Bye bye baby

You need a haircut.

You have tan lines.

You prefer to walk, shunning your knees, the stroller, and the grocery cart seat.

You chirp merrily in your own tongue incorporating a smattering of English phrases like "hey-wo, dada" (said into any object held to the ear like a phone).

You have definite preferences and are not shy in voicing them.

You laugh heartily, especially at Jenny's antics.

You eat all sorts of foods and are willing to try anything. You love cherries and blueberries, and, alas, your siblings have already taught you about chocolate.

You dislike the high chair preferring to stand.

You can just reach things on the kitchen table and things overhanging the kitchen counters. You cannot be left alone in this room.

You know exactly where the toilet paper is in every bathroom and enjoy unrolling it.

You have, in your mind, mastered the stairs enough that you are no longer obsessed with climbing them. Your current project is climbing chairs or step stools to discover new fun things previously out of reach.


You are no longer a baby. Welcome to toddlerhood.

Happy birthday, Peter Damian.

The adventure for today is: road trip!

Our house in New Jersey is still not finished and does not yet have tenants.

But this has been a good week. First off, finding the chance to get up there to finish the job has been difficult. The boys' sports ended, but then my sister came. My sister proposed that instead of Bill going up this weekend, we (as in me, her, her husband, and our combined 7 children under age 10) would go up today and get the work done. This is exactly the sort of ludicrous idea that I find appealing. She didn't even have to double dog dare me to try it.

Bolstering my opinion that this was a great idea and all would turn out well was my success at Home Depot in finding the exact same medicine cabinet to replace the one that was broken. We feared having to patch and paint drywall if we couldn't find one to fit the hole.

I was undaunted by the new knowledge that Home Depot no longer carries wallpaper. There is a small patch job (one wall) in the hallway, and I didn't want to rip all the wallpaper down and re-do it with a new pattern the way I had to do the living room. A three-minute brainstorming session with Bill yielded agreement that one hall wall with paint and three with wallpaper was perfectly acceptable. Drive on.

Next issue: tenants. We've had two strike outs thus far; two families with multiple accounts up for collection. We're not in a position to take a financial risk that threatens our mortgage payment, so we had to turn them away.

Another woman with twin toddlers, who seemed so very nice and polite and was persistant but not pushy, wanted to rent, but she was Section 8. For Bill, it was very easy to say no. For me, it still makes me sad that I wasn't willing to give her a chance. Our neighborhood is modest, but very nice. The neighbors are the kind of people who work 40 hours a week, mow the lawn on Saturdays, rest on Sundays, pay cash for Christmas presents, and live within their means. It's exactly the sort of neighborhood for someone who needs to break the cycle of poverty. But I admit I have a tendancy to romanticize poverty and simplify solutions, and fortunately, I have an extremely practical husband who is quick to point out that someone who isn't paying for the rent is less likely to take care of the property since they have no stake in it. He knows it would grieve me to imagine weeds growing in the garden or soil or scratches marring the wood floors. And he's savvy enough to know that I prefer to avoid interactions with the government, and Section 8 housing is way too intimate a relationship for me to stomach.

Thankfully, on Monday, another woman called about the house. I gave her the address and told her to look at the outside, peek in the windows and call me back if she thought it might suit her. We spoke last night. She and her husband had both stopped by and were very interested in seeing more. She gave me her credit info so we could do a credit check, and her husband will stop by today to see the inside and take pictures for her. And the best part is that they are looking for a long term rental having rented their current home for 12 years. Dare I get excited? You bet.

So today I'm off on a merry adventure which will hopefully be extremely successful. I can barely contain my exuberance!

Family planning

Danielle Bean has an interesting discussion about family size at her website.

My husband says he wants one more and then he's done. Hmm. He keeps reminding me of the number I quoted before we were married as though it were part of the contract.

Father Hilliar: Michelle, do you promise to love, honor and cherish Bill all the days of your life?

Me: I do.

FH: Do you promise to be open to life, to having children and raising them in the faith of the Catholic Church?

Bill: Oh, Father, remember we've specified that number?

FH: Oh. Right. Michelle, do you promise to have between four and six children, raise them Catholic and all that?

Uh, no. Perhaps at the time I would have, but since that wasn't an option, and it wasn't vowed before God and man, I won't be held to it. I don't think a prior verbal agreement is legally valid over a latter verbal agreement made before witnesses.

That said, I plan to take things one pregnancy at a time. No sense in wasting energy on what could be a moot point. I know two women who each lost her uterus, one after her fifth child and one after her second. They didn't choose instantaneous infertility. I know another couple who unhappily discovered they were having their fifth. Now, they both eagerly await the arrival of their seventh.

Another woman I know, while pregnant with her sixth, said that her husband often worries about having so many children. "I just get into bed naked. It's not my fault if he finds me irresistable."

Circumstances and people change. At least Bill and I agree that permanent, self-inflicted infertility (vasectomy or tubal ligation) is not a good solution for what may be a temporary desire to limit family size.

Right now, neighbors and friends who see the typical 2 year space between my children are already starting to ask me if I'm pregnant yet. The Army Ten Miler is in early October. I've paid the entry fee, I know I can do it having done 8 miles a few weeks ago, and I don't want nausea or sciatica to keep me from that goal.

My answer: ask me in November.

Rejoice and be glad

This is the day that the Lord has made...

450 am Baby in his crib, hungry, crying. Situation: normal. Outlook: cautiously optimistic.

520 am Baby in master bed, not hungry, not crying, not asleep. Situation: not normal. Outlook: slightly pessimistic, but adopting a wait-and-see attitude.

600 am Baby in his crib, asleep. Master bed made. House quiet. Coffee fresh and hot. Situation: not normal, but in a fantastic way. Outlook: this will be a great day.

700 am Fritz and Jenny awake. Jenny demonstrating negetive side effects of too little sleep. Situation: normal. Outlook: doubtfully optimistic.

800 am Billy and Katie awake. Baby and guests asleep. Situation: normal. Outlook: unchanged.

805 am Baby now also awake, thanks to Jenny. Situation: unfortunately normal. Outlook: stubbornly optimistic.

1000 am Everyone awake. Pouring rain. Children already squabbling. Blogging on laptop with sticky keys (Gatorade disaster). Typing entry for second time due to some technical error that wiped out my entry the first time. Situation: hopelessly normal. Outlook: desperately optimistic.

...we will rejoice and be glad.

Better than Christmas

This past Christmas, we had to wake up our children. It was pathetic. The little ones were up, but the older three were snoozing away long after 7 am.

Inconceivable.

Today, my sister, her husband and their 2 children are coming to visit. They will arrive sometime around lunchtime, perhaps. I've told the kids they won't be here until dinner.

It is not yet 6 am. I would much rather be in bed, but instead I'm allowing myself a few minutes to check email before I do laundry, unload the dishwasher, tidy that one section of kitchen counter that collects all the clutter, and then finish cleaning off my desk (the one at which I'm sitting right now, which is in the den/guest bedroom where my sister will be sleeping), and I can hear the thudding of two boys bouncing out of bed.

