Murphy's Law Morning

I have been awake for less than 5 hours today. And already, the following "glitches" have taken place:

• Little Brother was most ungracious (not to mention greedy) upon finding out that the Tooth Fairy had left her usual $1 instead of the $5 that some of his classmates get.
• TheDad informed me that his car HAD to go to the mechanic TODAY because some "your car will explode if you don't go to the mechanic" indicator light had lit up on his dashboard.
• That meant that I had to commandeer Middle Sister's car and take her to school and force her to (indignity of indignities) ride the bus home today.
• Little Brother came thisclose to missing HIS bus because he hadn't packed his schoolbag last night, like I'd asked him to.
• Middle Sister had a pretty empty gas tank.
• I had to follow TheDad to the car dealership and then he had to take me back home. ALL of this was before I even got a cup of coffee, not to mention breakfast.
• I thought maybe there would be a diner run on the way back from Hyundai City, but no...(and poor Hubs is first of all not a mind-reader and second of all WAY too busy at work right now so I know there was no time for a diner run. But a girl can dream. Especially when she needs coffee.)
• Middle Sister started sending me angry texts because the discombobulation of HER morning meant that she'd forgotten some important papers on the coffee table.
• A piece of the splashguard of my stand mixer detached itself when I was making cookies for Big Brother, who's coming home for dinner tonight.
• Little Brother's coach emailed the date and time of the CYO basketball playoff game:  smack in the middle of a Tech Week rehearsal for Annie Jr. (I'm dealing with that by praying for snow.)
• I found a broken zipper pull in the dryer's lint filter. Inspecting the laundry, I discovered that it had come off the Notre Dame hoodie that I JUST got for Christmas.

None of this is "big stuff" but it's the little stuff that really gets to me.

I could really use a reboot here, especially since in just a couple of hours, I have a Secular Franciscans meeting and there will be guests, so I am WAY outside my comfort zone on this one (introvert problems). It's not that the guests aren't welcome--I'm glad they'll be there. But I find it tough enough to conduct a meeting when it's "just us," never mind up to 10 extra people, some of whom are strangers.

And I have to make sure I'm out of that meeting on time to pick up Little Brother and his friend at Chess Club after school.

At the moment, I'm kind of afraid to touch anything or go anywhere! I could really use a double dose of Grace and Dignity right about now.

Question du Jour

...or, more accurately, del día.

I sent Little Brother off to scrub toilets after he finished his homework. He's always been a fan of that job.

While he was busy creating toilets full of bubbles, he noticed the bilingual label on the Comet. "It says '20% más'. What does 'más' mean?"

"In Spanish? It means 'more'," I replied.

More scrubbing, then:  "Do people in Spain have toilets?"

Upside Down

I spent the morning yesterday in a hospital waiting room. My husband was there for same-day, minor surgery. I drank a lot of coffee, prayed the Rosary, and tried to ignore the overly-loud, overly-large TVs. I was nervous, of course, but not very worried, because we'd been told so many times that it was " probably nothing."

I should have known that my uncharacteristic optimism was misplaced.

I kept thinking to myself that it would be No Big Deal, all the while in denial of just how easily No Big Deal can turn into a Very Big Deal Indeed. Minor can go to major in less time than it takes to spell my last name. And your whole world turns upside down as the surgeon says those 3 words nobody wants to hear.

As we try to let it all sink in, as we think of how to find the words to make the kids understand, we simultaneously scribble down specialists' phone numbers on Post-It notes and assemble folders full of referrals, test results and form after form after form after form.

It is all these details, I think, that will make me crazy and at the same time keep me from going crazy. If I concentrate on the details, I won't have to think about the big picture. I don't want to see the forest for the trees.

We will have to wait more than a week before the next step can be taken, before all the results are in and appointments can be made with just the right doctors. And all those other minor-league problems we've been dealing with? We're not feeling the need to deal with those just now. Can we please just put that stuff on the back burner for a while?

