We Don't Want Your Stinkin' Tacos....

Tuesday night was supposed to be Taco Night.  Rich had to go into work late, so I thought I would finally get this mothering thing down and whilst the kids finished their homework, I would have supper prepared and ready to go.  We would then sit down like reasonably civilized people, eat, and then get on with the rest of our night.  

After typing the above paragraph, I realize all the flaws in my plan.  What I didn't realize on Tuesday night was....the kids were planning ....

THE GREAT TACO REVOLT OF 2011

I have no idea what tweaked them out about having tacos on Tuesday night, but all four of them were.not.having.anything.to.do.with.tacos.  I wasn't overly perturbed that the kids didn't want tacos.  So, I calmly told them if they didn't want to eat tacos, they were going to have to eat....

LEFTOVERS.

Apparently, this particular Tuesday, eating leftovers was the equivalent to making them eat gruel or dirt.  Or gruel made out of dirt. Somehow, leftovers were bad....really, really bad.  I didn't get it.  But every other night of the week my husband and I don't tolerate it.  Eat the leftovers or go to bed hungry.  We don't care.  We are not a short order chefs.  (Although, we usually find the kids eating "leftover" cereal.  Again, we don't care...as long as we are not making a special meal because what is our fridge doesn't meat your standards it's fine with us...get it yourself or go to bed hungry.)

But, this Tuesday night was not quite special enough.  Oh no.  When Rich is gone, one child always feels it their duty to make my evening a little more special.  After the epic meltdown about the leftovers, I received...

A LECTURE ABOUT FOOD PRIORITIES

Specifically, one of my children told me that it was my duty to have supper on the table every night.  AND if I couldn't get my act together enough to have a decent supper cooked for the family, then I should at least have my priorities straight and order take out that they preferred.  BUT if he was going to be FORCED to eat leftovers....

THERE BETTER BE LEFTOVER STEAK!!!

After I picked my jaw off the ground and explained a few things about the world to my child, I put myself in a timeout because I really had nothing nice or coherent to say.  In my time out, I realized 1. this is was not a gender issue for this child....this is a "I'm a hungry kid and I want what I want" issue and 2) I am really okay sending this kid to bed without supper if he doesn't feed himself tonight and/or change his attitude after said child and I have a coherent talk  (which we did) about "my priorities" and "child's attitude/tone of voice/respect/all kinds of things."

Unknown to this child his dad had been grocery shopping and came home with lots of yummy stuff  right before bedtime.  And that night, this child

 WASN'T ALLOWED TO EAT ANY OF IT

because my priorities were all screwed up.

Motherhood and Minivans: Riding Dirty

Motherhood and Minivans: Riding Dirty

Riding Dirty

For the past few (okay seven) years, Rich has had the luxury of a company car.  This has meant a fast, sweet, up-to-date ride from him every two years.

It's a really, really clean car.

Meanwhile, I've been driving our minivan:

The Kid-Shleper-Mobile...You know, another thing they never mention in the parenting books.

Most parents have a Kid-Shelper-Mobile, although yours might not be a mini-van.

I guarantee at some point it will be dirty.  Really dirty.  And for the all the ice cream in the world, you will at an utter loss to explain how candy wrappers ended up under the passenger seat.  How your child spilled milk from "leak proof" sippy cups all over the floor.  And frankly, there is no explanation why boys feet smell soooo bad after sports and why it is still there the next day.

I confess that I've made an exasperated peace with my dirty mini-van. 

Along with the dirt, my mini van is filled with laughter on the way to soccer games.  It's filled with the tales of many, many trips and adventures.  Now that summer as arrived, there is sand on the floor from our times at the parks and swimming spots.  I am sure if you listen closely, there are echos of Veggie Tale songs, now replaced with the much cooler radio station 95.5.     

Mostly, my mini van is filled with love.

Doing What Needs To Be Done

While jamming at the Tom Pease concert last week with Brandon and I, Lauren wanted to go up stage and join the other kids more.than.anything.else.

She screwed up all her courage.  She walked down the the steps of theater and made it all the way down to the bottom step.

Then...

She ran all the way back up to Brandon and I and told us she couldn't do it.

So, I told her if she really wanted to be on the stage, to go back down the steps, get up on the stage, and join the other kids.

This would seem incredibly mean of me, unless you know that Lauren has been on that same stage almost ten previous times.  So, I wasn't asking her to do something she was incapable of doing, I just wasn't coddling her.

So, Lauren ran back down the stairs and stopped at the bottom of the stage.

Brandon was watching everything and not saying a word.

He looked at me, looked at Lauren, looked at me, and said, "I've got this." and then took off after his sister.

He walked down the steps, said something to Lauren (I don't know what and I will never ask), but the the next thing I know...

Lauren is on stage, smiling, singing, and dancing.

Brandon is right next to me (and I have tears in my eyes) the embarrassed recipient of my hugs:  "That was a wonderful thing you did for your sister!"  

