Playing catch up...

Since my camera and the cord through which I download photos onto my computer decided to play nicely together (there's a major connection problem, and the solution is to get a card reader... it's on the list) I thought I would post the last of the batch taken at the end of October.






Our "family of pumpkins," all aglow on Halloween night. The little angry one in the back is mine... hovering just above everyone else... go figure.

And look who went full Martha Stewart with the fancy-pants carving! I have seen this type of carving done many times, but figured it was way too involved and time-consuming to actually do. Surprise, surprise... it isn't. Rather than carve, you really just have to scrape.

And here's the pumpkin-glowy "BOO" lit up.

This would be Tyler bringing to "life" a dead zombie look. I'm telling you, the Salvation Army store is THE place to pick up stuff for Halloween costumes, if you're creating your own. We got his full suit, shirt (and I think a tie... which wasn't worn), plus items for Kate, Jack, Charlie and Sam all for $25. The only other cost was $5 for a jumbo bottle of fake blood, and the boys were in business.

OK, Stacy... this one's for you. :) Kate as a mime. Thank goodness she was a sweet, friendly mime, as opposed to the eerie, creepy variety.

And one last shot of the "hardware" the boys (and a friend) received at the football banquet. I think most everyone on my personal email list has had enough already of the photos. Sorry folks. You're going to have to endure just one more -- the always mandatory "nice" shot, where no one is grimacing, sticking out a tongue or giving me his best "gangsta" pose. Charlie (left), their friend Jiya and Jack -- green squad MVP, orange squad MVP and orange squad Defense Player of the Year, respectively.

The Payoff

For all those times...
... we've asked, "Is your homework done?"
... we made them run through spelling words.
... they took extra time on special reports and projects.
... we made them go to bed early.
... they were drilled on spelling words (again) in the car.
... I nagged at them to eat a good breakfast, insisting "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know."
... I threatened groundings if they didn't -- for the love of God -- stop talking and get some sleep!
... I asked them to run through spelling words, just *one* more time.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the payoff:

Three Principal's Honor Roll certificates for achieving straight A's

What? Me, too?!?

In the wee hours of the morning, I dreamed of...

Christmas.

More specifically, Christmas decorating.

Personally, I blame Crate & Barrel, since I was looking at their new catalog (where halls are decked in not only holly, but an assortment of C&B products, perfect for your home as well...). Of course, these little decor nuggets fell into my head and popped to the surface somewhere around 4a.m.

I am one of the people who stop dead in my tracks when I see tinsel, stockings and ornaments in a store -- before mid-September. I usually do the mandatory eye-roll, perhaps shake the head a bit then proceed on to my destination. But, now... with the images and ideas creeping into my head, then jumping to life in my dreams...how can I possibly ignore that?

Then, as I was getting out of the shower this morning, I realized the date: October 27. November 27 is about four weeks away. December 27 is about eight weeks away. (I know... my mad math skillz are amazing, yes?) My point? Christmas is just around the corner. Less than eight weeks. The planner/organizer living inside me suddenly woke up with a start. I must start getting ready!

But at least I promise to wait until after the pumpkins are cleared from the front porch before stringing up the sparkly Christmas lights.

Details,... Details,...

In our area of the Midwest, mid- to late- October weather can be dicey at best. So, this past Sunday, when we were blessed with a clear, sunny 70-ish degree day, nearly everyone took advantage of it.

I was (technically) outdoors, but spent three hours detailing our vehicles. Fun. Fun. Fun.

It was a "must," since both the car's interior was looking pretty bad; and the van? Oy vey. It was starting to smell.

Now, before anyone goes all judgey on me, let me assure you we are a fairly tidy family -- with the exception of a few bedrooms which appear to have had isolated tornadoes touch down. I function much better (and everyone around me is much happier) when things are orderly and clean. Actually, I'm kind of OCD that way. So, when I approached the driveway with a trash bag, a rag and the Armor-All, it was easy to see I meant business.