One thing at a time, Lord. It's hard to turn this over when I want to take the ball myself and run with it. I'm a ball-hog in that regard, just as much as some of the hotshots on Little Brother's soccer team. It's hard to turn it over because if I abandon it, if I relinquish the control I try to hard to maintain, I might just go to pieces when it is least convenient.

Mom doesn't get to fall apart, you know. That's a rule. And if nothing else, I'm a rule-follower.

Even--perhaps especially--when our world has just been turned upside down.

Pray for my husband, if you would; for his doctors; for the kids and for me as we negotiate this new and scary road.

And thank you to Barbara for the beautiful Rosary!

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Book Review: WorkShift

It's a book that came along at just the right time for me: the beginning of a new school year is always a great time to put things into perspective and get a handle on a new routine. Add to that a HUGE increase in the writing projects I've got going, and there's potential for a just-as-huge increase in unscheduled craziness, fatigue and resentment.

(As background, because I don't talk about this here much: I do social-media work for a local video-production company, am a shopping content editor for Internet Brands, and do other freelance writing and SEO projects as well as my commitment to Catholicmom.com's Tech Talk column and 4 hours per week volunteer service in Little Brother's school library. The writing work is part-time, on my schedule, and the money's not huge but it works for my family's situation at this time.)

On the day I started reading WorkShift, I was elbow-deep in a to-do list with no energy (or motivation) to get any of it done. I figured that time spent with this book would be time well-spent. The many, many real-life examples inspired me. There were moms with infants, moms with kids in grade school, moms in many lines of work.

Of course, no situation completely matched mine, but that's not really the point. It's good to know that there are plenty of families out there who are making it work--finding ways to keep moms at home for their families yet enabling them to contribute to the family budget, stay active professionally, and work creatively.

Five years ago today I wouldn't have dreamed that I'd actually be earning money by writing--without even having to leave my own home to do it. Of course, there are some projects that are more fun than others, but as my husband always says, "They call it work for a reason."

What I need to remember is that no work project is worth resenting a twice-a-week soccer-practice schedule (though I do reserve the right to be exasperated when Coach keeps the kids on the field after it's too dark to see each other, the ball, the goal or the coach).

As I read this book, I found myself grabbing Post-It notes and index cards so I could scribble down ideas for how to set up a work schedule this year that leaves room for family, flexibility, and even a little fun. And then I reached the final chapter, where author Anne Bogel has listed plenty of resources (both print and online) to help do just that. The additional structure that I'm going to try to plug into my workday should benefit me, my family and my employers.

Are you interested in reading WorkShift? You can purchase it through ejunkie or Amazon. It's available in ebook format for Kindle or as a PDF you can read at your computer (or even print out). It sells for $8.

The fine print: I received an ebook copy of WorkShift and if you purchase the book through ejunkie I will receive a small commission. I did not receive any other compensation for this review, and the opinions are mine alone.

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Works in Progress

Things my kids have learned this summer: How to make Jambalaya. Algebra. Acting. Making tuna salad and muffin pizza.

Things my kids have not learned this summer: Turning lights and tv off when they leave a room. Closing drawers and doors to cabinets and closets. Eating with silverware (still to be mastered by one child)

So they can cook, compute and emote, but they still act like they were raised by wolves.

There is much work yet to be done.

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Fat Police

This morning, Little Brother and I went grocery shopping. Everything went well for the first 3/4 of the trip. We got nectarines, cucumbers, melon, bananas, celery, Cheerios, peanut butter, cookies (I had a coupon) and EVOO. Then we got to the dairy aisle, and that's where things got ugly.

I reached for a gallon of milk, the kind with the red top that screams, "Full fat!" at the casual observer, and my skinny 10-year-old took me to task.

It's got to be the propaganda that's behind it. First of all, the kid doesn't even drink milk--hasn't in more than 8 years. I am the main consumer of that weekly gallon of milk, and I like my milk whole, thankyouverymuch. But boy, was I in trouble. "Why don't you buy 2%, Mom?"