Christmas is Christmas, but Jack and Morgan coming to visit is a really good reason to get out of bed early!

ready, set, slide

When he got home last night, our three older children approached Bill looking for the sympathy that their mother was unable to offer them. They each had hurting tummies. I thought they had bruised them, and didn't even bother to look.

These three had been racing down the stairs on their stomachs. At first, I thought they were going down head first and yelled at them, threatened them, and warned them of the possibility of death should their heads hit the ceramic tile at the bottom. Then I found out they were going down feet first, and I said, "Well, you hurt your stomachs. That should be lesson enough."

When they told Bill about their adventures, he didn't offer them sympathy either. He just started laughing. And then they showed him their injuries and he laughed even more! They had rug burns! And then he asked them how many times they did it, and when they said more than once, he rolled on the floor with tears in his eyes.

I guess when he was about their age, he did something similar: feet first down the stairs. Only he was on his back. And the stairs were hardwood. His younger brother watched, but learned from Bill's maiden voyage that this was a really stupid idea. So, Bill thought it was really funny that they raced down the stairs not once, but two or three times, disregarding the pain and only stopping when I yelled at them.

Nobody else was laughing.

my swollen foot

If I were a horse, they'd have shot me. But luckily, I'm only half Zebra. Like my tan lines?

Foot is doing much better. I'm walking. Went to the grocery store (running out of everything!) and managed without too much thought about my foot. Just some limping.

You can't really tell in the picture, but I have a bruise that runs from the outside of my left heel, across the top of my foot and toward the toes. I think my training program for the Army Ten Miler is on hold until next week at least. Bummer. I so like going out at 430 am to run 3 miles before dawn.

A day of rest...or a day of agony?

Yesterday, while rushing down the stairs with baby in arms, I thought I was at the bottom, but - no! - one more step to go! I didn't land too well - 20 extra pounds of baby really threw me off balance - and the end result is a very badly sprained foot.

For dinner last night, we ordered Curbside to Go from Ruby Tuesdays. When Bill returned with it, I was three rooms away from the dining room. The fastest and least painful way for me to get there was to crawl. I asked Bill to get the baby, but he didn't need to do so, because the baby was highly amused and happily followed me. So we had a nice parade: me leading on my hands and knees, Pete staggering behind me with a huge grin on his face, and Bill taking up the rear telling me exactly how pitiful I looked.

Perhaps some people might relish the opportunity to put their feet up for a few days. For me, this is torture.

I didn't mind handing the baby off to Bill for a stinky diaper change. But he and the boys were playing ball in the backyard after dinner, and I had to constantly interrupt him for things like the diaper change, locating Jenny (who wanders into the house just looking for mischief), and similar tasks that I normally handle and he rarely does. He was annoyed, of course, and even though it's good for him to occasionally experience the drudgery that is my life {please visualize me with my hand on my forehead and my body strewn across a chaise lounge as you read that line}, I honestly don't feel that he needs this experience, especially since I have no desire to experience the drudgery that is his life.

Besides the urgent tasks like a diaper change that I clearly could hand off to Bill, there are millions of smaller jobs that I do without thinking all day long. What mom walks through a room without seeing and doing one or more minor chores on the way to get or do something else? On the way to the kitchen to refill the sippy cup, most moms would likely spot several toys or books or personal items that needed to be returned to their proper location, maybe a spot on the kitchen counter that needed wiping, a dish or two that needed to be put in the dishwasher, or some miscellaneous items of trash that needed to be put in the garbage bin. Perhaps some dads might see these things too, especially those who might happen to be responsible for these chores anyway. But Bill doesn't normally worry about these things, and so he doesn't even notice them.

And those are the jobs that nag at me from what should be a place of rest. My body is resting, but the soul of my inner hausfrau is in agony as it sees the undone work and tries to ignore it.

The foot feels better today, but dangerously so. In other words, I limp around ok, but if I do so all morning, by afternoon, I will be in severe pain. I will need to keep my feet up as much as possible to recover as quickly as possible. I can hear the inner hausfrau screaming already, but off to the couch I go.

Calgon take me away

How did I get to Wednesday?

I thought summer was supposed to be relaxing?

My sister will be here in less than a week to visit for less than a week, and then I'm supposed to go with her to Alabama and then on to Florida to visit her home and my parents' home for about 2 weeks. I still feel my house isn't in order, and just leaving it won't make the disarray any better, won't hang curtains, won't organize the big storage closet and pantry.

And I been asked to attend another meeting.

Three last week. Two this week. Ugly meetings. Meetings that don't involve me and which I'd rather not witness.

Oh, why can't we all just get along? Is it really that difficult?

Bill suggested locating the nearest exit door. I'm looking...

I prefer Gin.

Me: Next Sunday the kids have a birthday party to go to for Jack.

Bill: oh.

Me: It's at Chuck E Cheese.

Bill: no.

Me: I promise, you don't have to go.

Bill: oh. no.

Me: I'll take them, Bill. You stay home. Don't worry. You don't have to go.

Bill: That kid...in that place...

Me: You don't have to go.

Bill: Are they going to give him Ritalin?

Me: Bill!

{pause}

Me: Oh, Danielle is going too! {another neighborhood friend}

Bill: Are they going to give YOU Ritalin?

pity party squelched before it began

Just as I was beginning to feel sorry for myself for having to take all the kids to Mass without Bill while they, of course, were doing everything in their power to make it as difficult as possible to the point that we did not stay for donuts after Mass and I had to remind Katie that wailing about her sad fate was definitely not going to change my mind...just as I was beginning to give myself permission to be grumpy about my oh-so-hard existence and to adopt a woe-is-me demeanor...just then, I read these words of Sarah at just another day of Catholic pondering:

"...I would like to revisit what Mass really is. It’s a giving back to God. So when you offer him your hectic, chaotic parenthood; when you give him back the blessings he has given you – just look around you! You will not be disappointed.

I hope never again to say, with longing in my voice, “Ahh, the days of a quiet Mass.” It is the noise that is my prayer; it is the wiggling that is my joy; it is the child who reminds me of my vocation."

OK, I'm sorry, kids, that I even dared use you, my little blessings, as an excuse for a bad attitude.

I should know better anyway. Just yesterday, I had a brief conversation with a woman I know, who is, in fact, having a very difficult life right now. Truly, she has all my sympathy and support for the heavy burden on her plate.

Suffering Woman: I just want to ask, "Why me, God?"

Me, with all the vim and vigor of a happy Catholic: Oh, I never say that. I know what I've done in my past to deserve this. I just say, "Please, Lord, mercy! I'm really sorry!"

Suffering Woman, after a momentary blank stare: Oh. I never looked at it like that. {fast retreat from the wacko}

I laughed out loud at that.