Two hours, a kitchen-sized trash bag and a stroller full of blankets, socks, books and whatnot, I stepped away from the van satisfied. Every last inch... every nook and cranny had been vacuumed clean and washed down. Biggest surprise? The number of petrified french fries I discovered. (Which, you know, kind of lends a little more credibility to the recent story about Happy Meals and their "shelf life." Eeew.) Most irritating find? The chocolate something that Charlie put in his cup-holder, only to have it melt and resolidify, melt and resolidify God knows how many times. If carpet and upholstery could shine, the inside of the van would blind you. There isn't a spot of anything, anywhere. If any of them so much as lose an eyelash in there, I'm going to know about it. It was at this point that I announced to Jeff that he and I were the ONLY two individuals ever allowed to bring anything into the van: be it food, drink or diversions.

The car was next, and proved to be a much easier job despite the fact that it looked as if someone just dumped grass clippings from mid-June all over the carpeting. When all was said and done, and the Shop-Vac had been retired for the day... I was pleased.

Yesterday on my way to work, I kept looking at the interior of the car, smiling to myself. Clean. Clean. Clean. (See? I am kind of OCD about it.)

And the first person to even think of leaving a candy wrapper, crumpled receipt, half-finished bottle of Gatorade in there? Well, let's just say, we'll be having a little chat as we roll the Shop-Vac out to the driveway.

I have no title for this post.

Today, chatting with Lindy, I mentioned that WH (that's "Wonderful Husband") texted me at work to say he had just finished vacuuming the stairway and the second floor of the house. That's pretty darn wonderful -- hence the "WH" moniker. I told her it wasn't as if he did this to earn points. Rather, he did this in response to my bringing up the idea of hiring in a nice lady to visit two times a month and give our home a good once over in the cleaning department. It isn't as if I'm too good for working around the house. It's just that with the six kids, work, school, sports, activities, etc. there are some days when I begin shuttling kids or cars around town on my way home from work, and don't even see the inside of our house until 8-9pm. At that point, there are kids to get to bed and another day to plan for. My point to WH this morning was, we do the best we can, and even delegate several household chores to kids. And, yet, I still look around and wonder when exactly a pack of hooligans broke into my house and ransacked it. And because with a toddler who makes it his job to get into as much shit as possible every day and NOT put things back where they belong, well... things get out of hand pretty quickly.

However, as soon as I so much as formed the thought, WH was all "Oh, hell no" about it. Reason? Bringing in an Amish woman to clean was like offering an open invitation to steal our stuff. First of all, I don't know why he immediately assumed I wanted to hire an Amish woman. Perhaps the close proximity of them to our side of town? I have to admit -- I'll bet they do a bang-up job. Anyway... if we did happen to go with a nice Amish woman, a.) our electronics would be safe, and b.) aside from our electronics, I doubt there's much here she'd want.

Regardless, I am not hiring a woman (Amish or not) to give our house a good, thorough scrub twice a month. Instead, a flame has been lit under WH's backside, prompting him to not only vacuum, but clean* the garage today. I guess I'll take what I can get.


*Note: using the term "clean" here is done so ONLY if you coung moving a bunch of crap from one side of the garage to the other, and supervising a pick-up from Goodwill.

In which I 'fess up to being a big crybaby

So, here's the thing. I've become my mother.
Not completely, since I'm sure she'd argue that we are quite different in some ways. However, when I was a kid, and we'd be watching a particularly sappy movie on television, it was just a matter of time before I'd hear a huge sniff, and turn to see my mom wiping tears away.
"What?!" she'd say, starting to laugh through her tears.
And if my dad happened to walk in? Oh, my gosh... forget it. He'd give a good-natured hard time, laugh and go get her a box of tissues.

Now, that crying person is... me.

Gradually, over the past God-knows-how-many years, I've noticed a tendency to well up with tears if a really sad song was on the radio. Or, say, a really good, heart-string-tugging Hallmark commercial came on. Then, last Christmas, we were sitting in church and the pastor asked us to all stand and sing with the choir.

Oh. No.