"Aw, Mom, I just did what needed to be done!"

Indeed, you did son.  Indeed you did.

Can You Hear Jon Now?

As my oldest son goes into middle school there is one thing he wants more than world peace.

A cell phone.

A cell phone with unlimited texting and internet access.

A smart phone.

A phone smarter than his parents.

It seems like a reasonable request on his part.

Except Jon has unreasonable parents.

Parents who are making him pay for his own cell phone.

Parents who have talked to other parents and are not allowing a middle-schooler unlimited access to the world wide web.

Parents who are making him pay a portion of his allowance towards the cell bill every month on a phone that only rings and texts.

We get it.  The way people communicate have changed drastically since Rich and I were kids. 

(For example, the thing I wanted more the anything in the world when I was in middle school was a phone in my room, or barring that, call-waiting. For the record, neither one happened.)

What hasn't changed since Rich and I have been kids is that it really stinks when the stuff you pay for with your own money breaks or you lose it.  Our kids know this first hand.

We're under no illusions in this house:  It's a convenient luxury for Jon to have a cell phone. 

However, it will be nice to text him when it comes time for him to clean his room. ;)

Amie and The Leaf Blower

There is one item in my garage I covet among all others. It is my most favorite thing ever. I love it. Rich is ambivalent about it and thinks me owning it completely ridiculous.

It's my plug in, super-ultra-delux, Toro leaf blower.

I had wanted a leaf blower for a very long time but it was never made a priority to purchase it because *whisper*
Rich had never wanted one.
Once we moved to our cul-de-sac though, our neighbors on either side of us had FANTASTIC leaf blowers.  Leaf blowers that made other leaf blowers refuse to start because they knew they couldn't keep up their end of leaf-blowing-ness next to these awesome machines.

So, one fall day, I looked at Rich and said, "My day has come.  I'm buying a leaf blower. With or without you. At Fleet Farm.  A good one."

Rich's response to my declaration: "You've finally lost your mind."

But, wisely he didn't argue as we packed the kids in the van.

At Fleet Farm, Rich didn't share my thrill or rapture of the wonderfully red Toro leaf blower. He came to dead stop in the middle of the aisle, kids hanging from the cart, and asked me, "What do you think you are doing putting an $XX.XX leaf blower in this cart?"  After some "discussion," he proceeded to assure himself that I had indeed lost my mind, and explain to our kids in great detail what it meant to keep up with the Jones, or at least Don and Wayne (our neighbors).

The kids thought it was great that Rich was shell-shocked by the leaf blower AND that they had learned this concept of their Mom keeping up with the Jones, which was quite ridiculous to them....especially because we knew a family with the last name of Jones.  They became quite outrageous with their examples of how we could and should try to keep up with the Jones and our neighbors.

When I came home and started up the motor of leaf blower, it was like the sound of angels singing.  I was in love, love, love when pine needles and leaves were efficiently blown into a neat little pile for collection.

When my neighbor Wayne waved, smiled, and yelled, "Nice leaf blower!"  I gave him a happy leaf blower club smile and merrily waved back.


 

 

Locked Out

Of all the phrases I've yelled at the kids as they've headed out the door on their way to school, never once have I yelled (or thought to yell):

"Hey, take your father's Masterlock out of your backpack!"

Since *I* lacked such foresight, Brandon used his father's Masterlock to padlock his locker at school and then lost the key on the playground.

It happened on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend.

When his teacher showed me Brandon's locker, I didn't even have words to deal with it...I just laughed. Mostly because I knew how emotionally attached to the Masterlock Rich had been over the years. Brandon was most upset that he didn't have access to his backpack for three days.

Three days later, Brandon was exasperated that he had to give up recess time to write a letter of apology to the janitor of the high school, who had to give up an hour of his day to drive down to the elementary school with a bolt cutters in order to free the locker.

(Rich and I thought it was fantastic that Brandon had to write the letter.)

Brandon is still unremorsefull over padlocking his locker...it kept people from going through his stuff or worse...putting love notes in there.

Rich is still a little bitter a perfectly good Masterlock that was older than Jonathon is gone.

I'm trying to convince myself this kind of stuff isn't going to happen next school year, but failing miserably.

Nut Cups and Man Thongs

When boys play sports, two things become obvious:

First, they need to score more points than their opponents, and as their parent you have now committed many hours of your life helping their team achieve that goal. You will be driving them to practice and games as well as other various and other assundered associated tasks that go along with team sports.

Second, not only do boys need to defend against their opponents, they need to defend their, shall we say, family jewels. In short, they need jock straps and cups.

If you're a mom, what is not so obvious is that boys don't care where they leave jock straps and cups. To them, it's another piece of sporting equipment to be dropped where ever the last pile of dirty clothes were left.

So, if I happen to find a cup next to my makeup and scream, "Get that thing out of here!" my boys laugh. (They think I'm over-reacting.)