"Because I don't like 2%. I like Real Milk." We went along this way for a while, as I wheeled the cart along and picked up a pound of Real Butter and 18 Real Eggs and then headed toward the Coffee Nirvana section, where I once again bemoaned the fact that ShopRite never has quarts of light cream anymore.

"Half-and-half is just as good, Mom," said my young Food Policeman.

"No, believe me, half-and-half is not just as good," I sighed as I placed a quart of half-and-half in the cart sadly.

"Mom, I agree with that governor of New York about this," he commented. (I think he meant "mayor," but whatever. I was arguing for my Real Milk, not accuracy regarding government officials.)

Kid, I'm all for healthy, which is why I bought nectarines, cucumbers, melon, bananas, celery, Cheerios and peanut butter, and also the EVOO. But when it comes to dairy, I'm a full-fat kind of girl. And no one, not any governor or mayor or president or surgeon general or doctor on TV is going to tell me not to have my nice big glass of milk with dinner every night.

Real milk. With the red top. Ice cold. It's the only way. I'm willing to sit down with the Fat Police over a cold one and discuss this, and I will not back down.

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Of Goodbyes, Long and Short, and Birthdays

Yesterday was my husband's birthday. Three years ago it stopped being a happy occasion.

On his birthday three years ago, we stood next to each other, all lined up in fancy clothes, alongside his father's casket. Pop had passed away two days before after a short and unexpected illness. Some of the people at the wake remembered that it was my husband's birthday and awkwardly wished him a happy birthday along with offering their condolences.

It was weird, and a pretty crummy way to have to spend a birthday.

The other day we gathered with my mother-in-law, as well as my husband's sister-in-law and 3 nieces, to attend a Mass for Pop. After that we got some pizza. No one made sure there was a cake, or candles. No one even sang or suggested the idea of it. You don't commemorate the anniversary of a death with a birthday cake and a rousing chorus of "Sto Lat*."

My mother-in-law did not call her son yesterday to wish him a happy birthday. I don't know if she remembers that his birthday was Sunday; during the past couple of years it has become apparent that she is suffering from Alzheimer's. On Friday evening, after we got home, my husband confided that it's really hard for him to see his mom like this.

Hard as it was to lose Pop, his illness was mercifully short. In early August of that year, we were arguing with him that he should see a doctor because of a few symptoms he was having. By the 24th he was gone. In between those two points were a horrible couple of weeks in which my husband spent his time shuttling between his job and his parents so that his mom could get to see Pop in the hospital. There was no time to think about what might happen, what it would be like with Pop gone. There was no time to think about anything.

Now, all he has is time. He knows that he is losing a little bit of his mom with each passing day. It's just a question of how many days will pass before a family agreement must be made, because the time will come (sooner rather than later) when she cannot continue to live on her own. In many ways, already, she is no longer "on her own," depending on my husband and his sister-in-law for things like errands, food shopping, paying the bills, doctor visits and filling her medication organizer.

This is an awful way to lose someone.

Right now, what is lost is the short-term memory stuff: the "where did I put my keys" and the taking medicine as scheduled and the writing out of checks to pay bills. But we know what's coming. And the hardest loss of all, I think, will be the loss of the relationship: the time when she no longer remembers her son, when she cannot recognize her grandchildren.

One way (out of many) in which my husband and I are opposite is that he is a relationship person and I am a logistics person. It's something that I admire and am frustrated by, sometimes in the same minute. But while I worry about his mom largely in terms of the logistics, he is grieving, in advance, the loss of the relationship with his mother, even as he must deal with the logistics of her physical needs.

And that is a pretty crummy way to spend a bithday.

*"Sto Lat" is a Polish happy-occasion song. The lyrics, loosely translated, mean "May you live 100 years." In my husband's family, it is always sung at birthdays.