I had been secretly crying to Christmas carols at that point for a month. And now, here I was, biting my lip to keep from completely losing my shit while everyone else harmonized on "O Come, All Ye Faithful." I tried averting my own attention by focusing on Bobby, pointing out all the pretty lights in the decorations. It worked. A little.

Fast forward a few months to March, when we kicked off the month with Bobby's first birthday. I couldn't even sing Happy Birthday to him, because I couldn't make it through the song without breaking down. Then, my beloved Butler Bulldogs became the unexpected, Cinderella-story of the entire NCAA basketball tournament. As they ticked off wins from the Sweet Sixteen to the Elite Eight, I would celebrate each win with an enthusiastic cheer -- and teary eyes. The day they made it into the Final Four, I got a double-whammy: as they were winning their game, Jack, Charlie and Sam were winning a tournament game in their indoor flag football league.

I. Was. A. Mess.

After that, during the boys' baseball season, I became extremely grateful for my sunglasses and their ability to cover my teary eyes. The boys had phenomenal seasons (Jack had his first Grand Slam!), ending with Sam's team AND Jack & Charlie's team winning their division championships. As long as I could keep the tears from sliding down my cheeks, I was good. Come to think of it, it was so damn Hell hot out there, anyone who noticed might just have assumed the tears were sweat.

Earlier this week, Lindy tipped me off to a new Kenny Chesney song, "The Boys of Fall." I am not a Country fan in the least; however, I gave the song a listen (finding the eight-minute video online) and almost completely lost my composure. Hello?!?! The song is about football!! How can I possibly cry at football? (It's a hell of a video, people. Check it out. Bring a tissue.) And in the past 24 hours, I have worked up a good cry about a half-dozen times thanks to the Chilean miners rescue. I really think you'd have to have a heart of stone to NOT cry for each and every one of those men, their families and friends as they emerged from the Phoenix capsule. Naturally, for me, getting all worked up and not letting out a good cry has resulted in the mother of all headaches. And the continuing urge to cry.

Before I completely take my red-eyed, quivering-chin award and call it a day, let me add that I am not alone. Someone I know -- someone of the male gender -- has previously been called out for crying at a movie. And it wasn't even the All-Time-Male-Approved-Movie-to-Cry-To (Brian's Song). Are you ready for this? It was... The Little Mermaid. And, he's further admitted to crying at the close of some Lord of the Rings film, but I forget which one.

And now, after coming clean and admitting to being a big crybaby, perhaps I'll just let the tears flow freely the next time I find myself moved to do so. What's the point of holding it in? None that I can see. Other than the fact that I will end up looking like a big, ol' sobbing raccoon as mascara runs all over my face. Hello, waterproof mascara! Where the hell are my tissues?

And Mom? If you read this, you totally have permission to call me out, poke fun and laugh if you catch me getting all sappy. You owe me a few.

Lobbying for June, July, August, November, December.

Why did I leave out September and October?

Simple. They are the months from hell, thank you very much.

September and October are frantic, harried and leave us feeling like we've been run over with a runaway dump truck. Not only is there school for the kids, but marching band practices and weekend competitions... football practices after school for two-and-a-half-hours and Saturday games. And let's not overlook the college student who needs rides to campus and back, as well as rides to work. And back. All this shuttling around town? Well, let's just say I swear I saw Jeff perusing the spray paint display at Menard's. He had stopped at "Taxi Cab Yellow."

Tomorrow marks the half-way point in our eight-week whirlwind. And to mark the occasion, Jeff is celebrating by having gallbladder surgery. And two weeks from tomorrow... shoulder surgery.

Oy vey.

So, tonight... as the kids and Jeff sleep, I am writing while waiting for a critical* load of laundry to finish in the washer, so I can transfer it to the dryer and call it a night. Since I will be on post-op nurse duty for Jeff all weekend, I anticipate catching up on blogging in addition to working from home and reading. Catch you all later.

*Critical because this morning Sam had to borrow clothing from Jack and Charlie -- his drawer was empty. Super. That might be because of the hideously malformed pile of clothing growing out of the laundry basket in the corner of their room. When you make it home past 8-9pm more than a few evenings in a week, the laundry do suffer.