If I walk into their bathroom (under duress) and find a cup in the middle of the floor and demand that it finds a new home, the owner saunters in like he has all the time in the world to put it away.

I'm not going to name all the places I've found non-drinking cups, but I will tell you, the boys have learned to put them away.

Recently, Rich was out of town and I had to help with the purchase of a cup and jock-strap.

I discovered these things come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. I swear there were aero-dynamic and titanium options, but none in stock that were the color blue in the size we needed.

Eventually, we did settle on an acceptable color choice, made our purchase, and headed to practice.

My son was SO EXCITED to get into his new equipment, he started changing in the minivan...while I was still driving it.

Soooo....

We were at a red light....I was telling my son to get into his seat and buckle back up, my son was holding up his jock strap up asking me which direction it went on, telling me he would only be one.more.minute, and I happened to check the rear view mirror where I see the guy behind me laughing....but he's trying really hard not too...

because I realized...

He was on the receiving end of a little boys bare butt, probably saw the jock strap, and figured out what was going on.

When I pointed out to my son that he mooned the guy behind us, my son was confident that it never happened. I didn't argue with him. I'm relieved that the authorities didn't follow me to the field.

You would think that would be the end of it...However,

Later that night, yet again I had to tell this son to put away his cup. As an added bonus, his brother yelled,

"And don't carry around your man thong around the house either! That's disgusting!"

Running on A Full Circuit

In Mo Willems wonderful book, Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus, the pigeon says: "But I'm a curious bird."

Rich and I have used this line often to explain the unexplainable messes and conundrums in which our children tend to find themselves.

For example when one child explained his attempt his lack of a Mother's Day gift:

"I wanted to create a heart that was attracted to a magnet using parallel circuits for your Mother's Day present, so I took two wires, two light bulbs, two batteries, and put the magnet in the middle. The heart was on the side.

Something went wrong though because sparks started coming out of one of the batteries, and...honestly, I quit befoe I burned down the house."

My first thought was, "But I'm a curious bird."

There are times I wonder if Rich and I have done too good of a job instilling a sense of wonder and exploration of the world around them in our children.

My second thought was, "Thank you Lord that you gave my child the gift of common sense."

The best part of Mother's Day really is having my house intact.

(A) Typical Mom's Day

You will never hear me claim to be the June Clever of my cul-de-sac, but I do feel that company should not be forced to don haz-mat suits before entering the front door.

It's a fine and delicate line; however my kids crossed it big-time earlier in the week, so in honor of Mother's Day, they earned the privilege of helping me clean the house.

Yep, I spent Mother's Day cleaning the house.

I woke up at 6:30am and couldn't fall back asleep. So, I folded all the laundry that I had washed, dried, stacked....repeat....while Rich was in Virginia.

As I was folding laundry I started to think about how much easier it would have been to sleep if the house had been tidier.

Then I started to get irritated in only the way moms can become irritated.

I wasn't mad or angry. I just wanted my house back. I wanted sporting equipment in the proper place (fyi: my dining room floor is not the proper place). I wanted my kitchen counters free of clutter. Bedrooms needed to be neater. Bathroom counters less bathroom counter-y.

Among the refrains of: "You're mean." "You're unreasonable." "Why do we have to do this?" "You're beyond cruel (personal favorite)!!"

and the possibility of life without electronics of any kind, the work was unwillingly and grudgingly accomplished before our neighbors came over for supper.

The house looked wonderful! *

I felt so peaceful in my own space!

Truly, it was worth all the hassle with the kids because I could sit down and enjoy the time with our friends rather than worry in the back of my mind that I should be cleaning something.

As an even better bonus, the kids were so polite and respectful during the supper that I was even prouder than usual to call them my own.

*I think it's important to note that the house still looks like four kids live here. It's a home. It just DIDN'T look like four kids who had never seen a cleaning supply or heard the words, "Pick up your stuff and put it away! NOW!" lived here." Again I'm not June Cleaver or a miracle worker.

Brandon Vs. The Badger

I do normal mommy things like pick up my kids from school.

I expect my kids to do normal kids things like walk from their classrooms, down the sidewalk, and into our van. Since we don't live in an unsafe town or school district, this is not an unreasonable expectation.

What I do not expect is to be waiting outside the van for a missing child, namely, my son Brandon, and another mom to say to me, "Oh, Brandon is still by the fence on the sidewalk figuring out how to set a badger trap."

It takes a lot for my eyes to get really, really big and my jaw to drop wide open, especially when it comes to Brandon and his antics, but yep, after school, real-life badger-trapping, on the playground, in the middle of Wisconsin winter....that one will get me every single time.