 

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A Rose by Any Other Name

So I was sitting at Little Brother's soccer practice last night when the leaves of the tree next to me caught my eye. Because of the heavy underbrush, I couldn't see the tree trunk, but the leaves were interesting. I have an app for my phone called Leafsnap that lets you take a photo of a leaf and then it analyzes it, offering a few possibilities for leafy identification.

My kids found the leaf on the kitchen table tonight (I had to set the leaf on a white surface or the app doesn't work) and they think they don't need an app to know that the leaf is probably marijuana.

NOT.

It looks quite a bit like it, but according to the app and several websites, what we've got here is a sweetgum tree.

I had no idea those grew north of the Mason-Dixon Line; something about the name "sweetgum tree" just screams "Deep South" to me. Must have been mentioned in a book once.

My kids, however, are standing by their story and offering me assistance with recovery of a whole other sort than I've been working on for the past few months.

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Hoarders, the Digital Edition

I'm a digital packrat of the most incurable kind.  That whole "I might need this someday" thing rears its ugly head; I still have 5 1/4" floppy disks with my college senior thesis on them.  Not that I have any software that can access the files, and it's been at least 5 years since there was a computer in this house that accommodated ANY floppy disks, but I've got those disks...

I use gmail for most of my email, but I have it forwarded through some complicated electronic system or other so I can read it in Outlook on my computer.  Therefore, I never go to gmail's site unless I need to check the spam folder for something that was misfiled.

I had 67,000 messages in my gmail inbox yesterday.  Years and years and years of messages.  And I deleted them all.

And it didn't kill me or cause bad things to happen to my family. At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

But I'm still not ready to dump those floppy disks.

Fashion Emergency, Little Brother Style

Little Brother (pointing at the shirt he's wearing now, which is, not surprisingly, dirty):  Mom, can you wash this shirt tonight?
Me:  No.  I don't do laundry on Sundays.
(commence pouting by Little Brother)
Big Brother:  What's his problem?
Me:  He just remembered he has a dress-down day tomorrow and he wants to wear THAT SHIRT that he wears all the time.
Big Brother:  Did you wear that to the last dress-down day?  Then find something else to wear tomorrow.
Little Brother:  No!
Middle Sister:  You can't wear that if you wore it last time.  Never repeat an outfit!
TheDad:  Boys don't wear "outfits."

No-Win

Last night before she went to bed, Middle Sister told me that she needed to wake up at 6 this morning. "I set my alarm, but come in and make sure I get up," she said. "Don't let me stay asleep. I HAVE to get up."

So at 6 this morning I knocked on her door and got a mumbled response. Opening it a crack, I reminded her that she wanted me to wake her at 6.

"I was up too late last night trying to get my mascara off," she replied sleepily.

"you told me to make sure you got up at 6," I said.

"No."

"You also told me not to take no for an answer."

"Well, I'm saying no," she shot back. At that point I figured that I'm going to lose either way, so I closed her door and went downstairs to enjoy my coffee before she gave me trouble for waking/not waking her--whichever she considered the greater offense at the time.

Power parenting

So Little Brother is in the backyard, playing soccer with two of the Street Urchins (boys his age who live down the block.). I'm listening with half an ear to the goings-on, since twice already this week that soccer ball has scored a direct hit on the pool filter, disconnecting the hose.

And my mom had dinner all ready, so she headed out the back door to call Little Brother in. When he didn't follow, I called him out the window and that's when my mom told me that one of the boys was telling Little Brother to stay outside.

I've found this child ignoring his own mother more than once when she's come to tell him it's time to go. He has flat-out refused to leave with his older sisters one day when they were sent to get him.

In a few short weeks it'll be summertime, and all the Street Urchins will want to swim in my pool. I hate being the Bad Cop all the time, but somebody has to. With a pool in the yard, there are safety issues. You have to supervise and know who's there and who's in the water. You have to make sure they play and swim safely. (And you have to require kids who live on your block to bring their OWN towels.)

