The Road to Omaha

Next to the Omaha zoo is Rosenblatt Stadium: home of the NCAA Men's College World Series. In front of the stadium is a sculpture called "The Road to Omaha" which depicts cheering young men who are, apparently, happy about progressing to this event.

My children pose with the victorious team.


















I wonder if I'll get get to go to Omaha to see one of my own boys play? Wouldn't that be nice?

Here are Billy and Katie. Maybe Katie will go to the Women's College World Series which is held in Oklahoma City. We almost went to Oklahoma City instead of Omaha last weekend.










This great shot was taken by a friend. My little slugger.


















Fritz loves to pitch. He's not bad either. He actually can throw strikes, much of the time.












This picture is for my mother-in-law. My husband's side of the family has a genetic defect that has them all stick out their tongue when they're concentrating. I do not do this. My husband does it. All my kids do it. Bizarre.

Baseball is over. Piano is over. I opted to wait until we move to do swimming lessons. We finished the California Achievement Tests today (!!!!!). We seem to have all sorts of appointments for doctors, dentists and orthodontists over the next week or so, but that's it. Two weeks from tomorrow, I'll be homeless again.

Dear Large Corporation,

I know you think having a computer voice pretend to be a live receptionist seems like a good idea. I know you think that it would be so much easier for a customer to say "cancel account" and then say "345652345" when prompted for an account number instead of pressing all those numbers. But you failed to consider my home.

My home is never quiet. It's not that it's really noisy, but there is almost always background noise. Right now I have an infant gurgling on the floor next to me. She's not crying or upset. She's not even screeching for joy. She's just practicing her vocalizations and exploring her range.

Unfortunately, she's just loud enough that even if I cover the mouthpiece of the phone and turn away, your automated system is unable to block out the sound of her. Your computer keeps interrupting me and asking me if I would please repeat the same information over and over again. "I'm sorry, I didn't understand you," I hear. Of course not. I can't understand the baby either.

Please consider a dual system where the customer has a choice. I understand that speaking might be preferred for some people, but it's just not working for me.

Road trips

The past two weekends have found my family traveling.

First we went to Topeka. The 90 minute drive was fine, but two of my children proved to be unable or unwilling to settle down to sleep in a strange environment. Lack of sleep the first night only made for worse behavior the next day and night. Fortunately, we were at a retreat and we could simply deposit the little darlings in childcare and deal with them later. The retreat itself was great, if only for the ability to speak without interruption for the vast bulk of the day.

We had barely recovered from that adventure when we set out for Omaha - a three hour drive that basically followed the Missouri River. I had hoped that in the last year Jenny would have matured enough that a long car ride would not be too too bad. I still hope that it was the less than stellar movie selection that had her moaning the whole way. Peter was not much better.

And the baby...oh, the baby...

This happy baby is not the same baby that was in the car.

I am not looking forward to our drive back East which will be upon us in a few short weeks. I don't know how I'll be able to do it.

We only stayed in Omaha for about 24 hours. We didn't get to do a whole lot. Bill and I have resigned ourselves to lowered expectations when traveling with small children. We're not happy about it, but we accept it.

The first stop was the Henry-Doorly Zoo. We could have spent more than the four hours we did spend there, but they were starting to lock up.

I feel like this mama lion. Kids are always on top of me.

At the monkeys, we saw a baby monkey pestering his mom. Not only was she yelling at him, she was throwing him off her back and stiff-arming him when he got near. She had my sympathies.

At the zoo, we employed the buddy system. Guess who was my buddy?

I found this picture taken by my father when we visited the Jesse James farm in November last year. We used the buddy system then, too. This is not a cropped picture. My dad likes his grandkids better.

On Sunday, I opted for a later Mass so we could eat a decent breakfast. To kill time in between, we went to two parks they have in downtown Omaha. I do not recommend taking children to a park before Mass. By the time we made it to church, they were filthy and had grass stains on their slacks.

After lunch we went to the Children's Museum, which was free, since we have a membership to Science City in Kansas City. We had a blast at the Children's Museum.

They had a firetruck. Petey liked the firetruck.

The best thing about having a younger brother is having an excuse to play on a firetruck.