Now, the other mom's son is friends with Brandon and the friend was also very excited about catching a badger, so the mom kindly filled me in:

An animal burrow had been found on the playground at recess. No one knew for sure what was living in it, but our boys were convinced it was a badger. The kids were not allowed to go anywhere near it (for safety reasons), but our boys were going to to figure out how to trap it from the sidewalk side of the school because that wasn't school property. Brandon had stayed behind to figure out the best way to build a trap.

So this conversation happened in less than a minute. I told Jon to watch the kids in the van (I always have extra kids with me, just in case), and I BOLTED for Brandon. My heart was racing and I was extremely worried that I was going to have a hot mess of kid vs ticked off Wisconsin winter mammal on my hands.

I'm not all up-to-date on my Who's Who of Wisconsin Winter Wildlife, but I do know enough to know that most of them are hungry, unfriendly, and do not want to be trapped by a curious eight year old.

So I found an rather excited Brandon examining all the possibilities this burrow could hold. He KNEW it was a badger. He KNEW he and his buddies were going to trap it. He was irritated that I was cutting into his planning time. I just didn't get it. I was mean.

In short, I was stifling his creative process.

I was awed at Brandon's tenacity, his curiosity, his creativity, and so danged relieved that I was almost in tears. My blood pressure at finding all his fingers intact was such that I could no longer hear my heart beat in my ears and my breathing was almost normal.

Brandon spent the night dreaming of ways to catch his badger.

When I picked him up from school the next day, it was to find a rather irritated Brandon. It turns out the school had someone come in and safely remove the animal from the school grounds, which was rather boring.

And, to add insult to injury, the badger wasn't a badger. It was a raccoon.

I swear I didn't raise my hand!

I am starting to suspect that I am addicted to volunteering.

Not in a bad way. Just in a "let me eat the last Oreo so my kids don't have too" kind of way.

Jobs have to get done. Oreo's are yummy. I'm capable. I don't want the kids to fight. So I say yes to the project. And the Oreo.

I'm not unhappy.

The reason I bring this up is because I am attempting to put myself in a "volunteering time-out."

The time-out is turning out to be an utter and total epic fail.

I have two projects that I agreed to before the time-out....and kind-of another one in the works...alright, two....I just remembered the email I sent last week. *blush*

What I have learned throughout this process is this: I need to be wise when I volunteer my time, talent, or resources. It's perfectly okay to say, "No, not this time."

When I am able to fully give myself to things I love to do with or for my children, it doesn't feel like volunteering at all. It feels like what Lauren said to me tonight, "You're the best mommy in world!" because I am present in the moment with my children and they know it...which is my motivation for doing 99% of the work I do.

The random Oreos (and coffee) are what give me the energy to keep doing it. ;)

See What Joining Gets Ya...

Rich and I used to have a rule that served us well:

If we brought you into this world, you could only be in one activity at a time. No overlapping. Swimming lessons were the only exception. It was a fantastic rule. It was easy to remember and not difficult to implement or enforce.

And then things went horribly, horribly wrong.

We encouraged our kids to explore the world around them and pursue their interests.

We let them make friends who were allowed to join wholesome activities.

We (strike that) Rich developed in all of the kids a desire to play sports.

The kids, against my will, grew older.

The "rule" became merely a suggestion of days gone by, a whisper of a simpler time.

Now, Rich and I engage in our own activity which I like to call, "Where in the city or state is Tolbert Child X."

We receive points if the child is at the right event on the correct day, on time, with all their gear and a water bottle.

Bonus points are awarded if: The children are fed supper ahead of the activity or there is a plan for supper by the time children make it home. Also, no melt-downs are huge bonus point earners, as is dropping off multiple children.

My favorite bonus point earner is the drop kid off, drop kid off, grocery shopping, run errand, field three texts from Rich, pick up kid more than which you left the house with, drop off all kids, come home, make supper, help with homework, get the "Mom I need 37 cupcakes tomorrow at 9pm notice!" combo. (This is a top-secret bonus level that most parents work their way up to...new parents would go into a catatonic state after the grocery shopping trip.)

As wild and crazy as the schedule becomes at times, Rich and I wouldn't change it.

We have talked about how truly blessed we feel that we are able to give the kids opportunities to pursue the sports and interests that they love under the tutelage of coaches, directors, and teachers that give so much of themselves and friends and family who support all of us.

Jesus was A Poser

Mixing my kids and church as enlightened me in ways I never thought possible.

When we first started attending church, as the van was making its way to the service, the boys would imagine fantastic crash scenes where we would all die in an explosion involving bombs, the military, and aliens. However, they were POSITIVE we were all going to Heaven because we believed in Jesus AND we sang Veggie Tales.

And then came the night I was teaching class and started with the "Lord's Prayer:"
One of my sons decided that instead of ending with the common and well-known, "Amen" he would end with "Peace Out!"

He wanted God to be able to speak and understand the current language.

But, my favorite church happened on Good Friday this year.