I think, before summer, I need to come up with a game plan. Suggestions are welcome.

UPDATE:  Thanks to some GENIUS suggestions in the comments and from a neighbor, I've worked up this template.  Sharing it here for other families in my spot--and I'll amend this as necessary.  But kids will have to leave one with me before they swim here.

From the Department of: At Least He's Honest

Little Brother just wandered through here with his favorite soccer jersey in hand.

"Nannie, thank you for washing this," he told his grandmother.  He'll wear that shirt as often as it's clean, and sometimes when it's not, if he thinks he can get by me.

"Where did you find THAT?" she asked him.

"In the dryer," he answered.

"Wait," I interrupted.  "You tumbled through the dryer to find that?  I hope you didn't tumble any other clothes out onto the floor..."

"I put back the ones that fell on the floor."

Things To Do Before the Weekend

In a way, this is my personal response to Hilary Rosen's comment last night that stay-at-home moms don't "work."

There are a lot of loose ends to tie up around this house before I walk out of here Monday morning and return Thursday or Friday, only to have to lie around with my feet up for a while and let other people do what I usually do around the house.

TheDad wants me to write down all the stuff that he will need to know.  Even then, I know that I'll have kids calling me at the hospital asking me where stuff is and how to do this or that.

Things I MUST get done:

• laundry
• dust and vacuum my bedroom
• write out logistics concerning:  lunches, school bus
• make tutorial cookbook for Middle Sister
• square away the Secular Franciscans for next week's meeting (that's this afternoon's task)
• get my wedding ring removed (and then repaired, so when I'm out of the hospital I can wear it again)
• grocery list and shopping

Things I SHOULD get done:

• make arrangements for Anointing of the Sick
• get ahead (if possible) on the publicity work I do for Room Two Productions
• finish the last bit of freelance work
• check on library books
• clean the bathrooms

Things I'd love to get done but I'm well aware that they "ain't gonna happen:"

• take down curtains, launder them, return them to windows
• launder, starch and iron living-room tablecloths on end tables
• a really detailed vacuuming of the whole house, including Couch Diving
• scrub my kitchen floor before my mother shows up here and does it

All this in the next day and a half, because Saturday is busy and Sunday I'll be doing prep, which means I won't want to be doing any heavy work.

Awaiting My Marching Orders

A tale of woe, told in as many cliches as I can dredge up.

I'm in a bit of a holding pattern these days.  After nearly 2 years of post-hysterectomy complications, which have resulted in (in no particular order) regularly-scheduled pain and bleeding, visits to 2 different GYN-oncologists, 2 MRIs, 1 CAT scan, innumerable ultrasounds of the invasive variety, a few rather unpleasant tests at the urologist's, 1 burst ovarian cyst resulting in 1 missed Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert, and 1 cyst drained "just in time" of 1/2 liter of fluid, my GYN has finally decided that it's time to shut down the rest of the system.  The plan is to remove my ovaries to cut off the estrogen supply that's feeding my endometriosis.

I have a cyst larger than my own fist in my left abdomen (they always show up on the left.)  It's painful, and it takes up a good amount of space.  Hence the wearing of the sweat pants (or, as Little Brother insists on calling them, athletic pants) as much as possible unless I have to actually get out of the car, in which case I suffer through the wearing of the jeans.

Frankly, I'm going to be glad to get this over with.  Even though it means going to a hospital with "Cancer" in its name.  I have not been diagnosed with cancer, but my GYN says that this doctor is the best surgeon to deal with the type of problems I'm having.  I keep telling myself that when I freak out a little bit about the name of the hospital.  I keep telling my husband that when he freaks out about the name of the hospital.  And I hope that none of my kids check the caller ID on the phone, because the word "Cancer" comes up in the name when I get the robo-call to confirm my appointment.