Thanks for the attitude realignment, Sarah. I'm all back on track now with joyfully suffering: "Thank you, Lord, might I have another?"

End of Baseball

Soccer ended last Saturday.

Baseball ended today.

Hooray!!!!

Some shots of Fritz's last game.


Fritz at 1st base with one of his pals as the runner.



Fritz at bat.












Fritz on 3rd base.

Fritz scoring a run.

Pete feeling caged in.

Billy happy to pose.

And then a study in opposites: Katie who followed me around saying "Take my picture, Mommy, take my picture! Now, Mommy. Mommy, why aren't you taking my picture?" and Jenny who I had in my sights but when I said, "Let me take your picture, Jenny," answered, "NO." You can actually see the words on her lips. grrrr.

Why I love babies: reason #271

Pete has just learned what it means to "kiss," and so I am now the delighted recipient of sweet, sloppy, open-mouthed baby kisses.

And the best part is that they're all mine. Nobody else gets them like I do, and I get them whenever I ask.

Months of discomfort...hours of labor...a lifetime of heartache and worry: PAID.

Property Ownership

I am passionately opposed to the use of eminent domain except in very limited circumstances. Eminent domain is when the government can seize private property for the good of the public. It is meant to be used for big projects like dams or highways.

Recent court rulings have expanded government's powers to the local level for reasons as simple as the government desiring a greater tax base which they obtain by selling this seized property to private developers who build nicer buildings and then sell them or lease them for profit. The new owners pay more property tax than the previous owners, so we all win in the end, right?

Everybody except the original property owner who has no home, no property, and received such paltry amount for their property that they cannot buy another home. The current targets of these eminent domain policies are poor people with rundown homes.

Like the people of New Orleans.

But please don't believe for a moment that it would stop there.

I am thinking of my modest, 1100 sq ft Cape Cod home in a neighborhood of modest Cape Cod homes in an area where the McMansion dominates. My small lot is just about big enough for a 4 bedroom, 3 bath, 2 car garage mini-mansion with a tiny yard. I pay about $4000 a year in property taxes (did I just hear audible gasps from 90% of the country that doesn't pay ridiculous property taxes?) but a mini-Mc would fetch double that, easy. Multiply that times the 500 houses in that small pocket of town and you can see why local governments salivate at the idea of suddenly increasing their tax revenue by $2 million. Do I feel that my property ownership right are threatened?

You bet I do. And you should too.

Thanks to Kathryn over at Suitable for Mixed Company for the link.

Wouldn't you like to be a Gilbert too?

I needed to print out a 14 page document to read before tomorrow's showdown at the local library with the local homeschool group, and I decided to do a blog stroll. One thing led to another, and I found myself at Chesterton and Friends reading about how I can Gilbert up my existence:

Make vows, and keep them; but always forgive those who can not. Challenge your foes, and defeat them; but offer always the hand of friendship once the foe is at your feet. Live, in short, with honour.

I haven't had the opportunity to read much Chesterton, but what I have read is fantastic. Since most of you who visit my blog are moms with young kids and little time, I can't seriously suggest you pick up a copy of Orthodoxy and dive in. But the Father Brown series is good for lighter summer reading, and Brave New Family (copyright 1990 by Ignatius Press) is a great collection of shorter essays that amaze me with their pertinance to today's issues despite being written nearly a century ago.

And I simply must laugh...as I write this, the ink of my 14 page document long dry, I receive an email from the president of the homeschool group reminding us of our meeting tomorrow and telling us that we "may" bring our children, "but please bring something quiet for them to do (we'll be in the same room). "

Oh, heaven help me make a friend of this foe.

In the meantime, I need to go load my six-shooters...

memo

To: all family members

From: The Lady of the House and the Laundry Mistress

re: laundry

1. Please allow a minimum of 24 hours for all special laundry requests.

2. Please reduce the need for special laundry requests by taking dirty laundry to any of the appropriate "dirty laundry" receptacles located in the house.

a. The main laundry receptacle is located in the laundry room. Even the floor is acceptable, if the proper receptacle is full, or if you are too lazy or ignorant to sort your laundry.

b. The master laundry receptacle is located in the master bathroom.

c. The kids' laundry receptacle is located in the upstairs hall bathroom.

d. Please ask for further assistance if you are unable to locate the appropriate receptacles or if you desire knowledge about proper laundry sorting.

3. If special laundry requests are necessary, gifts and favors for the Laundry Mistress are acceptable and prevent the need to extend the special laundry request time frame to 48 hours notice.

a. Appropriate gifts and favors include, but are not limited to: appreciative remarks, hugs and kisses, flowers, cash and diamonds.

b. Rude or obnoxious behavior or additional special requests of the Lady of the House will result in a termination of your special laundry request and bar you for a period of at least one week, but not to exceed one month, from any special requests.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

And for goodness sake, if you give the Laundry Mistress a special request, please at least pretend to need those clothes after all.

Does it get any better than this?

Yesterday afternoon I sat on the steps of the pool with Pete in my lap and the hot sun on my back. Jenny scampered nearby - up and down the steps, but never too deep.

The pool wasn't very crowded and wasn't very noisy. It was rather peaceful.

Fritz and Billy were playing on a round float that looked like a tree stump. Katie wanted on, so Fritz boosted her up. There was barely room for the three of them, and Katie was on the outside edge. Fritz was rocking the float, and Katie was a bit scared of falling off. Without my prompting, the kids did their own problem solving and put Katie in the middle. Now, with both boys on the sides, they had the float rocking up and down with Katie gleefully clinging for dear life!

I sat and watched them play. The float was bobbing and spinning on the water. There they turned toward me: my three older children lying on their stomachs in a tight row with grins lighting their faces. A perfect picture of the happiness of childhood. A perfect picture of the joy of motherhood.

This image, this memory, this moment: please, God, help me perserve it in my mind and in my children's minds. Let us all remember this slice of heaven on earth, this half-breath of peace and harmony, this time of joy and contentment.

Panties in Bunches

My mom never had the time or the need to get involved in volunteer activities. She doesn't know how lucky she was.

Yesterday's meeting at my house was...interesting. One of Bill's favorite phrases to describe somebody in a snit is that "he's got his panties all in a bunch." Well, I seemed to have a few wedgies here. I'm just thankful that I could sit back and watch. Unfortunately, though, I have to be very careful. This group is related to my husband's job, and I can't do anything that would reflect poorly on him. It would seriously affect his job progression.

Perhaps this is good, for it gives me the chance to practice deference. And keeping my mouth shut. And controlling my passions.

I told Bill that he worked at echelon's so high, that the thin air and reduced oxygen seemed to be affecting everybody's ability to think. Perhaps that's just the way it is everywhere. You would think that the higher up in the pecking order you go, the more useful you could be. But it feels like the higher up you go, the more bogged down in legalities and political correctness and diplomacy and other crap you get. I have to remember, though, that a point on the outside of a really big wheel moves only a little bit, but all the points inside that wheel move much more in comparison. Perhaps what we do won't seem to matter, but perhaps changes are really taking place without seeming to do so.