One son wanted to know why I was dragging him to church on a perfectly fine Friday afternoon. His brother's reply: "This is day we go to church to honor Jesus for dying for us because a bunch of people wanted to punish him because they thought he was a poser.... They thought he was pretending be the Son of God and decided he should die for it....Right, Mom?"

Uh.....

Uhhh.....

Right, Son.

Because God speaks to His people in their language....just like my son did to his brother.

It's an amazing gift he has to transform an age old story into everyday language.

Rainbows and Hawain Shirts

Lauren loves to dress like a rainbow. More days than not, she comes out dressed like a tribute to the color spectrum. She is happy and sparkly. Her eyes are shiny and her smile lights up the entire dining room. Nothing about her clothes match and I have made an odd peace with her choice of wardrobe. Life is so short and Lauren is so happy with her outfits (that are age appropriate), that I don't have the energy or desire to fight her about her clothing choices. We only get into disagreements when she is not properly dressed for the weather. She can be a winter rainbow, but she better be a warm winter rainbow!

Brandon went to baseball practice tonight in a Hawaiin shirt, grey shorts, a hot red baseball cap, and blue high tops. Everyone else's kid had on long pants, sweatshirts, the same red hat, and tennis shoes or cleats. Brandon did have a sweatshirt that he refused to wear. He was happy and didn't complain about being cold. I could easily spot him on the field and he did an awesome job fielding and hitting the ball.

It's easier to let the kids be who they are and celebrate their victories with them then fight over their clothing choices every day.

When Food Attacks

A long time ago, I went to school with a little girl who wasn't me.

What made this girl remarkable was that she was allergic to milk.

SERIOUSLY.ALLERGIC. to milk (or anything in the family of dairy). Her stomach would hurt, her nose would bleed, she would start vomiting, and all other kinds of unpleasantness would befall her if she drank milk.

Me being all of in the second grade, I didn't understand the enormity of her allergy, but I did understand this: THE LUNCH LADIES DIDN'T BELIEVE HER.

It was incredible in only the ways life experiences are when you live them but lack adequate words to explain them so other people can truly understand the sheer magnitude of horror to which you were not only a witness, but a helpless bystander:

Every day, this poor girl would patiently return her milk, explain her plight, and every day, the minute her back was turned, one of these ladies, would turn up her nose, and say, "I have never heard of such a thing. She's making it up."

Now, I have not in the past nor will I in the future, claim that I attended the most enlightened or progressive school in America. However, even my seven year old brain knew these ladies were wrong. I knew they were wrong in how they were handling the situation, how they were talking about this girl behind her back, and for not believing her doctor. However, even if I had told anyone, no one would have believed me (it was the 1980's and kids did not have a voice at that school).

This young girls mom spent months arguing with the lunch ladies, the lunch aides, and the school secretaries about her daughters allergy because they were all smarter than the allergist...a little bit of milk now and then wasn't going to kill her (the truth was, yeah, it could have).

Every now and then, one of the lunch aides would have the bright idea that this girl "was.going.to.drink.her.milk." Fortunately, mass episodes of vomiting and being lit up by the girls mom put a (rather sulky) but final end to the milk drinking.

Fast forward twenty-five-ish years, knowing what I know about food allergies, my heart aches for that little girl. I would like to think that the world has become more educated about food allergies since I have left second grade, but my experience is that as a whole, society still makes people with food allergies feel like they have done something wrong.

My kids go to school with kids who have peanut allergies, gluten intolerances, and who are lactose intolerant. The schools, like society, and food stores, make very little accommodations for these kids.

In October, I was diagnosed with severe lactose intolerance. So severe, in fact, I now carry an EPI pen with me. The journey has not been fun, but it has been informative.

Here is what I have learned:

PEOPLE BELIEVE WE MAKE UP OUR FOOD ALLERGIES. Duh. No. We don't. At the end of the day, it's your problem, not ours, but us food allergy suffers would appreciate it if you kept your opinion to yourself and didn't tell us to...

JUST EAT IT...That Little Bit Of The Food You Are Allergic To WON'T HURT ANYTHING.
Hives itch. Stomach cramps hurt. Bloody stool, not so fun. Body aches that feel like Sidney Crosby beat you with his hockey stick, not so great.

WE WILL KNOW WHAT IS IN FOOD BY OSMOSIS No. We aren't mind readers. We read labels carefully and are freaked out that there is no longer any real food in the stuff we eat anymore. However, if we come to your house, we need to know if the pasta is gluten free or if you used three kinds of cheese in that new dish you cooked. We're not being rude; we're trying not to cut the visit short with a trip to the ER.

AT THE END OF THE DAY, SOME PEOPLE WILL REFUSE TO ACCOMMODATE PEOPLE WITH ALLERGIES/INTOLERANCES. Ultimately, we are responsible for what goes into our body, so it's best to have always have a back up plan when are visiting places where food will be served. I have learned this lesson the very, very hard way. After one too many close calls and too many emergency trips for Benadryl, this is going to be my new mode of operation.