Katie enjoyed the arts and crafts room.

As did Jenny.

The best room was the ball room where there were all sorts of ways to get little plastic balls around the room - pulleys, conveyors, pumps, air pressure. Balls would roll down tracks, shoot through the air like bullets, twist through mazes, roll down slopes. The room was a beehive of activity with everyone working to move balls around. More than one activity could not be easily done by one person, so teams of kids had to work together to move the balls around. Here, Billy stomps on a pedal which shoots air into a tube to move balls. Hard to explain...but very cool.

Should we have the opportunity to pass this way again, Omaha is on our list of "do-agains" - places where we'd enjoy spending a bit more time. I asked Bill if he had warmed up any toward this middle-of-the-country living we've been doing for nearly a year now. He doesn't mind the Midwest much. But he still hasn't gotten comfortable with the thought that he could drive a hundred miles and be in the middle of nowhere. In Jersey, you drive and drive and drive and don't notice much when you leave one town and enter the next. And it's like that for pretty much the entire stretch from Boston to DC. Out here, just because the interstate has an exit doesn't mean you'll find anything there.

The Children's Hour

"Mare-eeee" sing-songs the half-man. "Mary," he sings.

"I'm going to devour you with kisses."

And he does.

Sons

Besides the thought of my daughters placing flowers on my grave, nothing makes my mother's heart soar more than my children enjoying each other's company.

Fritz took this photo and the accompanying video. There's a bit of Blair-Witch-Project-esque movement, but other than that, it's really cute.

Daughters

Tomorrow, the boys are going to the national cemetery to place flags at the headstones. I spoke with the kids about honoring the dead, and, in particular, for remembering those who fought and died for our freedoms.

As we drove by the cemetery, the kids noticed that some graves had flowers.

"Mommy, we'll put pretty flowers on your grave," said Jenny.

"What kind of flowers do you like best?" Katie wanted to know.

"Whatever you see that is prettiest," I told her.

It really won't matter to me. I'm just happy that their little hearts are already committed to making my final resting spot beautiful.

In the news

I'm no Eric Scheske, but he's too busy to do his normal posts and my husband is in school-crunch mode and hasn't been filling me in on headlines. I'm on my own to get gossip news about people in the greater world. Here's what I'm reading:


Justice almost served: seven years in prison for having a slave for 6 years...now if they would routinely beat her and make her sleep on the floor, it'd be even. OK, I don't believe they should beat her, but I hope they make her scrub toilets.

Attention, Roseville, MN residents: if you need some quick cash, the SuperAmerica gas station will give whatever they have to anyone who comes in without question. All you have to do is wear a mask. Just make sure that no other customers are around, because you never know who might interfere. The employees won't though.

Last year, Bill had the opportunity to fall asleep on CSPAN witness several hearings for the Senate Armed Services Committee. (He only bobbed his head a few times, and after I emailed him to tell him he was sitting right behind the speaker, he perked up. The guy next to him was snoring.) The first time he saw Senator Kennedy, it took a bit for him to recognize him. He thought the man was going to keel over at any minute. When I read that his family is shocked that the man's days are limited, I wonder if it's dementia or habitual denial of reality.

Even though I'm a law-abiding citizen for the most part (I retain a general willingness to break laws for good reason, which I consider to be a good quality in any citizen), I think the police are intimidating. I would be naturally inclined to clam up around an interrogating cop, I think. It's that "could be used against you" concept. Apparently parrots feel the same way. Just beware the friendly doctors who will dime you out.

Where's the outrage? Jews burning the New Testament. Maybe we Christians should start a holy war.

I'm all for jail time for people who won't cut their grass, but please make them serve it in the winter.

Clint Eastwood thinks Hillary should keep trying for the nomination. The article portrays him as a real nice guy. I think that advice is pretty sadistic.

So, I got fired from my preschool teaching job...

"Peter's birthday is coming up next month," I told the neighbor girl. "Peter, tell her how old you are going to be."

"Five," he says with full confidence.

"Five? No! You're going to be three. You're two now, but you will be three next month."

"I two now, I be free on my birfday."

"That's right!"

The neighbor girl asks, "Peter, can you count? How do you count?"