Today I have another meeting, at my husband's office. ding ding Round Two.

And then this is the week of meetings for I have another meeting on Friday. The homeschool group here on post needed a Director of Membership, and I volunteered. I don't know exactly why I did this. Bill was pretty upset about it.

I really don't like the homeschool group and do very little with them. I was feeling pretty stupid about volunteering to work with a group that I didn't like. I was worried that I was going to be a big thorn in everybody's side. They've decided that members of the group aren't involved enough, so they want to assign points for various jobs and make everybody earn a certain amount or else.

Or else...30 lashes with a wet noodle?
Or else...we won't like you? (Oh, wait, we already don't like you and that's why you don't participate...)
Or else...you can't be a member of the group? (But since you never participate, will we really notice your absense?)

Anyway, just as I was really thinking that I was foolish to take on this entrenched group that, also, seems to have it's panties in bunches, and straighten them out, give them an attitude adjustment...just as I was wondering if I could really make a difference, I met Piper on the playground yesterday afternoon.

I actually met Piper about 7 months ago. She followed me to Manassas on the one field trip I took with this homeschool group, but I didn't interact with her much on the trip and hadn't seen her since then. She lives in my neighborhood now. Her boys are the same ages as my boys. She homeschools. And guess what?

She can't stand the homeschool group either.

She had similar complaints about the attitude among the leaders.

"Don't be late on a field trip - it makes ALL homeschoolers look bad." I agree that tardiness is annoying, but are non-homeschoolers always on time?

"Don't bring little children on this field trip if they can't behave - it makes ALL homeschoolers look bad." I agree that a tantruming toddler is a bad thing, but how well behaved are they expected to be? And if I'm concerned that a 15 second outburst will exceed the tolerance level of the homeschool gestapo, please excuse me if I decide to not go on field trips, since, you know, I homeschool my kids and don't put my toddler in day care full time and won't be able to find a babysitter since the teenage girls in the neighborhood are, you know, in school.

"Absolutely no toddlers or babies may go to the Theatreworks programs - they might make ALL homeschoolers look bad." Oh, really, and none of the public school kids attending the one hour performance will be out of line, ever? They will all sit quietly and politely the whole time? And none of their moms chaperoning the trip will bring a younger sibling?

Piper also asked me, "Is their 'friends card' full or something?" She got the same cold shoulder at meetings that I did. Nobody felt the need to even try to include her in conversation. I thought I just smelled bad.

When I told her that I was to be the Director of Membership, she told me that she had volunteered to do one of the activities that fell under that job. So, I have an ally. Somebody who is crazy enough to volunteer to work with an organization that she loathes in an effort to improve the organization. So, I'm glad I volunteered.

Yeah.

cleaning up

I used to think that my mom was obsessive-compulsive. I have distinct memories of having to clean the legs of the dining room table and chairs. We were a family of seven, and the dining room table was used daily; often the table was used for every single meal. The dining room set was intricately carved and this cleaning chore was so tedious that to this day I absolutely despise dusting.

And it's all my mother's fault.

I am hosting a meeting this morning. I can't help but want to present a neat, clean, well-organized home to this handful of women. Vanity? Pride? Possibly...but mostly denial of my vocation. I used to have a neat, clean, well-organized home all the time. And then I had children. And then I began homeschooling. Now my house is neat, clean and well-organized if one compares it to the many clutterbugs I know. But it's not up to my pre-children standards, and this bothers me greatly. I've learned to live with it, but for a few hours, I want to hide evidence of toys, schoolbooks, crayons, scrap paper, and sticky fingerprints and pretend that I live in tranquil simplicity most of the time.

I decided that the best place to have the meeting was the dining room. There are enough chairs for everyone (4 to 6 of us altogether) and a table for writing and for holding a nice hot cup of tea. So I looked at my dining room with a critical eye and discovered why my mom made me clean the legs of the chairs and table so often. They were disgusting.

Up until the end of April when we moved into this house and bought a kitchen table to use for breakfast and lunch, my dining room set hosted every meal of my house. And daily schoolwork. And every craft session. Despite washable slipcovers on the chairs and the use of a tablecloth at meals, drips, globs and goo had managed to decorate every leg of every chair, the legs of the table and the underside edge of the table which doesn't get wiped up after dinner.

So last night, there I was, suffering from PTSD as I scrubbed away at the legs of the table and chairs. Fortunately, my dining set has much simpler lines and isn't nearly as annoying to clean. And Jenny helped too. I guess she thought it was fun.

But I'll bet if she had to do it every week, she'd grow to believe her mother was obsessive-compulsive.

Parental Guidance

Catholic Mom has this to say about the PG rating for the film, Facing the Giants:

What if the movie had the same plot but instead of finding his Christian faith, the coach attributes his life improvements to becoming a Muslim? What if he begins to practice Wicca? Christian parents might very well object. In the same way, Muslim, Wiccan, Atheist, or even Jewish parents might be uncomfortable with their young children viewing a movie that points to Christianity as the road to true happiness.

I agree. Even within Christianity, I'm not sure I want my children to be exposed to other concepts without me there to act as a buffer. Last summer, my kids participated in the VBS program here on post. This was a joint VBS hosted by both the Catholic and Protestant Christians. I wasn't thrilled at this idea, but I went with it anyway. It wasn't bad...

...the kids began each day in a "homeroom" for attendance and opening comments before heading off to the different stations. The woman who ran Fritz's homeroom was asking the kids questions and trying to drill them in the appropriate rote responses. Name a book in the Bible. Who wrote the four Gospels?

How many books are in the Bible?

Whose Bible?

I went home that night and told Fritz: there are 73 books in the Catholic Bible. Repeat after me: 73 books in the Catholic Bible...73 books in the Catholic Bible...

It's not a really big deal, but I'm happier with knowing what my children are being taught. I have no problem with other parents being equally cautious about what their kids may be exposed to over at my house.

I once had a neighbor attribute her preschooler's recognition of an image of the Blessed Mother he saw on tv to playing over at my house. Yes, I have multiple images of Mary in my home, but I told her I had never, ever identified those images as Mary, Jesus' mother.

And the last time I checked, even the Baptists approve of an image of Mary every time they display a nativity scene.

But still, I understand someone's caution about the possible bad influence of my home. I have the same qualms about them!

mature sweet nothings in my in-box

Last night it was nearly 8 pm and Bill hadn't called to say he was on his way home yet. 90% of me just sighed a heavy sigh and was prepared to face another evening of putting the kids to bed by myself.

But 10% of me was convinced he was dead.

I tried to imagine the police informing me that my husband had been killed in a car accident, and thought I was in a perfect mood to receive such news. I thought I was so tired, mentally and physically, that I'd surely be able to call my sister and hold things together, on auto-pilot, until she could get to me. And then I would probably need some drugs.