Knowing what I know now, I wish I could have been a voice for that little girl in second grade.

Knowing what I know now, I can and I will be a voice now. Today.

Dude! Checkmate!

En mass, the kids have discovered the game of chess. Let me assure you that critical thinking is alive and well in the Tolbert house. Atop the dining room table, strategies are well thought and Knights are nobly sacrificed in the defense of Kings and Queens.

Unless you happen to be me and have not played the game of chess for many, many years.

Last night can only be described as Jon and Noah taking turns humiliating me via pawns and rooks.

Frankly, I was hasty, I used poor position play, and worse, I did not always think (at minimum) two moves ahead to form a cohesive strategy. I deserved to lose (how fast and how epically to a twelve immediately followed by a ten year old, is an issue for another day).

For the record, I am not a novice to chess. First, my dad taught me how to play the game when I was in sixth grade. It is important to state my father has a firm policy that he does not let his children win games to make them feel good...Ever...so that prepared me for the next chess phase of my life.

In junior high and high school, I had the privilege of playing against extremely talented chess players. During lunch time I honed my crazy chess skills. Although my losses were far, far greater than my wins, I kept playing the game.

(To maintain some street cred, I was not in chess club. Okay, truthfully, I was not and still am not, that good of a player.)

As the kids and I are gathered around the table, I am taken back to those times in the library: The people playing the game, the spectators offering (unsolicited) advice, the competition, the critical thinking, and the sheer mind bending that it takes to check-mate your opponent.

As a family, we are supporting each other, laughing together, and agonizing together. The kids are enjoying discovering the finer points of the rules and sharing them with me. I love being a part of their new found knowledge.

I cannot wait to surprise them with an official Chess Rule Book for our family to pursue and discuss.

As a point of pride, I did win the rematch against Jonathon tonight. Jon held his own; admitedly he was surprised to find out I had learned from my mistakes from last night. Ultimately, Jon underestimating me was his downfall. We are now tied 1-1.

Unfortunately, due to bedtime contraints, the rematch with Noah was postponed.

My T-shirt has a First Name

We have a vast array of T-shirts in this house because the kids are involved in lots of different activities. I'm not even sure if the kids go to their activities anymore or if they just wear different T-shirts to throw me off-kilter like their father tried to do when we were first married:

Me: (curious) "Rich where did you get that T-shirt?"
Rich: "Oh, my brother sent it to me. I didn't run this race."
Me: "Then why would you wear the shirt?"
Rich: (patiently, as if he is talking to two year old) "Because it's a Teeee-shirt"
Me: (looking at him like he's stupid) "What the ???? What does that have to do with anything? You didn't run the race. Why would you wear the shirt?"
Rich: Explains guys, T-shirts, and how no woman can or should ever interfere with such a sacred bond.

Don't get me wrong, I understand the thrill of the T-shirt. It tells the world that, for a moment, for a season, for a part of your life, you were bigger than something than just yourself. No one can take that pride, that sense of accomplishment, or that T-shirt away from you.

Let me empahsize: NO.ONE.CAN.TAKE.AWAY.THE.T-SHIRT.

Rich (along with some other men who I will not name, except for Mark K.) will not give up their T-shirts. This has to be male chromosome deficiency that science has yet to figure out...the "I can't part with my T-shirt's and you can't make me" gene. I have no other logical explanation for why otherwise reasonably well dressed men cling to remnants of cotton that tell life stories that are not necessarily their own.

Even the T-shirts that do brag of an accomplishment, a race run, a milestone reached, should do so with pride, not looking ratty, dirty, holey, nasty, ill-fitting, and smelly to boot.

I have tried to make the arguement that you are dishonoring the T-shirt when you wear it in such a manner. However, that is female point of view. Boys never change: Dirtier is better. The kids with the biggest mudhole wins. Same goes for the T-shirt wars. Rip It. Shred It. Get Paint On It. It's a T-shirt. It can take it.

Rich has passed his T-shirt addiction down to the boys:

Jump off a 250 foot cliff? Are you crazy? No way....Free t-shirts? We're in!

We'll have the T-shirts to prove it.

Dirty Laundry

Folding laundry is no small chore in this house. Especially since my husband passed down his love of T-shirts to our children. I cannot separate what activities my kids have joined because they truly wanted to join them or because, much like their father, they were seduced by the offer of the free T-shirt.

So, when I was folding the clothes this week, I thought it would be a cool thing to list all things that we live for at the Tolbert house:

So here I go:

Football is life. (Stevens Point Youth/UWSP/Pitt/Penn State/Packers/Badgers/Steelers)
Soccer is life.
Baseball is life.
Dance is life.
Wrestling is life.
Mission Trips are life.
Redeemer Lutheran Church is life.
Running is Life.
Tiger Track/Racing is Life.
South Dakota is Life.
Chocolate is Life.
Emy J's is life. (Stevens Point coffee shop...Personally, I think it makes life me more bearable so I can life a more full life, but that's my honest opinion.)
Buffalo Wild Wings is life.
Princesses are life.
Karate is life.
Theater is life.