Peter holds up one finger, then two, then three, then four...

I encourage him, "Count out loud, Petey. One..."

Peter says, "One...two...five!"

And that explains it.

Time with Daddy

Here on post, the Knights of Columbus host three wonderful events: a father-son pancake breakfast in the fall, a mother-son pancake breakfast around Mother's Day, and, their most popular event, a father-daughter banquet in the spring. (Another group sponsors a mother-daughter tea in the spring.)

Bill took Katie and Jenny to the formal event that included dinner and dancing. He wrote about their evening here. This photo came in the mail a few days ago, and I just noticed that he had scanned it in.

Dancing with Jenny.

It's a good thing he didn't have Mary along too!

"Will you wipe my bottom?"

With two needing assistance, I hear that one a lot. Pete and I have a little routine. He patiently calls out for me. I patiently respond that I'm coming. He calls out to me again with the same volume and calm manner. I repeat that I'm coming. And we keep it up even as I'm cleaning him and flushing and washing hands and leaving the room. We both think it's funny.


Tonight after dinner with perfect yet unrehearsed choreography, Peter placed his plate with his sliver of banana cake with cream cheese icing on my chair at the exact moment that I attempted to sit to eat my own slice. "Oh, Peter!" I said as I sprang up. I picked up a napkin and headed over to Bill who had not witnessed the domestic ballet.

"Will you wipe my bottom?" I handed him the napkin. He looked confused until I turned and revealed my cream cheese frosted derriere. Guess he never thought he'd hear that line from me.

Things that make you go hmmm...

Just got back from our retreat and checked email. Found a notice that ground beef sold for the last two weeks at our commissary is being recalled for possible E coli.

Gee, do ya think this has anything to do with upset tummies around here?

Weekend Getaway

School is done, the children have been properly rewarded, and we're going To Peka for a Strong Bonds Marriage Retreat this weekend (not this specific one, but one like it). The hotel is free, the meals are free, the childcare is free (and the older kids get to go to the zoo and the movies).

Can you hear the Wahoos?

Understatement of the week

"I do not know how you came into existence in my womb; it was not I who gave you the breath of life, nor was it I who set in order the elements of which each of you is composed." 2 Maccabees 7: 22


Fritz paraphrases 2 Maccabees 7:1-41

Once there was a widow with seven sons. The king said that everyone who was Jewish had to die. They brought the widow and her seven sons to the king. The king said to the first one, "Will you eat this meat?" The first one said, "No." They tortured and killed him. Next, the second brother said, "No." They tortured and killed him, too. The same thing happened to the third, fourth, fifth and sixth brothers. Finally, they went to the seventh brother. The king asked, "Will you eat this meat?" The mother spoke to her son and said, "Do just like your brothers." The youngest brother told the king, "You are not nice for killing my brothers." He still would not eat the meat. They tortured and killed him. Then they killed the widow.


Maccabees doesn't gloss over the torture part of the story. "Not nice" is putting it mildly.

The Loveliness of Rosaries

I have a few rosaries.



In fact, I could host quite a large rosary group and there would be no need for anyone to BYOR. These are just some of the "downstairs rosaries." The glass jar has nine rosaries made of plastic beads. To its left is one made of knotted rope in a bag with how-to instructions ready to be given to someone who wants to learn.



Except for the two on the left made from olive wood and the children's rosaries on the top right, these rosaries are very inexpensive and are the kind given away by various groups. The ones in the middle came in the mail with a request for money. I have to figure out how to donate anonymously. If you buy one Mass card, you end up on 20 mailing lists. I don't like that.



These manly ones are given out to soldiers everywhere. I think Bill keeps one in his uniform. You never know when you might need to pray really hard (September 11th?).









The only rosary in the picture that I actually bought is the wooden children's rosary. I used to have two wooden ones, but my kids can manage to break anything if given a chance. The other rosary is made from a really hard plastic and was given to Mary by her Godmother. She likes the way they feel on her gums.



I've learned the hard way to keep the nice rosaries out of the reach of little fingers. Kids of all ages are drawn to rosaries. They like the way they click in their hands. They like the pretty colors. They like the texture. Me too.



These are my special rosaries. Two were gifts from my husband and two were gifts from my in-laws.







