright was doing) that needed to be tended to before the flight.

We were not close to one another in distance or driving time, by the way.

Upon arriving at Omri's house, I discovered that the bags I'd packed for the girls were, in fact, in Mr. Wright's vehicle. Checking the time, I realized there was no possible way to wait for him to drive them over. I called his cell, and he said he'd drop the bags off with a relative, who would deliver the bags to Omri's house.

The next thing I remember is meeting Mr. Wright at the airport. Only then did we realize that we'd left my bags in Mr. Wright's car - where he parked it, OVER HALF AN HOUR AWAY. That meant an hour, round-trip, to retrieve my bags. Oh, and we'd miss our flight, of course.

When I woke up, I pushed the dream out of my mind. How silly! Of course, we'd be in the same car. We wouldn't get separated, so there was no danger of bags being in the wrong place... unless we actually forgot to put them in the car to begin with.

What a relief!

So... I just got a call from Mr. Wright. "Listen," he said, "I have to take the displays for the home show over to my brother, so I'll drive the SUV on Monday, and you can take the girls to Omri's in the sedan. We'll leave the SUV at my brother's house, and we can meet up..."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I screamed, not letting him finish. "Trust me. I KNOW how that idea will turn out."

We've formulated another plan: I'll follow him to his brother's house, then we'll go to Omri's together.

Do you have any "gifts" for seeing things before they happen? Tell me all about it, so I won't feel like such a freak.



Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/44835687@N05/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lopolis/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

God Bless the TSA

My kids are no strangers to air travel and the finer points of airport security. It’s one of those things that are taught by repetition, like potty training and shoelace tying. If you see a kid in the security checkpoint line at the airport with their shoes already off, there’s a pretty good chance the child belongs to me.

As a family, we don’t typically miss flights, but we are near-famous for almost missing flights. In spite of the fact that post-9/11 airport security takes longer to get through, some members of our family (the kids and me) still seem to have trouble getting out the door, and still others (Mr. Wright) make a mantra of “We’ll make it, no problem,” with a foot firmly applied to the gas pedal en route to the airport.

With less than a quarter mile to go, I verbally ran through the checklist: Necklaces? Bracelets? Metal barrettes? Yes, Pepper, bobby pins are metal, and must come out. Liquids in a quart-sized zipper bag and easily accessible? Check, check, check.

Mr. Wright always goes through security first, followed by the kids, and I go last. It’s an attempt to corral the children between us, with a responsible adult on either side of the herd of youngsters. I did a time check. We had twenty minutes until our flight boarded, and the line at security wasn’t terribly long. We could do it, provided no one was carrying a pocketknife and I remembered to take my netbook out of my purse and send it through in its own bin.

Mr. Wright got through the metal detector and started pulling bags off the conveyor belt. Pepper was up next, and handed me her purse. “Some of my liquids are in here, and some of them are in my backpack.”

Gah! All that training, for this? “No, Pepper. Your liquids all need to go into your zipper bag, and the bag has to be out of your backpack. Rearrange. Do it. Quickly.”

In the meantime, GirlWonder pulled her zipper bag of liquids out, put them into a bin, plopped her backpack on the conveyor, and stepped through the metal detector. Pepper had finally sorted her liquids and complied with the security measures when a Transportation Security Administration agent held up GirlWonder’s backpack. “Whose is this?” She was looking at me.

“That’s my daughter’s. Is there a problem?” I was still taking my computer out of my purse and locating an empty bin.

“There’s a drink in the bottom of it. Drinks are liquids.”

Of course they are. I chastised GirlWonder from the opposite side of the metal detector. “How did you manage to forget an entire sports drink in your bag? You know the rules.” I tossed my backpack onto the conveyor, stepped through the metal detector and kept going. “How many times have we done this? How many times have we gone through security? You know better, Honey. We shouldn’t have these kinds of mistakes.”

GirlWonder was appropriately sorry. She’d forgotten the drink was in her bag. The TSA agent simply asked that the bottle be thrown away, and GirlWonder complied. My computer came through the x-ray machine, but my purse was taking a long time. It would start to emerge, then get pulled back in for another look.