We are a busy, active group over here doing a lot living. A lot of loving. And we have the T-shirts to prove it!

Friends

Prior to moving to the city in which we now reside, Rich and I moved three times in two years. During the last two moves, I was pregnant. Really pregnant. The kind of pregnant where people not jokingly say, "Don't have that baby while you're moving that box." So, not only was moving less than fun, we never had time to establish many long friendships and community ties.

Alright, it's me writing this blog. I made friends when we lived in these places, I won't lie. But it's different here.

Now, my family has a support system of friends. People that cheer when our kids are doing well and cry with us when my grandma died. We have a church full of people with generous hearts and amazing personalities. We have family that is close enough and willing enough to make trek back and forth so we can celebrate holidays and milestones together.

Friends. People to invite over to a Super Bowl Party....who are genuinely concerned about the state of our marriage post-game. Crazy and wonderful people who take all four our children as one big group so Rich and I can have conversations that do not start with "It's your turn to deal with ____" or give us relief from dividing up the map of our town and having a contest to see who can take the kids to the most places the fastest on a Monday night.

These friends also entrust their children to us for the day or the night or to ring in 2011. It's wonderful to watch all these kids grow and hear them laugh (plot) at our house. There are times I am curious whose plan for utter and total world domination is going to succeed. I haven't the heart to them I have been hatching my own plan for years....

There are also friends that I maintain contact with through email and facebook that are no less dear to my heart. We celebrate and commiserate via electronic communication; one of the more useful ways I have utilized advances in technology.

I wake up so grateful for the blessings that these friendships have brought into the lives of our family. On the best of days, raising four kids to be amazing people is a daunting task; it is a wonderful feeling to know Rich and I have so many family and friends to help and encourage us on this wild journey called parenthood.

For Love of the Game

When Rich and I were first married, we went spent our first Easter together in Pittsburgh with his family. Me, never having been to Pittsburgh, was eager to see the sights. Rich, having grown up in the Pittsburgh area, was eager to show them to me. Alice, Rich's sister, was eager to stay home with a then six-month old Jonathon and spoil him rotten while we went sight seeing.

So, Rich and I set out to explore Steel City. I have to say Pittsburgh is an amazing city, like all big, older cities are wont to be. One of Rich's most favorite things to show me during our tour was Three Rivers Stadium. Every time we drove past ANYTHING he would reference in relation to Three Rivers Stadium.

"Look there's the old Clark Building....it's xxxx miles from Three Rivers Stadium." "Oh, that's the Carnegie Building...It's xxxx distance from Three Rivers Stadium" "Oh! Wow! (still driving the car, bending over me to look) Look out your window....We're driving right past Three Rivers Stadium!!!"

You get the idea. I was amused....and I totally got it....being from the fine football tradition of the Green Bay Packers myself...it was a classic case of a person taking pride in their team and their city.

So...between seeing the sights and yep, Three.Rivers.Stadium, Rich thought it would be super cool to ride the Duquesne Incline up to Mount Washington. He told me I would be able to see to fountain where the confluence of the actual three rivers meet...."You know the fountain that Al Micheals always shows on Monday Night Football." (Rich really said that.....I swear to Gawd.)

Rich was right: I loved the incline. We arrived at the top of Mount Washington and the view of the city is stunning. People watching was also fun: There were couples up there with arms around each other. There were generations of families talking to each other. There were older couples holding hands. And.....

There was my husband, looking over his city, proud and excited, beckoning me over:

"Amie, Amie, you have to see this!!"

Me (thinking he found the fountain) (excited): "What?!?"

Rich (eyes glittering, joyous, Christmas morning excited): "You can see inside of Three Rivers Stadium from here! That.is.so.COOL!!

Me (jaw open): burst of laughter....

Rich: "I wonder if they are open for tours!"

Me: "I have no idea. We can check. (still laughing)"

Sadly, Three Rivers was not open for tours at the time of our visit. Even sadder, they tore that stadium down before Rich could take his tour. Happily, I did find the fountain where the three rivers meet. Heinz Field and PNC Park now host the Steelers and the Pirates, I want to write "respectively," but it's difficult to write "respect" and the Pirates in the same sentence.

Although, I have been to PNC park and it is a beautiful stadium.

Rich and Jonathon have been to Heinz Field and their biggest complaint was the Steelers took a beating from the Colts. However, not much had changed in ten years, and Jon was still spoiled rotten at Aunt Alice's house.

How I Ended Up with Custom Curtains

If you are among the brave souls that have more than one child, like me one day you may attempt to to spend “quality time” with your child. Let’s define “quality time” as one- on- one time spent in quiet conversation or active play, where the parent is not coming down on the child like the wrath of God for, say, the child artistically expressing themselves all over freshly painted walls with permanent marker.