Bill bought this one in New Mexico. Indians made it from cultured pearls. The "rope" between the beads is silver.









Here is another olive wood rosary. I keep it in my bedside drawer. It gets used a fair amount. The beads are nicely spaced, and the smooth wood feels comforting.

This one is blessed by the Pope. Therefore, it is too good to be used! It stays in its little box on my dresser, and I look at it and smile. Peter is irresistibly attracted to this rosary and its little box. I will pray its beads someday. I think I'm just waiting for a really important request.















My favorite rosary is this delicate blue one that Bill got in Letnica on this pilgrimage. He sent it to me just before Jenny was born. The first time I prayed it to thank God for a safe delivery and a healthy baby. It was used frequently in the next few months as I prayed for strength, prayed for my milk supply, prayed for my sanity, and prayed for a speedy return for my husband. This rosary has seen many, many tears.



The beads are tiny and pointy and the spacing between the decades is difficult to discern by touch. At first I thought this was a disadvantage, but as an exhausted mother of little children who almost always falls asleep while praying, I came to appreciate that to pray this rosary I needed to pay attention. Instead of the soothing feel of sanded wood, my sensitive skin must gently hold each sharp bead and deliberately move to the next to avoid prickles. I need to look at the rosary to know when I've finished the decade.

Should I live to be an old woman with clouded eyes and arthritic hands, this rosary probably won't be easy to pray, but it will nonetheless be my likely first choice. What will it matter if an old woman has to go around two or three times because she can't tell when it's time to stop? That long dead husband is probably still in purgatory and grateful for all those extra Hail Marys.

Surely none of my offspring would be so foolish as to bury me with my wedding or engagement rings. I hope that someone else can wear them and have even a fraction of the joy my marriage has given me. Just bury me in my newly repaired pearl necklace (thank you Pearl Girl) and holding this rosary. I sure hope I have people praying the rosary for me.

Geography Bee

We've told the kids we're going to visit another city this coming weekend.

We're going to the capital of Kansas.

What is the capital of Kansas? If you ask Jenny, she'll tell you it's Peka.

Why? Well, that's where we're going TO: Peka.

The final countdown

Tomorrow begins our last week of school.

Now before I hear any whining from you folks with a month or more to go, please realize that we began our year in mid-August. I had never started that early before, but we did like the locals do. The public schools end at the end of the month. I am doing CATs the week after Memorial Day, so we still have that, and it'll formally finish us up at the same time that they do. This is our last week of stuff in the syllabus.

Thank goodness.

Last week was a very bad week. It was so bad that Bill suggested we take a week off. Had we even two weeks left, I would have, but with one week to go, delaying the end even more was depressing than suffering through. My students and I were in agreement: we wanted the school year to end. We simply disagreed on how best to accomplish that. I thought if I cut all unnecessary work and even reduced the number of problems in core assignments, we could quickly be done. My children felt that we should just move into summer vacation with nary a backward glance at those remaining worksheets.

Both sides dug in their heels, and by Friday I was exhausted from the battle. Bill told the kids they'd be sent off to school if they didn't start treating their teacher better. And honestly, I was all ready to sign them up, but only if they could start right away.

Fortunately, I just needed a weekend to breathe. Yesterday, I stopped at the store and bought three bags of candy with which to bribe reward my students for speedy, accurate and tear-free work. I've promised them a special trip on Wednesday if they can get the whole week's worth done by 10 am that day (totally do-able), and I've promised them a mid-week movie night on the last day.

We will get through this. And maybe we'll even like each other when it's all over.

Worth $117k?

This year, they've calculated a stay-at-home mom's "worth" to be nearly $117,000 a year (if we could get paid). Working mothers would get an additional $68k for their "part-time" duties. They didn't calculate a homeschool mother's worth. Nor did they mention that dads do a fair amount of taxiing kids, sports team coaching, and middle-of-the-night vomit cleaning. Equal invisible pay for equal work? Bill thinks working dads should get more than $68k, because men always get paid more than women.

Of course, it really doesn't matter. This is not real money we're talking about. It won't pay the mortgage or buy the groceries, no matter how many duties or job titles we add to our resumés.