Do all women plan their possible reactions to the possible news that their husband is dead? My mom once told me she does/did. My sister does. Maybe it's a unique genetic thing?

This morning I told Bill about it.

"Michelle, I'd have had to die in the parking lot. I call you as soon as I'm backing out of my parking space."

"It could happen. Perhaps it was the one night you were distracted or decided to run an errand before calling me."

"Yeah, right."

Silly, huh. He laughs. But this is the same man who was worried to death about me last month. A neighbor was hosting a hen party. She would be moving soon and needed some help finishing up some open bottles so she wouldn't have to pack them.

It was an act of charity to attend. My parting words at 9 pm:

"Oh, I don't want to go...I'd rather stay here with you. I'll be back in an hour."

Two hours later, he left our sleeping children alone in the house (shocking!) to walk over to the alleyway a half block away. From there he could see the neighbor's house on the next block and hear us "cackling" as he called it ("clucking," I think, being a hen party). He decided that he was being ridiculous, that there was no way I was lying dead in the road in this ultra-safe neighborhood (military post, folks) with streets and alleys lit up so brightly that the street-facing windows glow with the light of a pre-dawn morn all night long.

Another hour and a half later, I returned home and he tried to be mad at me for causing him such worry, but then he decided that a few margaritas make me quite amusing. I guess it brought back the old days when we dated in college, and I would on rare occasions have a few sips of wine and get a bit tipsy.

(That's my child-friendly version of life in college. I'm practicing for when the kids are older. How'd I do?)

Many months ago, Bill told me he was pondering our old age and couldn't decide who he wanted to die first: Him, so that he'd never have to suffer a day without me, or Me, so that he could spare me living without him. Yes, he's still quite the romantic. I find these thoughts very sweet. This morning, after last night's contemplation of his early demise, I informed him:

"I've decided. I want to die before you. I've suffered enough days and nights without you already."

He laughed. We agreed that we'd rather just die at the same time, despite the immense grief it would cause our offspring. They'll get over it.


Earlier this week, Bill sent me an email from work with this picture attached. Here are his words:

Hey,

I was sitting here looking at the picture I have on my wallpaper and thinking about us and how great life is and great it will be to grow old with you and be with you through retirement. I figured I would sit down and write a few lines to express how much I love you. You are so wonderful and thoughtful. I love you.

Me

This picture is now my wallpaper too. I really hope, God willing, that I get to grow old with this man.

live by the bomb, die by the bomb

"We want to give you the joyous news of the martyrdom of the mujahed sheik Abu Musab al-Zarqawi," said the statement, signed by "Abu Abdel-Rahman al-Iraqi," identified as the deputy "emir" or leader of Al Qaeda in Iraq.

Joyous, indeed.

May his "martyrdom" lead to peace and healing for all Iraqis.

open mouth, insert foot

I once read that the whole point of etiquette was NOT to make people feel like buffoons if they didn't get it right, but rather to provide guidelines so that everybody felt most at ease and comfortable. This was accompanied by a chastisement for those who would make somebody feel uncomfortable for committing a gaffe.

With that in mind, I strive to follow my golden rule of etiquette which is to treat everyone respectfully and also to not take offense at the omissions of others. For example, I try to remember to introduce someone who joins me in conversation with another person, but if I am the person who should be introduced and my aquaintance fails to do this, I just do it myself and don't get worked up over it.

Well, yesterday I failed completely in my attempt to "make everybody feel at ease."

I took Katie to her last Start Smart Baseball program session (oh, thank goodness this is over!) yesterday afternoon. One of the other participants is the younger sibling of a girl from Fritz's CCD class. Olivia had said, at one of the last CCD classes before they made their First Holy Communion, that she wanted to have a party - not just for her FIRST Holy Communion - for her 100th Holy Communion. I asked her to please invite me if she did have such a party.

So when I saw Olivia, I asked her, "How many Holy Communions have you made, Olivia? Four?"

"No...."

"No? Oh, come on...at least 2 or 3, right?"

"No, just one."

For a second I thought that she just didn't realize that every time you go to Mass, and you go to Communion, you would count that. But quickly, my brain caught up with the reality of the situation and I knew that, no, she really had only received Communion that one time, nearly a month ago.

And I felt awful. Olivia was probably unaware of my point and quickly discarded my comments as that odd talk that grownups do. But her mom was only a few feet away and very likely heard everything. It's not that I don't think they shouldn't be attending Mass every Sunday. It's not that I don't think it's hypocritical to have your child attend CCD and receive the sacraments but to not go to Mass on Sunday. I really do. I could never have gone through the motions of "raising my kids Catholic" without full faith, without full soul. It's dishonest.

But I don't want to make somebody who isn't where I am spiritually feel bad for not being where I am spiritually. I think it's the job of priests and DREs to tell parents how to properly raise their kids in the Catholic faith. If she had asked my opinion, I wouldn't have lied. But in casual circumstances, I don't think there is much to be gained by making somebody feel bad.

I am just now reminded of another similar circumstance where, once again, I opened my mouth and inserted my foot. It was at a meeting at my last parish. I was a part of the Elizabeth Ministry, which is a great ministry for women. The original group of us who began this ministry were all extremely devout Catholics - most of us had been "born-again" fairly recently. We all grew in our faith tremendously as a result of working together in this group. It was fantastic. This particular meeting came more than a year after the original group formed, and many of the original members had moved on to other things, or were not present at this meeting, and many different members were there instead. Bill was deployed at the time and I happened to describe to the group that I had a babysitter for one thing, but was trying to squeeze confession in as well, but there was some special pre-Cana Mass going on and confession was canceled without warning, making me pretty mad, since my opportunities for confession without kids in tow was limited. One of the ladies present dropped her jaw. She hadn't been to confession in over 10 years and couldn't imagine that somebody would want to go so badly that they would get a babysitter.

She felt bad, guilty. I felt bad, for that wasn't my intention. I was just comisserating with my fellow die-hards.

But my gaffe must have been the prompting of the Holy Spirit. She decided she wanted to go. Her son was in the 2nd grade and would be making these sacraments too. It took about 3 or 4 months with me asking her, at her request, if she had gone yet and with me providing some info on how to go to confession, but in the end, she did go, and felt good afterwards.

So, perhaps my ignorant comments to Olivia did not fall on the deaf ears of her mother. Perhaps she will feel a little guilty for not going whole-hog Catholic (I don't mean that somebody has to obtain and use every single sacramental or icon or statue available...I just mean if you intend to raise your kids Catholic, then have Catholicism be an integral part of your being). Maybe it will only take Olivia two years to reach her 100th Holy Communion, and not a lifetime.

identity theft

"...names, birth dates and Social Security numbers of as many as 1.1 million active-duty personnel from all the armed forces — or 80 percent of all active-duty members — are believed to have been included, along with 430,000 members of the National Guard, and 645,000 members of the Reserves."