Finally, the belt started up again and my purse came out. The TSA worker opened it and peeked in. “I’m really sorry about the drink,” I was explaining. “I don’t know how it happened. Our kids have done this many, many times. It was just careless…”

“This is your purse?” the agent asked.

“Yes,” I answered. I stood on my toes to look inside with her. There, in the top of my bag, was my entire quart-sized bag of liquids. In all the drama about the sports drink and my tirade about the rules for liquids, I’d forgotten to take them out of my purse.

The TSA worker winked at me. “Have a good flight, ma’am.”

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/billypalooza/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Wife, Mother… Exhibitionist

To date, I have subjected three generations of Wright men to the horror of my naked body. My husband, the middle Wright, seems unharmed by the experience, but it’s unlikely that the eldest and youngest of the clan escaped permanent scarring. Neighbors, parcel deliverymen and some unsuspecting Jehovah’s Witnesses have also been victimized, but I don’t share a dinner table with any of them, so I can’t comment on their respective rehabilitations.

Three years ago, we adopted a Lab puppy. My husband had expressed a desire for “a good hunting dog,” and I’d found the perfect candidate. His name was Rufus, and he resided with a Slovakian foster family. There were problems, of course. First, Rufus was a rescue, and we didn’t know much about his history, except that he had been taken from a drug addict. Second, Rufus spoke Slovak fluently, but pretended not to understand English commands at all. Finally, Rufus’s mind operated on an intellectual level so high that we mere humans remained blind to his devious plots until it was too late.

Of course, it is entirely possible that Rufus simply had one too many hits off the crack pipe in his first home. He was anxious and high-strung, and when the prescribed “doggy downers” didn’t work, we resorted to gulping them down ourselves and hiding behind locked doors from his destruction. No good. Rufus laughed evilly at our feeble human brains and picked the locks. He could open any door in the house, at any time.

As I undressed for bed one night, The Dude approached my closed bedroom door and lifted his hand to knock. Before he completed the motion, Rufus appeared and offered (in dog Slovak, of course), “Hey, you want that door to open? Let me help you out!” Before The Dude could translate, Rufus opened the door and pushed it open. The relative quiet of the house was pierced by my startled scream, and The Dude shrieking, “My eyes! My eyes! Oh, please, make it stop!” as he ran into his room, slammed the door, and collapsed, sobbing, into the fetal position.

Being seen naked is a traumatic experience for nearly any woman over 30, but for a teenage boy, seeing his mother naked requires years of therapy. Spending the monetary equivalent of a college education on psychotherapy might help him survive, but it will never, ever erase the horrific image from his brain.

My least favorite feature in our house is our front door, which is actually just a huge pane of glass with a little metal frame around it. Any visitor is treated to an unobstructed view into not only my bedroom, but the downstairs bathroom, as well. For this reason alone, I am attempting to train everyone to keep both doors closed, lest anyone be treated to a peep show they didn’t count on. I, of course, always close both doors. I’m not some sort of exhibitionist!

It’s the high-speed streaking between the closed doors that I need to work on.

A few months ago, I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around myself, and retreated to the bedroom to get dressed. As I dried off, I remembered that I’d set my clean clothes on the bathroom counter. To this day, I can’t think of one good reason that my clothes and my naked body ended up in different rooms. Furthermore, I can’t rationalize why I didn’t take that towel with me when I darted from my bedroom to the bathroom (though, to be honest, it happens pretty frequently). Mid-streak, I realized that my father-in-law was standing at the front door, finger poised to ring the doorbell.

I tried to pretend that maybe he didn’t actually see me, but The Dude confirmed it after a visit with his grandparents. “Grandpa mentioned that it was pretty embarrassing when he saw you running to the bathroom without a towel,” he reported. “I told him I know how he feels.”

Perfect… they’ve formed a support group.

Losing It

It will come as no surprise to me when I wake up one morning to find our laptop computer, our Ford Expedition, and every piece of identification my family owns have been stolen in one fell swoop. It’s a loss just waiting to happen, and there is nothing I can do about it.

We live in a technological void. No high-speed cable. No DSL. No fiber optics (“coming soon,” they tell us). The lovely little store on the hill provides wireless access to guests who sit on their wide porch with an espresso or hot fresh apple cider, and Mr. Wright brings his laptop home from the office every night; in case the children need to do homework research online.