There are few employers who really "own" you quite like a family. A parent is on call 24/7/365. What person in their right mind would work long for a company that required you to respond at a moment's notice and gear your entire life (even your social and religious activities) around its needs? Many jobs (firemen, doctors, police) require on call status, even round the clock, but at some point you are on your own. You can go where you want when you want and without accounting for your activities.

But I can think of one other employer where you are on duty all the time. An employer who can call you in the middle of the night and expect you to do something. An employer who requires knowledge of your whereabouts at all times and demands being able to reach you even if you are on vacation. An employer who is fickle and erratic and doesn't necessarily care if there is time in the schedule for you to attend Sunday Mass. And that would be the US military.

Arguably, one of the hardest jobs in the military is that of First Sergeant. Here's a day in the life of. High in responsibility, high in work load. I often view myself as the 1SG of our home: Bill issues the orders, I execute them (the orders, not the children!). Base pay for a First Sergeant with 16 years in is a mere $47,640.

The bottom line is that our true worth is seldom related to our paycheck. Most salaries are determined by market forces (the notable exception being government jobs, and, while I'm not saying an E8 should make more, I am saying that US Senators should make much less). While a six-figure income may impress the neighbors, if you need it to impress yourself, the stay-at-home career might not be for you.

Fakin the Funk

One of Bill's newest favorite websites is the Urban Dictionary which has a slang word of the day. Weeks and weeks ago, he taught me the term chicken bone tight. I have determined to incorporate this phrase in my language, but I keep messing it up. At first I couldn't remember anything but the chicken part, and now I keep saying "chicken bone slim." Yes, I am preparing to embarrass my future teenagers with my total uncoolness.

I'm fakin the funk.

Every few days, Bill says, "And today's Urban Dictionary word is..."

And I respond, "Chicken bone slim?"

He sighs and says, "Chicken bone tight, dear."

Today I said, "What does it mean again?"

I'm hopeless.

Doing business the old fashioned way

About two weeks ago the realtor called to say they had received our deposit check for a house we plan to rent, sight unseen, in Virginia. Since they are closed on the weekends, I told them Bill would be there first thing on Monday morning, the 16th of June, to take care of any paperwork and get the keys.

The realtor wanted to send me the lease to review but said we could sign it on the 16th. She wanted to fax it, but I don't happen to have that capacity here at home. Honestly, I think in 10 years of "working from home" having a fax would have been convenient perhaps twice. Each of those times, Bill had the fax go to his office.

He doesn't have an office here.

I suggested email, but the realtor doesn't have a scanner, and the software used to generate leases isn't emailable. The realtor was beginning to adopt a certain tone that really annoyed me. I wanted an email; she wanted to fax. This was clearly, in her opinion, my problem, not hers. I suppose, if I were the sort of person willing to jump through hoops to please someone else, I could have figured out a solution. When I worked for a living, that's what I did. But since I'm the client, I really didn't feel it necessary to thumb through the phone book, find the nearest place that accepted faxes, get their number, call her back, round up six kids, drive to the store, and pay money for 30 pages of legal gobblety gook.

Fortunately, we had time on our side, so I told her she would have to mail it.

She seemed confused. Like she had never done that before.

I assured her that it would only take 2 or 3 days to get here, and we had weeks before we were moving. "I suppose so..." she said hesitantly.

She never mailed it.

She called back today. Apparently, this office does things differently than her old office, and the lease would have to be signed in the near future. She started in on wanting to fax it again. {Pet peeve: business people who can't remember having this exact same conversation with you two weeks prior.} Again, she said she couldn't email it. Again, this was my problem.

Again, I told her to mail it.

Again, the uncertainty about exactly how that would be done.

The thing is, I know the owners of this house, and I trust that everything works out always. So not only do I not fear that the house might be rented out from underneath me if I don't get that lease signed ASAP, I know with my deposit money and a signed offer to rent, they can't rent it out from underneath me, and even if they did, I would simply find another house (with a realtor who knows about stamps and those blue collection boxes you see all over).

We'll see if she manages to put the lease in the post. Perhaps I'll toy with her and tell her I didn't get it? Couldn't she just email me?