It's highly likely that my husband's and my brother-in-law's information was among the data stolen. Maybe even my dad's. And even though a credit check has revealed nothing bad outside of a disputed $73 that we allegedly owe for a medical supply (but I knew about that, and personally told the scam artist collection agency to take a flying leap), I pointed out to Bill that if the data isn't secured, the government could face reassigning millions of social security numbers. After all, in ten years, his name, birth date, and SSN will be the same and the SOP for obtaining credit will be the same, so the data will be just as useful in 10 or 20 years as it is today.

But a more urgent fear is the physical security of military personnel and their families whose addresses could become the common knowledge of nefarious foreign interests, if the data works its way into the right black market. The hope, my hope, is that the theft was innocent enough (simple theft, not theft with intent to commit treason or even theft with intent to commit fraud through the use of another's identity), and the perpetrators will see the news and decide to anonymously turn the hard drive over to authorities. Stolen items are called hot...but some are considered scorching.

nothing original

OK, I have nothing original to say today. I'm just copying stuff from other people.

First, a visit to Catholic Mom led me to this cartoon at Happy Catholic. Having recently met Catholic Mom, I have to agree that meeting people flushes out a character and adds a whole dimension that just can't be obtained strictly online.

Then reading Happy Catholic's postings from yesterday, June 6th, 2006, the dreaded day of the beast: 6/6/6, brought me to the comments written by TonyR which are too funny not to copy here:

666 Biblical Number of the Beast
660 Approximate Number of the Beast
DCLXVI Roman Numeral of the Beast
665 Number of the Beast's Older Brother
667 Number of the Beast's Younger Sister
668 Number of the Beast's Neighbor
999 Number of the Australian Beast
333 Number of the Semi-Beast
66 Number of the Downsized Beast
6, uh... I forget Number of the Blond Beast
666.0000 Number of the High Precision Beast
665.9997856 Number of the Beast on a Pentium
00666 Zip Code of the Beast
666@hell.org E-mail Address of the Beast
www.666.com Website of the Beast
1-666-666-6666 Phone & FAX Number of the Beast
1-888-666-6666 Toll Free Number of the Beast
1-900-666-6666 Live Beasts, available now! One-on-one pacts! Only$6.66 per minute! [Must be over 18!]
666-66-6666 Social Security Number of the Beast
Form 10666 Special IRS Tax Forms for the Beast
IAM 666 License Plate Number of the Beast
Formula 666 All Purpose Cleaner of the Beast
66.6% Tax Rate of the Beast
6.66% 6-Year CD Interest Rate at First Beast Bank of Hell ($666 minimum deposit, $666 early withdrawal fee)
$666/hr Billing Rate of the Beast's Lawyer
$665.95 Retail Price of the Beast
$710.36 Price of the Beast plus 6.66% Sales Tax
$769.95 Price of the Beast with accessories and replacement soul
$656.66 Wal-Mart Price of the Beast (next week $646.66!)
$55.50 Monthly Payments for Beast, in 12 easy installments

And since joking about the devil is pretty serious stuff, and some may feel that it's just not very wise...in fact, I myself would not encourage such behavior in those of little faith...I simply must defend my levity with this:

If the Lord is powerful, as I see that He is and I know that He is, and if the devils are His slaves (and there is no doubt about this because it's a matter of faith), what evil can they do to me since I am a servant of the Lord and King? Why shouldn't I have the fortitude to engage in combat with all of hell?

- Saint Teresa of Avila

Of course, God knew Job could handle everything that Satan could throw at him, and Job got it all. Yes, he had faith. But he had a miserable, wretched life, too. I'll just tread lightly here and not foolishly offer any obscene gestures in the direction of hell.

all boy

Just an FYI in case you are confused: they are light sabres, not light savers. It's bad enough that I have correct the boys, but then I heard a mom saying it yesterday too. Sabre, as in sword, the kind carried by a cavalry officer back when they rode horses and charged into the melee that defined milleniums of warfare swinging their heavy curved blade down on the heads of the common foot soldiers. Gruesome. Menacing.

This is a sabre. This particular sabre cut my wedding cake. We didn't have a military wedding, but the sabre was a nod at military tradition (my husband was a 1LT in the Army Reserves) and my husband's years of fencing experience. Hanging in front of the sabre is a Stetson, a part of my husband's dress uniform when getting together within a cav unit (very much frowned upon by the non-cav higher-ups, which is part of the reason they do it).

Light saver conjures images of an aging hippie with a gray ponytail talking about ways to reduce your electricity consumption. Or it sounds like life saver, which is a floatation device or a candy with nice fruity flavors. None of these ideas inspires much fear.

We have an arsenal of light sabres, around 8 of them. Three of them make noise, light sabre swooshes and clashes. Pretty cool. One has Yoda's voice offering advice.

Last night, Pete, age 11 months, picked up one of the light sabres and started attacking Billy with it. Billy was armed and happy to "fight". The part that really had Bill and I laughing was the noises coming from the baby. He was dueling Billy and making the appropriate sound effects too! I cannot speak for all girls, but in my experience with my mixed-gender family, the use of sound effects in playing or telling stories is a guy-thing. I do not generally use sounds to describe events. My girls don't usually describe the sounds they hear. But Bill and my boys would be hard-pressed to tell me something without making noise.

Suppose Katie is swinging on the swing and Billy is running in the yard. Suppose there is a collision:

Katie: {sob sob sob sob sob} Mommmmmeeeeee, I {sob} was {sob} swinging {sob} and {sob} Billy {sob} was {sob} running {sob} and I {sob} hit {sob} himmmmmm. {sob sob sob}

Billy: OW OW OW! MOM! I was going whoosh whoosh whoosh like Flash and Katie was going swish swish on the swing and then BAM! KaBLAM and I went SPLAT and it hurts OW OW OW!

So, it doesn't surprise me much that Pete is already making sound effects. It just shows me that his verbal skills are right on track.

For a boy.

Pete is a trained sabre swallower. Please do not try this at home.

Last week it was peanut butter...

...slathered all over her naked torso.

Tonight it was margarine.

When her siblings called out, "Mom, Jenny's covered in butter," I said to my sister on the phone, "Oh my gosh, I gotta go." click. She never called back, so she must have guessed it was a disaster, not a tragedy.

She was dripping globs ranging in size from 1 tbl to a quarter cup. And when she saw that I saw her, she ran...around the house...dripping everywhere.

Maybe someday she'll own a fancy spa, and the famous and wealthy will come from all over for her special butter masks. Maybe she'll own a line of moisturizer. Or maybe she'll just always have soft, supple skin. And hair.

{sigh}

name change, already

ARGH.

The principal of the school (Bill) just nixed my name idea in favor of this one: St. Michael the Archangel Rational Training for Youths - a Parentally Active Neo-classical Teaching School.

SMARTY PANTS

Ugh, he always has to one-up me.

School's Out!