So, in the interest of quality time, I invited Noah to run a few errands. However, we don’t call it quality time in our house, and it’s rarely, if ever, planned. Me: “Noah, wanna run errands with me?” Noah: “Yeah, great, let’s go.” Now, contrary to what I told the other children, I didn’t invite Noah on this trip because I love him the best, I invited him because I needed to check in with him about some things that were going on with him at school and desired to do so without the unfiltered and unasked for opinions of his other siblings.

At this point in the story, it is extremely important to note that Brandon was NOT happy at being excluded from “Noah and Mom quality time.”

Rich and I were about to find out exactly how displeased I had made Brandon.

Noah and I arrived home, and Rich and I jumped on the hamster wheel of bedtime routines. Just as I was about to release my final and favorite sigh of the night, “the-I-can-finally-put-on-my-pajamas-and-relax” sigh, I heard Rich’s curious and none-too-pleased voice ask, “What happened to the curtains?”

Now, my inner mom knew exactly what happened to curtains.

Brandon.

Brandon and his “It’s not fair I was left behind!” wrath happened to the curtains.

I didn’t even have to look to know in a fit of rage and jealousy, that child did something that was going to make me none-too-pleased just like Rich. I sighed. My inner mom sighed. Actually, I think she screamed, “It’s not fair!” and threw a temper-tantrum, but we walked downstairs anyway. I rubbed my hands over my face. I looked at Rich. I rubbed my hands over my face again. I shook my head.

Rich (holding part of cut curtains in his hand): “What happened here?”

Me: (resigned) “Brandon.”

Rich: (incredulous, but not surprised at the answer) “Why would he do something like this?

Me: (matter -of –fact voice): “Because I took Noah to the bank and not him.”

Rich: “What should we do?” Note: When your spouse asks you “What should we do?” It means he doesn’t have plan so you have 30 seconds to come up with something good.

Me (determined): “Get them out of bed. NOW”

Rich (rouses the troops): “Out of bed, NOW!! Your mother wants you in the entryway!! Note: Why isn’t it “WE want you in the entry way?”

Kids (confused, irritated, slightly afraid): “What’s going on? Whatever it is, I
didn’t do it…" and other assorted and appropriate kid phrases when you know your mother is mad, you know you might being going to down for a crime, but you aren’t sure which one you are busted for…

Me (pointing to the curtains): “Who cut the curtains?”

Kids: “NOT ME!!” (frantically looking around at each other to see who is going to crack so this conversation isn’t going to be prolonged, wishing I had discovered this when they were in school or Siberia)

Me (deep, calm breath so I don’t put them all eBay, non-yelling voice): “Okay. I totally get it. No one did it.” Pause. “Well, maybe Milo did it. He has been working hard on using on his mastery of scissors. Hmmm....”

Kids: Trading Suspicious Looks…Still no one confesses

Me (Waiting…No one cracks…. Calm voice):”Here is the deal. Everyone is grounded from all electronics until I find out who cut my curtains. No TV. No DS. No Wii. Nothing. Don’t look at them, Don’t breathe on them, and Don’t dream about them. Grounded. Done.”

Kids: Total silence. Followed by: “ALL OF US!?!” and “That’s no fair!”

Me: “Get back to bed. Good night.”

At that point, three disgruntled kids stomped off to bed. One child, looking miserable sat on my stairs.

Brandon (whispering): “Mom.”

Me: “Brandon, get to bed.”

Brandon (more urgently): “Mooommm….I have to tell you something….I cut the curtains.” (miserable, hang dog look)

Me (feigning surprise): “Oh you did!” “Go wait for Dad and I in our room. I need to go tuck your brothers and sister in.”

At this point, I reassured Jon and Lauren we had caught the culprit. Noah was beyond consoling because all he heard was “grounded forever from electronics.” Rich and I dealt with our interior decorator, thinking our night was finally coming to end, but as we were preparing to send Brandon off to slumber land so he could dream about new ways to test our parenting skills, there was a knock on the bedroom door.

A persistent knock.

Rich answered the door to find a very determined Noah on the other side: “Mom, Dad,”

he said, holding both up hands in front of him, as if in surrender,

“I just want you to know….

I was nowhere near a pair of scissors tonight.”

Rich and I looked at each other. Rich thanked Noah. Noah looked relieved to have that off his chest. I was stifling laughter and exasperation. Rich shook his head back and forth.

Noah noticed Brandon in our room and quickly comprehended the guilty party had been brought to justice. Finally, we were able to send the two of them off to their beds and everyone was able to stay put for the rest of the night.

I would love to say that Rich and I went downstairs and watched TV, because we weren’t grounded, but shaking down a curtain culprit the first week of school is exhausting.

Soooo…

We tucked ourselves into bed and stayed put the rest of night!