On Tuesday afternoon I'll see the surgeon and receive my marching orders.  Until then, I have no time frame, no plan.  Anyone who knows me knows how crazy that makes me.  I'm guessing that something is going to happen soon, because my GYN said that they'll want to take care of that cyst before it explodes on its own.  It could be done separately, or together--whatever the specialist decides.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (or more accurately, back at the split-level), I've got a part-time writing gig that would have to go on hiatus, I've got arrangements to make for leadership at Secular Franciscan meetings, I've got kids to drive around, I've got "work to be done--an estate to be run--a boy to raise."  Other than laundry and cooking, the bare minimum is getting done around here because physical stuff like scrubbing, vacuuming, mopping and taking down curtains is painful.  If I feel good enough, I do it.  Otherwise, I let it go.  There's been a good amount of letting it go lately.  There have been afternoon naps, probably because I'm a little too keyed up to sleep well at night.  There's been a lot of comfort eating.

I don't feel like baking cookies, I don't want to start up another sourdough starter, and there's no use making a meal plan for April when I don't know what April's going to bring or when it's going to bring it.  Other than Instant Menopause--I know I'm going to get that after the surgery.  Won't that be fun for everyone lucky enough to live with me?

Meanwhile, I wait, and I worry.  I go to the high-school musical to take my mind off things (50 kids tap-dancing on the biggest stage in the county will do that for you).  On Tuesday, I'll drive to Philly and find out how things are going to go.  And then I'll drive home in rush-hour traffic and get on with it.

You Just Never Know

The Leaning Tower of Beverages

It was a rough night last night at the Tech Week Dinners.  Nothing bad happened or anything, but through a perfect storm of my usually-barely-controlled social anxiety, a heavy introvert tendency, and my current hormonal state, I really wasn't dealing with even a small disturbance in the force field I prefer to generate around myself at all times.

And that force field was breached when the sweet and energetic mom who coordinates these dinners asked me to bring the muffin trays to the table where some other moms were setting out bagels.  Instant Mom-timidation ensued.  I was wearing a red t-shirt, tan capris and running shoes (after all, I was carrying 5-gallon jugs of lemonade, mixing iced tea, and standing for three hours on end.  I was dressed for the job, apron and all.)  They were wearing fashionable wrap dresses, strappy sandals, and coordinating jewelry.  But that's not all.  The Mom-timidators launched into complaints about a lack of tablecloths, centerpieces and matching balloons.  For a pancake-and-bacon dinner for 75 teenagers in a high-school cafeteria.  Then they started lining up the butter, syrup and jelly in perfectly straight lines.

To be fair, these moms did nothing and said nothing that should have bothered/upset/intimidated me.  Really, they didn't.  I'm sure they're perfectly lovely people, but I can't know that because I couldn't stay there.  As soon as I could, I got out of the Mom-timidation Sector and went to my Cozy Corner with the big stack-o-beverage coolers and got busy pouring lemonade and iced tea.  I vented a bit on Twitter, just to blow off a little steam.

A friend came over at one point to tell me some funny stories of things that had happened to her that day.  That was well-timed, though I'm sure she doesn't know it.  (She may have seen those Tweets of Desperation, though).  It gave my brain a break from dwelling on my completely irrational response to the Mom-timidation that I was completely aware I was imagining, but couldn't stop myself from feeling.

When dinner was over, I cleaned up the drink stuff and headed home.  It took a while to wind down from my strange emotional response, which I'm seriously hoping didn't show on my face all evening.  And this morning, I got a quick email from the lovely Tech Week Dinner coordinator, thanking me for showing up, stepping up, and jumping in and getting things done.  She's very faithful and very sincere about thanking people.  And boy, that 3-sentence email could not have come on a better day.

Yet another friend saw those Tweets of Desperation and tweeted me this morning to make sure I was OK.  (yes, and thanks!)