No more pencils
No more books
No more teacher's dirty looks

Out for summer
Out till fall
We might not go back at all

- Alice Cooper

I've got this song running through my head, so I thought I'd share the pain.


When I thought we were heading to Kansas for next school year, I looked into their homeschooling laws. Apparently, all that is needed is for a homeschool to register as a private, non-accredited school. Maybe I'd have to state who attended my school, but I don't think so. That's a pretty homeschool-friendly state, especially compared to Virginia, which isn't horrible, I suppose, but I feel oppressed here with having to test my kids every single year, including kindergarten. If you'd care to hear why I think that's wrong, let me know and I'll fill you in on all the injustices of that law.

But since the plan is to go to Kansas in another year (2007 - 2008 school year), I figure I may as well be prepared with a name of my private school. So, I've come up with St. Michael the Archangel Rational Training Institute for Education. St. Michael is our family's patron saint (and my personal patron too), and so naming our school after him is most appropriate. And the acronym possibilities are irresistible.

Yesterday, here at SMARTIE, we concluded our school year with our second annual poetry recital. Katie and Billy fought over who would be first. Katie won and recited "Time to Rise" by Robert Louis Stevenson. Then Billy did "The Little Turtle" by Vachel Lyndsay. Jenny got up next to do "Twinkle Twinkle" but was immediately overcome with stage fright, showing that her entertainment genes come from her father's side of the family and not mine. After she cleared the stage by rolling away, Bill sat and recited "Requiem" by Robert Louis Stevenson. He had to peek, but I couldn't be too harsh on him since he spent all of 5 minutes memorizing the lines, plus I had to peek on my piece, "The Duel" by Eugene Field. I worked on this with Fritz months ago and read it over once before the beginning. I probably could have done it without peeking, but was feeling mentally lazy (plus Bill peeked, so why shouldn't I?). At least I was amusing, and the kids enjoyed my description of what really happened to the cat and pup. Fritz, my reluctant performer, went last and recited "The Song of Mr. Toad" by Kenneth Graham. He did just fine. Just to include Pete, I sat with him on my lap and we sang "Twinkle Twinkle" while he clapped and laughed. Pete found the production very entertaining.

We videotaped the whole thing, and when it was over we had to watch it, naturally. But then we were officially done with school and went out for ice cream to celebrate. Hooray!

I told the kids: 2 weeks off and then summer school. What?!? Yes, I know how mushy the mind gets if it isn't exercised for 3 months (and it won't be if I don't make them). So, we'll be doing light coursework to keep up minimum brain cell production. My big challenge: once a week taking a field trip - somewhere for something. Tons of possibilities in the area and I want to make use of them.

Rah rah sis boom bah times 7

Little Petey is doing two new and wonderful things. He is walking (two or three tentative steps at a time) and he is going down the stairs backwards (quickly, successfully, and confidently). He is joyfully practicing these new skills over and over again. It is so sweet to the the grin on his face when he thinks to himself, "I DID it!" after he manages forward motion on two legs.

I remember when Fritz was learning to walk. He had the same pride as he got better and better. But a few things are different with Pete.

For one, Pete's mom is not the same person as baby Fritz's mom. I remember those years of early motherhood. I hovered over Fritz. I agonized over every fall, scratch and bruise. I spent hours crouched over while little baby fingers grasped mine and fat baby toes padded up and down the hallway. And I was his biggest cheerleader.

With Pete, I've walked him a few times, but only a few. He has older siblings with shorter statures to help him get around. I don't fret over his falls; I don't call my mom, the nurse, asking for symptoms of a concussion (I still do for the older kids, but not Pete yet).

And I honestly don't know if I'm his biggest cheerleader. It's not that I'm not encouraging his every step with as much enthusiasm as I did Fritz's - I am. But the competition is stiff here. I can beat Bill, but only because I spend more time doing it than he does. But Pete has 4 older siblings who think he's just the most amusing and wonderful thing on the planet, and they stand around him telling him to do it again and again and again clapping the whole time.

Those who question an adult's capacity to love more than a few children and thus encourage small families are missing the point. A family's love is not limited to the love of the parents for the children and the children's love of the parents. It is rather the love of each family member for each other family member. And here, at Chez Moi, we got a whole lotta lovin' goin' on.

Jersey Girl?

Living on a military post, I get the question, "Where are you from?" more often than when I lived in the "real world."

Well, except for the times when my midwest or American accent made me stand out.

This is a tough question. Here's the breakdown:

Born in Cleveland, Ohio and lived in Ohio until age 9.
Moved to Richmond, Virginia and lived there until age 18.
Attended college in Pennsylvania and then lived there for two years after college until age 24 (my parents moved back to Ohio when I was 19).
Got married and moved to New Jersey to share a home with my husband until last March (total time served: 9 1/2 years).
Back in Virginia now for over a year.

That's Ohio: 9 years; Virginia: 10 years and counting; PA: 6 years; and NJ: 9 1/2 years.

They say "home is where the heart is" and my heart is clearly here in VA with my nearest and dearest, and the time factor is weighing in its favor too.

But my recent trip to NJ has me sighing with the realization that I just may have to claim that state as my home state.

egads.

Why do I like New Jersey?

• I own a home there. It's not a house; it's my home. It was our first (and only) house. There's a lot of my sweat and tears poured into that fixer-upper. Things I planted are growing in that front yard.
• Most of my children were conceived there (not Katie).
• Most of my children were born and baptized there (not Pete).
• Most of my closest friends live there (and Lena used to live there; she only just moved across the river to PA).
• I found God in New Jersey.
• I learned 90% of what I know about Catholicism in New Jersey.
• There's actually quite a bit of farmland in NJ - parts of it remind me of the rolling hills of Eastern Ohio, except the fields have horses instead of cows. And the farmland isn't in designated spots only. Open Space laws have preserved farms in such a way that you could be in bumper to bumper traffic one minute and flying down a rural road the next.
• Most residents drive with a purpose in NJ (except on Sundays when some of the old folks take their cars for a walk).
• You don't have to pump your gas in NJ, and you don't pay any more for having somebody do it for you.
• There are a plethora of restaurants and other eating establishments in NJ, including, but not limited to, The Jersey Diner. You like bagels, they got bagels. You like pasta, they got pasta. Bill, on his first visit to Ohio, could not understand how two roads could interesect and be devoid of buildings. "Why is there even a stop sign?" he would ask. "You'd have to be blind to get hit - you can see for a mile." He explained to me that in New Jersey, every intersection has 3 delis and a bar, except Kearny which has 3 bars and a deli. When Bill was TDY here in Arlington and we still lived in Jersey, I brought the kids down to visit. Bill was working late, so we got into the car to find a place to eat. We drove and drove and drove. Fritz asked where the restaurants were. I suggested that the people in VA don't eat out. In Jersey, you trip over places to eat.
• The grocery stores (the mega-super-duper ones) offer such a fabulous selection of fresh meats and veggies and cheeses: organic, international, Kosher...you want it, you got it. I never, ever had trouble finding a special ingredient, even for the most ethnic of dishes. And if you have the time and energy, there are an abundance of options to the mega-grocery stores from health food stores to ethnic stores and from farmer's markets to roadside stands of home-grown produce.
• I'm not a big fan of the shore and Six Flags is nothing compared to Cedar Point, but for overall access to a wide variety of activities and places to go, things to see and people to meet, New Jersey has a lot to offer (even if you have to go to a neighboring state to do stuff).