Boys vs Girls

Katie just doesn't get her brothers.

"Moooooom, Peter's bleeding!" Peter might have been bleeding, but he did not want to stop playing. She stood in the kitchen stamping her foot and looking at me. It was obvious that I was expected to do something. The child needed medical attention.


"Moooom, you can see Billy's underwear through his white baseball pants!" Actually, I pointed out to her that you couldn't see his underwear because he is very particular about his shirts which are always neatly tucked into his pants. You could see his orange striped shirt, but not his underwear. This was very embarrassing. For her. Billy was happy to be wearing baseball pants and nothing, not even lack of white underwear, would stop him.


Not too long ago, there was a verbal scuffle in the living room. Parental intervention revealed that Fritz yelled at his sister for "interrupting" the hockey game. Fritz was chastised for his poor behavior, but I felt it necessary to explain to Katie that men do not like having their sports viewing interrupted.

"Nobody likes it when somebody talks during a show," protested my husband, also a bit grumpy for having his hockey game disturbed, and not at all pleased at being the target of sexist remarks.

"In a woman's mind, there is a big difference between a movie with dialogue and a hockey game."

He didn't agree, and I doubt any man in my life would. Which is why I will continue the sexist training of my daughters. Once they master Men and Sports 101 which covers talking during games and commercials (especially ones for beer), as well as blood, injuries, clothing, hygiene and good luck rituals, we'll move on to level 201 which will discuss techniques for turning off the TV so you aren't interrupting when you do talk.

Why my home is not a democracy...

...besides the obvious reason that children vastly outnumber adults here. I mean, should we vote on school attendance? or curriculum? chores? whether or not to buy a Playstation?

Even "safe" things that I try to put up for "vote" won't work out equitably in the end.

The waffles vs. pancakes vote would usually go in favor of pancakes...and one kid who prefers waffles would have to settle.

The sausage vs. bacon issue would go to sausage...and that same waffle kid would lose out here as well.

What flavor ice cream?
Where to eat dinner?
What TV show to watch?

Compromise assumes that sometimes you give and sometimes you get. But what if the majority rule means you never get your way? What if another sibling is particularly good at manipulating the preschool vote to go his way?


Can we see how this applies to the real world? Is the majority rule always fair? Are some organizations particularly good at manipulating votes?

Like school and chores and other weighty matters, there are some things that aren't votable: the Bill of Rights. But even in less serious subjects (taxes, health insurance, even prayer in schools), we have to recognize that a vote might not be just.

Apply that to the left or the right as you see fit.

For breakfast, I served both waffles and pancakes. And the grown ups ate this.

Let them eat clay

...the price of the edible clay has risen over the past year by almost $1.50. Dirt to make 100 cookies now costs $5, the cookie makers say.

This is why the save-the-environment folks have egg, er, pie on their faces.

What are we going to do about this? Clinton? Obama? McCain?

h/t Loco Laura

haircut

Self photography while nursing a baby.

I updated my post with what really happened.

New Month's Resolution for May

Six weeks from today, my husband graduates and we move halfway across the country. Fortunately for me, the expected deployment isn't happening, so I can look forward to this move with excitement and not dread.

As you might expect, the next few weeks will be just a little insane. It can't be helped. One does not pack up an entire house and six small children and a dog without a certain degree of chaos: 360 degrees of chaos to be exact. No matter which direction I will turn, bedlam will be right there, guaranteed.

Could I resolve to exercise more? Eat better? Rest or relax? What's the point? I know I won't do it.

This month, I'm going to pray. A lot. Daily rosary. Daily Mass if my husband's schedule permits. I need all the graces available to make this transition a pleasant one.


What is a New Month's Resolution? Every month I look at where I need to focus my attention. Perhaps I've been procrastinating on certain chores. Perhaps I need to spend some extra time with one or more of the kids. Perhaps I'd like to try a new habit. New Month's Resolutions are not grandiose plans to lose ten pounds or declutter the entire house or give up smoking (of course, I don't smoke, but if I did, this would not be the venue in which I would give it up). New Month's resolutions are short-term commitments; they are easily attained goals; they focus on what is needed right now, instead of what is best for a lifetime.

Do you have a new month's resolution?