The moral of the story is:  you probably never know the effect you are going to have on people.  So if you have the chance to do so, have a good effect on someone.  Send them that quick "thank you" email.  Give that compliment.  Tell that funny story.  Especially if someone has that Deer-in-the-Headlights look, like I probably did yesterday.

To the folks who came to my rescue, intentionally or not:  thank you!  I love you!

Diction-ary

It's been awhile since Little Brother, AKA Mr. Malaprop, has visited this page.

This morning he came downstairs early and asked if he could stay home from school, since it's only a half day.

"No," I told him.  "Besides, you're going to church, and I'll be there."

"But that takes up half the day right there!  We always have to get there early, because my teacher is a parishioner!  He has to set up the Eucharist!"

"Oh, you mean he's a sacristan..."

Signs of the Times

Between 9 PM yesterday and 5 AM today, 2 different signs popped up in my house.

Here's the first.  Middle Sister tends to get a little territorial about "her" green tea.  She's not happy that someone else has been drinking it.  So to protect it from poachers, she decorated the jug.

Then I woke up to find the powder-room curtains draped over a chair in the family room and this sign on the bathroom door.

Here's the reason for the sign.

Advent: Sublime, Ridiculous and Sentimental

In honor of Gaudete Sunday, I brought out the Christmas decorations yesterday.  I used only about half of what I usually do, though I will bring other things out of the box if my family asks for them.  (At this point, I'm wondering what decorations are holiday "musts" for them, and which ones can go.)

My collection of handmade Christmas trees surrounds the empty manger.

We've had the Advent wreath and the empty stable out since the first Sunday of Advent.  The trees went up over the weekend.

This is our Advent wreath.  A couple of years ago, my mother-in-law found this wreath among her Christmas decorations.  It's the one they used when my husband and his brother were kids.  We'll use it until those plastic greens fall apart (each year we lose a little more of it.)

That's really what Christmas decorations are all about--the sentimental value (like each and every tree pictured with my manger).  My most precious Christmas ornaments are not the pricey Belleek ball or the Lenox "baby's first Christmas" giraffe.  The ones I treasure most are the popsicle-stick picture frames with my Big Kids' pre-K pictures in them.  The kids' favorites are the ceramic pierogi and the penguins, and they fight to see whose penguin can claim the highest spot on the tree.  It wouldn't be Christmas decorating without that battle, which is why our tree did not go up on "Pink Candle Sunday" this year.  Big Brother will be home by the weekend, and we'll get it done then.

Here's one item that's not going to last beyond this holiday season:  Snowman In a Bowl.

Little Brother picked this up at Lunch with Santa on Saturday.  It's a substance with the consistency of egg white.  You pour it out of the little snowman jar.  Eyes and nose come out of the jar too.  The jar lid is the little hat, which you then pop into the bowl.  12 hours after opening this, it's still jiggly and viscuous.  I'm glad I gave him a dollar-store bowl that I don't mind sacrificing, because I do not know what is IN this stuff, but it's pretty disgusting, especially when Little Brother constantly picks up and relocates the hat.

From the Department of "How Did THAT Get There?"

Things found on the living-room corner hutch while decorating for Christmas:

--one giant oak leaf, almost too big to fit in a Ziplock gallon-size bag
--two complete decks of cards
--the three of hearts from a third deck of cards
--one guitar pick
--six pieces of Lego U-Build Battleship
--one sea shell (clam)
--one nonfunctional laptop battery
--two Cub Scout awards
--one penny
--one "little black book" of Lent reflections
--one big black patch with a white star and Indian chief pictured on it (I'm guessing this belongs to one of my Scouts?)
--one video camera
--program from MAME
--Middle Sister's certificate from her school's fall Honors Assembly
--one blue plastic frog
--and a black-and-white plastic chicken foot, broken off some long-tossed action figure.

This is, of course, in addition to all the stuff that's supposed to be on those shelves:  photos of all the cousins, our framed wedding invitation, and a statue of St. Joseph.  That cabinet is my living room's very own, very dusty Black Hole.