After several morning-hustle incidents that resulted in Mr. Wright getting to work without his computer, the designated home for the machine is now in the back of the Expedition. So what if our tax and business records are on the hard drive? Some things are more important than security – like getting to work with necessary equipment.

My family is genetically programmed to lose keys. The house-locking ritual is easy enough, but requires a stringent amount of breaking and entering to unlock, because we don’t often know where the key is. We had a locking mailbox, until Mr. Wright had to bust the lock off to retrieve three weeks of mail after the key was lost. The key to the Expedition, too, serves as the source of much grief. Many frantic searches for said key have been conducted while calling Snugglebug’s therapy center to tell them she would be missing group therapy, because I lost my keys. Again.

Now, we keep the key to the Expedition in the cup holder. In the Expedition. That worked until Pepper got something out of the car, then locked it. “What were you thinking?” I shrieked. “You locked the car?” Poor Pepper. She just wanted to make sure a minimum level of security was in place. I apologized for yelling at her, while I called Curlytop’s physical therapist to report we would be missing her appointment. Again.

The Ford dealership made me a key that will open the door, but not start the car. The “spare” key is now duct taped in an inconspicuous place outside the vehicle. Should any diligent thief choose to locate the spare key, he should have no problem driving away with the ignition key found in the cup holder.

Our family loves British Columbia. The first time we planned a “run for the border,” I crashed through the house, looking for birth certificates, and came up with maybe three for our family of nine. “No problem,” I reasoned. “I’ll go to the Department of Health and order new ones!” We got over the border with no problem. By the time we planned our next trip, I’d lost four birth certificates. Once again, I ordered new ones, and declared they would never again leave the glove box.

My older kids sometimes worry – as I toss the car key into the cup holder and step over the laptop to unbuckle the babies – that someone will steal our car and, by extension, our identities. Scrutinizing the floor littered with soccer shin guards, wrestling shoes, volleyball pads, football cleats, two Tickle-Me Elmos, my bag of materials for the journalism class I teach and two sippy cups, I realize our identities really are in this car.

I assure them, “No one would take our car, darlings – they’d have to clean it.”

How Many Steps to a Denise Austin Butt?

Today alone, I made the following trips up and down the steps in my house, all before 9:00 a.m.:

• Up the stairs with the babies to feed them breakfast, back down to get them dressed.
• Up to get their sippy cups filled with milk, back down to put them in the diaper bag.
• Up to put the sippy cups in the fridge, since my husband already has cups in the diaper bag, back down to start the laundry.
• Up the stairs to sweep the kids’ rooms for dirty laundry – I mean, dirty clothes – back down to the laundry room.
• Up the steps to go pee, since the kids took the last roll of toilet paper to their bathroom upstairs, back down for a shower.
• Up after my shower to put on makeup because the skylight in the kids’ bathroom provides exactly one hundred times more light than my dungeon of a bathroom downstairs with environmentally-conscious twisty bulbs does, back down to do hair.
• Up to put on a pot of coffee while I blow-dry my hair downstairs.
• Up to find the toothpaste, which Curlytop hijacked and gleefully painted herself with this morning, back down to brush my teeth.
• Up to find my sunglasses, which I removed and left on the kitchen counter last night while I made dinner, back down because, at this point, why not?
• Up to get a cup of coffee, which I don’t get because I become distracted looking for my keys, back down to find my keys under the toy box.
• Up to get a cup of coffee, which I don’t get because I become distracted looking for my sunglasses again, which I sat down on the counter while looking for my keys. Back down to try to get out the door, which I can’t do, of course, because I haven’t had any coffee!
• Up to get a cup of coffee, which I don’t get because I spot the novel I’ve been searching for over the past week peeking out from under the sofa – huzzah! – back down to put it in my backpack.
• Up to get a cup of coffee, which I do, then dump down the drain because it’s gross after sitting on the burner all morning.

All of this running is no small feat, folks… I’ve got two set of stairs to tackle each way. I’m like the Army – I get more done before noon than most people do all day.

You’d think, with all of the up-the-stairs, down-the-stairs, I’d have a butt to rival Denise Austin’s.

No such luck.