And finally, I must now admit to the biggest thing I miss about New Jersey: pizza. Before Bill, I was a fan of Pizza Hut and Dominos. I loved the thick crust and the toppings. But after nearly a decade of Jersey pizza (at one point, Bill put his foot down and forbid me to order from Dominos ever), I have become a convert. Jersey pizza is yummy, and I miss it so.

And when you miss some things (like friends and pizza) this much, you have to start to think that perhaps your home - your heart - is there.

Oh, just don't tell Bill. He'll never let me live it down.

budgetary priorities

As of Dec 25, 2005, consumers spent over $232 billion on holiday shopping.

The regular non-emergency defense budget is $420 billion.

Congress is quibbling over a $50 billion emergency budget to cover operating expenses, including efforts in Katrina-devastated Louisiana and Mississippi (yes, we're still there).

National Journal's CongressDailyPM

May 31, 2006

Lacking Needed Funds, Army Begins To Cut Back Spending

With House and Senate negotiations on the FY06 emergency supplemental spending bill still unresolved, the Army has started pinching pennies to make its funding for operations in Iraq and Afghanistan last until at least early July. The plan, according to an internal e-mail from Army Vice Chief of Staff
Richard Cody, is to gradually restrict spending over the next few weeks, with options growing as dire as suspending recruitment efforts and postponing promotions if Congress does not send the supplemental to President Bush for signing before the July 4 congressional recess.

"These are painful actions but they are absolutely necessary in order to continue operations during the month of June," Cody wrote in an e-mail circulated last week, a copy of which was obtained by CongressDaily. "This measured response will provide appropriate controls on our spending of [operations and maintenance] resources and will minimize the impact on our mission." Resources, he said, should be spent on the "highest priority missions."

The service's operations and maintenance accounts for FY06 now stand at $5.6 billion, not including any budgetary
reprogramming efforts. The Army expects to receive more than $36 billion out of the $92 billion-plus spending package for military operations and hurricane recovery efforts.

This week, Army leaders have been ordered to hold orders of
any "non-critical" supply parts and postpone or cancel all non-essential travel, training and conferences. By Tuesday, the Army intends to put a freeze on all civilian hires. "You may continue recruiting efforts but cease all final offers of employment," Cody's e-mail said. If Congress does not pass the supplemental
by June 15, the Army plans to release all temporary civilian employees performing operations and maintenance work, including depot workers. The service also will freeze all contract awards and suspend the use of government purchase cards. The longer the time before the supplemental is approved, the more ominous Cody's instructions become. Beginning June 26, the Army will have to release contract employees, including recruiters, "if doing so will not carry penalties or termination costs equal to or in excess of the cost of continuing the
contract," according to the e-mail.

The service, Cody wrote, may retain "a minimum number of personnel performing mission-essential services." That week,
Cody said he will demand a list of actions the Army would have to take in July to trim military personnel accounts. Those options should include delaying recruitments, deferring re-enlistments and freezing promotions.

"We are realists on the supplemental passing in June. [The] next backstop where Congress has to try to finish up is 4th [of] July," a senior military official said. "We hope it's in early June, but can't count on that." Last week, House Appropriations Chairman Lewis said the Pentagon would accept delaying passage of the supplemental to early June. House and Senate appropriators still have not scheduled a formal conference meeting amid concerns in the House over Gulf Coast
rebuilding and agriculture disaster aid sought by senators.

-- by Megan Scully

Interesting to note that the people most likely to be affected by lack of funding are civilian and contract employees of the Department of Defense. Yes, some promotions may be delayed for a few months, but this isn't a really big deal. At least not as big a deal as somebody losing his job for a few months.

So, keep things in perspective. The entire defense budget is twice what we spent on Christmas shopping. The emergency $50 billion is less than what Americans spent on alcohol in 2004 (http://www.bls.gov/cex/csxann04.pdf). Even if you disagree with the wars, can you honestly say that not funding defense is a good idea? Even if you think the military is too big, is laying off civilians the answer? Or should we leave New Orleans to its own devices? Or let the ethnic Albanians torch the Serbian churches in Kosovo?

But for now, since there's no funding for non-essential travel, I'll just look at the bright side: no TDY travel for my husband.

swingsets, gardens, and why I rarely have trouble sleeping

Bill has left for work. It's been nice seeing him this past week.

My ticket cost me $200. OUCH.

Yesterday, we continued our insane push of physical and mental endurance as we attempted to put together the swingset we brought down from New Jersey. Last night, after many hours of labor, Bill announced, "It is now officially unsafe." We have 2 platforms (one at ground level and one about 4 feet up) and a ladder, but no side rails. Should be fun trying to keep the kids off it. Perhaps I'll work on it today.

It's tough to put together something that was together once already. Many of the holes were field-drilled and duplicating the configuration is difficult. I've already made a mental note to use a marker to label some connections for next time.

And when all is said and done, the kids will be thrilled and I will be happy to let them swing and slide in the yard....except for one thing. Pete's activity level is at that point where he is too dangerous for anybody's good. He keeps me hopping. He's already demonstrated prowess in climbing ladders at a friend's swingset, so he'll be eager to tackle this challenge as well.

{sigh}

Yesterday, I made it to a garden shop and picked up 3 tomato plants and 3 bell pepper plants. This is my first time doing container gardening, so it will be interesting to see how that works out. A friend who lives in housing that will be knocked down at the end of the year has suggested putting in a garden in her yard, since housing won't care if there are vines growing every which way. I'm willing to plant and weed and help out there...but I still want to be able to walk outside and pick my salad.

Oh, lightbulb idea: I have 2 containers that are long and narrow and hadn't figured out what to do with them: flowers? leave them empty? It just occured to me that I could use them for lettuce. I'd be able to move them to shade if I couldn't find a spot that was shady all day. I only tried lettuce once, a few years ago. I was so proud and excited to see the little row beginning to grow. I couldn't wait to have a totally home grown salad.

And then one day I went out to the garden to weed and I noticed that the entire row was gone: devoured by the fat groundhog or woodchuck pest that wandered in our neighborhood irritating gardeners. Had the thing walked into my garden at that very moment, I would have killed him with my bare hands.

Things are easing up: a little school today, watching my friend's kids, baseball practice tonight (working on a swingset, planting some annuals, laundry, cleaning, grocery store, post office - the usual). Tomorrow's schedule is empty (shhh, don't tell anyone). Only 2 more soccer games, 5 more baseball games, and 2 birthday parties this month (so far).